The Stone Dragon

by Peter Watt

  The sedans came into a wide street bordered by tileroofed houses and tent-like stalls and unexpectedly came to a stop.

  ‘What is it?’ von Ketteler questioned, poking his head out from behind the sun shades to see a Chinese officer of the Imperial army in full uniform levelling a rifle at his head. After that the German diplomat saw nothing as the high-powered bullet exploded in his head.

  Rifle fire erupted from a nearby contingent of Imperial soldiers, spraying the two sedan chairs, only ceasing when a large body of Chinese students from a nearby Methodist missionary compound intervened to force off the Imperial soldiers. They carried the badly wounded German secretary, Heinrich Cordes, who had been shot through the thighs, back to the missionary compound and delivered him into the care of the missionaries.

  The news quickly spread to the legation and a unit of American marines, watched from a dangerously short distance by Imperial troops and a contingent of Boxers, was sent to escort the missionaries and their Chinese converts back to the relative safety of the legation compound.

  The foreign diplomats had now seen at first hand what they might expect if they chose to make an attempt to leave the city. Not only were the Boxers ready to cut them down but they would probably be aided by the Imperial Chinese army under the command of the dowager Empress. The city echoed to the muffled sounds of gunfire coming from the direction of the Catholic cathedral where over 3000 Chinese converts huddled and a handful of Italian and French marines held off the people who would slaughter them. The decision was made to pull back the armed piquets in the city to defend the legation compounds.

  Han was in a jubilant mood; word had come to him that the foreigner who had caused him to lose face had died at the hands of the Empress’s troops. He strutted around the courtyard giving speeches to his men that soon they would be enjoying the wages of a slaughter against the hated foreign devils. There would be plump white women to pleasure them while their menfolk watched helplessly, screaming their despair and pain under the various devious tortures that would be inflicted.

  Naomi and Meili watched as Han addressed his men and his words chilled Naomi. From what she had been able to glean from overheard scraps of talk among the Boxer warriors the European legation was sealed off without any hope of relief from the outside. Ever since she had last heard Robert’s voice – so close to rescuing her – she had entertained the hope that he might return with a mighty army to deliver her from this terrible captivity. But that hope was all but gone. The only hope she now harboured was that of eventually killing Han. She knew such an act would result in her own death but she no longer cared, as her desire for vengeance overrode any natural instinct to remain alive.

  ‘We will be finally free of the foreigners,’ Meili whispered.

  Naomi looked askance at her. ‘I am a foreigner,’ she hissed back, causing Meili to look down at the stone paving in embarrassment.

  ‘I did not mean you,’ she mumbled. ‘I meant the white devils. You are Chinese – like me.’

  Naomi looked away angrily from the woman she had befriended but checked her anger when she considered how many times this young girl had risked her life to look after her. Why would Meili not have a desire to see her country free of foreign domination? She had never really thought of foreigners being in China as anything more than the rightful role of Western civilisation. But she was also of Chinese blood and aware of how, when growing up, she had borne the hateful whispers from her so-called friends of her being a Chink or Celestial. It was not easy looking like an Asian but thinking like a Caucasian, she brooded.

  Late June to Mid July 1900

  Pekin – The Siege

  True to his word, John Wong informed the gruff doctor that he would be leaving the hospital. After all, the bullet had not actually penetrated his chest but simply smashed his ribs. Had not the doctor himself been pleased to see that none of the bone shards had pierced his lungs? The dressing wrapped around his chest would help heal the fractured bones, he argued, and the doctor finally conceded that his patient had a point.

  John waited until near ten in the morning but Liza did not appear. Disappointed, he made his way back to Robert’s quarters, passing groups of men sitting under shady verandahs chatting, smoking and sipping good wine as if there was no siege. It was a strange situation as bullets whacked into the grounds of the legation from rebels using the rooftops of the Mongol Market to pick their targets. Occasionally they were successful and the hospital staff were kept occupied with a steady flow of wounded men.

  John reached the quarters and found the door open. He did not knock but went inside where he collapsed with a relieved sigh into a chair behind Robert’s desk. The crack of rifle fire was now a constant in the hot summer air of the compound and little distraction. In the relative safety of the house with its sloping Chinese-style tiled roof, John stared at the opposite wall and then back to the desk where the strange lump of stone with its imprisoned little dragon lay. Idly, he picked up the fossil and stared at it, wondering what the world had been like when this creature was once alive. He had read that these fossils were most likely millions of years old and that the world had seen much change since they had become extinct. But all that was a vastly distant era. The reality was now, June 1900, in China. And tomorrow was another time as yet without substance.

  Getting too philosophical, John smiled to himself, putting the stone back down on the desk.

  ‘I thought that you might be here,’ Andrew said, unslinging the rifle from his shoulder and leaning it against the wall.

  ‘Good to see that you are still well,’ John returned the greeting. ‘And I want my rifle back.’

  Andrew found a rickety old chair and sat down, wiping away sweat from his brow. ‘Only if you promise me that you will not attempt any more forays into the city without me,’ he said.

  John offered his hand to seal the promise and Andrew unslung the bandolier of precious ammunition for his father. ‘No,’ John said. ‘I will join that mob of civilian militia Morrison belongs to, and take my place at the barricades.’

  ‘We will get Naomi back,’ Andrew said.

  ‘I know we will,’ John answered.

  Both men found their attention unexpectedly distracted by a change in the routine noises from outside. The word ‘fire’ drifted to them and the sound of running feet outside emphasised some sudden urgency.

  ‘You best remain here and rest up,’ Andrew said, rising from his chair. ‘I will go and see what is going on.’

  John accepted his son’s advice and watched him disappear through the door to see what alarm had been raised.

  No sooner was he out of the building than Andrew came to a sudden halt. He could see a vast column of fire rising over the area he knew as the Chinese library. A faint scent of kerosene drifted to him on the pungent smell of burning timbers.

  ‘Good God, no!’ he exclaimed.

  A stiff breeze was fanning the raging fire as it consumed the time-aged rafters and walls of the compound that covered a good four acres. The inferno had already condemned the pavilions and ornate courtyards to their fate. Equally as threatening was the way the wind shifted the tortuous column of fire down on the besiegers.

  Andrew broke into a run, joining a steady stream of men, women and soldiers heading towards the scene of the fire. Among the volunteers were many Chinese refugees determined to save the site of their precious ancient heritage. A bucket brigade was already formed by the time Andrew reached the walls bordering the fire and he saw Liling among the volunteers, handing leather buckets of water down the line. He caught her eye as he moved to get closer to the source of the flames, passing through a hole that had earlier been knocked in the stone wall to assist movement of the multinational troops.

  Inside the grounds of the Hanlin, Andrew was almost beaten down by the searing radiant heat of the furnace that completely engulfed the pavilions. Then he saw the Boxer riflemen manning the rooftops overlooking the fire and realised that they were pouring a steady volley
of shots at the firefighters. Part of a ricocheting bullet struck him in the hand, causing a stinging sensation. A contingent of British marines were kneeling, returning the rifle fire to sweep the rooftops clear of their tormentors. Amid all this, the volunteer firefighters continued their futile attempt to put out the fire. If nothing else, they could fight to contain the flames destroying the Hanlin and not let them spread into the legation grounds.

  Andrew could see one Boxer in particular standing defiantly on a roof and obviously directing both the arson and the rebel gunfire.

  ‘God almighty!’ Andrew swore when he recognised Tung’s face. How could this be? How could such an intelligent man be involved in this act of wanton vandalism?

  Transfixed by the sight of his former companion, Andrew became aware that Tung had also sighted him. Tung suddenly ceased his bawling of directions to his men and stared down at Andrew. Whether by guilt or by commonsense, Tung opted to give up his exposed position and retreated down the rooftops to a place out of the line of fire.

  Andrew flinched when a bullet cracked above his head. It was time for action. He moved forward to take the place of a woman in the bucket brigade who had been overcome by the heat and smoke. Coolies, missionaries, diplomats, soldiers and even older children had come together to fight this monster.

  Some of the firefighters broke away from the bucket line to tear at the burning walls with shovels and rakes. Then, as if by a divine stroke of luck, the wind shifted, leaving the main library containing the most important of the ancient texts relatively intact.

  The Boxer riflemen had retreated from the rooftops under the accurate fire from the Royal Marines. A small but important battle had been won by the defenders.

  Weary, Andrew drifted out of the grounds of the Hanlin in search of Liling. He found her sitting in the shade of a tree by a house, her face was covered in soot and her dress filthy from the morning’s effort.

  ‘Liling,’ Andrew said, sitting down beside her, ‘are you hurt?’

  Liling’s eyes shifted to Andrew and he could see a strange happiness in her face. ‘I am not hurt,’ she said as Andrew touched her face with his fingers. ‘I am just happy to share this time and place with you.’

  Andrew drew the girl’s slight frame to him in a loving embrace. He knew then that he would never leave this uneducated daughter of a fisherman even though his choice would entail giving up the world that he had left outside the massive walls of the city.

  ‘I saw Tung,’ Andrew whispered as she clung to him. ‘Damn him to hell. He appeared to be in charge of lighting the fire.’

  Tung assembled his men under the protection of the high rooftops overshadowing the back alley. It was time to pull back and await further orders. He had lost five men to the well-aimed shots of the barbarians. But this did not matter, he rationalised. They had died fighting in a war to liberate their country. The memory of Andrew staring up at him with accusing eyes troubled Tung. He had wanted to discuss with the young man how such events did not matter if the price were ultimate freedom for his country. But what if they did not win? Already China had lost her glorious past.

  ‘You did well,’ the voice of the general drifted to Tung on the acrid air. ‘Your loyalty to the Empress and the revolution have been cemented in what you have just done. I will tell your uncle of how you, Tung Chi, this day carried our war to the foreign devils.’

  Tung looked wearily at the general who stood surrounded by his personal bodyguard. ‘We must win if all this is to be worth it,’ he replied bitterly.

  At least good news had reached the Chinese court that the combined Allied force had been beaten back and were regrouping. In their arrogance the barbarians had underestimated the fighting resolve of their Chinese enemies. They were now defeated and any hope of a relief force reaching Pekin had been blown away. Tung knew that the besieged were living with a false hope of deliverance. It was only a matter of time before the inevitable storming of the puny force of defenders eventuated and the massacre of every man, woman and child would become a lesson to the Western powers.

  As the weeks had passed Naomi no longer cowered from Han’s many outbursts of rage. A strange understanding had developed between captor and captive. No longer were the brutal pack rapes inflicted, and from what Naomi had come to learn from Meili, Naomi had come to be known as Han’s woman and as such was greeted with some respect by the Boxers under his command.

  At times over her weeks in captivity Han would take Naomi in the most savage way and yet, strangely, he ensured that she was provided with good clothes and food. Often Naomi would catch the enigmatic man staring at her as if pondering a difficult question.

  ‘You are a strange woman,’ he said to her once after forcing himself on her. ‘You are not beautiful like the other Chinese women I have had in the past. Your feet are not bound and you can read and write the barbarians’ words. But you are useful until I tire of you and then you will most undoubtedly die at my whim.’

  With these words, Han had rolled over and fallen into a deep sleep. As with other times when this occurred Naomi would force back her hate, biding her time to kill him and escape.

  Now, as she sat in a corner of his gloomy room he ranted about the dishonour of not being given the task of burning the Hanlin.

  ‘That bastard Tung only had the honour because he is the nephew of General Tung,’ he spat. ‘It should have been me. Even my own men are praising Tung’s daring in destroying the symbol of our past.’

  The name ‘Tung’ meant nothing to Naomi. Whoever this man was he had obviously attracted Han’s hatred.

  ‘It is rumoured that he has come back from the Land of the Golden Mountain,’ Han continued, swigging at a jug of Chinese wine, and spilling much of it down his chest. ‘Was it not I who single-handed went into the barbarians’ territory, and challenged them with my presence there?’

  The reference to the Land of the Golden Mountain caught Naomi’s attention. She knew from growing up in Townsville that this was the name Chinese prospectors and miners had once given the area of Cooktown and the Palmer River goldfields. That meant this Boxer called Tung had visited northern Queensland and the reference made her tears suddenly well up. She felt a flicker of remembrance of being a little girl safe in her father’s gentle love, and even the teasing of her brother was remembered with fondness. She recalled the smell of the dry earth under the first raindrops of the wet season and the sweet scent of the eucalypt trees in full blossom and felt her yearning for her past overwhelm her.

  Han swung on her when he noticed her tears. ‘Why do you cry, woman?’ he asked savagely.

  ‘It is nothing,’ she replied, attempting to force back the emotion.

  ‘Do you cry for the fate of your fellow barbarians in the legation?’ he demanded. ‘For they are already dead.’

  ‘I do not weep for them,’ Naomi answered. ‘I am a mere woman and we sometimes cry for no reason, forgive me.’

  Satisfied at the lie, Han grunted. After all, he knew much about revolution and waging war but women would always remain their own mystery. It was true that they would cry for no apparent reason. Had not his own mother done so when he was a small boy?

  Han swilled at the wine and thought about the loss of face he had suffered because of Tung Chi. Perhaps one day he would have the opportunity to kill the man, he thought with some pleasure. He would have surprise on his side for, although Tung might well have powerful friends in the Empress’s court, the man who was now Han’s enemy did not know that he was marked for an untimely demise. It was only a matter of the right time and place to remove him.

  Dr George Morrison stood in the twilight watching the vast, crimson glow of the smouldering ruins of the Hanlin. One of the great trees seemed to be standing out, glowing red without issuing flames. He was furious. The Chinese had wantonly destroyed their heritage and little was recoverable.

  Andrew had been informed that the Australian journalist was at the scene of the fire and sought him out. ‘Dr Morrison,’ he g
reeted.

  Morrison turned his face away from the fire. ‘What can we think of a nation that sacrifices its most sacred edifice, the pride and glory of its country and learned men for hundreds of years, in order to have its revenge on foreigners,’ he asked bitterly.

  Andrew did not reply. He had no answer and even felt some guilt for the fact that his friend Tung appeared to have directed the operation that had brought about the fire. ‘I was hoping to find you,’ he said, distracting Morrison from his brooding thoughts. ‘My father has left the hospital and insists on recovering at Mr Mumford’s quarters. I was wondering if you could grant me a favour by dropping in to see him and examine his wound for any sign of infection.’

  Morrison’s hard expression softened at the request. ‘I do not practise medicine, old chap,’ he replied.

  ‘Nor do I, but I have had to assist with the wounded and injured,’ Andrew countered.

  ‘Good point,’ Morrison conceded. ‘Then I will grant your request and drop in from time to time and look at your father’s wound,’ he said.

  Andrew nodded. ‘He still seeks my sister and it could get him killed.’

  ‘Well, such a fine shot as your father is badly needed in our little band of civilian soldiers,’ Morrison said, placing his hand on Andrew’s shoulder.

  ‘He intends to join them,’ Andrew replied. ‘A man in your position with contacts all over the city as well as in the legation must know if we have any hope of seeing a relief force soon.’

  Morrison turned to gaze at the red glowing fiercely against the deep purple backdrop of the night sky. ‘It is not the habit of the British Empire to allow another Cawnpore massacre,’ he replied. ‘The force will come. I just hope that we will be alive to greet them as they march up Legation Street with flags unfurled, bayonets fixed and bands playing.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor,’ Andrew said. ‘I have faith in your observations. You seem like a rock in a stormy sea. Now I must return to my post in the Fu.’