by Peter Watt
Both men turned to face their front where they were relieved to see that the attack had spent itself and Chinese soldiers and Boxer warriors were fleeing back to the safety of their own lines.
John glanced down at the Boxer at his feet and noticed the man was attempting to struggle to his feet. Quickly, John placed a round in the breech and slammed the bolt shut, loading the rifle. ‘Don’t move,’ he snarled in Chinese and the man obeyed.
‘Shoot the bastard,’ Larry said, swinging his rifle on the man at their feet.
‘No,’ John commanded. ‘He may be useful. He can be questioned.’
The marine conceded that John was right and the prisoner was pulled to his feet to be taken by a corporal away to their military headquarters.
‘I will need your expertise in the language,’ Robert said to Andrew who had been fetched from the Fu.
Andrew glanced at two dejected, bound Boxer prisoners sitting on the ground outside the British legation building. A burly British marine stood over the two with fixed bayonet and pointing his rifle at the two prisoners. One of the prisoners had received a wound to the side but it had been a glancing blow that had not penetrated very deeply.
‘What do you want me to ask them?’
Robert stood puffing on a cigar. ‘Ask them who their commander is and how many men are under his command.’
Andrew relayed the question but only received a surly look of contempt from the prisoners.
‘They aren’t about to say anything,’ Andrew said.
‘Tough men,’ Robert commented, turning to look at the soldier guarding the prisoners. ‘Help them find their tongues, Private Owens,’ he said, and the soldier slammed the rifle butt down on the head of one of the prisoners, who screamed in fear and pain.
‘Ask them again,’ Robert said calmly, puffing a circle of smoke into the sultry, hot air.
Andrew asked again but the prisoners remained mute. Although both men were terrified they remained defiant.
‘I don’t think that we should use brutal methods to question them,’ Andrew said quietly.
‘Mr Wong,’ Robert said, ‘I detest the method I am forced to employ but I have no delusions as to the fate of the helpless men, women and children under my protection. Do you think that these same two men would not do worse if they were given the opportunity to overrun us?’
Andrew did not answer. He knew the British officer was right. They could expect no mercy at the hands of the Chinese should they breach the defences.
‘I know that you are a man of civilised manners,’ Robert consoled. ‘But I have served on the Indian frontier and I know the depths of cruelty these people will stoop to when they have the upper hand. We need to know the strength and dispositions of our enemy.’
Andrew turned to the prisoners. ‘It would be better that you answer truthfully the British officer’s questions,’ he said.
The wounded prisoner, a young man barely out of his teens, looked up and spat a gob of blood at Andrew’s feet. ‘We are already dead men,’ he said through broken teeth. ‘Just kill us now and be done with it.’
Andrew turned to Robert. ‘I doubt all the beating you might inf lict on them will get them to talk, Mr Mumford.’
Robert took the last draw on the dwindling cigar. ‘I have already thought as much,’ he said, flicking away the stub. ‘Private Owen, fetch two men and organise a firing party,’ he said. ‘Take the prisoners to the wall behind the building and shoot them. I already have the warrants for their execution in my possession.’
‘Very good, sah,’ Private Owen replied, shouldering his rifle.
‘Why not spare them?’ Andrew asked.
‘Under any other circumstances I would, Mr Wong. But we do not have the manpower to guard them – let alone the rations to feed enemy combatants. A quick death is more than I can promise they would do for us.’
Andrew looked down at the two men. ‘You are to be given a quick death by firing squad.’
‘I thank you,’ the wounded prisoner responded quietly. ‘I expected worse from the foreign devils.’
‘I know that you may not have an answer to my next question and if you did, you may not tell me,’ Andrew continued. ‘But I seek a Chinese woman who was not born of this country. She has the foreign name of Naomi.’
‘I know of her,’ the young wounded prisoner replied. ‘She is Han’s woman.’
Stunned by the revelation, Andrew felt his mind whirl. He had not expected any answer to his question. ‘Is she alive?’ he asked, holding his breath.
‘She was alive this morning,’ the prisoner replied.
‘Will you tell me where she is?’ Andrew continued hopefully.
‘That I cannot tell you,’ the man answered. ‘Is she of importance to you?’
‘She is my sister,’ Andrew said, forcing back tears of joy and sadness.
‘I am sorry for your loss,’ the young Boxer said. ‘I also have a sister and she is very precious to me. I pray that she may be able to make offerings to our venerable ancestors over my body and feel pride for how I have died in the cause to free our country from the foreign devils.’
‘I hope that you are granted your wish,’ Andrew said sympathetically.
‘I heard Naomi’s name mentioned in your exchange,’ Robert said. ‘Does the man know anything?’
‘He says that she is still alive but will not tell me where,’ Andrew replied. ‘At least I can thank God for that much information.’
Private Owen returned in no time with two soldiers of his platoon. Robert issued his orders and the soldiers pulled the prisoners to their feet.
‘Come along, lads,’ Private Owen said in an unexpectedly gentle tone. ‘Time to meet your Celestial maker.’
Andrew did not want to look the prisoners in the eye as they passed him.
‘Your sister is with Han at the merchant’s old house in Lotus Street,’ the young Boxer hissed as he passed Andrew. ‘I do not like Han. He is a cruel and evil man and your sister would be better off dead than in his hands. I am about to die and so Han’s eventual fate is not my concern.’
Andrew was stunned by the quietly delivered and unexpected information. He wanted to say or do something but it was too late. The guards were already marching the men to their deaths. Lieutenant Mumford would supervise the execution and, if required, deliver any coup de grâce with his revolver. It was a matter already sanctioned by the military command of the defenders and it was concluded quickly. Andrew had remained in front of the building and heard two shots. In a matter of minutes Robert returned to where he stood.
‘You might carry out the official inspection to validate that the two prisoners have been killed in accordance with military instructions,’ Robert said, lighting another cigar.
‘I’m not a doctor,’ Andrew answered.
‘And I am not normally an executioner,’ Robert said, puffing the cigar into life. ‘You have enough medical knowledge to determine whether they are dead.’
Andrew examined the two bodies that lay crumpled on the dusty earth, while the firing squad stood back watching him. Both men had been shot through the chest and Andrew could not feel any pulse. Later, the bodies would be tossed over the Tartar Wall to fall among the many other rapidly decomposing bodies of fallen Boxers and Chinese Imperial soldiers. The stench of decomposition was already becoming a problem to the defenders.
When Andrew returned to Liling at the reoccupied Fu his vacant expression caused the anxious girl to ask, ‘Are you unwell?’
‘It is nothing,’ Andrew replied, taking Liling’s hand. He was a long way from the hallowed halls of his medical school in Scotland where he had been training to be a saver of lives, indeed a long way from anything that he had once known as normal.
‘Come with me,’ Liling said, gripping Andrew’s hand. ‘I have obtained a room for us in the palace quarters. There we may be alone and safe for a while.’
Andrew let Liling lead him through the mass of refugees in the palace grounds along an ornat
ely decorated corridor to a small room. There she drew him in and pulled him to a straw-filled mattress. Andrew lay beside Liling who cradled him in her arms. He did not know why he wanted to weep but staunchly resisted the impulse. Was it just the hopelessness of the situation they were in? Or was it that everything he experienced around him was contrary to how he had once thought life should be? The courage of the two Boxer prisoners in the face of torture and then death was in contrast to what he expected of their enemy. Examining men to ensure that they were dead – and not just wounded – was not within the scope of what he had trained for. Saving life rather than taking it would have been his preferred role.
And then there was Liling holding him to her. She was a woman born of China, a woman whose courage was inspiring in the face of the daily battle to live. Before Andrew realised it he was slipping Liling’s shirt over her head and kissing her breasts. This was the first time he had allowed himself to be truly intimate with the young woman. Liling did not resist his advances and for a short time they were simply lovers. All around was carnage but for the moment nothing else mattered apart from the pleasure they partook in each other’s embrace.
‘It’s impossible,’ Robert said, standing under a great hole in the roof to his quarters, amid the wreckage of what had once been his neat and tidy bachelor’s room. ‘I cannot authorise a patrol to go out beyond the barricades to search for Naomi.’
‘Just listen and you can see why,’ Andrew countered.
Andrew and Liling had been fortunate to find the British officer attempting a short nap despite the continuous crash of rifle fire telling the story of how fierce the fighting was. The occasional crump of an exploding artillery shell added to the noise that was rapidly shredding the nerves of soldier and civilian alike, and the various commanders of the defences knew that their supply of ammunition was finite. It would only be a matter of time before the last round would be held back for the defenders to use on themselves, rather than be taken by the Chinese.
‘You have been to Lotus Street,’ Andrew persisted. ‘You even guessed correctly that Naomi was being held there.’
‘I’m sorry, Andrew,’ Robert said, red-eyed and covered in grime from the days and nights of little sleep. ‘I have to return to the wall.’
‘Then I will make the effort to go to Lotus Street,’ Andrew said. ‘One way or the other.’
Robert was rifling through a drawer for a box of pistol cartridges and stopped to glance up at Andrew. ‘You attempt to do that now and I guarantee your life expectancy will be around two seconds beyond the barricades.’
Andrew knew that the British officer was right. The battle for the legation raged all around them and they would be lucky if they saw the sun set that day. Mothers had made plans to shoot their children before shooting themselves and husbands promised wives that they would do the same for them when the Chinese eventually broke through. Andrew had considered his and Liling’s fate and the thought that he may have to shoot her was something he could not face. That he had found love with this woman was something he had never entertained. Life had been simple up until now.
‘You are right,’ Andrew muttered grudgingly. ‘I should join my father on the defences,’ he said. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘With our American cousins,’ Robert replied, finding his last box of pistol rounds. ‘My colleague from the US marines, Lieutenant Simpson, has informed me that your father’s sterling service with them is greatly valued. The marines are holding out near the Tartar Wall but we cannot relieve them until dark as they are only a few yards from the Boxer positions. I am afraid the bastards have tightened their grip on us.’
Robert pocketed the box of pistol rounds, rubbed his eyes which were sore from the acrid smoke and dust. ‘I still have faith in Admiral Seymour and a relief force eventually reaching us,’ he said, placing his hand on Andrew’s shoulder. ‘Then we will go and find Naomi.’
Andrew accepted the reassuring words without much hope. He was about to reply when Robert suddenly frowned and looked alert.
‘Do you hear that?’ he asked, staring through the open doorway of his quarters.
Andrew also frowned. It was not that they could hear anything – except for a slackening in the crash of rifle fire – and even as they stood frozen by the change to the late afternoon air the rifle fire died away to just the occasional single shot. Both men sensed that something dramatic had just occurred and wondered what. Had the Boxers finally overwhelmed the defences?
‘Son of a bitch!’ Lieutenant Simpson swore. ‘They’re pulling back!’
Watching the enemy soldiers falling back and leaving their dead scattered across the stone-cobbled open space, John rubbed his red raw eyes with the back of his grimy hand. The silence was broken only by the muttering of the British and American marines spread along the barricade. The pain from his earlier wound returned to dog him, although when the fighting raged it was forgotten.
The situation had been so desperate that when the American diplomat Edwin Conger had met with Sir Claude MacDonald he had insisted that the American marines abandon their position. But the Englishman had countered by sending a reserve force of British marines to reinforce the Americans. They had held their ground and beaten off the attacks.
John’s supply of French-made ammunition had been exhausted and Simpson had tossed him a marine’s rifle after the soldier had been evacuated suffering wounds. John had continued to carefully pick his targets and although he had not counted the number of men he had killed that day, he knew that it was many.
Private Larry Gilles was still beside him and turned his bloodshot eyes on John. ‘What do you think is happening?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ John replied, pulling himself into a sitting position with his back to the sandbags, his rifle propped between his legs. He could see the sun setting, flooding the pink walls of the Imperial city adjacent to their positions with a soft, yellow shade. In the distance John could hear the Chinese enemy blowing on their trumpets, a blaring sound that rose and fell on the evening breezes. It seemed a sad and ominous song, chilling John despite the warmth of the evening air.
On the north bridge, away from where John sat exhausted, a huge white placard had appeared displaying Chinese characters. Using binoculars the defenders – with the help of interpreters – read the message. It was an Imperial edict declaring that hostilities should cease immediately. The defenders immediately responded to the message by scribbling one of their own to say that they understood. The word soon reached John and the men around him.
‘You think that Limey admiral is outside the city?’ Larry asked. ‘You think that is why the Chinks have pulled back?’
‘I don’t know,’ John answered wearily, his thoughts drifting to a hot bath and a soft bed to sleep in.
‘You, Mr Wong,’ a US marine corporal said, standing over John. ‘Lieutenant Simpson sends his compliments and wishes to see you.’
John nodded and wearily hoisted himself to his feet to go to the American officer currently huddling with his senior NCOs.
‘Mr Wong,’ Simpson said with a weak smile. ‘Just wanted to say that I think you should have your rifle back and you return the property of the US to me.’
John accepted the French rifle, handing back the American issue carbine.
‘I was able to secure some ammo from our French allies,’ Simpson continued. ‘So that you are able to rejoin us after you take some leave.’
‘Thank you, Mr Simpson,’ John said, accepting the bandolier of fresh rounds from the officer. ‘I think I will do just that.’
Simpson returned to his senior NCOs. ‘Use this time to reinforce our positions,’ he said, taking a cigar from a pocket and lighting it with trembling hands. ‘I can see that our Chink friends across the way are doing just that right now. Give every second man a stand down to catch some shut-eye and remain alert. I suspect that this bit of peace isn’t going to last long.’
John left the line to return to the only place
he could call his own piece of the city – Robert’s shattered quarters. Whatever was happening did not matter as much as sleep.
With his head bandaged to cover his severed ear, Tung stood before the walls of the legation quarter under a setting sun. He and his men had not been committed to the attacks on the foreign devils that day and, when he glanced around, he could not help but be impressed by the spectacle: a vast sea of colour depicting the various uniforms of the infantry, artillery and cavalry. Imperial soldiers armed with everything from giant, two-handed swords, bows and arrows to modern rifles. The multitude of bright banners that hung limp in the hot evening air bore images of dragons and other exotic creatures. This was the might of China on display and Tung knew that some of the defenders who had climbed over the barricades had seen the spectacle. How could they not be impressed with what they saw?
‘Commander Tung?’ The soldier standing before Tung wore the insignia of his uncle’s personal bodyguard. ‘You have been summoned by General Tung Fu-hsiang.’
Tung followed the uniformed messenger towards a dais surrounded by uniformed soldiers and flagpoles. On a chair in the centre of the raised platform was the grim-faced man who held the power of life and death over all he saw before him on the parade. Even though Tung recognised the man as his mother’s brother, he still prostrated himself before the general as he would if before the Empress.
‘Honourable General, I greet you with a humble request to forgive me for my tardy appearance.’
‘I can see that you bear the badge of one wounded,’ his uncle said, leaning forward. ‘The money that you returned has been deposited in the Empress’s treasury and she is grateful for your service, Commander Tung.’