The Stone Dragon

by Peter Watt

  Self-consciously, he placed the rock down and laughed softly. His oath had been such a pagan thing to do. But then John was a self-declared non-believer in the Christian ways. In his youth he had been influenced by the Aboriginal people with whom he had come into contact in Queensland’s most isolated places, far from the white man’s world. Those people had believed in the practicality of the things of their world: of spirits that lived in rocks, trees, waterholes and up in the sky. Death was accepted as another part of life and the tangible world of the living very much in contact with the world of the dead. So it had been with this rock and its fossil, John thought. Although it was a long dead creature, it was still visible to him in this present time.

  John forgot about writing the letters. Sleep overwhelmed him and he slipped sideways onto the floor of the room. The candle beside him flickered and died, leaving the room under a starlit night sky where the red planet, Mars the god of war, reigned supreme in the heavens.

  A few hours later, Andrew found his father assembling with the small force of Russian, American and British troops at the Bell Tower. In all, sixty men formed the force under the command of the US marine captain, Jack Myers.

  Fear was something that each man attempted to contain in front of his comrades and John was only too aware of his own. Between snatching brief naps and manning the barricades he had not had the opportunity to seek out Liza who he knew worked equally long hours assisting in the hospital. Now, he regretted not writing the letters for his son, daughter and Liza.

  ‘Father,’ Andrew called to him in the dark. John recognised his son’s voice and sought him out.

  Seeing his father emerge from the dark, rifle slung on his shoulder, Andrew immediately clasped him in a rib-crushing hug. ‘She is gone,’ he sobbed, the pain of loss overwhelming him once again. ‘Liling, she is dead. A fever has taken her life.’

  John extracted himself from his son’s desperate embrace and clasped his shoulders. ‘I am sorry, son,’ he said. ‘I know how much you loved her. She was as fine a young lady as any I have had the privilege to meet.’

  Andrew forced back what remained of his tears and glanced around him. He could see the armed soldiers talking quietly, smoking cigarettes and standing close to each other in the light cast by a bonfire.

  ‘I have heard about the attack to be launched on the wall,’ Andrew said. ‘I pray that you are not to be part of it.’

  John felt uncomfortable. ‘I am,’ he said. ‘I can’t let down the Yanks.’

  ‘It is a soldiers’ fight,’ Andrew chided. ‘You do not have to go with them.’

  ‘I am sorry for your loss,’ John said gently. ‘But we are fighting with our backs to the wall and every gun counts. Fighting is something I am good at.’

  ‘But you still have your wound,’ Andrew attempted to rationalise.

  ‘I hardly feel it now,’ John lied. ‘It only hurts when I laugh and I have not had much chance to do that lately.’

  ‘I have lost the woman I swore my eternal love to, and now I face losing you within the next few hours,’ Andrew pleaded. ‘We have to remain alive to find Naomi.’

  ‘I would expect you to do that, Andrew,’ John answered, ‘if something might happen to me.’

  ‘Ready, men,’ a voice called. ‘Prepare to move out.’

  ‘Father,’ Andrew said, clasping John by the shirt sleeve. ‘Remain behind. You don’t have to go.’

  ‘I have to go, Andrew,’ he said gruffly. ‘I will see you when the sun rises on the morrow.’ With these last words, John walked briskly to the huddle of US marines forming up in their ranks, passing Robert Mumford who was with a contingent of British marines.

  ‘I see that you have deserted the British Empire, Mr Wong,’ Robert joked.

  ‘The Yankee marines have nicer uniforms,’ John retorted, joining the rear section of the contingent.

  ‘Good luck then, old chap,’ Robert said.

  ‘You too, Mr Mumford,’ John responded, not daring to look back to where he had left his grieving son. Why was it that he felt such a feeling of dread?

  But his dread was heightened when the half mad Norwegian missionary, Nestergaard, suddenly loomed from the night, waving his arms and howling accusations at the men ready to move out, shouting that his name was being sullied by all and that King Oscar of Norway would grant him justice. The soldiers’ attention was focused on the tall, gaunt man whose appearance in his long, black cassock reminded John of what he had read about the ancient Celtic Druids.

  ‘Get that man and gag him,’ Robert ordered, seeing the superstitious fear that the missionary was evoking in the men waiting to face battle. ‘Get him away from here, now.’

  Two soldiers immediately stepped forward to grapple with the Norwegian, who was still babbling about justice for his good name. They stuffed a rag in his mouth and, holding his flailing arms down, frogmarched him off into the night to place him in custody, thus bringing relief to all waiting to move out. John had wondered about the sudden appearance of the man and shook his head. He was growing superstitious, he chided himself. Not a good thing at this moment.

  The soldiers moved in a silence only broken by the never-ending sporadic rifle fire that rained down on different sections of the legation defences. Soon they were all assembled behind their lines on the great Tartar Wall.

  John unslung his rifle and waited. He was not the only civilian volunteer, he realised, recognising one or two British men with the Royal Marines. Light rain fell on the assembled force of soldiers and civilian militia preparing to launch the attack.

  ‘We are about to embark on a desperate enterprise,’ Captain Myers spoke, addressing the assault force. ‘It is one that I have advised against but the orders have been given and we must do it – or lose every man in the attempt. We will line up on the wall and rush the covering wall, then follow up that covering wall till we get to the back of the Chinese barricade. If there is anyone whose heart is not in the business he had better say so and clear out.’

  A silence followed, and only one man excused himself on account of an injured arm. Dying was bad, John thought. But being seen to be a coward was a lifelong slow death.

  ‘Go!’

  The order shouted by Myers galvanised the waiting men into action. They scrambled over their barricade to tumble ten feet to the wall below. The light patter of raindrops had turned into a torrential downpour as the Americans erupted, yelling like Indian warriors. John found himself yelling alongside them as they charged forward into a hail of bullets from the Chinese.

  All thoughts left John apart from reaching the barricade. He hurled himself at the outline of the wall in front of him and slung his rifle before clambering over the stone fortification, aware that others were doing likewise, while continuing to yell like demons out of hell.

  Then John found himself on the other side and a figure loomed up to meet him. It was a Boxer whose predominantly white uniform stood out in the dark. John fired from the hip, felling the figure before him and then felt something jab him in the arm. He swung, using the rifle barrel to parry the point of a bayonet and followed up by swinging the butt of his rifle, smashing into a Chinese soldier’s head. Around him he could hear men grunting, cursing and screaming. The heavy scent of unwashed bodies mixed with the coppery smell of spilled blood while an occasional shot sounded as soldiers on both sides freed themselves from the melee to reload. The hand-to-hand fighting asked no quarter – nor gave any. Surrender was futile and the men stabbed, bit and gouged at their foe. John chambered a round just as another enemy figure lunged at him with a spear. John was so close that he rammed the rifle barrel in the man’s stomach and fired. Then, as suddenly and savagely as it had begun, the desperate fighting ceased.

  ‘Hold your ground, lads. Form a skirmish line,’ Robert bellowed. ‘Report casualties.’

  John edged his way into the skirmish line and kneeled on one knee, facing down the wall where he and his comrades remained until the sun began to cast its first light on their
position, revealing the carnage all around them. John counted at least sixty dead Chinese, and heard that they had sustained three dead, six wounded. He did not count the deep cut to his upper arm as a wound even though it was bleeding profusely. He did not think any major artery or vein had been severed and had already applied a clean rag to stem the blood flow.

  Against the odds they had swept the enemy from this vital part of the wall and among the wounded was Jack Myers, who had slipped on a spear in the dark, sustaining a deep thigh wound. By mid-morning a relief force came to take possession of the new defences, now popularly known as Fort Myers, in honour of the courage of the US marine who had led the almost suicidal attack against the Chinese.

  Exhausted, John made his way down the wall to seek sleep. He collapsed on the mattress at his temporary home in Robert’s quarters. The ever-present stench of rotting flesh pervaded the room but John was beyond caring as he slipped into a troubled sleep filled with nightmares.

  A new problem had emerged for the defenders.

  Robert stood at the back of Sir Claude MacDonald’s spacious office, surrounded by the uniformed officers of the Russian, American and Italian military contingents. All his fellow officers were red-eyed and covered in dust that stained their uniforms a dark colour when combined with the sweat of the Chinese summer.

  ‘Those confounded Germans gave up the wall without a damned shot being fired,’ Captain Poole, a British officer raged, ‘forcing our American friends to leave their posts a couple of a hundred yards away when their rear was exposed to an attack.’

  Robert had witnessed the debacle when the Chinese had crept up a ramp to take possession of the broad ramparts of the Tartar Wall. The massive wall was the key point to the defence of the legation and its loss would mean certain defeat. He had tried to rally the fleeing German soldiers, but to no avail. One vital observation Robert had made was that the Chinese now occupying the ramparts had not followed up with reinforcements.

  ‘Do I have any suggestions, gentlemen?’ Sir Claude asked quietly, stilling the fuming British officer’s verbal attack on the German troops and their officers’ lack of courage.

  ‘I think that we can clear the Chinese from the ramparts, sir,’ Robert said. ‘A sizeable force could sweep them back but I doubt we would have enough force to reoccupy the positions the Germans lost.’

  I agree,’ Captain Poole concurred. ‘Because if we don’t succeed, then we are all doomed.’

  ‘Major Tolsky,’ Sir Claude said, turning to a Russian officer whose uniform was spattered with dried bloodstains. ‘Do you think that you could assemble a contingent of your men for an assault on the wall?’

  ‘Da, I can do that,’ the Russian answered with a growl, befitting his bear-like appearance.

  ‘We will muster troops,’ the American officer present volunteered.

  ‘That leaves you, Mr Mumford, to arrange soldiers from Captain Poole’s command to join with our American and Russian friends. The overall command of the attack will be given to Major Tolsky as the senior officer present. Are there any questions?’

  Heads shook and Robert was already thinking about how he would organise his contingent of seconded troops to integrate in the attack to sweep the Chinese from the wall.

  ‘Very good, gentlemen,’ Sir Claude concluded. ‘I trust in God and the might of European arms to achieve your mission.’

  After attending a briefing from the Russian commander, Robert assembled his men and double-marched them to join the American and Russian contingents. He had twenty men assigned to him and each and every one of his soldiers already bore the sign of constant battle – the long, staring look of a man who had seen too much and sought something beyond the hell of possible sudden death, or worse, a lingering death from a severe wound.

  ‘Fix bayonets!’ Robert commanded and the click of bayonet rings being connected to the end of rifle barrels had the ominous sound of men preparing to fight so close to their enemy that each man would see the other’s agonised expression when the long blade was plunged into his stomach, chest or throat.

  ‘Advance!’ Robert said, drawing his revolver and stepping in front of his men.

  The sun was midway on the horizon and the American and Russian forces beside them were also advancing with fixed bayonets. The troops of the Chinese army gaped with surprise at the sudden appearance of the advancing Europeans. They were under the delusion that their foreign enemy, once swept from the ramparts, would be too weak to mount a counterattack. Most turned and fled and those braver Chinese soldiers who did not found themselves fighting hand to hand with the professionals from Europe and America. Within bloody minutes Robert and his multinational comrades had cleared the wall and secured it against a possible Chinese counterattack. It was a small victory but a vital one.

  Late July to Early

  August 1900

  Pekin

  Who was he, and where was he? The light returned to John’s world. He was confused and had little memory of either who he was or where he had found himself.

  ‘He is waking,’ a distant voice said from what seemed to be miles away.

  It was a female voice, one he vaguely remembered, but his peaceful world was rudely shaken by the sound of scattered rifle fire followed by the crump of something exploding. The sounds and stench he was becoming aware of brought back vague but unpleasant memories.

  ‘Pekin,’ he whispered hoarsely through dry and cracked lips. He felt a cool cloth on his brow.

  ‘Do not try to sit up,’ the soothing voice said as John slowly opened his eyes. ‘I will give you water to drink.’

  John flinched when the light came back into his world and illuminated a face hovering over his.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked, staring at the pretty young woman. ‘I think that I know you.’

  ‘I am Elizaveta,’ she said with an expression of concern.

  ‘Where am I?’ John asked, accepting the water being dribbled into his mouth. He felt so weak that he had trouble swallowing.

  ‘You were brought to the hospital when Lieutenant Mumford found you,’ Liza said. ‘Your wounds were infected and you have been delirious. I thought that you might die.’

  ‘When was I brought here?’ John asked, slowly remembering parts of nightmares and dreams that must have been real events in his life.

  ‘You have been here eight days,’ Liza answered.

  Despite her protests John struggled to sit up in the hospital bed and lean against the wall behind him. When he gazed around he saw many soldiers and from their bandages realised they were casualties of a war.

  ‘I am in Pekin, China,’ John said softly. ‘There is something happening and I have met you before,’ he continued.

  Liza nodded. ‘Have you lost some memories?’

  ‘I think so,’ John replied, turning his attention to the woman tending him. ‘How did we meet?’

  ‘We met here,’ Liza replied sadly. ‘When you were first wounded. You do not remember our meeting?’

  ‘I wish I could,’ John answered, shaking his head sadly. ‘Do you know why I am here? I vaguely recall that this place is not home.’

  ‘You came to Pekin with your son, Andrew, to find your daughter, Naomi,’ Liza replied.

  ‘My son and daughter,’ John repeated. ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘I think that you should rest and take some soup before you wear yourself out,’ Liza said. ‘I will inform the doctor that you have regained consciousness and that your fever has broken.’

  Liza turned her back on her patient and walked away, forcing back the tears. How could she tell this man who was fortunate to be alive that his son had been reported missing just hours before John had regained consciousness? How could she tell this man she had strong feelings for, that he had lost a daughter, and now his son? Liza had learned that a Chinese convert had informed Dr Morrison that he had seen the young man – well known to them for his dedicated service to the sick and injured – slip beyond the defensive barricades and disappea
r into the Boxer-held territory beyond. In Morrison’s opinion, to do so had been suicidal.

  ‘Please, God, help me,’ she prayed as she went in search of the overworked doctor on duty that day.

  Blood streamed down Andrew’s forehead into his eyes as he attempted to rise from the hard earth but felt the butt of a rifle drive him down again.

  ‘I have a pass,’ he groaned. ‘I have a pass from your general.’

  The bashing ceased and Andrew became aware of what seemed to be a sea of legs all around him in the dimly lit room, smelling of sweat, urine and rotting bodies. They had snatched him from the street in the dark and dragged him into a building before he could even explain that he was in possession of a pass. The beating had commenced at once and Andrew knew that a mere scrap of parchment was the only thing between him and a painful death.

  ‘Rice bowl Christian,’ a voice snarled. ‘You expect us to believe you when you do not even sound like a true son of the soil. Soon, when we have tired of hurting you, we will take your head and collect our reward. You were seen coming from the foreign devil’s compound.’

  Andrew removed the pass, holding it out to his tormentor who snatched it from his hand.

  ‘What does it say?’ he heard the voice of his chief torturer ask, handing the pass now blotted with Andrew’s blood to another Boxer warrior who could obviously read.

  ‘It is a pass granted by the general,’ the man said with just a touch of awe.

  ‘How do I know that you are not lying?’ the man snarled. ‘How do I know that you did not steal this pass from someone else?’

  Andrew lifted his head, and staring up at his tormentor saw a pockmarked face scarcely concealing a deep cruelty. ‘There is one of you who can vouch for the authenticity of the pass,’ Andrew said, aware that the eyes boring into him were those of the devil himself. ‘His name is Tung Chi, a former Shaolin priest who I believe is of some standing in your cause.’