The Stone Dragon

by Peter Watt

  ‘Tung Chi,’ the man said. ‘You claim to know him?’

  ‘I do,’ Andrew replied, knowing that his life hung in the balance.

  He was cursing himself for his foolish, impulsive act of leaving the barricades to go in search of his sister. But the grief of losing Liling and learning of his father being hospitalised had made Andrew consider the situation. In the balance it appeared they were most likely to be overrun, as there had been no indication of a relief force coming to their rescue, and Andrew had decided to at least take the risk of using the pass to find Naomi. After all, that is why he and his father had risked their lives. Now, it seemed that once too often he had gambled against the odds on succeeding.

  ‘Honourable commander Han,’ a warrior said. ‘This man has the same family name as the woman you kept, according to what is written on the pass.’

  Andrew thought that he saw the man called Han blink, but he did not take his attention from him.

  ‘You have the same accent as woman called Naomi Wong,’ Han said. ‘Are you her husband?’

  At the mention of Naomi’s name, Andrew experienced a fleeting moment of happiness.

  ‘I am her brother,’ he replied softly.

  ‘Then you are an enemy of the people,’ Han said with a satisfied smirk. ‘You can expect no mercy.’

  ‘Honourable Commander Han,’ the soldier who held the pass said. ‘I think that it would be wise to inform Commander Tung that we have this man as a prisoner.’

  Han turned slowly to stare at the warrior who had dared suggest a course of action to him, contemplating the option of slowly killing the man at his feet. It was possible that having this man in his custody might assist in bringing the former Shaolin priest down. All he had to do was think of an angle to approach the challenge of disgracing Tung. Han returned his attention to Andrew and the Boxer adviser breathed once again; it did not help one’s life expectancy to upset Commander Han.

  ‘Why did you risk your life leaving your defences?’ Han asked. ‘Did you come to spy?’

  ‘No,’ Andrew answered. ‘I had hoped to see my sister, Honourable Commander.’

  ‘I know your sister,’ Han said with a cruel smirk. ‘She has been of great assistance to the morale of my men on many occasions.’

  Andrew felt a sudden rage grip him. Oh, how he wished that he had kept the pistol and could now ram it into that pockmarked face and pull the trigger. But he also knew his only hope of surviving the next few minutes was to kowtow to his captor’s whims.

  ‘It is good that she is of service,’ Andrew replied, forcing back the rising bile in his throat. ‘Is there a chance that I may see my sister?’

  ‘I would grant you that wish, dog,’ Han hissed. ‘But she is the prisoner of the Shaolin priest you say you know.’

  Andrew heard Han’s words and felt a hope rise to wash away the bile. If what Han said was true then maybe Naomi was in safe hands after all. ‘I beg you to let me live to see my sister, Honourable Commander,’ Andrew said, feigning subservience. ‘I can see that you are a man much respected by your men.’

  Han knew that his captive’s words were motivated by fear rather than any respect for him, but this did not matter. He still held the foreigner’s life in his hands. ‘It is possible that I will grant you time to see your sister before I execute you,’ Han said. ‘I will take you to Commander Tung on one condition only. To refuse me will mean a slow death without ever seeing your sister again.’

  ‘I will do whatever you say,’ Andrew answered, sensing that his life would be spared.

  Han turned to his adviser and spoke to him while Andrew remained on the ground. He remained thus for some minutes until Han ordered him to his feet, directing him to a small table.

  ‘Sit down and sign this paper,’ Han said, thrusting a sheet of paper in front of him.

  Andrew perused the freshly written document. Although it was in Chinese he could follow the script and paled under the blood streaming down his face. ‘This is not true,’ he said softly.

  Han leaned forward into Andrew’s face. ‘It is true, if you sign it,’ he said with a stony face. ‘The choice is either your signature or your death in a way that will have you screaming to be killed quickly.’

  A quill dipped in ink was placed before him. Andrew stared for a moment at the pen. He may as well have picked up a knife or gun for what he was being asked to do.

  ‘You will not be killed if you sign,’ Han said. ‘After all, I will need you to corroborate your story before the general.’

  Andrew reached for the quill and held it above the parchment. He knew that by signing he was sentencing Tung to death but the memory of the great Chinese library burning helped him decide although he knew that he was being forced to choose between his former friend and his sister. As Andrew applied the ink to the paper he thought he saw the slightest glimmer of a smile on Han’s face.

  ‘Now you will see your sister,’ Han said, slipping the signed document from the table. ‘And I will make an appointment with the Honourable General. I am sure that he will be unpleasantly surprised to see what you have told us about the Honourable Commander Tung’s treachery.’

  Andrew suddenly felt violently sick and could not prevent himself from vomiting on the floor.

  ‘The boys was wonderin’ when you was returning,’ Private Larry Gilles said.

  ‘Er, as soon as possible,’ John dutifully replied, to humour the tall, broad-shouldered young soldier standing by his bed.

  ‘The Lootenant agrees with the boys that you are lucky for our section,’ Private Gilles continued. ‘We have been takin’ a hammering on the line. But I should let you get some rest so I will see you soon, Mr Wong.’ John took the young soldier’s hand and felt his strong grip. ‘So long, Mr Wong. Be seeing you soon.’

  ‘I obviously know him,’ John said to Liza, who had returned to his side at every possible opportunity since he had regained his senses three days earlier. She had told him how he had lapsed in and out of his fever, drinking and taking a little food, seemingly oblivious to all around him. And it was only when the fever fully abated that he appeared to be conscious of the world around him, but without any real memory of the past.

  John’s next visitor was his compatriot Dr Morrison, who seemed to accept John’s lack of memory.

  ‘Our Chinese converts found an old artillery piece,’ Morrison said, sitting by John’s bed and briefing him on events since his admission to the hospital. ‘Sergeant Mitchell from the US contingent has been able to get it working and we recovered the Russian shells from a well where they had been dumped. The calibre was just about right and the old gun has caused the Chinese a few headaches. We do not understand why the Chinese army has not brought up his best gunners and guns to finish us off and I suspect that they are deployed to stop any reinforcements reaching us. But the Imperial troops and Boxers are continuing to build barricades further each day and many of our converts are trying to flee, poor devils. They usually end up as mutilated corpses floating in the river. Our Japanese allies have been fighting superbly,’ Morrison continued. ‘Of all our contingents I think they have suffered the hardest blows. Their Colonel Shiba is a remarkable man.’

  ‘I have a son, Dr Morrison,’ John said, cutting the informal briefing short. ‘Do you know him?’

  Morrison sat back in his chair and cleared his throat. ‘Your son, Andrew, is a fine young man who has provided sterling service in the last week or so tending to the Chinese in the Fu.’

  ‘Could you get a message to my son that I would like to see him?’ John asked.

  Morrison looked uncomfortable. ‘I am afraid that your son was last seen slipping out of the legation yesterday, in the late evening hours,’ Morrison answered.

  ‘Would not that be extremely dangerous?’ John asked.

  Morrison looked away. ‘I cannot answer that question, Mr Wong. Nothing has come to me through my sources to report his death.’

  ‘I must find him and my daughter, who I have been told is
also a captive of the Chinese,’ John said, staring at the fly-specked ceiling of the improvised ward he shared with many other wounded soldiers.

  ‘Well, Mr Wong, Miss Gurevich has informed me that you are getting well very quickly,’ Morrison said, rising to his feet.

  ‘Why is it that I do not remember so much?’

  Morrison paused. ‘I have heard a theory that the constant stress of facing death, coupled with a severe illness, can cause a block to our memory,’ he said. ‘But, with good food, treatment and rest I am sure your memory will return, Mr Wong.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor,’ Liza said, taking over. ‘I will ensure that he receives all three.’

  Morrison picked up his rifle. ‘I know he is in good hands,’ Morrison said and walked away leaving John alone with Liza.

  ‘You should sleep,’ she said gently.

  John closed his eyes. When he next opened them it was dark and humid and he realised that he had slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep. When he turned his head he could see Liza sitting in a chair by his bed, her eyes closed.

  ‘Liza,’ John called softly.

  She woke with a start. ‘What is it?’ she asked, bending over him.

  John suddenly pulled Liza’s face down to his, and kissed her with a passion that came from the heart. ‘I remember,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘I remember the kiss.’

  Liza gasped, attempting to pull away, but he drew her down onto the bed where he kissed her again. She did not resist, surrendering to her feelings. Then, straightening up, she brushed down her dress, pleased that the ward was so dimly lit.

  ‘It is obvious that your memory has returned,’ she said with her own gentle smile.

  ‘I remember everything,’ John said softly. ‘And I know why I am here. Tomorrow, I am leaving the hospital.’

  Robert sat at his battered desk in what was left of his quarters. Sweat dripped onto the sheets of paper laid out on the desk. The last thing he wanted to do was write a report for Sir Claude when he would rather have accepted an invitation to dinner with the American Conger family. But an unexpected truce had been called by the Chinese, and Sir Claude wanted a report on the situation as it stood for the defenders. Robert, like many others, was at a loss to understand why the Chinese would want a truce. Was it possible that advancing European forces had forced the Empress and her army to reconsider their situation? But one never knew with the Chinese mind, Robert thought, shaking his head. They were not as predictable as many of the European community had presumed.

  Glossy black flies crawled over his exposed flesh and the British officer was only too aware of why they were so fat. He brushed them away with a sense of disgust and leaned back in the chair, attempting to dismiss the ever-constant stench of rotting bodies that pervaded the hot, summer air. Two mines buried under the French legation buildings by Chinese sappers had exploded earlier in the week, forcing the French soldiers to give up two-thirds of their territory. The defences were shrinking every day, with no sign of help from the outside world.

  The tough and courageous Japanese soldiers had been forced to pull out of the line for badly needed rest and, while they were recovering, the defences were vulnerable.

  The damned, demented Nestergaard had succeeded in going over to the enemy lines, where he was welcomed. It seemed that the Chinese had a respect for mad men. After a hearty meal supplied by the enemy, the missionary had informed the Chinese soldiers that they were firing too high, along with providing them with the latest information on the layout of the defences. The Chinese marksmen had since rectified that situation and the casualties mounted behind the barricades. Many in the legation wanted Nestergaard shot as a traitor when he was returned unharmed, but Robert had joined those defending him, saying that it was not cricket to shoot a mad man.

  Robert glanced at the loose sheets of papers submitted to him from the hospital. It was the casualty list and two names on it made the British officer sigh. Both were men he knew well. One was young Henry Warren, a British student interpreter with the civil service who had been hit in the face by shrapnel from an exploding artillery shell while serving alongside the Japanese in the Fu. Robert had heard how the doctors had fought to save his life on the operating table but a bone from his shattered face had slipped into his throat and even a tracheotomy had not been successful. Polly Condit-Smith would miss him, Robert mused, remembering how many times before the siege he had seen the two dancing together under the Chinese lanterns.

  A fellow officer, Captain Strouts, was listed as killed in action. Below his name was that of Dr George Morrison with the initials WIA – wounded in action. Again, it was a situation Robert knew about from eye witnesses. Strouts and Morrison had accompanied the British relief force to replace the Japanese in the Fu and while returning with the Japanese commander, Colonel Shiba, had run into a hail of enemy rifle fire. A bullet had ripped into Morrison’s thigh, shattering his thigh bone, while Strouts fell mortally wounded into the Japanese officer’s arms. A bullet tearing the artery in his thigh caused Strouts to bleed to death three hours later in the hospital, where he had been carried by a stretcher party under heavy fire.

  Robert neatly drew up columns on a sheet of paper and added each man’s name as either military or civilian, officer or enlisted man, dead or wounded.

  When his report was completed, there was little time to reflect on finding a meal and getting some badly needed sleep before accepting the American diplomat’s invitation. At least Robert knew that he would be eating something other than horse meat at the Congers’ table. They had their own cache of tinned food and with any luck Robert might get to eat tinned fruit.

  Despite his pass from General Tung Fu-hsiang, Andrew was treated as a hostile prisoner by Han. He was force-marched along darkened streets through Chinese military formations until they reached the Forbidden City, the palaces of the Empress. He was taken through lavish, ornate gardens until they reached a building surrounded by heavily armed guards who challenged Han and his warriors.

  After a discussion with the guards, Han was admitted alone into the building that Andrew guessed, from the activity he observed around him, was being used as a military headquarters. His head throbbed from the rifle butt blows but the blood had dried forming a scab on his scalp.

  A short time later Han returned, gesturing to Andrew to follow him inside and, although he was not bound, Andrew realised that escape was impossible in the streets teeming with Imperial troops and Boxers. He followed Han through avenues of armed guards until they reached an anteroom decorated with murals of Chinese rural scenes. The room was lit with braziers that cast eerie, flickering shadows in the corners.

  ‘Get down on your knees,’ Han hissed, prostrating himself at the same time.

  Andrew obeyed, ensuring that his eyes were fixed on the marble floor. Then, the feared Chinese general entered the room and Han’s plot to have his hated opponent removed was set in motion.

  ‘This is the man who has sworn the statement that Commander Tung is a traitor to our cause?’ the general asked.

  ‘Yes, most Honourable General,’ Han replied, kowtowing respectfully. ‘My unit captured him attempting to make contact with Commander Tung. He carried a pass purporting to be granted by you.’

  ‘Let me see the pass.’

  Han quickly produced the now crumpled piece of paper and handed it to one of the general’s staff. It was in turn passed to the general, who had now sat himself in an ornate chair raised on a small dais.

  ‘I know of this pass,’ the general said. ‘But why is it that this foreigner should confess to a statement condemning Commander Tung as a traitor?’ he asked in a menacing tone.

  Han suddenly felt a chill of fear. Had he overstepped his mark in getting the captured man to lie? After all, he was attempting to discredit one of the general’s own blood. Now, he wished that he could retrieve the statement and simply do away with the captured man for the price the Empress had secretly put on all captured and killed defenders from the legation.<
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  ‘I admit that I applied more than persuasive means to extract the confession from this man called Andrew Wong,’ Han said quickly, attempting to find a way out of a situation that was turning dangerously against him. Sweat had broken out on his brow despite the coolness of the marbled room. ‘I also thought it was a lie and that this unworthy dog was attempting to smear the good name of the honourable Tung Chi.’

  The Chinese general stared hard at the Boxer commander. Trouble was breaking out between the Imperial troops of the Chinese army and the rebel Boxer units and such a rift could cause serious problems. Besides being a tactical soldier, the general was also a good politician. He suspected that the man before him had a deadly grudge against his nephew but at the same time he could not be seen to be playing favourites.

  ‘Does not Commander Tung currently hold a foreign woman in his care that you were forced to hand over?’ he now asked in a menacing tone that frightened the already terrified Boxer commander even more.

  ‘He does, most Honourable General,’ Han confirmed. ‘She is to be returned to me at first light tomorrow.’

  ‘You, prisoner,’ the General said, turning his attention to Andrew. ‘I have been told that this woman is your sister.’

  ‘She is, most Honourable General,’ Andrew replied, his eyes still downcast. ‘I was only attempting to find her.’

  ‘How do you explain this statement condemning Commander Tung?’ the general asked, waving the statement of written lies in the air.

  ‘Commander Han was so enthusiastic in his interrogation of me when I was first captured that I thought I would not see my sister so I made up the lies,’ Andrew said, knowing that for some reason he had to extract the odious Chinese captor out of this difficult situation for both their sakes. ‘The Honourable Commander Han is most obviously dedicated to the cause of freeing China and I bitterly regret saying those things when I consider Commander Tung a friend.’