—
The last days of June were terrible. The sniping had taken its toll on the defending troops. Every evening a few more bodies, wrapped only in sacking for a winding sheet, were given a makeshift burial. But worse were the bodies of the Chinese attackers, who often fell in places where they could not be safely recovered. As the daily temperatures rose to tropical highs, the smell of death pervaded the place.
Then came the rain, in tropical torrents; then thunder and lightning, banging and crashing over the legation as if the Dragon Empress herself had commanded the lightning to destroy the impious intruders and all their works. Henry went over into the Fu to be with the converts for an hour and came back drenched.
“This is harder for them than for us,” he explained to Trader. “When Cixi’s troops hear the thunder, they think the gods are signaling their approval. And the converts may wonder, too.” He smiled wryly. “Not every conversion is perfect.”
That evening, though the thunderstorm was still raging, the attack on the Legation Quarter began to rise to a new crescendo. From east, west, and north, with rifles and cannon, the Chinese troops were pouring in their fire at a tremendous rate. With bullets tearing into the roof and smacking against the walls, the Whiteparishes and Trader came downstairs to the hallway. The MacDonalds were in the drawing room with their girls. Emily and Henry decided not to intrude, but to stay discreetly in the hall.
They’d been there only a few minutes when, despite the great thunderclaps and the accompanying barrage, they became aware of another sound. It was coming from a storeroom behind the hall into which the residence’s piano had been put for safety. One had to clamber over packing cases to reach this piano, but it was a formidable instrument, a Bösendorfer, no less, with a big, rich tone. When a young fellow at the German legation had asked MacDonald if he might practice on it, the British envoy, not wanting to be churlish at such a time, told him that he might play it whenever he pleased. And if, in this steaming hot weather, the instrument was a little out of tune, the young German didn’t seem to mind.
He had just started to play it now.
Could he have been sleeping in there? Was he unaware of the attack? Was he trying to give himself courage? Or maybe, in all the heat and noise and fear, he was a little out of his mind. Whatever the reason, he was playing “Ride of the Valkyries.” He thumped it out on the piano, as loudly as he could. In the drawing room, the MacDonalds must have heard it, too. When he was done, he paused, and Trader wondered what he would play next. The answer soon came. He was playing “Ride of the Valkyries” again.
Just then, a young officer burst in through the front door. “Where is the minister?” he called.
Before Henry could even direct him, MacDonald strode out of the drawing room. “Well? What news?”
“The Chinese have been firing into the Fu with a Krupp cannon, sir. Now they’re advancing and the Japanese commander can’t hold them back. He has a second line of defense, sir, but if he can’t hold them there…”
“I must go to the Fu,” said Henry.
“Don’t go,” said Emily. “It’s too late. Stay with us.”
Henry shook his head. Emily looked beseechingly at MacDonald.
“You can’t do any good there, Whiteparish,” MacDonald said firmly. “Not at the moment. The Japanese commander knows his business. You’re to stay here. That’s an order,” he added.
“But my converts…”
“Later. Not now. Stay with your family, as I’m doing.”
MacDonald glanced at Trader. If the Japanese held their second line, then Henry could comfort the converts later. If the Chinese overran it, there would be nobody left to comfort.
MacDonald turned back to the young officer. “What about the west side?” he demanded.
“The Chinese are in the Mongol market, sir,” the young officer replied. “They haven’t broken into the legation yet.”
“And the city wall?”
“They’re trying to get up there. Our barricades are holding so far.”
“Keep me informed.” MacDonald nodded to the young man, who left. Then he went back into the drawing room.
So the Whiteparish family stood together in the hall, Tom between Henry and Emily, who each had an arm around him, and Trader beside Emily.
Trader wasn’t sure how much Tom understood. But his parents did. If any one of the three lines of defense fell—the Mongol market, the Fu, or the high wall overlooking the legations—then it was all over.
He glanced at Emily. Was she carrying the small revolver he’d procured for her? He felt sure she was. He had a Webley service revolver himself. He could see, by the bulge in his pocket, that Tom had his cricket ball. Trader wasn’t sure if Henry was carrying a weapon.
Now the noise of firing outside was growing louder than ever. He tried to count the speed of fire. About five rounds a second, he thought. Three hundred or more a minute. That would be twenty thousand bullets an hour. And it wasn’t letting up. Surely nothing could withstand an assault like that. They must be about to break in, he thought, any moment. As if to counter the terrible din, the German pianist was playing the Wagnerian tune louder and louder, in a sort of delirium.
Suddenly MacDonald appeared and rushed down the passage to the storeroom door. They heard him shouting furiously, “Shut up! Shut up!” then slam the door. A moment later he strode back through the hall to the drawing room, throwing up his hands as he went.
And the piano still continued, more wildly and louder than ever.
Trader felt something touching the back of his wrist and glanced down. Emily spoke in a little voice. “Hold my hand.” So he did, and squeezed it once or twice when the angry roar outside became so deafening that not even “Ride of the Valkyries” could be heard.
It was after one of these huge outbursts that they noticed the piano had stopped. A minute passed; then MacDonald reappeared, looking a little calmer now.
“Did one of you shoot the pianist, by any chance?” he inquired. They shook their heads. He went down the passage and soon returned. “He must have gone out the back.” He paused and gazed at Henry, then at Trader. “Well,” he said slowly, “as a military man, I can tell you this, for what it’s worth: Our friends outside are shooting too high.”
* * *
—
During all the turmoil since his arrival, Trader had failed to realize one thing about his son-in-law. There was no reason, he thought afterwards, why he should have guessed. There had been no sign.
During the terrible night of the storm and the day that followed, the legation compound survived, but only just. Up on the wall, the Chinese had managed to take one of the defenders’ positions, but not the other; and having got it, they were pinned against their own barricade and couldn’t do much. In the Fu, they had made a big advance. The legation’s line of defense was now a barrier stretching diagonally across the open space and enclosing only two-thirds of the total. But it was solidly constructed and expertly manned by the Japanese troops. Moreover, to reach this barricade, the Chinese now had to come across open ground, where they would be subject to withering fire.
It was a few days after the storm that Trader accompanied Henry and Emily on one of their daily visits into the Fu.
It was a shock. He’d realized that the converts must be having a bad time. But he hadn’t imagined it was as terrible as this. The place looked and smelled like a shantytown that had been flooded or a camp that had been bombarded. That wasn’t surprising. But as they began to move among the occupants, Trader blanched visibly. He couldn’t help it.
“I shouldn’t have let you come, Father,” Emily said apologetically.
Half the converts seemed to have dysentery. Trader had expected that. More frightening were the cases of smallpox. “It started a little while ago,” said Henry. “People are going down with it every day, mostly the children.” But worst of all w
as the fact that the converts were close to starving.
“What can we do? We’ve got to feed the people in the legations enough to keep their strength up, especially the troops,” explained Emily. “That just leaves a few eggs and scraps and musty rice for the converts.” She shook her head. “The troops expect the converts to repair the defenses, but they’re so weak. I try to feed them more, if I can find the food. But when I do, they just take it and give it to their families. That’s why they all look like skeletons, and I feel so guilty.”
They spent nearly half an hour in the Fu. Trader saw all kinds of good people, Catholic priests and nuns, Presbyterian ministers and Anglicans, each attending patiently to their own flock. But no one had any food to give. Henry and Emily selected four of their converts for a visit to the infirmary, and then they all trooped back together. As they left the Fu, a sniper sent a bullet over their heads, just to remind them who was boss.
It was after Emily had gone with the converts to the infirmary that Henry turned to Trader and asked if they might have a private word.
They found a protected corner of the garden where there was a bench by some trees, and they sat down. Henry was silent for a moment or two. Then he asked, “Can I tell you something in confidence?”
“I should think so.”
“I don’t want you to tell Emily.”
“All right,” said Trader. “As long as it isn’t something I feel I have to tell her.”
“It isn’t.” Again Henry hesitated. “It helps to talk sometimes,” he said.
“Talk away.”
“It’s funny, you know, my father always warned me it was an occupational hazard for missionaries. But it never happened to me. Not in all these years.” He paused. “I suppose,” he went on, “I thought it would be an agonizing thing. You know, a dark night of the soul.”
“What would be?”
“Oh. Sorry. To lose my faith.”
“Ah. Well, I’ve heard of that, of course. What brought it on?”
“It may have been brewing for some time. I’m not sure. But it’s been this last month. The converts in the Fu.”
“It’s enough to shake anybody up. I was pretty shaken myself, to tell you the truth.”
“Yes, but don’t you see, it’s my fault. I look at these poor people, starving, their children dying, and I think to myself, It’s my fault you’re here. If I hadn’t converted you, the Boxers wouldn’t be trying to kill you.”
“Christians have suffered persecution down the ages.”
“Yes, but these wretched Chinese didn’t take up the cross to be martyred. They just believed all the good things I told them. Now the bullets are flying, they’re probably going to die, and it’s my fault.”
“You’ve brought them to Christ. Saved their souls, perhaps.”
“That’s what I’m supposed to feel.”
“And what do you feel?”
“Nothing. I feel nothing. Just an awful blankness.”
“As I understand it, the point is to have faith.”
“That’s right. And it’s gone, flown away, vanished over the horizon.”
“I’m no theologian, but isn’t this the dilemma they call the problem of evil? That’s to say, if God is loving and all-powerful, then why would He create a world that is so full of cruelty and pain? Why do bad people triumph while good people are destroyed?”
“That’s right. And religion has many ways of explaining the conundrum. God is testing us. God has a purpose we do not know. There are other arguments. But suddenly I found I didn’t believe any of them. They all seemed a lot of nonsense.”
“Christianity preaches kindness to others. That can’t be bad.”
“It’s good. The Sermon on the Mount is wonderful. I could have come to China to be a doctor, for instance, or to help the poor, and done no harm at all.”
“You know,” said Trader thoughtfully, “years ago I was at a dinner party in London, and there was a Jesuit priest there. And when we were sitting with the port, we got onto the subject of saints, and canonizing new ones. And someone asked him whether there had ever been a case of a candidate for beatification who was discovered to have lost their faith. And he told us something that surprised us all. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘that would strengthen their case. Loss of faith can be a part, a very testing part, of the spiritual journey.’ And I remember thinking afterwards that although I’m not a Catholic myself, one can’t deny that the Catholic Church knows a lot about the secrets of the human heart.”
“You’re trying to comfort me, and it’s very good of you,” Henry replied. “I’m sorry that I’ve brought your daughter into all this.”
“Nonsense. She chose it. Stop blaming yourself for everything.” Trader smiled at him kindly. “I can tell you one thing, though, if it’s any help: something I’ve been thinking in the last couple of days. I believe there’s some kind of influence at work that’s protecting us. Now whether it’s the hand of God or something more mundane, I can’t begin to guess. But something’s keeping us alive.”
“How do you mean?” asked Henry.
“The Chinese could have taken the legations the other night. But they didn’t. Something’s holding them back.”
“You don’t think the Dragon Empress wants to destroy us?”
“My guess is that she does. But maybe there are two factions at court. Something like that. Her orders are being obeyed, but not completely followed through on. Personally, although I can’t prove it, I like to think that the hand of God is operating through those people. And you might find comfort in that thought. But whatever is holding them back, it’s only got to do so long enough for the relief force to reach us. So even if you’ve lost your faith at this moment, there’s a good reason to carry on regardless and hang on.”
“I shall,” Henry promised. “You’re the only one I could share this with, you know.”
“I know,” said Trader.
* * *
—
It was early that evening that he received supporting evidence for his theory about the Chinese attacks. He’d just gone over to the bell tower to scan the notices when he encountered Morrison.
“I saw our friend Backhouse today,” the Times man said. “I’d gone up to the barrier by the old library that burned down. Thought I’d just check that the Chinese weren’t trying to sneak in that way again. No sign of any Chinese, but I could hear someone rummaging about in there. It turned out to be Backhouse. He’s been hiding out somewhere in the city—God knows how he does it—and he’d come to see if there were any books he could salvage.”
“Did he have news of what’s going on out there?”
“He did. The Catholics are holding out in their cathedral, but there have been some awful massacres. Our relief force is on the way, but it’s still got to break through some big lines of Boxers. We’ll have to wait. I’ve told MacDonald, but he’s unwilling to announce the news. Bad for morale. And in any case, he doesn’t trust the source.”
“He’s probably right on both counts.”
“Agreed. But Backhouse did say some things that make sense. He says the Chinese court is split. Cixi’s party wants to wipe us out and close the city to foreigners once and for all. The other party fears retribution from our governments. Our own telegraph’s cut off, but the court’s getting threatening cables from Western capitals now.”
“So, two parties in the Forbidden City. I was wondering about that.”
“It goes further. Cixi sent messages to her provincial governors demanding troops.”
“And?”
“Deafening silence. They’re ignoring her. She’s furious, but there isn’t a lot she can do.”
“Interesting. Let’s hope,” said Trader, “that for once Backhouse is telling the truth.”
* * *
—
Emi
ly had always known her father was a good man. And the sweltering first half of July saw Trader at his best. Each day he maintained a calm routine. In the morning, dressed in a long linen jacket with big patch pockets, he’d usually spend time with Tom. They’d take a little light exercise, after which he’d turn his grandson over to young Fargo, who’d run about with him and engage in some fielding practice.
In the afternoon, sitting in a wicker chair, he’d draw a book from one of his big pockets and read to the two boys and anyone else who cared to join them. It might be a humorous tale by Mark Twain, or a Sherlock Holmes mystery, or a funny scene from his old favorite, The Pickwick Papers—something to take their minds off the uncomfortable facts of the siege for an hour or two. After the evening meal, when it was a little cooler, and if the firing had died down, he’d walk with her, and they’d talk about family or times past or places far away.
He seemed to have a good effect on Henry, too. Of course, Henry had always been steady as a rock. But she thought he’d been a little strange lately. It was hardly surprising, with all the stress he was under. One moment he’d seem tense—too tense for her even to be able to comfort him at night—but a few hours later she might come upon her husband humming to himself, which was a thing he’d never done before. With her father, however, Henry always became calm and quiet, like his old self again.
The British minister might be under siege, but he still kept up his social obligations. So Emily wasn’t surprised when Lady MacDonald informed her: “We haven’t forgotten about giving a dinner in your father’s honor. Would the day after tomorrow suit, do you think?”
The day of the dinner got off to a bad start. The Chinese began firing a Krupp gun directly at the roof of the MacDonald residence to see if they could bring down the flag flying over it. Emily had wondered if the dinner would take place, but her father reassured her: “The gunners are just bored, my dear. They’ll give it up long before sundown.” Which indeed they did.
Then came a visit from Lady MacDonald. “I was just wondering, my dear, what your father would be wearing. The Italian minister always wears full evening dress, and so can my husband. But with all this going on, some of the men may not be able to. As your father is the guest of honor, I thought I’d better find out what he’d be doing.”
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