China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  A week passed. People didn’t want to discuss the threat from the Chinese bannermen and the Boxers. They preferred to share whatever news came through about the approach of the relief force. And one might indeed draw comfort from the fact that each day that passed without a major assault meant that there was less and less time in which it could be attempted.

  But the mining continued. The sniping grew more insistent each day so that the truce, for all practical purposes, no longer existed.

  As for Trader, he counted each night and each day, just like everyone else, but with this one difference: his promise to Emily about Tom.

  If only Emily hadn’t been right. That was the trouble. He could imagine those Boxers with their jian swords and the imperial troops with their bayonets. He knew what they’d do to Tom. Of course the boy should be saved from that.

  But he couldn’t do it. The thought haunted him. The boy’s even saved my life, he thought, yet I haven’t the guts to grant him a merciful death. He told himself he must. But he feared in his heart that he might fail him. He prayed to God that the relief column would come quickly.

  Once when he was reading an adventure story to Tom in the afternoon, his voice almost broke and he couldn’t go on. And Tom was concerned and puzzled until he explained that it was just his leg playing up again.

  And though he did not do so, of course, he almost wept with relief when MacDonald finally told him: “This time we know for certain. Our troops will be here tomorrow.”

  * * *

  —

  It was pitch-black that night. There was a strange silence and electricity in the air, as if a thunderstorm was brewing. And sure enough it came—a deep roll that spread into a growl all along the horizon. Somewhere there was a flash of lightning.

  And then, as if they had only been waiting for this heavenly sign, the thousands of bannermen and Boxers surrounding the legations erupted together in the terrible cry, which drowned out even the thunder.

  “Sha! Sha!” Kill. “Sha!” Kill.

  MacDonald was at the door of the residence in seconds. Soldiers were running in from every defense post reporting that they were under attack. “Sound the alarm!” MacDonald cried, and moments later the bell in its little tower could be heard jangling wildly.

  * * *

  —

  So it had come to this. Trader stood with his pistol in his hand as the rain poured down in front of him. An hour had passed since the alarm had sounded and a drenching rainstorm had burst over the legations. MacDonald had gone out long ago and not returned. Every other able-bodied man was out on the barricades, including Henry; and if it wasn’t for his leg, Trader would have been there, too. Instead, he was mounting guard in the porch by the front door of the residence, inside which Lady MacDonald and her girls were in the back parlor, while Emily and Tom huddled together in a protected corner of the hall.

  Thunderstorm or not, this was the last chance for the Chinese. One night left to destroy the foreigners and their traitor-converts. One night left to seal the capital off from the outside world and tell the relief force: “You’ve no one to rescue anymore.”

  Trader wished he could make out what was going on. Sometimes the Chinese war chant sounded louder; sometimes it died down a little. He wished he could leave his post to go and see.

  Then, to his surprise, Henry appeared. He was drenched but unhurt. “What news?” he asked.

  “We’re holding them,” said Henry, and disappeared inside. Five minutes later, he came out again.

  “What did you tell Emily and Tom?” Trader asked.

  “The same as I told you. We’re holding them.” Henry paused, then gave his father-in-law a sad look. “Between you and me, I’m not sure we can hold them much longer.” He shook Trader’s hand with emotion before going on his way.

  Trader understood: Henry had come for a last look at his wife and son and to bid him goodbye.

  Glancing in through the door, he could just see the hem of Emily’s skirt. Tom he couldn’t see. He would have liked to go in there himself, but he stayed at his post, and the minutes passed.

  He lost track of time. He felt as if he had entered a nightmare world where time and space were shaped by rain, cries, screams, and the bangs of countless bullets and shells all around. Sometimes the screams sounded close and getting nearer; at other times they were quieter, though whether that meant that they were farther away he could not tell. The only time the night offered him any solid, static forms was when a flash of lightning would suddenly illumine the scene, and he’d see the sharply curved tile roofs of nearby buildings glistening in the rain like swords and knives.

  It couldn’t go on for many hours now, he thought. And when the Chinese broke through, he knew what he would do. He’d keep firing, where he was, until they cut him down.

  He didn’t want to see his daughter’s end, nor Tom’s. Was that selfish? Not really. Not if there was no hope. Emily would have to do whatever she thought best, and despite her trying to unload the business onto him, he believed he knew what that would be, whatever she said.

  As for himself, he’d just as soon a bullet took him out any time now, rather than prolong the agony of waiting.

  They were starting to shell the garden in front of him with a Krupp gun. Explosive shells. Did they know where the shells were falling? Would they adjust their aim and hit the residence instead? Despite the rain, he began to move forward onto the lawn, into the line of fire. He wasn’t even conscious he was doing so. An explosive shell hit a tree only twenty feet away.

  It was a moment later that he noticed that someone else was hastening to the residence door. He stared and frowned. “What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded.

  It was Backhouse.

  “I thought I’d come by.”

  “Go and fight on the barricades like everyone else.”

  “I was. Then MacDonald arrived. He may have thought I was getting in the way. I really don’t know. But he sent me here to help you.”

  “Don’t go inside. You’ll disturb people. You can stand in the rain.”

  “If we stand in the porch, we’ll be outside, but we won’t be in the rain.”

  Trader said nothing.

  “If you stay where you are at this moment, you will be in the line of fire,” Backhouse observed.

  Still Trader said nothing, but he reluctantly moved back to the porch. The two men stood in silence for a couple of minutes. A shell from the Krupp gun exploded on the lawn, in the place where Trader had been standing.

  “There you are,” said Backhouse. “MacDonald was right to send me here. I just saved your life.”

  “Damn your eyes.”

  After a little while, Backhouse spoke again. “I think you have a death wish, Mr. Trader. Do you have a death wish?”

  “No.”

  “If the Chinese break in—and they very well may—we’re the first line of defense for the residence.”

  “Obviously. I assume you have a gun.”

  “Oh yes. In fact, I’m quite a good shot. We may be able to keep them at bay for a while. But we can’t really stop them getting into the residence. Who’s in there?”

  “Lady MacDonald and her daughters. My daughter, Mrs. Whiteparish, and her son.”

  “Has Lady MacDonald got a gun?”

  “Don’t know. My daughter’s got a pistol.”

  “If the Chinese do get through, your daughter should use the pistol on herself. And her son, of course.”

  “Mind your own business.”

  “Are you going to do it, then—assuming you get the chance?”

  “None of your affair.”

  “I can do it, if you want.”

  “You?” Trader looked at Backhouse in horror. This loathsome creature shoot Emily and Tom? Trader pulled out his Webley and pointed it at Backhouse’s chest. “Get out
of here!” he shouted. “Get out of here, or I swear by God I’ll kill you.”

  And Backhouse, seeing the older man really meant it, gracefully but speedily retired.

  So Trader stayed there, half in and half out of the rain, while the thunder and the barrage of shots and shells continued, standing like a tall old rock on a Scottish hillside, bleak and dour and without any hope of salvation.

  Then, in the darkest time of the night before the dawn, he heard another deep rumble of thunder in the east, and soon after that, he heard cheering. Supposing that the Chinese must have broken through, he took out his gun and prepared to shoot the first Boxer or bannerman who approached.

  And sure enough, a figure did come running in, but he cried out as he came, “It’s me, Henry.” And Trader felt a surge of joy that the two of them could go down fighting side by side. “Did you hear the big guns in the east?” Henry cried as he reached him.

  “Guns? I thought it was thunder.”

  “No. Our guns. The relief’s arrived. We’re saved!”

  * * *

  —

  Emily had many memories of the months that followed. The arrival of the relief force had been a joy indeed: British troops, American, Russian, French, German, Japanese; perhaps most magnificent to behold, the splendid Sikhs from India. But the moment she cherished above all was when a single officer, the first man they saw, walked onto the British legation lawn, wondering where exactly he was, to be greeted by Lady MacDonald herself, together with a bevy of wives, all dressed formally as though for a diplomatic reception, with the immortal words: “I don’t know who you are, but we are very pleased to see you.”

  A close second had to be the reaction of her dear father, who on being told that the Dowager Empress Cixi had managed to disappear from the Forbidden City overnight and could not be found, delightedly remarked: “She’s done a bunk. A moonlight flit. You’d think she couldn’t pay the rent!”

  A third was more moving.

  For the day after these events, a discovery was made, of two mines that the Chinese had dug—not the mine that Tom had detected on the northern side of the legation, but two others that no one had known anything about. Inside the mines were found huge quantities of explosive, all primed and ready to be detonated. Why had they not been used? Nobody ever found out. She was with her father, her husband, and Tom when MacDonald came in with the news.

  “Had those gone off,” MacDonald told them, “there’d have been nothing left of the legations. We should, all of us, have been blown to smithereens.”

  And she saw her father put his hand on Henry’s shoulder and quietly say, “Well, if that isn’t a sign of God’s providence, then I don’t know what is.” And Henry suddenly broke down and wept, though she didn’t quite know why.

  * * *

  —

  The following months were relatively quiet for Emily. The Boxer Rebellion was not completely over. Though the Christians in the Legation Quarter and up at the Catholic cathedral had been rescued, there were terrible massacres, of Catholics especially, in the northern prefectures that continued for almost a year until the movement came to an end.

  During that time, the Empress Cixi, having got clean away in disguise, had reemerged in the central provinces, where she made a diplomatic tour of ancient cities until terms were finally agreed for her safe return, with the support of the Western powers, to the capital.

  In the legation, however, the rebuilding of life began right away. In the autumn, Tom was sent to England with another family who were making the voyage. Henry was busy with the mission, which had to be rebuilt. Emily took it upon herself to write a long letter giving the family a full account of everything that had passed, including a glowing account of her father’s gallant role in the whole business.

  The surprise had been her father. She’d supposed he’d probably go back to England with Tom. But instead he’d announced that there was something he wanted to do before he left, and that it might take a month or two.

  She and Henry were perfectly happy about it and glad of his company. But she’d been amazed at how busy he’d been. There had been calls upon diplomats and long discussions with Morrison, old Sir Robert Hart, and others knowledgeable in the conduct of affairs. And finally, after two months, he had completed his project.

  His report, entitled The Folly of Reparations in China, was never published, but it was widely read. And admired. For it was a masterpiece.

  “You see,” he told her, “what I came to suspect, over some decades involved with China in one way or another, was that we’d all been making a great mistake. Every time there was a conflict—and of course we always insisted that each war was started by the other side and not by us—we would claim compensation. Both to cover our own expenses and to deter the other side from starting any trouble again. And I came to see that this policy has many problems. In the first place, since the argument is presented as a moral one—that the whole thing’s the other fellow’s fault—it means that you’re simply increasing the enmity between the parties. Secondly, to substantiate your claim to the moral high ground, you’ll probably need to tell a pack of lies, which is bad for you. Thirdly, it encourages an attitude of self-righteousness in the party who’s on the winning side, which means he doesn’t listen to the views and needs of the other party.”

  “Shouldn’t one be in the right?” she asked. “Surely we should.”

  “Not if it makes you a bully. For here’s the thing. I’ve been over all the figures most carefully. I’ve made tables of them. All we’ve done is ruin China. Every time. Think of it: We want China to be open and to trade with us. When they won’t, because however foolishly they closed themselves off from the outside world, we come in and ruin them. Is that going to induce them to welcome us? Is that even going to make it possible for them to increase their trade? No. The first thing you’ve got to do in all business—or diplomacy—is discover the other fellow’s point of view and what he needs. Then you’ve got to find a way to make it in his self-interest to act as you wish. It takes patience, but any other course of action will be counterproductive in the long run. We need to help the Chinese, not punish them. Call it enlightened self-interest, call it anything you like. But that’s what we should do.”

  “You really have strong feelings about this, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do, now that I’ve understood it. And this report backs it up with chapter and verse, all the way.”

  “And you wanted to write it before you left.”

  “Yes, while it was fresh in my mind, and I had access to people like Hart who had a lot of hard information. I also wanted to get it out there before we indulge ourselves in another round of reparations for this latest affair.”

  She’d been so proud of the old man. And although the foreign powers had, once again, demanded reparations, she’d watched with pleasure as, over quite a short period of time, starting with the Americans, one by one, every participant had returned the money to China, sometimes in charitable form, sometimes as investment, but returned the money all the same.

  Of course, her father had gone away long before then.

  He’d departed on a ship that was going to pass by Macao. That had given her the chance to tease him a little, just as he was leaving. “You’ll have time to go onshore and look at some old haunts in Macao,” she said. “Romantic memories, I daresay.”

  “Oh. With your mother, you mean?”

  “No. There was the lady before her. Half Oriental, wasn’t she?”

  “How the devil do you know about that?”

  “Grandmother told me. She found out. Mother knew, too. Didn’t Mother ever tease you about it?”

  “No. Never mentioned it, actually.”

  “Well, good for you, anyway. Safe journey. Happy memories.”

  * * *

  —

  The ship plowed its way towards Macao. Mos
t of the passengers were on deck, for it was a sunny day and the view across to the island, with the gleaming facade of St. Paul’s high on its hill, was splendid indeed. But John Trader wasn’t on deck.

  He’d been getting sick before he got on the boat, and he’d known it. But it didn’t matter. Everybody was safe. His report was done. It was the right time to leave. Right for Emily and Henry, too. They’d all enjoyed one another’s company, but it was better to leave before people were glad to see you go.

  The ship’s doctor came into his cabin. He was a good, sensible man, in his forties. An Irishman, O’Grady by name. He looked at Trader seriously. “I’ve got to put you off, you know.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve got pneumonia.”

  “I know that.”

  “Fresh air and sun on Macao may save you.”

  “I want to stay here.”

  “I can’t answer for you.”

  “No. But you can bury me.”

  “At sea? That’s what you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not supposed to.”

  “Write a note to cover yourself. I’ll sign it. Not that anyone will ever ask to see it.”

  “Probably not.”

  “How long shall we be here at Macao?”

  “Two days.”

  “I’ll sit on deck in the sun for one of them, if it’s fine.”

  And it was fine, and he did, and then the ship left on the evening of the second day, after dark, and he made his way with difficulty back to his cabin and collapsed on his bed.

  As he lay there, he thought: If I hadn’t come down with pneumonia, I’d be buried in Scotland. But he didn’t want that. Leave Drumlomond to the Lomonds. He wasn’t really one of them. He’d got the Scottish estate he’d always wanted, acted the part of landowner well enough all these years, but it was time to move on.

  Where would he have chosen to be buried, then, if on land? He couldn’t think of anywhere. Not with the life he’d had. There was no turning back now. I am a man at sea, he thought. Let the sea have me.