04 Peking Nightmares (The Earl’s Other Son Series, #4)

by Andrew Wareham

“No choice but retreat, sir. We can’t go forward and we will get our men killed by staying.”

  Magnus called Robbins back and followed with Pattishall and his party, walking slowly and dejectedly through the night. They had been defeated and did not like to admit the fact.

  “There’s lights at the gate, sir, and firing again!”

  “Halt!”

  They stopped and watched as a party of Japanese piled their guncotton charges at the gate and lit a fuse and fell back out of range of the explosion. A volley from above the gate cut the fuse. Six more Japanese ran forward and reattached a fuse; two ran back to safety. Again, the Chinese above the gate managed to destroy the fuse.

  “Jesus, sir! Look what he’s doing!”

  One of the Japanese soldiers had lit a torch, some sort of inflammables wrapped around a stick. He ran forward and thrust it directly into the guncotton. There was a massive explosion, blowing the man to bits and destroying the gates and the Chinese defenders above them. The few remaining Japanese attackers yelled and charged, their single surviving officer brandishing a sword.

  “Obelisks will charge! Follow me!”

  There was a massive spreading bellow and the defeated forces turned around and returned to the fight, bursting through the gates and into the old city. The bulk of the Boxers and Imperial troops were still up on the wall, horribly exposed now that the Allied force was behind them; they ran as the massacre started.

  Several hundred of the attackers pressed through on the single broad road that led to the far gate; there, they butchered the Boxers, soldiers and great mass of civilians trying to force their way through and escape.

  Magnus found himself in the company of Carter, Lieutenant Pattishall and four lightly wounded seamen who had stayed behind. The remainder of his force, Marines and bluejackets alike had scattered into the town in twos and threes, chasing after fleeing Boxers and splitting up as their quarry jinked and turned through the narrow roads and alleys. Over the space of an hour the shooting died down and the screaming increased, the noise level remaining much the same.

  “Pull back, Pattishall. We can do no good here.”

  Magnus walked slowly back to the warehouse, sick to his stomach.

  “What can we do, sir?”

  “Nothing. It is a sack now. God help the poor people who remain – and it will be the poor folk, literally. Most of the rich will have got out days ago.”

  The old city of Tientsin fell in the one night of violence. Had the assault succeeded in daylight hours, it might have been possible to control the men. As it was the town was consumed in an orgy of murder, rape and looting. None inside the town from highest to lowest were safe or stayed unmolested; none of their property remained, either.

  Over the following twenty-four hours of rapine the warehouse filled up with the spoils of war, parties of men running back with silks and furs in bales and pockets full of gold and jewellery and bags of silver taels. They dumped all in piles on the floor and ran off to get more before the other nationalities grabbed more than their fair share.

  Officers were not immune to the disease of looting. Magnus saw Geddes to come back more than once and noticed that he did not add his takings to the communal heap; he tucked handfuls of stones and gold into the knapsack he carried his campaign kit in, throwing out his uniforms and personal effects to replace them with more valuable possessions. Later, he saw Geddes come back in with a large canvas bag so that he could carry everything, leaving none of his gear behind.

  “Carter, do you want to go out and get a share?”

  “No, sir. Not my sort of thing, sir.”

  The appearance of virtue was spoiled by his next comment.

  “We’re all going fair dibs, sir. Men on duty and the wounded who can’t get hold of nothing themselves gets their bit when the lot gets shared out, sir. Ratings and petty officers, that is, sir. I don’t think officers gets any.”

  “It seems that officers are looking after themselves, Carter.”

  All of the lieutenants had taken parties out, ‘to restore order’, so they said.

  A messenger came and called Magnus to conference with the senior British officers. General Dorward was at a loss – a familiar state for him, Magnus surmised. The Indian Army officer was elderly, overweight, red-faced and white-moustached and at least half-drunk; he had been fortifying himself since the news of defeat had reached him in the afternoon and then had added a celebration of victory overnight.

  “It’s a disgrace, gentlemen!”

  Magnus agreed – there had been a number of disgraces since the previous morning, not least being the plan of attack Dorward had come up with.

  “What do we do?”

  None of the officers assembled ventured a suggestion.

  “The men are out of control and looting everything.”

  “Arrange for auctions and a proper prize fund, sir, with the rewards correctly shared out.”

  The officers present, none of whom had been able to get into the town, agreed enthusiastically with Craddock’s suggestion.

  “But, how do we get them under discipline again?”

  “Wait, sir, until they have stolen everything they can and get hungry. Dinner time will bring them back, that and exhaustion. The alternative will be to send in fresh battalions to shoot the looters and enforce martial law – and the newspaper people would just love to report that!”

  Magnus’ cynical but accurate words brought a dead silence, broken eventually by an anonymous voice enquiring just where the damned reporters were – they normally attended this sort of meeting.

  Magnus laughed.

  “They are all in town, getting their share of the loot. While they take part, they can’t report home deploring the breakdown of control and the unrestrained greed of the men. We dare not take action that might empty their pockets, sir.”

  The meeting was dismissed – it was clear that the momentary aberration would soon sort itself out. For the moment, officers should endeavour to bring their men to order, but full disciplinary measures would not be necessary – no court-martials!

  “Court-martials, Mr Pattishall, will inevitably be reported – and that we do not need. Have you done well for yourself?”

  Pattishall pulled a necklace out of his pocket, chunks of gold interspersed with large, richly sparkling stones.

  “Don’t know what they are, but a Chinese woman was wearing them and thought they were valuable. She was with a rich merchant sort, trying to get out of the gate in a big wagon. She wasn’t very old at all, gave me the necklace to escort her out of the gate.”

  Magnus sensed there was more to the story.

  “Did you get her out?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course. Mind you, there was a party of Russians waiting outside so I don’t think she got very far.”

  The lieutenant seemed to think that was rather funny; Magnus made no comment.

  “What happened to the merchant?”

  “Our men wanted him to hand everything over and he wouldn’t cooperate. Last I saw of him he was down and getting a kicking. They brought the wagon back here, sir. It’s in the warehouse now. We can use it to transport our share, sir. Two horses and we picked up fodder for them, sir.”

  “Well done, Mr Pattishall. Have our men come back in, do you know?”

  “Yes, sir. According to the petty officers, it’s too dangerous in town now. The bulk of the loot is gone and the men there, mostly latecomers who weren’t part of the assault - Frogs and Ities and that sort - are killing each other and everybody else to try and get their share.”

  “Wonderful! Have you taken roll call? Is there a list of casualties?”

  To Magnus’ surprise, there was.

  “One hundred and eight officers and men in the original party, sir. No officers dead and one lightly wounded, sir. Mr Geddes has a sword cut, just the tip cutting his cheek as he ducked away. A good scar, sir, one that doesn’t spoil his looks and is readily seen. One warrant officer wounded – Midshipman Warren, wh
o took a rifle bullet neatly across his chest – twenty stitches worth – not a lot more than skin deep. Two inches more and he would have been killed for sure. Again, sir, a good wound – it will be seen when he is in shirtsleeve order and will be known. All the men will be aware that he’s been out in the heat, sir.”

  “Good. What of the ratings?”

  “Seven dead, sir; six severely wounded to the extent of being hospitalised and doubtful of survival; eleven walking wounded, sir – flesh wounds. Five unaccounted for, sir. Whereabouts quite unknown. They might be still out in town; could be dead in a dark corner; just possible they might have deserted, but that would be hard to do here, sir.”

  Magnus sat with pencil and paper for a minute, came up with the full figures.

  “Out of one hundred and eight, Mr Pattishall, we have lost twelve and have six more who may die; thirteen have been lightly wounded but will return to duty, provided they avoid infections. That is thirty-one out of one hundred and eight, very nearly thirty per cent casualties – decimation three times over! Those are very high figures, Mr Pattishall.”

  “They are huge, sir.”

  Magnus thought for a few seconds, came to a conclusion.

  “I must report to Commander Craddock. I doubt we will wish to take any vigorous duty for a few days, not until some of our wounded can return to our ranks.”

  Craddock was dancing attendance on Admiral Seymour and General Dorward, hoping to get some suggestion for what they might do next. The senior men seemed inclined to do nothing at all for a day or two while they waited for more men to come up the railway line. Craddock and a number of others felt they should pursue the Boxers while they were dispirited from their defeat. Magnus arrived to hear the official decree.

  “There’s a million of them, and not a lot more than fifteen thousand of us. Better to wait a few days and make up a column of fresh men. We shall have more artillery inside a week, and that will be useful to even up the odds. Hold Tientsin and bring the men back to discipline. Further orders will be issued in three days, or thereabouts.”

  Admiral Seymour spotted Magnus and beckoned him across. The old gentleman was not fully recovered from his exertions on the failed relief column, was grey and a little stooped; his voice was feeble; he gave the impression of a broken man, one who had been stretched too far by failure.

  “I hear you did well with your Obelisks, Eskdale. First through the gates after the Japanese. Well done. Craddock has written his report and your name is prominent, as it should be. The Admiralty will be told of my pleasure in your conduct.”

  “Thank you, sir. We were lucky to be in the right place.”

  Magnus was not consumed by unalloyed delight at Seymour’s commendation. The Admiral had suffered humiliating defeat and any of his juniors praised by him would be tarred with his brush.

  “What’s your butcher’s bill, Eskdale?”

  “Heavy, sir. Three men in ten killed, missing or wounded.”

  “Bloody hell, man! That is heavy indeed. Well done to your survivors to have fought through that hot a battle. What do you think to that, Parkin?”

  Mr Parkin was a correspondent for the New York Times. He had reported on the massive casualties suffered by the American Marines and on their rescue by Russian troops. He was delighted to be able to record the victory achieved by the British, who had been able to move forward, he could imply, by the sacrifice of the brave Americans who had tied down so many Boxers. His words would cross the Atlantic within the day of publication and, suitably slanted again, would be headlines in the British press. He asked Magnus’ name and was delighted to discover he was a lordship – the American ladies did so love a lord!

  Magnus returned to the warehouse and sat down to write a letter home, to explain that the press was magnifying all and that he really had not been wantonly risking his life. He was in any case anxious because he had received no letters from Shanghai that week. There would probably be three or four waiting for him when the post eventually came up but he could not be happy while he did not know for certain that Ellen was well.

  Orders arrived for Magnus to send his wounded, those who could be moved, back to the ship and to replace them with fit men. Lieutenant Geddes begged exemption, saying that as a paymaster he might never get the chance to join an expedition again and he was no more than scratched. Magnus promised to speak to Commander Craddock and tell him that his Paymaster was a fire-eater and wanted the opportunity to make his name.

  Geddes blushed and protested it was not so – but he did not explain that he wanted to dip his fingers into the wealth of China again. He had done well in Tientsin, as they all knew, and fancied doing even better in Peking.

  Midshipman Warren offered no objection to going back to the ship – he had experienced a close brush with mortality and had been promised early promotion as a reward for his valour and wanted no more from China. He was the more willing to retire from the line of battle for a pair of his men quietly dropping a small sack of gold coins into his knapsack, nothing said at all. He thought he might be five hundred pounds better off for their initiative – a huge sum for a midshipman with his pay and a tiny allowance from home to live on.

  “Escort them back, Mr Pattishall and confer with Mr Knowles for replacements. Not young Mulligan. One of the younger mids, either will do. A party of eighteen men all told. Bring up extra small arms ammunition and more by way of hardtack and bully for emergency rations. I don’t trust the arrangements made for provisioning the column – we might end up hungry on the march north. Go down the line this afternoon, back tomorrow if at all possible.”

  Pattishall packed his knapsack tightly, so it would not rattle, and led the men south, not noticing anything they were carrying with them. The ship would be far richer for their arrival.

  Chapter Five

  The Earl’s Other Son Series

  Peking Nightmares

  “We are to be additional escort to the party from Terrible and their twelve-pounders, Mr Pattishall. General Gaselee has assumed command from General Dorward and the expedition is now to be primarily military rather than naval. The Russians have fully reopened the railway north from Taku and troopships are coming by the dozen from India, and a number of Americans from the Philippines and many more battalions from Japan and Russia. German forces are on their way – with the commanding general, Von Waldersee. It is the intention of the commanders here that Peking will be relieved before the Germans arrive – though there is no need to mention that in front of any of the press.”

  Pattishall nodded his comprehension.

  “Have you heard this damned nonsense from the Kaiser, sir? It’s not just his arm that’s twisted – it sounds as if he has a problem in his head as well!”

  “The Hun business? German forces to imitate the Huns, murdering every Chinaman they can lay their hands on? Drunk, I expect, and running off at the mouth. I hear that the copy of his speech released in advance to the Press made no mention of Huns at all. The man’s a clown.”

  “Very bad for an Emperor, sir. He should listen to his advisers.”

  Magnus shook his head.

  “He has none, not that are any use. He actually appoints them himself – he has the real power to do so. Not like London, where the Queen appoints the Prime Minister after he turns up at the Palace and tells her who he is and what she must do and who the Cabinet will be. In Berlin, the Kaiser actually has real power. The Prussian Army is the problem, of course. They swear allegiance to the man himself, to the Kaiser in person. Our people swear to the Crown, not to the person who wears it. Big difference. When Dirty Bertie becomes King, he will be a figurehead; he will have some power but will be well advised not to try to use it. The King can give advice, and it may well be listened to; the Kaiser can give orders and they will be obeyed. Since he dumped Bismarck, he has had true authority in Germany. Bunch of bloody idiots to put up with it, if you ask me!”

  Pattishall had not concerned himself with politics – a naval officer should n
ot. He was amazed to discover the difference.

  “It really does mean the Germans will obey his order, will butcher the Chinese as he commands?”

  “Probably. The Kaiser has told them to behave like Huns. I expect they will.”

  “That is disgusting, sir.”

  “So is the Kaiser – who is also Queen Victoria’s grandson, and so is above criticism. None of this to be said in public, Guns. Mouth shut in front of the reporters – both of us.”

  “We dare not say a word, sir, not if we wish to keep our careers. By the way, sir, why are we to escort the guns?”

  “To have a naval presence in the relief column. Roger Keyes will be along as official naval liaison officer with the Army. Beatty will tag on because he is a spoiled brat who cannot be refused. We shall go along to provide a solid presence in Peking to reflect that the first expedition was primarily naval and to remind the Press that we took Tientsin, ignoring the Japanese, of course.”

  “What about Commander Craddock, sir?”

  “Don’t know. I suspect that he’s seen too much of the Europeans in China – he’s pretty sick about the business in Tientsin, you know.”

  Pattishall had the good grace to seem abashed.

  “Do we know what guns Terrible is putting ashore, sir? She sent four point seven inchers along in South Africa.”

  “All I have heard of is the intention to land three of twelve pounders. They had trains of oxen and draught-horses in South Africa. None here, or too few for the big artillery. We don’t have the wagons to carry their heavy shell either.”

  “Forty-five pounds, fixed QF, sir. Roughly fifty to a ton and it would be foolish to send fewer than five hundred rounds to each gun. A substantial bulk to shift overland. A pity, as the four point seven packs a far greater punch than the twelve pounder. Still, well-handled by naval gun crews, the twelves will do a deal of harm to infantry in the field. Valueless against city walls, though. Mind you, from what I am told about the walls of Peking, the four point seven would do little good either.”