He had been busy ever since the battle started. He had watched Lin’s men competently fight off the first attack, and after that he had given all his attention to the engine. Very quickly he had realised that the men appointed to drive the train were worse than useless, but at least the gauge glasses had shown him that they had filled the boiler with enough water to cover the firebox. The pathetic fire they had going would do nothing to start the engine but at least it would not crack the flues that contained the water around it. A blowout would be unrepairable. Patiently, he had instructed them to remove all the logs and cut some kindling. He himself had rebedded the coal, and, with a paraffin rag and some gun cotton, had relit the fire, feeding in the kindling until he was happy there was an even flame. Then, carefully, he had added coal as necessary to secure the right heat. It would be at least half an hour before enough steam would be generated to give him the thirty pounds per square inch pressure required for him to start the blower. The draught created would then speed the burning process but it would still take another hour or more to get up enough steam for the locomotive to move.
Meanwhile there was enough to do. He had told the soldiers filling the tender to cease their efforts with the hose. They were spilling more water on to the coal than into the hole. The gauge showed him that the tank was three-quarters full, enough to be getting on with. With the train idle for six weeks, after having been attacked by a mob armed with stones, slabs and goodness knows what else, he thought it would probably be wise to inspect it thoroughly, especially the wheels on both engine and carriages. He had ordered the two soldiers and Lao Zhao back onto the platform, and had shown them what signs to look out for, and how to fill the oiling points on all the rod lugs and axles. He had also told them to check the bolt couplings between the carriages. Then he had sent them off with their tin cans. He had inspected the front of the engine, and that was when he had discovered the attempt at sabotage. It had been a heavy hour’s work to get the connecting rod to rights again, pausing from time to time to climb back on to the footplate to check the firebox and the pressure gauges. He had turned on the blower, and when he had enough steam up, tested the injector. Now the boiler was merrily heating away, and he was satisfied—almost satisfied—that the damaged connecting rod would function.
He tightened the last bolt, and scrambled to his feet, wiping the grease off his hands with the rag. ‘Come on, then. Out with it, Lao Zhao. What is on your mind?’
Lao Zhao spat, and puffed twice on his pipe. ‘Xiansheng, would there happen to be any gold on this train?’ he asked casually.
Henry started with surprise. ‘There might be,’ he answered cautiously. ‘What of it?’
Lao Zhao made a big pretence of lighting his long pipe. ‘I imagine that the gold would belong to the Mandarin?’ he asked, his intelligent eyes contemplating Henry’s face.
‘So?’
‘So, would it be appropriate for others to take an interest in this gold?’
Henry’s expression was grim. ‘Come on, Lao Zhao, what are you trying to tell me?’
‘It is, of course, ill-bred for a man to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations,’ said Lao Zhao, ‘but you did just now order me to crawl under the belly of this iron creature to feed oil into its many mouths, and I was underneath the carriage belonging to the Mandarin, just by the steps leading into it, when I saw Major Lin step down on to the platform.’
‘He’d probably gone to report to the Mandarin on the state of the battle. So?’
‘He was not alone, Xiansheng. An old man followed him out of the carriage and they talked on the platform above me, although they did not see me. This man is also a high official, I think.’
‘Jin Lao,’ said Henry.
‘Yes, Xiansheng, I believe you are right. It was Chamberlain Jin. And this is what Major Lin was saying to him. They were speaking in low voices but my old ears still function and I could hear them quite well. The major said, “So you’re telling me that he really does mean to give the barbarian the gold?” And the old man answered, “Yes, for the guns.” And the major said, “But we need the guns and the gold.” And the old man said, “You need the guns. I would be happy with the gold.” And the major said, “The da ren is a fool. He’s past his usefulness.” And the old man said, “These are dangerous times and it is remarkable how easily accidents can happen on a perilous journey.” And the major said, “You mean, we should make our move on the train?” And the old man said, “The soldiers are loyal only to you.” And after that there was a lot of gunfire so I did not hear their final words. Anyway, Major Lin ran off very quickly to join his men, and the old man scurried back on board. I think he was a little frightened, Ma Na Si Xiansheng. But wasn’t that an interesting conversation?’
‘It was extremely interesting,’ said Henry, abstractedly wiping his forehead with the rag.
Lao Zhao leaned back, cackling with pleasure. ‘You’ve made your face all black with the grease, Ma Na Si Xiansheng!’
Henry smiled, his teeth flashing. ‘I’m in your debt, Lao Zhao. I won’t be ungrateful. Come on, we’d better stoke the fire.’
‘Ah, yes, what a hungry beast it is,’ said Lao Zhao, following him.
They had to step aside as a company of soldiers ran down the platform heading to the western perimeter where the Boxers were trying to climb over the wall.
Henry looked at the pressure gauge, which was reading only 82 pounds per square inch. Even with the blower on it would take another forty-five minutes to an hour for the pressure to reach the minimum 120 pounds with which he could attempt to move the train. And the Boxers now looked as if they were about to break into the perimeter. He leaned out of the cab to see down the line to the western wall near the gate where Lin’s company was engaging the Boxers who had encroached over the wall. The soldiers had fired a volley and were now bayoneting the survivors. Sharpshooters were clearing the top of the wall. It had been efficient work, but he knew that there were not enough of Lin’s men available to guard against all the possible points by which the Boxers might enter. He felt in his pocket for his revolver, which after Fan Yimei’s execution of Ren Ren and Monkey had only four bullets left in the chambers.
‘Lao Zhao,’ he said, ‘let me teach you what the railwayman does when there’s nothing else to do but wait.’ He pointed at the kettle on top of the firebox and the two enamel mugs. ‘He makes himself a cup of tea.’
* * *
The Mandarin was standing by his desk, brush in hand, contemplating the two characters he had written in bold, almost savage strokes on the paper sheet. wu wei. Literally, it meant ‘the negation of existence’ but in this Taoist axiom there was a deeper connotation: that true wisdom can only be gained through the absence of conscious thought, that right actions can only be determined by a surrender to the events taking place around one, that the insignificant occurrences of one’s own life are linked to a greater design, a harmony and pattern in which all plays its part, and which one can only understand if one does not seek to explain it; simply, that by non-doing, one achieves all. He smiled, listening to the firecrackers of shots outside the carriage, the shouts and screams, the running feet on the platform as one company or another was moved from one position of defence to another, and the crisis of battle took its course. Through the window he saw Major Lin waving his sword and shouting orders. He imagined Ma Na Si pulling levers and pumping fires at the front of the train—so much frantic activity all around him, yet here he stood, admiring the flower vase on his desk and the two characters of his own calligraphy, which spoke to him from the page. Inaction at the heart of action. The characters seemed appropriate in the circumstances.
He turned to look scornfully at Chamberlain Jin and his wives; their scared faces peered up at him from a gap between the settee and the table, which they had pulled around themselves as a barricade. For some time now the Boxer snipers had the range of the train, and occasional bullets would thud against the wooden walls of the carriage. Once an arrow had penetrat
ed the window, hitting the fruit bowl on the table and knocking it to the floor.
‘Chamberlain,’ he said, ‘it is noble of you to protect my women so assiduously from under the table.’
‘The da ren—the da ren is pleased to mock an old man and his fear,’ muttered Jin Lao hoarsely.
‘Certainly not,’ said the Mandarin. ‘I witnessed an example of your bravery earlier when you left the safety of my carriage to accompany Major Lin outside. It must have been a very pressing matter that you should take such a risk with your life.’
‘I—I merely wished to understand the situation better, Da Ren.’
‘You were present when he described it to me.’
‘Yes, Da Ren.’ Jin Lao reached gingerly for a cup of cold tea to wet his dry throat. ‘But there were one or two details I did not fully understand.’
‘Really? I had not thought of you as a man who was interested in military matters.’ The Mandarin was suddenly bored with the conversation. He moved to the window and peered outside. The firing had reached new crescendos, recalling the volleys of the earlier attacks. After a moment he turned again to the chamberlain. ‘With your new-found interest in martial matters, you might be interested to know what is happening now. It appears that our Boxer friends have decided to clear our men off the roofs of the buildings. If they are successful I do not think that Major Lin’s position on the open ground will be tenable much longer. Indeed, you might be lucky enough to see some fighting close at hand. I fear, however, that in the event of such a mêlée the numbers will be very much against us, and the train will probably be overrun, so your military education will be a short one. Unless, of course, Ma Na Si has found the means to start the engine at last. We are in an interesting predicament, are we not?’
But by then his words could not be heard above the wailing of his wives. He returned to his position by the window. He wondered if now was the time to put on his old armour and take up his heavy sword. He had no intention of being captured and subjected to the indignity of further interviews with Iron Man Wang. He looked out at the figures silhouetted on the roofs—turbaned men with swords and spears, trim, uniformed soldiers seeking to repel them with bayonets. It was the old world fighting the new, the battle cry of Imperial China raised against the new techniques and methods of the West, superstition against progress—and he had long ago thrown in his marker on the side of this progress. Now, standing at the window of the railway carriage, surveying the scene, he had the impression that nothing, in fact, had changed. He was watching Chinese fighting Chinese, much as he had done in his youth; the uniforms and costumes were irrelevant, as indeed were their weapons—Boxers, Taiping rebels, it was all the same, just another version of the perennial struggle for power that had rotted every dynasty in its time. If China was to change, then something more radical than bloodshed and wars was needed. Idly, he thought of his conversations with the foreign doctor, who preached a constitutional kingdom based on virtue. That really was a fine idea, and, who knows?, one day it might come about—but he doubted that he would see it in his lifetime, even if he should survive this battle. He knew that, topple this dynasty or that, Chinese would continue to fight Chinese. Rifles and bayonets would prove more efficient than spears, and heavy guns would give the edge over those who had only rifles. And there would be new Zheng Guofans with new equivalents of the Hunan Braves, and young men and boys, as he once had been, would continue to rally round flags, and their officers would urge them on with attractive-sounding creeds. Only later would they discover, if they became older and wiser, that it was the same creed, the naked struggle for power, garbed in different slogans, different uniforms, different banners.
He watched as one of Lin’s sergeants, stabbed by a spear, pushed himself along the haft to bayonet the man who had killed him; both bodies toppled off the roof together in a hideous embrace of death. The soldiers behind him fired a volley, and for a moment the roof was cleared of Boxers, but more screaming, slashing figures came.
So they always would, thought the Mandarin. And no war would ever be ultimately decisive. That was the way it was. So it always had been. So it would continue. If he survived this, then he himself would buy Japanese guns, which would be the means for new wars, and the killing of more Chinese by other Chinese.
He sighed. What choice did he have?
Wu wei. Wu wei.
* * *
With mugs of tea in their hands, Henry and his team on the footplates watched the battle of the rooftops. It was certainly a desperate struggle, but Major Lin seemed equal to the task. Reluctantly, because he hated the man, Henry admitted to himself that Lin was a bloody good soldier. Two of the rooftops were now secure, with Lin’s men lying flat against the ridge tiles firing into what he imagined must be the mass on the other side. On the third roof the bayonet struggle was still going on. Major Lin had kept his companies facing the gaps in the buildings, only taking out every fourth man to reinforce the soldiers on the roofs, and their rifle power was still strong enough to keep the occasional rushes and attacks through the alleys at bay. The attacks were less furious now, partly because it was difficult for the Boxers to step over the bodies of their comrades who had died in earlier attacks, and partly because by now they had a healthy respect for Lin’s firepower. Henry wondered how long the ammunition would hold. Up to now there had been a steady relay of runners back and forth from the arsenal on the train, handing out spare magazines in the intervals between the volleys, but the supply could not be inexhaustible.
The battle on the third roof was not going Major Lin’s way. An axe-wielding contingent of Boxers had pushed Lin’s men back from the ridge, and it looked as if their snipers and archers would have a free hand to fire down below. Major Lin shouted an order, and the soldiers on the next building fired across. The confusion gave Lin’s remaining men on the roof, with reinforcements scrambling quickly up the ladders, the opportunity to make a rush, and soon the third roof was as secure as the other two.
So they were holding on. But for how long?
He looked at the pressure gauge: 117 pounds per square inch. The boiler was heating nicely and there was a thick white smoke coming out of the stack. It would not be long now before they could get away. He had determined that he would start the engine when the pressure reached 135. The train might just crawl at 120 pounds per square inch steam pressure, but he thought that with the weight of the carriages—two loaded with horses—the engine would barely have the pull to move the wagons at walking speed, and the Boxers would be able to climb on with impunity. Ideally he should wait until the gauge reached 150—that would be safer—but time was not on his side. A hundred and thirty-five pounds per square inch was his compromise. It might just be adequate to get a head of speed. Maybe. The gauge read 119 now. It could be worse: at least it was heating quickly. At this rate … At this rate …
He calculated and made a decision. Turning to one of the soldiers he gave him his orders. ‘Run to Major Lin. Tell him we’re pulling out in thirty minutes. We leave in half an hour, do you understand? Tell him that and run back here again as fast as you can. And be careful.’
The soldier, a boy of eighteen with a blackened, girlish face, grinned and snapped a salute. ‘Yessir!’ he shouted in English. Henry wondered where he could possibly have learned to say that. He watched him anxiously as he ran across the open ground to where Lin was marshalling his men. The boy almost reached him—Lin had turned at his shout—when he stumbled, and fell forward on his face. Bullets were puffing up the dust. ‘Damn,’ said Henry. Lin was already shouting orders for a detachment to deal with this new burst of sniping from the walls. Henry turned to the other soldier on the footplate and registered the fear on his face. ‘Dammit,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and tell him myself.’
‘No, Ma Na Si Xiansheng, I’ll go,’ said Lao Zhao. ‘My belly’s swirling with your tea and I need some exercise.’
‘Dash it, be careful, then,’ snapped Henry, angry because he knew it was wiser for the only pe
rson who could drive the train to try to stay out of harm’s way. He did not relax until Lao Zhao, who had loped cautiously over the open ground like a hunter following a spoor, had returned, breathless but triumphant, to the footplate. Now he was happily pissing over the side.
‘Major Lin says he will begin to evacuate in twenty minutes,’ he said, over his shoulder.
‘All right,’ said Henry. ‘We’d better be ready, then.’
He looked at the gauges. Water levels three-quarters full, that would do, 123 pounds per square inch steam pressure. Fine. He opened the firebox. Flames were dancing over the red bed of coals. He quickly shovelled in three spadefuls leaving the firebox door slightly open to enhance the draught over the fire. That would also do for now. What else did he have to think about? The gate. The gate, four hundred yards away, was still chained. It would be suicidal to open it now. The Boxers would rush through. Could he just steam through it? No, it was made of solid ironwork and tightly secured. The chains would have to be unfastened or he would be risking derailment. Damn. He would have to send Lao Zhao back again to Lin to instruct him to position some soldiers by the gate to open it when the train was ready to leave. They would probably have to fight off the Boxers as they did so. Damn.
He turned to survey the battle scene. Lin had not yet made his move. The soldiers were still standing in formation. He was puzzled for a second to see a puff of white smoke appear on the hillside just below the tree line. Then he heard a sharp crack, and a whining sound growing louder, passing overhead. With a boom, the coal stack in the southern yard exploded into red flame. He ducked as projectiles of scattered coal clattered against the side of the engine. He could hear a rising roar of cheers from the Boxers on the other side of the buildings. Guns! How could they have guns? Then he remembered the antiquated field guns Major Lin had kept on the city walls. He remembered the doctor telling him that they had been dragged to the mission. Iron Man Wang must have ordered them to be brought on here. There was another puff of smoke, but this time the explosion fell short among the tent lines. At least their marksmanship was not up to much, and the Boxers were in probably as much danger from stray shots as they were, but this completely altered the situation. A lucky hit on the train would strand them here. They would have to leave now, adequate steam pressure or no.
The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure Page 70
