The War of the Dragon Lady

by John Wilcox

  ‘Oh, my goodness,’ cried Alice. ‘Quick, Simon. He’s going to fall.’

  Fonthill sprang forward and caught the young man in his arms.

  He lifted him easily. ‘Back to the wagon,’ he said. ‘This chap needs a bit of shade under your parasol, darling. Here, take the Colt, Jenkins. They might come back. We need to get out of here. Alice, bring the horses.’

  They hurried, as best they could, round the bend to find to their relief the cart standing at the side of the road where the mules had dragged it to find shade. Of their guide and driver there was no sign.

  ‘’E’s buggered off,’ panted Jenkins.

  ‘Good riddance.’ Fonthill lowered the boy onto the bags and jammed Alice’s parasol so that it provided some shade for his head.

  ‘Now, water, Alice, if you please.’

  She unscrewed her water bottle and offered it to the youth’s lips. At first the water trickled down his chin and then, as his eyes flickered open, he drank.

  ‘Good,’ muttered Alice. ‘Now lie still and let me bathe those bruises.’

  As she did so, Simon retrieved his own canteen and, removing the temporary dressing on Jenkins’s arm, began to dab gently at the wound beneath.

  ‘Bloody ’ell,’ swore the Welshman. ‘That’s a bit sharp, see.’

  ‘Don’t be such a baby. You said yourself it was only a scratch. Here, you do it. I’m no nursemaid. I’ll hitch the horses up to the wagon. We must get moving. I don’t want the Boxers back.’

  Jenkins looked up. ‘Why are they called that, then? They don’t seem to fight by the Queensbury Rules, now do they?’

  Fonthill gathered the reins of the horses and attached them to the rear of the cart. ‘I’m told that they’re mainly young men,’ he said, ‘all supposed to be fierce patriots who hate foreigners and who practise martial arts, though I don’t think they include boxing as we know it.’ He climbed into the seat of the wagon and cracked the whip over the mules. ‘They’ve adopted this Japanese form of wrestling, called ju-jitsu, or something. Anyway, I don’t want to fight ’em again with the stub of a walking stick.’

  ‘Simon,’ Alice called. ‘Have you noticed something strange about this place?’

  ‘Well, it’s bloody hot, for one thing.’

  ‘No. Despite all the noise we haven’t seen one single person from the village. No one has come out of the houses. It’s like a ghost village.’

  ‘Ah,’ the boy struggled up onto his elbow and spoke. ‘That is because they frightened of Boxers. Watch from windows. They in terrible funk, you see.’

  Simon grinned over his shoulder at the colloquialism. ‘Goodness me, young man, your English is very good. Where did you learn it?’

  ‘At school and at home with father and mother. They my teachers.’

  ‘Do they live near here? Can we take you to them?’

  The boy raised a smile. ‘I think you go there, anyway. I think you Captain Fonthill, Mrs Alice and Sergeant Jenkins. Am I right?’

  The three looked in amazement at the young man, whose smile had broadened into a grin. ‘You are, indeed,’ said Alice. ‘Who are you?’

  The lad squirmed until he was sitting upright. ‘My name is Chang. There is more to it than that, of course, but it is difficult for English to say rest of name. So call me Chang.’ His grin lapsed into a frown. ‘But you not supposed to be here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I go to Peking last week to send you cable to ship in Tientsin, saying too dangerous to travel here because of Boxers. Cable from my father, Reverend Griffith.’

  ‘Your father …?’ Alice was incredulous. ‘My Uncle Edward is your … er … father?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ The boy nodded his head, the most earnest expression on his face. ‘And Mrs Griffith my mother. They buy me from warlord when I was a baby and bring me up. My real parents dead. So I think we are all cousins, or something like that. I am very glad indeed to meet you all.’ And he extended his hand.

  They each took it solemnly.

  ‘Well that’s solved the problem of finding the mission,’ said Fonthill. ‘It must be near here. What were you doing when the Boxers found you?’

  ‘I was going to buy rice, if I could find someone in village to sell.’ He looked round earnestly. ‘It is very scarce, because of drought. Drought a bally nuisance, you know.’

  Simon smothered a smile. ‘I am sure it is. But why did the Boxers attack you? I thought they were only against foreigners, and you are Chinese.’ He coughed. ‘Albeit a very English one.’

  The boy fingered beneath his torn shirt and produced a crucifix hanging on a chain. ‘Because I am Christian, follower of Lord Jesus Christ. Boxers hate Christians in particular, and they hate missionaries most of all. Reverend Father had been warned that Boxers were coming. That is why he sent me to capital to cable you not to come. Why you come, then?’

  Alice resumed her treatment of the bruises. ‘Your cable must have arrived after we left the ship in Tientsin – in fact, after we left the port. Now lie still.’

  ‘No.’ Fonthill turned his head. ‘Can you come up here, Chang, and show us the way? If you are feeling up to it, that is?’

  The boy squirmed onto his knees and crawled across the baggage until he was kneeling behind Simon. ‘Oh, I am very up to it, thank you very much. Yes. You follow this way and then, in a moment, you will turn right. I will show you. Mission about five minutes away now.’

  The cart with its attendant horses slowly wound its way through the barren countryside. There was no question of distancing themselves from the Boxers, for Simon could summon up nothing from the mules other than a slow trudge. But it seemed as if the insurgents had been deterred by Alice’s pistol shot, for no one followed them and, indeed, the members of the little party felt as though they were the only moving life on that empty, dry plain.

  Eventually, they meandered their way into another village, virtually a small town, for it was considerably larger than the place of their attack. The road led them into a warren of alleyways where, at last, people were evident, moving through the narrow streets and staring with a singular lack of benevolence at the cart and its exotic cargo of white-skinned foreigners. The party passed the open doorway of an indigo dye works, where rising steam obscured the workers within, and then a large, three-storey building, the smell of which confirmed to Jenkins, at least, that it was a rice-wine distillery.

  Following Chang’s very explicit directions – ‘Now, cousin, pray take this next turning on the left’ – they emerged into a small square dominated by a two-storeyed, wooden church, unmistakeable from the crucifix attached above the doorway. Next to it was a small house, built, like those fronting the square, of cream-coloured mud brick and featuring ochre-coloured window shutters closed against the fierce sun and a rippling roof of purple tiles. Outside the house, looking anxiously up the street and rubbing her hands together in obvious anxiety, stood an elderly woman. She was small and dressed, Chinese fashion, in a shapeless cotton garment, her smock buttoned up to the chin and her long skirt ending just above wooden clogs. Unlike other women in the square, however, she wore no straw hat and her grey hair was scraped back into a serviceable bun at the nape of her neck. Her high cheekbones and the walnut-grained skin of her face made her appear Chinese, but the set of her eyes, distinguishable to the occupants of the cart as it came closer, confirmed her as European.

  Alice let out a cry, ‘Aunt Lizzie!’ and leapt from the cart before it had stopped, engulfing the woman in her arms. The two stood rocking together on the doorstep of the house before the old lady gently pushed her niece away and peered anxiously over her shoulder into the wagon.

  ‘Oh, thank the Lord,’ she cried. ‘You’ve got Chang.’ And she held out her arms to the lad, who scrambled down and embraced his adoptive mother. The two stayed locked together for a moment before Mrs Griffith let him go and stretched out her hand to Fonthill.

  ‘And you must be Simon,’ she said. ‘Oh, forgive me.’ She pulled up a
corner of her apron and wiped away a tear. ‘You must think me so rude but,’ she smiled at the boy, ‘I was so sure that something had happened to …’ then her voice tailed away as she saw the cuts and bruises on Chang’s face. ‘Ah, I knew it. He has been hurt. What happened? Tell me.’

  ‘Oh, I am all right, Mother. But I fear I would have been killed but for the intervention of my … er … my cousins. They were very brave. It was a party of Boxers, you see …’

  ‘Enough,’ cried the old lady. ‘It is best to come inside, all of you. These are dangerous times. Simon, can you and your young man,’ she indicated Jenkins, who beamed at the compliment, ‘take the cart and mules into the courtyard through that door there. I will send someone to unharness the mules and take your bags. But it would be wise to get off the street as soon as possible. Come, dear Alice. This way. We tried to stop you coming but obviously our message did not get through. I thank God that you have not been harmed. Come in. Come in.’

  Fifteen minutes later, they were all seated in the shade of the courtyard, drinking tea beside a large stone basin within which three white and gold koi carp circled languidly.

  ‘Edward is making a visit to a sick parishioner,’ explained Lizzie, ‘but he will be here soon. Like me, he will be sorry but happy to see you. Our other son, Gerald, has been on a trip to Peking but he should be back tonight.’

  ‘Have the Boxers bothered you, Mrs Griffith?’ asked Simon.

  ‘No, but we have been told that they have targeted us and that they are on their way here. That must have been the party that attacked Chang.’ The old lady sniffed. ‘Edward has refused to leave but we have just had a message from the bishop in Tientsin, ordering us to leave the mission and go to Peking.’

  She put a brown-speckled hand to her brow and Simon marvelled, not for the first time, at the courage of these missionaries who spent their lives abroad, usually in discomfort and often in danger, to spread the word of their God. But Mrs Griffith was continuing, ‘Mind you, I am not sure that the capital will be entirely safe, for I understand that the insurgents have burnt down the grandstand at the racecourse just outside the city.’ She pursed her lips. ‘It was the centre of social activity for the Europeans in the city, you know. Such a disgraceful thing to do. So uncalled for. I think we must leave now, though.’

  Her voice tailed away and she looked around the courtyard. A shard of sunlight had been allowed to creep through the overhanging roof and it fell on the osmanthus plant in the corner, which she had proudly shown to her visitors and boasted that it was said to be more than four hundred years old. Simon realised what a wrench it would be for the Griffiths to leave their home, where, Alice had explained to Simon earlier, they had worked for thirty-two years, building the wooden church with their own hands and confirming hundreds of Chinese into the Christian church.

  His reverie was interrupted by the arrival of the Reverend Edward Griffith, who expressed both the inevitable consternation and joy at their arrival. A tall, broad-shouldered man, Griffith presented as hearty and healthy a figure as his wife offered up frailty. It was clear that, unlike his spouse, he had prospered physically in the harsh climate of Northern China and, with his side whiskers and red face, he reminded Simon very much of the dominating presence of the clergyman’s brother and Alice’s late father, Brigadier Cecil Griffith, also of Simon’s and Jenkins’s old regiment, the 24th of Foot.

  It had been the deaths, disconcertingly close together, of both Alice’s and Simon’s parents that had prompted the Fonthills to embark on the round-the-world trip that had led them to this small town in China. Some six years before, after taking part in Cecil Rhodes’s invasion of Matabeleland and surviving the clash with King Lobengula’s impis there, they had returned to Norfolk to farm Alice’s estate. Restive with the unaccustomed tranquillity, however, and financially buttressed by inheritances from both sets of parents, the couple had decided to make a first visit to America and visit Alice’s uncle in China on their way home. They were enjoying the vastness of the prairies of North America when news reached them of the outbreak of war in South Africa. Simon was anxious to hurry to Cape Town to join in the fight against the Boers, but Alice – not unsympathetic to the cause of the Afrikaner farmers – persuaded him that the war would be over by the time they reached Africa, so they continued their journey to China. It was only when they reached Tientsin that they heard of the Boxer Rebellion.

  They were all changing for dinner when Gerald Griffith arrived, dusty from his journey to Peking. He was a tall, thin young man in his early twenties, English but dressed as a Chinaman and wearing the beginnings of a beard. He washed for dinner but did not change and seemed less than delighted to see the visitors as they assembled around the table.

  ‘It is dangerous here, you know,’ he said. ‘You should not have come, for the downtrodden people of China do not like the yang kuei-tzu.’

  ‘The yang …?’ enquired Alice.

  ‘The foreign devils.’ The young man spoke with a curl of his lip.

  ‘That will do, Gerald,’ said his father quickly. He turned apologetically to his guests. ‘My son has grown up with the Chinese people – in fact he has never been home – and he shares an affinity with them. It is,’ he shrugged, ‘understandable and he has a point.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Simon. ‘Perhaps you would explain a little of the background to this uprising – if that is what it is.’

  ‘I will tell you what I know but first let us eat. Shall we say grace?’

  They ate a surprisingly delicious dinner of herbal pancakes, a hotpot of fish and braised tofu – Simon surmised that Aunt Lizzie had raided what was best of her drought-denuded pantry to put on a show for her guests – and as their Chinese servant cleared away the plates, Simon repeated his request. The clergyman wiped his whiskers and settled back in his chair. ‘It’s all our dashed fault, really, you know,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ asked Fonthill. ‘Do you mean the British? The Opium Wars and all that?’

  ‘Well partly, I suppose. But I really mean all the European imperial powers who have imposed themselves on this country. Dashed disgraceful, if you will pardon my language.’

  ‘Damned disgraceful,’ echoed Gerald. His face was flushed.

  ‘Please watch your own language, Gerald,’ Mr Griffith rebuked. ‘There is no excuse for that.’

  ‘Sorry, Father.’

  Edward Griffith took another sip of rice wine and continued. ‘The Manchu dynasty – it still rules, of course – always exercised a blind, reclusive xenophobia and until 1848 the only part of the Chinese Empire on which foreign merchants were permitted to set foot, and then only between October and March, was a plot of land on the Canton waterfront. Things began to change after we – the British, that is – forced the First Opium War on the Chinese in the 1840s. It was a shameful act on our part, you know.’

  ‘Incredibly shameful,’ added Gerald.

  Griffith sighed and frowned at his son once again at the interruption. Mrs Griffith, however, took Gerald’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Let the boy speak, Edward,’ she said gently. ‘He has a right to his opinion.’

  ‘Hmm. Now, where was I?’

  ‘The Opium Wars, Reverend.’ Jenkins was leaning forward, his chin on his fist, listening intently.

  ‘Yes, thank you. Well, after the Treaty of Nanking which settled the war, the Chinese were forced to cede to Britain that barren lump of rock called Hong Kong, pay a swingeing indemnity, remove the most vexatious restrictions on commerce at Canton, open four other ports to trade and grant foreigners the right to reside in them. We had our foot in the Chinese door and we pushed it wide open.

  ‘You see,’ the clergyman filled his pipe with tobacco and stared at the ceiling, ‘imperial expansion was the order of the day. China was weak.’ He began thumping a large finger into the palm of his other hand in emphasis. ‘Portugal had got Macao; France occupied a large part of Annam; in 1862 Britain annexed Lower Burma, just across the frontier; France then took th
ree provinces of Lower Cochin-China and gained control of the Mekon basin; Russia then occupied a large tract of Chinese Turkestan; Japan took the Liu Chiu Islands; Britain annexed Upper Burma; and then, in 1887, the rest of Annam, Cochin-China and Cambodia were sequestered to form French Indo-China. It was a land grab of epic proportions.’

  Griffith blew a blue cloud of tobacco smoke to the ceiling. ‘Then came the war with Japan of 1894 to 1895 which ended in crushing defeat for this country and set off the land scramble again. It seemed as though it was China’s destiny to be carved up, just as Africa has been.’

  He gestured with his pipe. ‘By 1895, most of the outlying dependencies of the Empire – I mean the Chinese one, not ours – had been lopped off. I don’t know the figures, but the size of this vast country had been severely reduced. But it didn’t stop there. The Germans were probably the worst. Two German missionaries were killed three years ago in the interior near Kiaochow. Instead of negotiating with Peking, the Kaiser rattled his great sabre and threatened war. As a result, he gained a ninety-nine-year lease of Kiaochow Bay, the city of Tsingtao, a whacking great indemnity for the two dead missionaries and extensive railway and mining concessions in that province. Then everybody jumped in.

  ‘Spheres of influence became the thing to have. Germany claimed exclusive influence here in Shantung, Russia in Manchuria, of course, Japan in Fukien and Britain in the Yangtze Valley. Can you imagine that sort of thing happening in the British Empire? Eh?’

  A silence fell on the gathering. Gerald took a deep breath to speak, but his mother laid a quietening hand on his arm.

  Eventually, Simon broke the silence. ‘And the Boxers?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah yes, the Boxers. Well something had to give – or more precisely something had to rise. They first appeared in this province about two years ago, when the Germans were pressing hard on the Kiaochow Bay business. They are mainly young men, often youths, and they call themselves … er … what is it, Chang?’