by John Wilcox
The youth cleared his throat to answer but a glowering Gerald intervened. ‘The I Ho Ch’uan,’ he said, as though with pride. ‘The Society of Righteous and Harmonious Fists.’
Jenkins let out a great guffaw, to be silenced by a glare from Fonthill.
‘Quite so,’ continued the clergyman. ‘Strange, of course, to us. White people called them “Boxers” because they were so fit, although they would never know how to fight with their fists in a skilled manner, as we do. Like uneducated insurgents the world over …’ he gestured with his pipe towards Simon – ‘you in particular will remember the Mahdi’s followers in the Sudan—’
Fonthill nodded.
‘—they all think that they are “the chosen ones” and that no bullets can harm them. They hate Europeans and particularly members of religious groups and poor devils like us, the missionaries.’
He puffed at his pipe. ‘Although it is the Catholics who seem to have caught it in the neck most. I suppose you could say that the priests had it coming to them. Back in 1860, the French had negotiated a treaty under which their Roman Catholic missionaries were given all kinds of rights denied to others – rights of residence in the interior, the building of churches and the establishment of orphanages. The last bit has caused all kinds of problems, giving rise to rumours that the priests were stealing Chinese children and killing them. But it was worse than that …’ He gestured with both hands. ‘All Catholic bishops were granted the same rank as provincial governors, they were allowed to wear a mandarin’s button and carry the umbrella of honour and even,’ he blew out his cheeks in disgust, ‘awarded the discharge of a cannon when they come and go. It had all got out of hand. As a result, we are all being tarred with the same brush.’
Mrs Griffith took up the story. ‘You see, all this has coincided with terrible times here,’ she said, her eyes glistening in the lamplight. ‘The drought is the worst for decades, ruining the rice crop and putting water at a premium. We – the so-called foreign devils – are getting the blame for this, including the mining and railway engineers here. It is being said that the laying of railway tracks is desecrating the graves of ancestors and the new telegraph poles cause moaning in the wind, which the peasants on whose lands they have been erected say is the crying of the dead. We foreigners are being blamed for upsetting the balance of nature, as well as killing the cotton market by importing cloth and garments.’
‘The British are the worst.’ The truculence in Gerald’s voice was evident. ‘Although the Empress has banned the opium trade,’ he said, ‘the British traders keep it going, of course, and make much money from it. Everyone knows that.’
The visitors all looked down at the table, unsure of what to say. Then Fonthill looked up and studied the young man for a moment. There was none of his father’s fortitude in his face, nor any of his mother’s sensitivity. His features reflected intelligence, there was no doubt of that, but his mouth was weak and his eyes showed only antagonism.
Simon cleared his throat. ‘What about the Empress?’ he asked of Griffith. ‘Does she approve of the Boxers or try to suppress them?’
The missionary smiled. ‘A good question. She’s a formidable woman. Oiled, black hair pulled straight back, skin like porcelain and long, manicured fingernails, curved like claws. They call her “The Dragon Lady”. You may know that the old girl – she’s actually the Empress Dowager – deposed her nephew the Emperor Kuang Hsu about eighteen months ago, for being too much in favour of Western modernisation?’
Simon shook his head.
‘Well, she’s as clever as a fox leading the hunt. Officially she disapproves of the Boxers, but in reality she is encouraging them, there’s no doubt about that. She thinks that they will teach the foreigners a lesson or two without her getting the blame and, anyway, they would be too expensive to put down.’ The old man sighed. ‘They’re spreading out quickly, you see.’
‘And coming this way,’ added Gerald, his eyes alight. ‘They told me in Peking that the Boxers who burnt the racecourse pavilion are only the vanguard. It is said that the army might join them.’
‘Ah, I doubt that,’ said Edward Griffith. ‘The Empress would never allow that. It would upset the apple cart completely with the British and the other foreign ministers at the Manchu court—’
‘Who are complete ciphers,’ interrupted Gerald. ‘Weak men representing weak regimes.’
‘Blimey,’ muttered Jenkins in a whispered aside to Fonthill. ‘’Oos side is ’e on, then?’
Another silence fell on the little gathering. The shadows flickering across the faces of the group seemed to presage and emphasize the dangers that lay outside the walls. A sense of impending disaster permeated the room. ‘Well, sir,’ asked Simon. ‘Will you leave your home here?’
At first it seemed as though the old man was ignoring the question. He leant across the table and took up his wife’s hand. He addressed her in a low voice: ‘I think, my dear, that we now have no alternative.’ He nodded towards Chang, who sat listening intently to everything that was being said. ‘What has happened to our son today confirms the danger. I have been stupid in delaying so long. But now, I think we must leave before dawn. These people are so close. They could come tomorrow.’
Lizzie Griffith put a hand to her mouth. ‘That quickly! We can never pack in time.’
Her husband squeezed her hand. ‘We cannot take much with us, Lizzie. I am so sorry, but we must leave almost immediately. Time for a little sleep and then we must away. Of one thing, I promise you …’ He looked into her eyes. ‘We shall return.’
Tears were now trickling down Mrs Griffith’s cheeks. ‘But where shall we go?’
‘To Peking. We shall find shelter there and we can stay until this trouble blows over. It will be transitory I feel sure.’ He looked up at his visitors. ‘I am so sorry, dear friends, that I must ask you to leave as soon as you arrive. But there is no other choice.’
Alice stood and moved behind her aunt’s chair, putting her cheek next to hers and embracing her. ‘My dear aunt,’ she said. ‘It is lucky we are here, for we can protect you on the journey. And I shall help you pack the few things you can take. We can jettison the things of ours we don’t need to make room in the cart. All will be well, you will see.’
And so the little gathering broke up. In a corner of the room, Simon detained the Reverend. ‘Do you have any weapons, sir?’
The old man gave a wan smile. ‘One rather old fowling piece. I fear that is all. But I do not favour violence. I speak fluent Mandarin and, if we are accosted, I think I can reason with them. I believe I am known for doing good work in this region for many years. And anyway,’ he put his hand on Simon’s shoulder, ‘I know that the Good Lord will protect us.’
As he stepped away, Jenkins moved to Fonthill’s side. ‘The Good Lord,’ he growled, ‘plus one old fowling piece and two Colt revolvers. It’s not much, bach sir, is it?’
Simon nodded and gave a half-smile. ‘Alice has a small pistol, but no, not much. I fear it could be quite a journey. Gird your loins, 352, gird your loins.’
‘Ah yes.’ Jenkins frowned. ‘D’you know, I’ve never been quite sure what loins are …?’
‘They’re things that have to be girt. Bed now.’
CHAPTER TWO
They were on the road well before sunrise. There were no tears on Mrs Griffith’s face now as she organised the departure with calm efficiency, as though they were merely making a summer visit to the capital. The crude cart that had carried the visitors was left behind and the Griffiths’ much larger wagon was put into service to carry both sets of baggage. As the little party wound through the narrow alleyways, Simon on horseback took the lead, with a surly Gerald on his pony alongside to point the way; the Reverend Griffith drove the wagon, with Chang at his side, the two women sitting amidst the baggage and a mounted Jenkins rode behind as rearguard. Fonthill and Jenkins each carried a pearl-handled Colt revolver, and the sporting shotgun, which the missionary chose not to load, lay a
mongst the bags at the back of the wagon.
‘How far to Peking?’ asked Fonthill.
‘About fifteen miles,’ replied Gerald. ‘The road gets better nearer the city, of course.’
‘Is it open country?’
‘Most of the way.’
Simon thought for a moment. ‘Is there one place where we might be ambushed – where there is cover on either side?’
‘Er … yes. Probably.’ The young man’s eyes widened. ‘It’s a small village. We have to go through its centre.’
‘Can we get round it?’
‘No, not really. Fields are too rough on either side.’
‘Right. Tell me when we near it.’
The sun rose to make the world a heat bowl once again and Griffith stopped to stretch a tarpaulin over the rickety frame on the wagon to give its occupants some shade. The barren nature of the plain afforded them no relief from the sun, of course, but it gave them an excellent view all around, enabling them to detect any sign of pursuit, even from far away.
They skirted two villages without incident. Outside one, they met two peasants, attempting to work in the hard ground. Griffith called to them and asked for news of Boxers but the men’s faces remained quite impassive and he received no reply, even when the question was repeated by Chang in a more colloquial dialect.
Jenkins rode up. ‘I think people are comin’ up be’ind us, bach sir,’ he reported.
Fonthill whirled round in the saddle and squinted back down the road. ‘Dammit. I wish I had field glasses. Can’t see a sign of anyone. Can you, Gerald, you’ve got young eyes?’
‘No. Nothing.’
Jenkins sniffed. ‘Oh, they’re there all right. Look ’ard. There’s a bit of a dust cloud, way back.’
Simon shielded his eyes and squinted. ‘Ah, yes. I see what you mean. Boxers, do you think?’
‘Who else would be travellin’ in a crowd, like that?’
‘Gerald?’
Fear showed in the man’s eyes. ‘Yes. I should think so. They’re coming after us, all right. We shouldn’t have left. We could have stayed and spread ourselves round amongst neighbours. That way they probably wouldn’t have found all of us.’
Fonthill eyed him keenly. ‘Just your father, eh?’
‘No. I didn’t mean that.’
‘Right. We’ll wait here for them.’
Gerald’s jaw dropped. ‘You must be mad. We have four mules. If we whip them hard, we might be able to outpace them, if they’re on foot.’
‘Not in this heat – and mules don’t like to run. Neither do I, for that matter. No, we’ll wait here for them. Reverend,’ he walked his horse over to where Griffith was tying up a loose part of the tarpaulin, ‘it seems that we are being followed and they are probably Boxers.’
Mrs Griffith drew in her breath sharply but her husband’s face betrayed no emotion. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Even in this heat, the Chinese travel fast on foot, so I doubt if we can outdistance them. What do you propose?’
‘I agree that we can’t run. I suggest that we wait here for them. The road is narrow and there are quite wide ditches on either side, so it could be difficult for them to surround us. I think we might deter them with our pistols.’
‘Ah no.’ The clergyman shook his head. ‘No violence. Let me talk to them. Some of them could be locals and they will know me. We must put our trust in the Lord.’
Simon eyed him for a moment, then nodded. ‘Very well, sir. But I reserve the right to shoot if things get nasty. From what I’ve heard, the Boxers don’t have firearms, they rely on swords and clubs, so we might have a chance of putting them off, anyway. Right. We don’t have much time. Jenkins.’
‘Sir.’
‘Hitch your horse to the far side of the wagon – not the rear, close to the ditch – and take that shovel. See that declivity in the field over there …?’
‘What’s a declivity when it’s at ’ome?’
‘Oh Lord, I do wish sometimes that you had finished that Army Certificate of Education that you started on.’
‘Well, I would ’ave, wouldn’t I, if you ’adn’t taken me off to fight the savage Zulu, see.’
‘All right. That dip in the ground over there? See it?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Dig a hole in it, sufficiently deep to give you cover. Don’t pile up soil, though. I don’t want the Boxers to know you’re there. Take ammunition for your Colt from the box in the wagon and then go quickly. There’s little time. If firing starts I want you to give covering fire. But don’t fire unless I do. Understand?’
Jenkins’s eyes had become cold and hard again. Fonthill knew the signs. The Welshman was ready for – was about to revel in – action and danger.
‘Very good, bach sir.’
‘Good. Double away.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Gerald Griffith’s voice was querulous.
Simon looked back at the wagon. The missionary was sitting on the driving seat, slowly turning the pages of his Bible. Alice, Lizzie and Chang were now out of sight behind the tarpaulin, although, of course, the wagon was open fore and aft. Fonthill turned to Gerald.
‘If fighting does start,’ he said, ‘we will be fairly useless on horseback, for gunfire will disturb the horses and make it difficult to fire accurately. So we will hitch the horses to the side of the wagon to stop them boarding from that side. Please tie your horse and then load the fowling piece. We will wait under cover while your father speaks to these people. But we will demonstrate that we are armed. We must not fire unless we have to. However …’ he now spoke with emphasis ‘… Do not fire until I do. And when you do fire, aim to kill. There can be no hesitation once the fighting begins – if it does, that is. Now, tie your horse and then get into the wagon.’
Wide-eyed, Gerald nodded and led his horse to the far side of the wagon. Fonthill followed him, hitched up his own mount and climbed inside. As he did so, the Reverend Griffith stepped down and, Bible in hand, walked a little way down the road towards where the dust cloud could now be clearly seen.
‘What is happening, Simon?’ asked Alice. Mrs Griffith was by her side. Anxiety was reflected in both their faces. Chang, sitting at their feet, seemed quite unperturbed.
‘I think there is no need for alarm yet,’ said Fonthill. ‘However, it looks as though the Boxers have followed us and are approaching. We cannot outdistance them so we shall wait for them here. Mr Griffith is confident that he can talk them out of violence and so there will be no shooting unless we really have to defend ourselves.’
Mrs Griffith shot a glance over her shoulder. ‘I do not like Edward going among those people,’ she said. ‘He should stay in the wagon.’
Simon nodded. ‘I quite agree. I will ask him to return. In the meantime, Alice?’
His wife nodded.
‘Do you have that little popgun of yours that was so useful in the Sudan?’
‘It is not a popgun, Simon. It is a very effective French officer’s side arm, a very fine, eleven-millimetre Chamelot-Delvigne, that served me well in Egypt as well as the Sudan.’ She withdrew the scarf that lay across her lap to reveal the little, steel-blue automatic.
Fonthill gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Good. I am sorry we can’t give you a Colt, because you are probably a better shot with it than me. But have your little gun ready. Don’t shoot until I do.’
Then he bowed his head. ‘Sorry, Mrs Griffith. I promise that we will try and avoid violence.’ He climbed down from the wagon and walked towards where the clergyman was standing, looking down the road. Their pursuers could now be seen and flashes of scarlet revealed their identity.
‘I think it would be safer if you addressed them from the wagon, sir,’ he said.
Griffith smiled, a little wistfully. ‘No, Simon. I want to show that I am part of them. So I shall walk towards them, in peace, and speak to them from their midst. I think it is the best way.’
Simon’s heart fell. If the clergyman formed part of the crowd,
it would be extremely difficult to defend him if the mob turned on him. He turned to his right and looked across the field. There was no sign of Jenkins, except what could be a ripple of fresh earth, some thirty yards away. Good. That flank was covered, anyway. He smiled confidently at the missionary.
‘Of course, sir. Good luck. Don’t be afraid to run back to the wagon if you have to. We will cover you.’
‘I will.’ Griffith held out his hand. ‘God bless you, nephew.’
They shook hands and Fonthill climbed back into the wagon. He addressed Gerald. ‘Have you loaded the fowling piece?’
‘Yes, but I can’t see me harming anyone with it. It only shoots pellets.’
‘It doesn’t matter. It will have a deterrent effect. Now,’ he addressed the others, ‘Mrs Griffith please keep low. The rest of us will show our weapons when the Boxers come up, I will pull back the tarpaulin to show them that we are armed. Gerald, you take the rear of the wagon, Alice you guard the front, Chang you hold the reins of the mules and attempt to quieten them if shooting starts. I will guard the side facing the road. The horses hitched on the other side should stop them climbing aboard from that side. Let me repeat – do not fire unless I do.’
‘Where is 352?’ asked Alice.
‘He is hidden out in the field. If we have to shoot, firing coming from the flank should disconcert the Boxers.’
Gerald’s face was white. ‘What if they have guns? We could be mown down.’
‘I doubt if they will have rifles or anything like that. If they do, shoot at the marksmen first. Here they come. Good luck everyone.’
Fonthill finished unfurling the tarpaulin, so that the interior of the wagon was revealed. As he tied the last cord, he caught a glimpse of the Reverend Griffith stepping forward to meet the Boxers, his hand upheld in the universal gesture of peace. Simon bit his lip as he watched. He tried to count the Chinamen and gave up at fourteen. Perhaps there were twenty. Far too many, anyway. A Daniel – a very old but brave Daniel – was about to enter the lion’s den, with only his Bible to protect him.
