by John Wilcox
Fonthill nodded. ‘Of course, Sergeant. Do we have any wounded?’
‘Only scratches, sir. Their firin’ was quite good for savages. Got most of our blokes through the ’ead.’
‘Right. I’m afraid we can’t stay to bury them. I will take the lead, Sergeant, and I would be grateful if you would bring up the rear, with another good man. We may have to do a couple of bayonet charges to get through.’
‘Very good, sir. Quite right. The Chinks don’t like the bayonets, either. After you, then, sir.’
Three abreast, led by Fonthill and Jenkins, the remnants of the raiding party began their retreat. It became clear that the troops who had closed in behind Strouts’ group as the tower was scaled had not been led efficiently, for they all seemed to have dispersed as a result of the shelling. There was no attempt to hinder the party as they trotted back towards the Tartar Wall. Not until, that is, they reached the point where they could see the sluice gates to their right and just ahead of them. Suddenly, with a howl, the street ahead was filled with Chinese troops, brandishing swords and pikes.
Fonthill gulped. ‘Fall into two lines across the street. Now,’ he yelled. ‘Front rank, kneel.’
The mob in front of them paused for a moment, as though mesmerised by these strange movements.
‘Two volleys by ranks,’ cried Simon. ‘Front rank, fire!’ The volley from eight rifles thundered out. ‘Front rank, reload. Second rank, fire! Second rank, reload.’
The front line facing the little party seemed to disintegrate, leaving sixteen bodies lying on the harsh surface of the road. Fonthill looked up and saw anxious faces peering down at him from the top of the great wall. He prayed that they would be Americans. He hailed them: ‘Open the sluice gates when we charge ’em.’ There was no response. Had he been heard? He felt a tap on his shoulder.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir,’ said the marine sergeant, as though interrupting a conversation at an officers’ tea party. ‘But a party of the enemy seems to be comin’ up fast be’ind us. P’raps a bayonet charge, sir?’
Fonthill swallowed and tried to answer as coolly as the question had been put. ‘Splendid idea, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your advice.’ Then, turning, ‘Marines! One more volley from the front rank then we all charge with the bayonet. Make for the sluice gates. Now, front rank, fire!’ Then, as the smoke curled upwards: ‘All ranks, charge!’
The marines bounded forward as one man, spreading out across the width of the street, their rifles and bayonets extending out in front of them, like a fast-moving, prickly hedge. The Chinese facing them immediately broke. Just two sword-wielding warriors attempted to get through the bayonet wall and were cut down for their bravery. Within seconds, the British had broken through and were running towards the canal opening where, thankfully, the sluice gates guarding it were gradually being winched open. From the ramparts up above came covering fire from the Americans lining the wall.
Jenkins, the sergeant and Fonthill were the last to splash through the opening before the gates began to close. The three stood with their backs to the wall, their breasts heaving.
‘No more casualties, Sergeant?’ gasped Simon.
‘None since we left poor old Captain Strouts, sir.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘I’d call it a well-carried-out strategic withdrawal.’
‘Good, thank you. Let’s all go and have a cup of horrible coffee.’
Word had got out about the sortie and, despite the early hour, the party’s return was greeted at the British Legation by an applauding group of diplomats and other civilians. Sir Claude clearly had not gone back to bed since seeing off the marines and he was waiting on the Residency steps. He shook Fonthill warmly by the hand and then his face dropped as he looked over his shoulder.
‘Yes,’ said Simon sadly, ‘heavy casualties, I’m afraid, sir. We lost roughly half of our strength, including Captain Strouts. But we did destroy the guns.’
MacDonald’s drooping face took on even more the expression of a bloodhound. He said nothing but retained Fonthill’s hand, continuing to shake it.
Eventually, he said, ‘It was a heavy price to pay, Fonthill, but I do believe that it will prove to have been worth it. Now go and get some breakfast and perhaps you would report to me in some detail when you feel up to it.’
Alice had not slept either and he found her, white-faced and crouching in her dressing gown, outside her sleeping quarters. She had not dared to see who were among the returning party and she could not restrain her tears when she saw him. For a time they did not exchange a word, merely holding each other.
‘So you see, my luck has not run out yet, my love,’ said Simon nuzzling his nose into her long, loose hair. ‘Dear old 352 did look after me, although I have to report that he ruined his trousers.’ She looked at him in some consternation. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ he added hurriedly. ‘Is there any very old, roast pony to be had?’
CHAPTER SIX
As though incensed by the success of the sortie, the Chinese stepped up their attacks on the perimeter, particularly on the Fu, where the Japanese held on stoically, giving ground when they had to, retaking it when the opportunity occurred. The defenders’ casualties grew, however, and it became dangerous to walk across open ground within the compounds. A marine, a survivor of Fonthill’s sortie, was shot and killed just outside the guardhouse by the main entrance to the British Legation. The Australian machine gun and then the American were hauled back to the Legation as a final precaution.
From the general direction of Tientsin, it was reported that searchlights could be seen probing the sky. The relief expedition, at last? Two rockets were sent up from the German compound but no reply was seen in the southern sky.
Overcrowding was becoming a problem in the British Legation, which housed most of the European civilians. The Dutch minister slept in a cupboard in the small house allotted to the Russian minister and the fifty-one members of his family and staff. Forty people now sat down to dinner each evening in Lady MacDonald’s dining room. Cooking itself became a problem and the ornamental rockwork in the Legation grounds became an outdoor kitchen, where large kettles and pots were used for boiling the horsemeat by Chinese cooks, incongruously wearing frilly aprons.
The strain of the overcrowding and the growing danger from snipers’ bullets and shrapnel fragments was particularly hard on the women. In the case of Mrs Griffith and the Fonthills, however, this was supplemented by the latters’ resentment of Gerald, causing a rift to appear between them. The young man had ceased making his mysterious disappearances during the day, and now spent his time sitting near his sleeping quarters, ostentatiously reading medieval Chinese tomes in their original, archaic Mandarin.
‘If he doesn’t want to fight,’ hissed Alice to her husband, ‘why doesn’t he at least give a hand in the hospital, or in the kitchens? Chang is pathetically anxious to attach himself to your marines – he cried when you didn’t take him with you to destroy those guns.’
Fonthill nodded. ‘Yes, the difference between the two is amazing. You would have thought it would be Chang, the native Chinaman, who would be pro-Boxer. But it’s the other way around. Have you thought of having a word with your aunt about Gerald?’
‘I have tried – very delicately – to raise the matter, because the fellow just sits around all day and this has been noticed by the other ladies. Mind you,’ she sniffed, ‘there are plenty of others. The Italian minister, for instance, the very noble Marchese Salvago Raggi, can’t be more than thirty-six years old and looks perfectly fit. Yet he sits in a chaise longue most of the time chatting to his beautiful wife. And you know about that pathetic creature, Monsieur Pichon …’
Simon grinned. ‘Yes, but what did your aunt say about Gerald?’
‘Oh, she says that he is a very studious boy who is not cut out to be a soldier and, of course, she mothers him.’ Alice sighed. ‘Also, of course, she is still grieving for her husband. She is doing sterling work in the hospital, which keeps her mind off thin
gs. But I can’t help thinking that she is a bit jealous of me – the fact that my husband is still alive.’ She put her hand on Simon’s arm. ‘I feel so sorry for her, my dear, but I can’t help her.
‘The trouble is,’ she went on, ‘it has been a long time since you and I – with old 352, of course – were in danger, like this. But in those days I was serving with you, alongside you, sharing the dangers. You know: in Matabeleland, the Sudan, Afghanistan and so on.’ She sighed. ‘Now you go off, leading bayonet charges, putting guns out of action, and I’m stuck here, trying to wash bandages in muddy water.’
Fonthill regarded his wife with surging affection. One of the reasons he loved her so much was her intrepidity. All her life, she had remained cool under pressure, whether it was scribbling under fire to record a battle for the Morning Post or shooting a Boxer swordsman with a Colt revolver at forty paces. Their life together had been marred by misunderstandings at first, but since their wedding more than fifteen years ago, they had loved each other with an intellectual and physical passion. Their son, conceived in the sands of the Sudanese desert, had died in childbirth and Alice had been unable to give birth again. Now, in their middle age, they had settled into a strange but loving trio, with Jenkins, as comrade and servant, sharing in their affection.
Simon tucked a lank strand of her hair back under her headscarf. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m too bloody old to be leading bayonet charges, anyway. And Jenkins says if I get on a horse I will fall off it.’
‘He always did say that.’
‘He did and it’s true – well, partly, though I would never admit it to him.’ He pushed her away to look steadily into her eyes. ‘You don’t need to be soldiering, my love, you are doing wonderful work in the sickbay. And,’ he smiled, ‘I’ve noticed that you’ve been scribbling again. A letter to your lover? How are you going to smuggle it out?’
For a brief moment, Alice looked embarrassed. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that’s going to be the problem. You know the tall doctor in the hospital, Dr Morrison?’
‘Well, I’ve seen him but I’ve not actually shaken his hand. At a quick glance, though, he should make a very satisfying lover, I would think.’
She gave him a playful push. ‘Don’t be silly. I only found out recently that, apart from his medical practice, he is the Peking correspondent of The Times – although, of course, he can’t get any stories out of here now.’
‘Quite. So?’
‘So, he has stimulated me to start writing again. I’ve been keeping a diary so that, as soon as this siege is ended, I can write features, as well as report the news, for the Morning Post. I can’t let the opposition get away with one of the best stories for years. I haven’t really had anything published in the Post for months, apart from the odd piece I cabled from America. Although we can’t know it, I bet the eyes of the world are on this godforsaken place, now. There will be great demand for stories from inside.’
Her eyes in her perspiring face were bright – brighter than Simon had seen them in weeks. He kissed her. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You could outscoop the stuffy old Times any day.’
Then Alice’s eyes clouded over momentarily and she frowned. ‘There is something I feel I ought to mention to you,’ she said. ‘It’s probably absolutely nothing at all to be concerned about but …’ She tailed away. ‘Back to Gerald.’
‘Yes. What about him?’
‘Well …’ She hesitated again, in some embarrassment.
‘Go on.’
‘Well …’ Another pause. Then the words came out in a flood. ‘He has started to pay me some sort of … er … attention. I don’t think I am misunderstanding it, but he is being very, well, friendly.’
‘Nothing wrong in that. It’s about time he was friendly to somebody.’
‘No, I mean … He has bought me flowers, little bundles of almond blossom, although goodness knows where he gets it from. And he finds an excuse to touch my hand. That sort of thing.’ She gave an uncertain smile. ‘It’s ridiculous, I know, but I think he rather … you know …’
Fonthill’s mouth dropped open. Then he recovered. ‘But that is ridiculous. Oh, I’m sorry. That’s rude of me. What I mean is that you are more than twenty years older than him and, dammit, you’re the man’s cousin for goodness sake. And, anyway, you’re married.’
Alice put her hand on her husband’s arm. ‘I know all that, my dear,’ she said with a touch of asperity. ‘And, more to the point, he knows it too. I have done absolutely nothing to encourage him, I assure you. In fact, on the contrary, sometimes I have been almost rude to him, what with him lolling about while others are fighting, and so on. I’ve shown my disgust. I just don’t know what’s come over him.’
Simon sighed. ‘Well, at least he is showing good judgement. You are an attractive woman, my love, and I suppose, what with the heat and everything …’ He shrugged.
‘Well, I wish he’d turn his attention somewhere else. There are plenty of very pretty Chinese girls about the place.’
‘Would you like me to have a word with him? Play the aggrieved husband and that sort of thing. Warn him off, so to speak?’
‘Oh, good Lord, no. There’s really nothing one can take exception to. And if he does get out of hand, I can handle him. I’m a big girl now, Simon.’
Fonthill smiled. ‘Hmm. Yes, I have noticed.’ He pulled her to him and kissed her again. Then he wiped the perspiration from his brow and looked up at the sky. ‘I don’t blame young Gerald for getting broody. This bloody drought is enough to unbalance anybody. If only we could have a spot of rain. I can’t remember when last I had a bath.’
The next day, as though on cue, the heavens opened.
Torrential rain thundered down on Peking, flooding the trenches in the compounds and beating down the precarious shelters and many parts of the barricades. The defending troops were forced to leave their posts to bail out and repair the defences, under rain that stung them like flying pebbles. If the Chinese had not been similarly hampered, they could have attacked and stormed unhindered into the legations.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the rain ended and the sun reappeared, not at all daunted by what had gone before. Immediately, the temperature rose to one hundred and ten degrees in the shade and a dreadful humidity descended to torture the defenders anew.
Fonthill was helping to shovel mud out of the trenches when a messenger found him and brought a request for him to report to Sir Claude’s office. After a quick douche from a bucket and a rub down with a towel he complied.
His apologies for his appearance were waved aside by the minister. Some of the old imperturbability seemed to have left the tall, elegant man, although, despite the humidity, his tie was correctly knotted and his moustache still fiercely waxed. He smiled and nodded to a chair.
‘Whisky?’ he asked.
‘No thank you, sir. Too early in the day for me and too hot.’
‘Quite right. Shouldn’t fall into bad habits, despite this bloody heat and the … er … conditions here.’
Simon nodded and waited. Something clearly was to be demanded of him, but better to keep quiet and wait for it. The minister looked tired and on edge. There was no doubt about it.
‘Fonthill,’ he began, sitting back in his chair. ‘I have something to request of you.’
‘Sir?’
‘I would like to make clear that it is a request, not an order, you understand?’
Simon nodded again. Whatever it was, it was going to be difficult. Still he waited.
‘Yes. Now.’ MacDonald leant forward. ‘This morning I received a message from a Chinese who managed to slip through the enemy lines. He came from Tientsin.’ He gestured to a small slip of paper on his desk. ‘It seems that there has been fighting there for some weeks now, with the result that the city is under some sort of siege, not quite as tightly as we are here, but surrounded nonetheless.’
Fonthill felt his jaw drop. So Gerald had been right! He waited for the minister to continue.
&nb
sp; ‘There was a force sent to relieve us, of course, some time ago, but it couldn’t get through via the railway and was rather badly mauled and had to fall back on Tientsin. War has broken out – although I am unsure if it has been formally declared on either side – but the Taku Forts at the entrance to the Pei Ho river have been taken by the Foreign Powers. All is by no means lost and reinforcements are expected daily from other foreign stations. Another relief force will be mounted. We are urged to …’ MacDonald allowed his long features to lapse into a smile ‘… hold on.’
The minister settled back in his chair. ‘And this,’ he continued with emphasis, ‘is what we shall do, of course. But the pressure here is tightening. The position on the Tartar Wall is particularly difficult, for the Americans and the Germans are exposed on the skyline, as you know. Indeed,’ he flipped another piece of paper on his desk, ‘the American minister has today asked my permission to abandon the barricade there. I have refused, of course. It would expose all of the southern part of the Quarter to fire from the Wall. The minister has accepted this and promised to hold on.
‘You will also know that we are under great pressure on the Fu. The Japanese there are doing a wonderful job and, unlike some of the other nationalities, I get no complaints from them. No panic-influenced requests from them for reinforcements. When they ask for men, I jump to it, I can tell you.’
‘Nevertheless, the point is, my dear Fonthill, that we can hold on. But I must be realistic. Food and ammunition are low – we have only fourteen rounds left for our little Italian gun, for instance. We have just enough men to man the perimeter, we don’t have the space to reduce it further and our casualties are mounting. You see …’ He let the words hang in the air for a moment. ‘We really don’t have all the time in the world and our people in Tientsin must be told that we need to be relieved as a matter of urgency – of prime urgency, in fact. They seem unaware of this.’
