by John Wilcox
Simon smiled. ‘You did very well, cousin,’ he said. ‘But I think we should move quickly now and get to this damned river.’
‘Shush.’ Jenkins held up a hand. He was lying prone, with his ear to the ground. ‘They’re coming back – and galloping.’
‘Quickly. Into the maize. If we have to fight, we use swords. No shooting. There might be other patrols about.’
Chang’s face paled. ‘Oh golly.’ But he followed Simon into the kaoliang, while Jenkins ducked into the other side.
Within seconds, the three cavalrymen thundered round the bend, their heads low over the mane of their horses and their swords drawn. They swept by with scarcely a glance into the tall growth on either side and disappeared once again, in the direction of the river.
‘They will be back.’ Simon stood for a moment, deep in thought. Then: ‘Chang, you walk back a few paces and then lie face down across the path …’
Chang gave an exclamation in Chinese, and was joined by Jenkins. ‘Blimey, why …?’
Fonthill tossed his head impatiently. ‘I want to disconcert them. They will stop for a moment wondering what the hell to do. You and I, 352, will be in the maize behind them by this bend. As soon as they have passed us and their attention is drawn to Chang, we will spring out behind them and bring them down. Swords, remember. No shooting.’
‘Then I get up and fight, yes?’ Chang’s eyes were bright.
‘No, be lying on your sword but don’t move until we do. If you are attacked run back into the crop. Quick now. They will be back soon. Further back into the maize this time, 352. They will be looking for us in there.’
Once more the two comrades plunged into the tall crop, but this time Fonthill’s heart was in his mouth. Leaving the boy out there was taking an awful risk. Would they be able to bring down the two men in the rear before the lead rider realised what was happening? And would he ride on and attack Chang anyway? The boy would stand no chance against an experienced cavalryman. He gulped. But there was no further time for introspection. There was no sound but suddenly, peering low between the stalks, he saw the officer, walking his horse slowly and looking carefully into the kaoliang on either side of him. Then the other two came into view, walking their horses side by side. Simon offered up a silent prayer that Jenkins had penetrated deeply enough to be out of sight.
Then he heard a loud exclamation. Chang had been seen. Simon plunged through the tall stalks, crushing them, and emerged in time to see Chang, sword in hand, standing and defying the officer, whose horse was rearing. Damn! The stupid boy was fighting! The cavalryman on Simon’s side of the path was trying to quieten his own horse and had his back to him. Fonthill paused for a split second and then he gulped, sprang forward and, reaching up, he thrust the point of his heavy blade through the man’s side, feeling it scrape bone. With his other hand, he grabbed the man’s belt and pulled him to the ground and delivered the coup de grâce to his breast. As he did so he felt a thunderous blow to his back, sending him pitching forward and his sword spinning away.
He lay for several seconds as the hooves of horses crashed to the ground all around him, one of them delivering a second blow, this time to his calf. He heard the cry of ‘Roll over, bach, to yer right’ and he did so, his hands to his head to protect his face. Half into the maize, he staggered to his feet and saw Jenkins, the blade of a bloodstained sword between his teeth, standing between the two rear horses in the narrow path, holding onto their reins and trying to sooth them. To his right and ahead, however, a far more fascinating battle was taking place.
The officer was trying to control his rearing horse and, at the same time, deliver slashing blows to Chang, who was ducking and weaving away from the blade. As he watched, he saw the boy slash at the soldier’s thigh, causing blood to burst out from just above the boot. Then he slapped the rear of the horse with the flat of his blade, causing the beast to rear again, sending the wounded cavalryman sliding to the ground, where the young man thrust his blade through the man’s throat.
‘’Old on to that bloody ’orse, Changy,’ roared Jenkins. ‘We don’t want to walk anymore. Don’t let ’im charge away.’
The boy threw down his sword and grabbed the reins of the startled beast, holding on and circling with it as it continued to rear and whinny, as though in despair at the death of his master.
Fonthill stood, his breast heaving, and surveyed the scene. The three cavalrymen all lay on the pathway, in different postures but all dead from sword thrusts. The three horses were now becoming quiescent. Chang and Jenkins seemed unharmed and Simon straightened his back gingerly and lifted his leg. There were two stabs of pain but neither was severe. Probably the result of bruising; nothing broken, it seemed. He walked forward to take one of the horses from Jenkins.
‘Well done, lads,’ he said. ‘Bit of a bloodbath, I’m afraid. Good Lord, Chang. You fought like a dervish.’
The boy, his face glistening with sweat, grinned. ‘What is “dervish”, cousin?’
‘I hope you never have to find out, old chap. Let’s say he’s just a bloody good fighter. Like you. Now, Chang, take the reins of the horses, they seem all right now. 352 – are you all right?’
The great chest of the Welshman was heaving, but he nodded. ‘Yes, thank you. But I’m gettin’ a bit old for this sort of thing. I think all this effort has opened up this old wound in me arm, but it’s not bleedin’ much. Got an earwig in me ear, though.’
‘All right. You take the horses, then. Chang, help me lift these bodies into the side, out of sight into the maize. I don’t want to leave any evidence. That’s it. Good man.’
Within ten minutes the site was cleared, only three distinct patches of blood staining the pathway to show where three men had died. Simon pushed dust over them with his sandal. Then he walked to study the saddles and accoutrements of the horses.
‘If we are going to take these horses – and we definitely are – then we don’t want us to appear to be riding Imperial cavalry mounts,’ he explained. ‘Here, lend me your knife, 352. I think I can cut this fancy stuff away. Rough old Kansu infantrymen wouldn’t be riding like bloody medieval knights.’
In a moment the job was done. Fonthill delayed long enough to inspect the old wound in Jenkins’s arm, which had now stopped bleeding, and the three of them mounted and resumed their trek to the river. Once on horseback, Simon realised that he was trembling. Killing a man at long range with a rifle shot was one thing. Stabbing him from the back with a sword was another and his lip curled and he shook his head. Was he becoming some sort of monster? What would Alice think of him if she had witnessed the mini battle on the pathway, not to mention the bayoneting of sleeping men at the tower? And was he training a sixteen-year-old boy to become a killer? He rode in silence for a while, his head down.
Jenkins noticed and gently urged his mount forward so that they rode side by side. ‘She said you were to come back, bach sir,’ he said, eventually. ‘So you’ve got to think of yourself, like. It’s the old story. It was them or us. Same as it always is. Goodness gracious me, we’ve done it enough times. Can’t be ’elped. It’s the life we lead, see.’
Fonthill slowly nodded. ‘I suppose you’re right. But I really felt that we’d left all that behind us.’
‘So did I. But I knew somethin’ was up as soon as we stepped off that ship. I sniffed the air, like, and I knew we was back in it. But we didn’t look for it, now did we? So it can’t be ’elped. An’ those blokes was comin’ back to get us right enough, weren’t they? So don’t think about it.’ Jenkins paused for a moment, then he gave Fonthill a sly, sideways smile. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘you’ve got to admit that, for most of the time, it’s fun, ain’t it?’
Simon looked at him and returned half a smile. ‘I wouldn’t call it fun,’ he said, ‘though I grant that it’s exciting.’ Then the remnant of the smile slipped away. ‘But sometimes it’s just bloody horrific.’
They rode in silence for a while. Then Jenkins sniffed. ‘As long as young Changy wasn�
�t lyin’ about them crocodiles,’ he said, ‘I don’t mind a bit of a sail, see.’ And he gave that great, moustache-bending smile of his that immediately made Simon feel better.
They came to the river without further incident: the brown, turgid, not-so-very-wide highway that, hopefully, was to lead them to Tientsin and – even more hopefully – the relief column. There was not so much traffic on it, as Simon had hoped, and Chang’s questioning of a fisherman on the banks provided the reason.
‘He says, cousin, that further down – about twelve miles, perhaps more – is where the great foreign army decided to turn back from the railway and go back to Tientsin by river. They take a lot of junks. That is why we see not many boats now.’
‘Ah, so they have turned back, dammit.’ Fonthill frowned. ‘All that great expectancy and hope from the legations! Ask him if he knows if another army is coming to Peking.’
Eventually, Chang shrugged his shoulders. ‘He don’t know, but he think that army going back has been defeated many times. Many yang kuei-tzu killed. But he say we come to village soon. Can hire junk there, he thinks.’
‘Good. Let’s get on with it, then.’
Simon’s mind turned over. How badly had the relief column been mauled? Pretty badly if they had been forced to turn back. And if Tientsin itself was besieged, what hope of another force being gathered in time to relieve Peking? The besieged in the river port would surely have enough on their plate. The prospect was depressing. He shrugged his shoulders and dug his heels into his horse’s side. Their task was clear. They had to persuade somebody in command in the south that the legations’ plight was desperate and that time was short.
The village was small but it was a trading point where jobbing junks called in to pick up cargoes, usually of rice or grain, to take north and south. While Fonthill and Jenkins remained watering the horses, Chang, now bearing himself with the confidence of a soldier who had killed his first man, went into the village. He came back within ten minutes, his young face carrying an earnest expression.
‘There is a junk that can take us and horses downriver. He has oats for horses. It leaves soon so we must be jolly quick.’
Fonthill patted his shoulder. ‘Good man. How far can he take us?’
‘Ah, that is the point. He says he cannot take us to Tientsin. There is much fighting just above there. Foreign troops are there. Chinese army attack them.’
‘Very well. We will go as far as we can with him. Let’s go to the battle.’ But Simon was not as sanguine as he sounded. Fighting! How were they going to get through the lines? If they could persuade the Chinese to let them get through to the actual combat, how to prevent the British from killing them as the enemy? He shrugged. Ah well, they would have to face those problems when they came to them.
They trotted their horses through the hamlet to a wooden loading stage that jutted out into the river, where an old junk was moored. The two-man crew was adjusting a canvas cover over the open hold and the captain, a wizened, tiny man with skullcap and pigtail, looked with trepidation at first at the three wild men of the north, with their stained clothing, rifles and bandoliers, but bowed low and smiled over the handful of coins that Simon gave him. The horses, uneasy at the swell that rocked the boat, were tethered to a rail and given a feed from a sack full of oats. The three comrades sat down gratefully at the stern of the junk and accepted bowls of rice as the square sails were raised and the boat eased out into the gently flowing current.
‘Now this,’ observed Jenkins quietly, ‘is the way to travel.’ He looked out with approval at the unbroken, brown water. ‘I don’t care if there are crocodiles out there, because, look you, I ’ave no intention at all of takin’ a dip today. I shall just sit ’ere all day and contemplate life. I am now too old to be swimmin’ about an’ killin’ people.’
Chang, now a fully qualified member of the trio and having, at last, begun to comprehend the Welshman’s idiosyncrasies, beamed with approval. Simon scowled. ‘For goodness’ sake, 352, keep your voice down. We’re supposed to be Kansu soldiers.’
‘With great respect, bach sir, I was merely makin’ an observation in a very low voice. If these Chinese blokes pullin’ on the ropes ’eard me, they would just as likely think I was speakin’ Kansu talk.’
‘Ah, that reminds me.’ Simon looked up at the blessedly weak sun. ‘Which way is east? Yes, there. When we’ve finished the rice, it will be time for us to pray.’
Chang nodded understandingly but Jenkins’s jaw dropped. ‘Eh?’
‘Kansus are Muslims and Muslims are supposed to pray five times a day. We must face the east, kneel, bend down with our foreheads on the deck and say something incomprehensible. It could be important later if we are stopped and the captain is questioned.’
‘Ah, very good. I’ll give ’em a bit of Welsh.’
They carried out their devotions, much to the consternation of the crew, and Fonthill instructed Chang to explain the reason for them. Then Simon sat in the stern, inspecting a rough, hand-drawn map of Tientsin and its environs that Sir Claude had given him.
As Chang had explained, the city itself lay some twenty-five to thirty miles inland from the Taku Forts that guarded the entrance to the river on which it lay. Tientsin itself was a native walled city but, unlike Peking, the foreign holdings or settlements were discrete and situated outside the city itself to the south. The Pei Ho and the railway wound their way in parallel north-west from Tientsin towards Peking for some twenty miles or so before parting company at Yangtsun, where the essential rail bridge had been destroyed and from which the relief column, it seemed, had turned back and taken to the river for its retreat. But it seemed that the column had not reached Tientsin. Was it being held up by the force of Chinese arms or was it simply resting and recuperating? Sir Claude’s message had implied that the city was invested, but how strongly? And was it the settlements that were under siege or the city itself? Surely, it should be possible for the defenders, whatever they were defending, to link up with the retreating relief force? Depending upon how fierce the opposition was to the remnants of the British force as they trudged south, they should not be too far from the city.
Simon shook his head. Too many imponderables! It seemed to make sense for him and his comrades to try and contact the relief force, rather than try to reach Tientsin. They must surely be nearest and, depending upon how many casualties they had suffered, perhaps the commander of the column could be persuaded to turn back towards Peking, given the dire nature of the defenders there?
Right. That was decided. He folded the map. They would get through to the British force, somewhere downriver of them. But they must make haste!
All day they bowled along, swept by a following wind as well as by the river itself. Chang and Jenkins dosed intermittently, for it was soporific, lying back in the stern, their heads on their waterproofs, sleepy eyes taking in the sparse river traffic – small junks, tacking against wind and current and skiffs, flitting across the water like insects, most of them making their way upstream, away, it seemed, from the fighting. Fonthill, however, stayed awake, his hand not far from his rifle, his eyes on the banks of the river.
Soon he witnessed signs of battle. The vegetation on the banks on both sides had recently been beaten down and the soil trampled as far as he could see. Here, the river was dominated by the railway embankment which ran parallel to it and the banks on both sides were pitted by craters – shell holes, presumably, showing that the British had come under fire from guns mounted on railway carriages. Rickety buildings creeping down to the water in a succession of villages all showed bullet holes in their walls. Leaning over, Fonthill could see the bottom of the river. It was extremely shallow. Had the British junks run aground and the men been forced to land and haul them off the shoals? And it looked as though each village had had to be taken by force before the boats could continue. It must have been a hell of a journey, under fire and in the heat.
Now, traffic had ceased on the water but both banks were busy
highways for Chinese troops of all descriptions, wearing various uniforms and in individual groups. Not an army, more a ragbag collection of soldiers straggling – not marching – along. They were all heading south and curious eyes were cast towards this solitary junk.
Simon felt uncomfortable, for even though he and his two companions were not easily visible, lying low beneath the deck sides of the vessel, the horses, with their military saddles, could clearly be seen. He sat up, for, faraway but clearly, he could hear the sound of shellfire. It was time to leave the river.
He roused his comrades and looked ahead. Dusk was falling but he welcomed that. It would be safer to land in the darkness, but where? He beckoned to Chang. ‘Tell the captain that we must soon go ashore,’ he said. ‘Is there a landing place soon where it will be easy to land the horses?’
It was clear that the captain was not anxious to keep his passengers now that gunfire could be heard. ‘He says, soon,’ reported Chang. ‘Round the bend is landing place. Road goes away from river here but about a mile to south is great arsenal of Hsiku Arsenal. He don’t know what this is but he thinks British have captured it and are fighting there.’
‘Splendid.’ He felt in his pocket for more coins. ‘Give him these with our thanks. Tell him to land us there.’
Dusk settled on them comfortingly as the junk was steered towards where another wooden landing stage leant out into the river. Simon scoured the area with his eyes but he could see no one. He turned to Chang. ‘New story now, cousin,’ he said with a grin. ‘Now we are just three Kansu cavalrymen from the north who were sent scouting and lost their way. We are now looking for the front line to join in the fighting.’
As the sail was lowered and the boat was held to the landing stage with boathooks, the trio led their horses ashore and then mounted them. With a wave to the sailors they clattered away in the lowering darkness.
‘Nice, enjoyable little sail,’ observed Jenkins. ‘Now what do we do?’
