The War of the Dragon Lady

by John Wilcox

  ‘We try and find where the British are fighting and then play it by ear.’

  ‘What is this “playing by ear”?’ enquired Chang. ‘Is it a game?’

  Fonthill grinned. ‘Not exactly, old chap. We react according to the circumstances. But we must somehow get through the Chinese lines and cross the British defences without both sides killing us. Yes, well, put like that, I suppose it is a sort of game. Trouble is, I don’t know the rules. Come on. Let’s ride with a sense of purpose, as though we are under orders.’

  They kicked their horses into a canter and rode through a shell-scarred thicket before finding the road. Most of the groups of Chinese troops had halted their journey southwards and had bivouacked for the night. Fires had been lit and bedrolls laid out. The trio rode on determinedly. Several times they were challenged – greeted? – but Fonthill gave a cheery wave and cantered by. Luckily, they met no other cavalry and saw no other Kansu soldiers.

  The firing ahead seemed to have died away with the onset of darkness but, looming up ahead, on the banks of the river, they saw the blackness of a great building. Before they could get near to it they met a Chinese sentry, rifle slung across his shoulders. Chang trotted forward and engaged in conversation with the man for several minutes.

  He came back grinning. ‘He think I am blooming Kansu and he afraid of me, all right,’ he said.

  Fonthill nodded. ‘Glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘But what is ahead?’

  ‘Ah yes. Big building ahead is big place for Chinese weapons, ammunition et cetera. It is called Hsiku Arsenal. British have taken it and Chinese are very mad. Imperial army is now trying to take it back. So far they don’t do it.’

  ‘Good Lord! I suppose that’s the remnants of the relief column. Are the Chinese attacking during the night?’

  ‘No. Wait till morning.’

  ‘Good, then that’s what we’ll do.’ He turned his head. ‘Let’s get back into those woods and find a place to tether the horses and lie down for a few hours.’

  Jenkins grinned in approval. ‘Good idea, bach sir. I’ve ’ad a busy day. But what do we do in the morning? ’Ow do we get through the lines?’

  ‘I don’t know but I’ll think of something. Come on, into the woods.’

  They rested through the darkest hours, although only Jenkins slept well. As dawn was lightening the sky to the east, they rose, rubbed down the horses as best they could and mounted. The firing had not yet recommenced. They sat uncertainly for a moment.

  Then: ‘Have you got a spare vest in your pack?’ Simon asked Jenkins.

  The Welshman’s jaw dropped. ‘A what?’

  ‘A spare undervest. And is it white?’

  ‘Well, sort of. I washed it before we left.’

  ‘Good. Get it out and tie it to this rifle.’

  Jenkins shook his head in disbelief. ‘Blessed and wonderful are the ways of the officer class,’ he muttered as he unrolled his slender pack. He had attended Sunday school chapel as a child.

  One arm of the vest was tightly knotted round the muzzle of Fonthill’s Mauser and the other to the breech just before the trigger guard. Simon nodded in approval but held the rifle low so that the vest hung downwards.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘this is no longer the disgusting undergarment of a very dirty Welsh Kansu soldier—’

  ‘’Ere, steady on,’ interrupted Jenkins.

  ‘… but a flag of truce, although it won’t be raised until we get to the front line. There, we will ride in a V formation towards the gate of the arsenal, you two behind me, sitting very upright, and me in the lead, carrying the flag, as though we are an official delegation come to parley.’

  ‘Ah,’ nodded Chang.

  ‘Brilliant, bach,’ said Jenkins.

  ‘Until we get to the front, though,’ continued Fonthill, ‘we will not display the flag and, Chang, you will lead. We shall be stopped, I’m sure, and you will explain that we have come with a message to the commander from our general in Peking, General … what’s his name again?’

  ‘Tung Fu-hsiang.’

  ‘That’s the chap. Explain that it is urgent and we can’t be delayed. Then, when we reach the line, we will raise the flag and ride straight ahead – cantering, not galloping, mind you. Straight to the main gate of the arsenal and there we will explain that we are English and ask to be admitted.’

  ‘What?’ asked Jenkins. ‘Stand there an’ ’ave a chat while we get shot in the back by the Chinks and in the front by the Brits?’

  ‘Something like that.’ He grinned. ‘It’s risky, I admit. But I think that it’s a fair bet that the English will be wary, but they won’t defile a flag of truce and once they hear my voice they will let us in. As for the Chinese, I am gambling that everyone but the commander will think that it’s a parley that has been ordered from on high. And once he realises what’s up we shall be inside the arsenal.’

  ‘Then do I get me vest back?’

  ‘Of course. But it could have bullet holes in it. Come on, gentlemen. Let’s advance.’

  Once again, Fonthill’s confidence was only reflected outwards. He would have felt happier if he could have reconnoitred the ground – particularly the Chinese lines – for himself. The main danger, he felt, would be getting through those lines. Chang’s story would not stand up to much interrogation. Their main hope would be that the young man would argue with, not only conviction, but also with the superiority and arrogance that stemmed from being a general’s messenger. He sighed. Once again, it would be a case of dipping a toe in the water to see how hot it was.

  They rode back to where they had met the sentry the previous evening. He had been replaced and the new man made no attempt to stop them as they rode by. Confidence, reflected Fonthill, was all under these circumstances.

  They rode on through scattered contingents of troops and heard intermittent firing from directly ahead of them. Luckily, they met no cavalry and no other Kansu troops, for they would surely never have survived interrogation from ‘one of their own’. The dead cavalryman must have been correct in saying that these Muslim soldiers were restricted to fighting on the north of the Peking legations’ perimeter.

  They were stopped by one sentry, however, who was beginning to engage in a conversation with Chang when Simon interrupted, curtly gesturing them forward with an air of command that only an ex-British public schoolboy could call upon. They rode on and halted at the edge of a sad little thicket.

  Before them loomed the huge, high walls of the arsenal, looking impregnable in the early-morning light. Stone outbuildings skirted the foot of the walls and these were manned by the defenders, who were directing a desultory fire at a line of hastily dug trenches some thirty yards away from the thicket and which curled down to the river. Smoke and cooking smells came from the trenches, as the Chinese soldiers prepared their breakfasts. The gap between the outbuildings and the trenches was some two hundred and fifty yards. The muzzles of light artillery pieces poked out from gaps in the line of outbuildings but Fonthill could see no artillery in place behind the Chinese lines. In any case, he mused, it would have taken very heavy guns to have made any impression in the walls of the arsenal.

  He drew a deep breath. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘no point in waiting. We will ride straight ahead towards that gap where the cannon is pointing out. Rifles slung behind us so that they don’t threaten. We ride at a stately canter, now, and backs very straight. We are elite Chinese cavalry.’

  ‘Even though we are Mussulmen who ’aven’t said their prayers this mornin’,’ muttered Jenkins through clenched teeth.

  They cantered out of the thicket, Fonthill in the lead, carrying his rifle high, with Jenkins’s vest fluttering at its muzzle. They took the narrow trench in a leap, startling the troops below them huddled around their braziers, and set off across no man’s land, in stately fashion as though they were leading the trooping of Her Majesty’s colour in Whitehall, London.

  Two bullets hissed by Fonthill’s head from the direction of the British
lines. He immediately removed his cap, coiled the reins around the thumb of his left hand and held it palm extended towards the British, in the universal sign of peace, and raised his ‘flag’ even higher. He heard someone bark a command from the outbuildings and the firing ceased.

  They continued to ride in an eerie silence, for all firing had ceased along the lines. It was as though both sides were watching a tableau being staged for their entertainment.

  When the trio had reached about sixty yards from the outbuildings, close enough to see the faces of the British soldiers, a Chinese voice rang out sharply.

  ‘They say, come no further,’ shouted Chang.

  Fonthill rose in the stirrups. ‘I am an English officer,’ he cried. ‘My name is Fonthill. I have come from Peking with a message for your commander from Sir Claude MacDonald, the British minister in the capital. We have ridden through the Chinese lines in disguise.’

  Silence fell. Then a voice displaying authority came from behind the cannon: ‘If you are an English officer, state your rank and regiment.’

  Fonthill muttered a curse and then responded loudly: ‘I was commissioned in the 24th Regiment of Foot in 1876. I fought at Rorke’s Drift and Isandlwana and I am a Commander of the Bath. If we are left sitting out here much longer presenting three fine targets to the enemy I shall make bloody sure that you are cashiered. Now, let us in. Quickly.’

  There was another silence and then the voice – this time carrying an edge – ordered: ‘Very well. But ride in slowly and do not touch your rifles or your packs.’

  Thankfully, Simon kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks and the three of them walked forward to the gap in the line. Just before they reached it, a shout rang out from the Chinese lines and a ragged volley sent bullets singing past their ears. With alacrity, they urged their steeds forward and sprang through the gaps on either side of the cannon.

  Hurriedly dismounting, Simon faced a ring of rifles and a haggard-faced young subaltern, who looked at him with some unease.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, cheerfully, extending his hand. ‘Simon Fonthill. Sorry to have seemed rude but I was expecting a bullet up the arse at any minute.’

  The young man shook hands, still a little warily, and then waved down the rifles. ‘Good morning … er … sir. I’m afraid you took us all rather by surprise.’

  ‘Yes. Had no time or the wherewithal to send you a letter. Ran out of stamps. Now, who is in command here?’

  ‘Admiral Seymour.’

  ‘Admiral?’

  ‘Yes. We are the relief mission that set out to relieve Peking. The lieutenant took out a tattered handkerchief and ran it across his brow. ‘I’m afraid we’ve had rather a rough time. We’ve had to fight every inch of the way back from Langfang …’

  ‘Langfang!’ Fonthill’s jaw dropped. ‘But that’s only about thirty miles from Peking. You got so near.’

  The young man smiled ruefully. ‘Yes, we all know that. But I think you had better see the admiral, if you say you have a message for him.’

  ‘Yes please, right away. Oh – I wonder if it would be possible to rustle up some breakfast for my two companions? May I introduce 352 Jenkins and Chang Griffith. I wouldn’t have been able to move an inch without them.’

  The lieutenant shook their hands – just a little uncertainly in the case of Chang – and gave quick orders to a sergeant. Then he walked with Simon back through a small post door set in the giant gate in the walls of the arsenal. They climbed a stone stairway and then Fonthill was kept waiting outside a semi-open door while a conversation took place within. Then he was ushered into a grand room, which, situated at the heart of the stone fortress, was blessedly cool. At the far end stood a tall, thin, bearded man, dressed in what was once the white ducks of an admiral of the British navy. Now they were creased, dirty and still covered in dust.

  Seymour advance to meet Fonthill and held out his hand. His face was drawn beneath the beard and his eyes tired. ‘Fonthill?’ he asked. ‘Are you the Fonthill of Khartoum and Matebeleland?’

  Simon nodded and then grinned. ‘I suppose I am, Admiral, though for the last two days, as you see, I have been a Kansu soldier.’

  The grin was returned. ‘So I see. No wonder we wouldn’t let you into the lines. Congratulations on your disguise. We’ve been fighting Kansus for days and they and their general, Tung Fu-hsiang,’ he pronounced it perfectly, ‘have been giving us hell.’

  ‘Really? I thought the Kansus and their general have been restricted to the siege at Peking.’

  ‘Certainly not. They’re down here in force. Now please don’t tell me – please don’t tell me – that you have come to announce that Peking has fallen?’

  ‘No, sir. At least not when I left two days ago.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘No. But I have come to urge you to make all haste to relieve the legations. They are holding out, but only just, and I don’t know how much longer they can defend the Legation Quarter. Can you turn around and march on Peking? You could be there in a few days.’

  ‘My dear fellow, do sit down.’ The admiral gestured to a chair and took the one opposite. ‘Fonthill,’ he spoke wearily and with heavy emphasis. ‘There is no question of that. We can’t relieve anyone. It is we who need relieving. You see, we ourselves are besieged here. And, from what I can hear, so are our people in Tientsin. I fear that, at the moment, we are losing this damned war with the Dragon Lady.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Simon Fonthill stared blankly at the admiral. ‘But,’ he said, ‘we were told that you had set out with two thousand men.’

  ‘So I did.’ Seymour’s face was expressionless but his eyes were those of a man who realised that his career had come to an end. ‘Because of the need for haste, we decided that the railway was the obvious and quickest way to advance – after all, Peking was only some eighty miles away and we were being faced not by a regular army but just a bunch of peasant rebels. Well,’ he smiled sadly, ‘it wasn’t quite like that, I’m afraid.

  ‘Of course, we were strung out along the line in a succession of trains and we had to keep repairing the line ahead to remedy the damage done by the Chinese, so our progress was painfully slow. The Boxers first attacked us on the third day. They came on at our lead trains just a touch north of Langfang.’ The admiral’s voice was soft and low, as though he were telling a fairy story to a child, but Fonthill could sense the agony behind the words. ‘They attacked us with supreme courage, although they were only armed with swords and spears. We brought down about sixty of them and they retreated but then they came on again, making it impossible for our chaps to get out to repair the line. In these subsequent attacks there were more of them and better armed.

  ‘We began to run low on ammunition and water and it was damned hot. You see, as we had advanced, we had been forced to garrison every station we passed to prevent the enemy tearing up the line behind us. We were on half rations and stretched out like a thin piece of string …’ Seymour suddenly shook his head. ‘I am forgetting my manners. You would like some tea, of course?’

  ‘That would be kind, sir. But what about your supplies?’

  The admiral waved his hand. ‘That is the good news. We have found that this place is stacked with weapons, ammunition, medical supplies, fifteen tons of rice and a seemingly endless supply of tea. All left by the Chinese when we shooed them off.’ He shouted and a bluejacket appeared. ‘A pot of tea for two, please, Jackson. Now, where was I?’

  ‘You were stretched out like a piece of string.’

  ‘Yes, so we were. Then the Chinese destroyed the bridge at Yangtsun and we were cut off from our supply trains, which had to retreat back to Tientsin. We thought long and hard about pushing on to Peking overland but there was no major road, we had no transport and a growing number of wounded to care for. We decided to fall back on Yangtsun, commandeer junks for our wounded and supplies, and advance up the river to the capital. But there the German force we had left as a garrison was at
tacked by about four thousand of the enemy and their train was pursued for some miles as it retreated back to Tientsin, from which we could now hear gunfire.’

  Wearily, Seymour rose and poured tea. ‘The important point here, however,’ he continued, ‘is that the force attacking the Germans were not Boxers but well-led contingents of the Imperial army. In other words, this rebellion was now being backed by the Chinese army, presumably on the orders of the Empress. So it was no longer a rebellion, it was war.’ He sighed. ‘This meant that it was impossible for us to continue towards Peking, with our wounded and cut off, as we were, from our supplies. So we took four junks and turned back for Tientsin. We have had to fight every inch of the way, deploying men at every village to take them at bayonet point and often pulling the junks containing our guns and wounded off the shoals as they grounded. We were under attack all the time. Then, suddenly, looming up out of the dusk we came upon this place, of which we had no knowledge at all. We mounted a night attack and, although it was fiercely defended, we managed to break through and send the garrison packing.’

  Fonthill nodded, not quite knowing what to say, for his thoughts were beginning to turn to Alice and the beleagured defenders at Peking. But the admiral was not finished.

  ‘Our pursuers, of course, closed in all around us, cutting us off. Here, we are only about six miles from the foreign settlements at Tientsin and we can hear gunfire from there, so they are clearly under siege. But we have not been able to make contact with them, of course. You see, Fonthill,’ Seymour leant forward, ‘we are dead beat. Of what was left of my small force when we were cut off north of Yangtsun, we have lost sixty-two dead and two hundred and thirty-two wounded. We have successfully fought off a series of counter-attacks but we are simply not strong enough to break out.’

  He sat back. ‘There. That’s our story. Every step of the way I have thought about our people in Peking and, since turning back, I have half expected to hear that they have been overwhelmed.’ He smiled wanly. ‘You can imagine the frustration and even the feeling of guilt. So please tell me how things were when you left and also how you were able to get through the lines.’