by John Wilcox
The sapper ignored him. ‘These sticks,’ he continued, ‘are made of three parts nitroglycerine and one part diatomaceous earth, or fossilised microscopic algae, with a small addition of sodium carbonate. The point about the earth is that it makes the nitroglycerine less shock sensitive, but the sticks are still extremely volatile and have to be handled with great care. For God’s sake don’t drop ’em on the way, otherwise the sticks will be completely wasted – and they are hugely expensive, don’t you know.’
Fonthill glared at Jenkins to prevent him from uttering the sarcastic put-down that was on his lips and asked instead: ‘From what I can see of these gates, they are extremely thick and about twelve feet high. Will this stuff do the job?’
‘Oh yes. Knock ’em down easily. Look. They should be detonated by using these two blasting caps fired by two long fuses, creating small explosions, triggering the larger ones.’
‘Where exactly should we put the sticks?’
‘Well, ideally, one group at the bottom and one about halfway up. But I don’t suppose you will be able to knock nails in the gate, will you?’
‘Doubt it.’
‘Put them at the bottom, then, where the two gates meet. Any questions?’
‘How long do we have after lighting the fuses?’
‘Say thirty to forty seconds. Ensure they don’t fizzle out, mind.’
‘Oh we will. We will. Thank you, Major.’
‘Right.’ The brigadier turned back to Fonthill and Jenkins. ‘I reckon you’ve got about an hour between now and when the moon comes up. Is there anything I can do for you before you go?’
‘No, thank you. Just make sure that the Welshmen come in at the run when the balloon goes up. We don’t want to give the Chinese time to shore up the gate again.’
‘Of course. Forgive me now if I go and arrange things. Thank you both, and good luck.’
Fonthill gingerly deposited the dynamite in a small hessian sack and they both walked to where the men of the Welch Regiment were resting.
‘Now, let me get this clear,’ said Jenkins. ‘When it gets really dark we just saunter up this causeway thing, steppin’ over the bodies that are litterin’ the place, like, an’ we just pop this dynamite stuff at the bottom of the gates, ring the bell an’ run away. Is that it?’
‘Roughly right, old chap. I realise I’ve rather landed you in on this one, and I shall quite understand if you feel it’s rather asking too much.’
‘No, bach sir, thank you very much. I’m supposed to be lookin’ after you on this postin’, ’cos I promised Miss Alice, so I’ll be goin’ with you. I’ll come just to make sure you don’t drop the stuff and make that bloody little major shit ’is breeches about the cost of it an’ all.’
‘Don’t be disrespectful about the major. He holds the Queen’s Commission. Right. We’ll take our rifles because we don’t want to be left unarmed when the gates go down. But we’ll sling ’em over our backs. Try and find us a pair of plimsolls, if you can in the time we have left. We want to move quietly – and run fast, if we have to. Off you go.’
Simon sat down and looked ahead of him. In the gathering dusk the walls of the Chinese City loomed high and impenetrable. Would the Chinese have a searchlight? They would be in trouble if they did. On reflection – and he gave a wry grin – they would probably be in trouble even if they didn’t. This was a ridiculous enterprise. Everything depended upon the defenders relaxing their vigilance, having given the Japanese and the Americans a good hiding and despatching them, or so it seemed, back to the settlements; that and their attention being diverted by the faux attack on the North Gate.
Then he and Jenkins must get enough cover in the darkness to steal up to the South Gate, literally under the noses of the guards on the walls. Ah well. It seemed the only way to persuade these stuffy old armchair generals in the settlements to stir themselves for the real battle – in Peking. He thought again of Alice. He had no illusions. If the Chinese did break through to the legations, then she would stand little chance, despite the protection offered by Sir Claude. He offered up a quick prayer for her safety and then settled back to wait for Jenkins, his mouth dry, despite the heat and humidity.
The Welshman arrived, well within the hour, bringing two bayonets in scabbards, and two pairs of unlaced canvas running shoes. ‘Didn’t know about your size. Bigger than mine, I thought, ’cos I’ve got dainty little feet. ’Ere, try them on.’
‘Oh, they’ll do. Now. We will begin walking along the causeway at first, then, when we get nearer, I’m afraid we shall have to take to the marsh on the side of the road. The long grasses there should provide us with a bit of cover. Once we hear the sound of the diversion from the French and Russian lines, we will edge nearer and then make a run for it along the causeway. Keep the bayonets sheathed in case they flash a reflection when the moon comes up.’
‘Matches?’ enquired Jenkins.
Fonthill threw back his head. ‘Oh, blast and damn!’
The grinning Welshman held up two boxes. ‘Oh, dearie me. I ’ave to think of everythin’.’
Simon thumped him in the chest, pocketed one of the boxes, shouldered the hessian bag to hang down his back the other side to his slung rifle, then offered his hand to Jenkins. ‘Good luck, old friend,’ he said.
‘Good luck, bach sir.’
Together, they began their walk in the darkness. The sun to the west had not long before slipped over the horizon, leaving a slight glow in the sky. But the moon had not yet risen and they made good time on the paved way, while they could. Then, to the north they heard the crackle of musketry and distant shouting.
Fonthill kept his eyes on the black walls ahead of him, dreading the sudden brilliance of a searchlight cracking open the darkness. They were now, he estimated, about a quarter of a mile from the gate.
‘Time to get off the causeway,’ he hissed to Jenkins. Immediately, their progress slowed as, shoulders bowed, they trudged through spongy grass and mud and then picked their way delicately through the shallow waters of the irrigation channels, stopping occasionally to freeze and listen to ensure that the Chinese had not sent out picquets to prevent just such a surprise attack. It took them more than an hour to cover most of that quarter of a mile and they were within the shadow cast by the city walls as the moon rose behind them.
The two men crouched together while Fonthill gave Jenkins his five sticks of dynamite. ‘When I give the order,’ he whispered, ‘you run up to the right-hand side of the gate, and flatten yourself to the wall. I will do the same on the other side. When I nod, crawl up to the gate, put the dynamite as close to the door as you can, where it meets the other door. I will do the same. Trail out the fuse your way, the way you came, and I’ll do the same. When I nod, light it.’
‘What do we do then? Run like hell back down the road?’
‘Absolutely not. It would be easy to pick us off, if they’ve got their wits about them. No. We flatten on the ground, as near to the wall and as far away from the bloody gates as possible. Hands over heads and just hope that the damned walls don’t fall down on top of us.’
‘Very good, bach sir.’
Simon took a deep breath. He could see no sign of movement on the battlements. ‘Right. Off we go and good luck.’
The two men regained the causeway and, bent double, they ran towards the massive gate looming before them. Out in the open and feeling completely exposed, Fonthill realised that they were demanding a lot from Dame Fortune, if they were to reach the wall without being seen. And so it proved.
He heard a cry from up above him and then the sharp crack of a rifle. The bullet hit the paved road and pinged away, but by the time the second bullet was released, he was up against the wall, safely underneath a large stone overhang that ran all the way along, just beneath the embrasures, so preventing anyone manning the top from firing down vertically. ‘Are you there, 352?’ he called.
‘I’m ’ere. To the gates now?’
‘Fast as you can.’
The two men ran and met at the foot of the huge pair of gates. Simon placed his bundle of deadly sticks, almost touching those of Jenkins. Behind the door, the two men could hear voices shouting and the sound of running feet. Fonthill looked up and saw that there was a small post gate, set into the massive door. He unslung his rifle.
‘Light your fuse and run,’ he shouted.
‘’Ere. What are you goin’ to do?’
‘Never mind. Light the bloody thing.’
Throwing his rifle on the ground, Simon fumbled with a match, struck it, lit the fuse and then ran back, unwinding the fuse as it fizzed and crackled. Then he doubled back, picked up his rifle, just in time to see the post gate open. Firing from the hip, he brought down the first man to run through the gate, worked the breech bolt, fired into the open doorway, then ran back alongside the wall, hurling himself to the ground as the night exploded with a mighty boom and a thousand flashing lights that penetrated through his spread fingers. Debris, some of it blazing, rained down on him, for he had not made the comparative sanctity of the base of the wall. Then there was a great crash as the two doors forming the gate crumpled outward, shaking the ground where he lay. He became aware of a burning sensation across his leg and kicked away at a flaming ember that lay across it. His ears were singing but he could hear a faint cheer coming from far, far away, as he lapsed into unconsciousness.
He came to to find himself lying half in an irrigation channel close to the wall. Jenkins was splashing water onto his face.
‘Are you all right, bach? Ah, thank God. I thought you’d gone for a minute. You were half on fire when I got to you.’
Fonthill raised his head and realised that heavy boots were pounding up along the causeway by his head as the Welch Regiment ran towards the open gateway. Cheering came from their rear but there was firing from within the city.
‘Ah, thanks, 352,’ he said. ‘I feel a bit warm and my head’s singing, but I think the fire’s out. Are you all right?’
‘Right as ninepence. Blimey, but you were barmy to go back to fire into that doorway. Bloody barmy, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so. You almost went up with the gates.’
Simon sat up and shook his head but the singing in his ears continued. ‘Had to do that,’ he shouted. ‘Otherwise those fellers would have been through and been able to stamp out the fuses. I should have realised that there would be a post gate. Must be losing my touch. Here, help me up. I’m all right now.’
Together the two men stood, swaying slightly as the British infantrymen charged by them, their rifles and bayonets at the ready.
From within the city the firing was now muted, although screams could be heard.
Jenkins sniffed. ‘I don’t think there’s much quarter bein’ given by them Taffies,’ he said, ‘after bein’ cooped up for so long in them settlements. An’ they’ve ’eard what them Boxers ’ave done to the missionaries an’ their families. They’ll be goin’ in with the bayonets, all right.’
‘Let’s get back,’ said Fonthill. ‘I don’t think I’ll be much good charging in there with them. My head is still singing.’
Together, the two comrades walked through the advancing troops – the French were moving in now, behind the Welch Regiment – along the causeway and back to the settlements, where Jenkins found a doctor to examine Fonthill. His face was blackened and what was left of his Customs uniform singed and burnt, but he was found to have sustained only superficial burns and was put to bed with a soothing pill.
The next morning, he was visited by Dorward, who gingerly shook his bandaged hand. ‘Congratulations, my dear fellow,’ he said. ‘You did a wonderful job. We stormed into the city and took it within the hour. Both the Chinese Imperial troops and the Boxers fled, streaming through the East and West Gates, those that weren’t bayoneted. I fear that there was quite a bit of looting, but that can’t always be helped in these conditions. Anyway, everyone here is very grateful to you.’
Fonthill waved his bandaged hand. ‘Glad it worked, Brigadier. I thought for a terrible minute that we had blown it – no pun intended, you know.’
‘No. The gates caved in beautifully and my sapper chap is going around saying it’s all his work.’ He grinned. ‘And there’s more good news.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Lieutenant General Sir Alfred Gaselee has arrived from the coast with God knows how many troops.’
Fonthill’s eyes lit up and he pushed himself into a half-sitting position. ‘Ah, that’s the best news I’ve heard. Now, when do you think we could put together a column and march to the north, eh?’
Dorward frowned. ‘Oh, my dear fellow, not for some time yet. We have got to occupy the city and sort things out here first. Can’t leave the settlements denuded. It may take some weeks yet, I fear.’
Fonthill groaned and sank his head back onto the pillow.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alice Fonthill dressed for that evening meeting with Gerald Griffith with as much care as she had displayed for that ‘chance’ meeting earlier in the day. No cosmetics this time, however. Despite the heat, which never slackened until long after the sun had gone down, she wore riding breeches, her long boots, a soiled cotton shirt, a bandana round her waist and her hair tied back severely with a scarf. From a box under her bed she retrieved the small French automatic pistol and six cartridges, which she inserted into the magazine. Then she tucked the gun into her bandana and sat on the bed, deep in thought.
What exactly was she hoping that this meeting with Gerald and his friends would reveal? Well, the first priority was to try and learn something about the whereabouts of Simon, Jenkins and Chang. She frowned. It was, of course, preposterous to think that the trio might be dead. Simon’s whole life had consisted of getting into scrapes and getting out of them again. It was inconceivable to think that his time had come at last; he had so much … so much … life left in him. And there was 352 Jenkins with him, the Great Protector. She allowed herself a smile. No. Even if they told her that Simon was dead, then they would have to provide proof before she believed them.
Alice had to admit that the original, underlying reason why she had agreed to this assignation was to probe beneath that cool, self-satisfied demeanour of her cousin. She had learnt much already this afternoon, but the key question of whether he was an active spy, working within the Quarter for the Chinese, remained unanswered. And, if it proved that he was relaying vital information to the Manchu court, what would she do about it? She tossed her head. She would hand him over to Sir Claude, without compunction. Anyone who betrayed the defenders in their sad predicament deserved to be shot – or placed in prison. The punishment would be the minister’s decision.
But what about her aunt? She had lost her husband, was she now about to lose her son – and possibly her adopted son also?
Alice put her head in her hand. Despite her great inner strength, that would surely be too much for the little widow to bear. And yet – she looked up and stared unseeingly at the wall of the room – what if Gerald had deliberately told the Chinese of Simon’s mission and what if this had led to his death? She thought for a moment and then stood. It was now quite dark outside and time to go. She would face all of these questions later, if she had to.
Gerald was waiting for her, crouched by the side of the hospital from the interior of which came faint groans.
‘You are late, cousin,’ he said.
‘I am sorry. I had things to do.’
He stood before her and seized both her hands. ‘Now Alice, will you promise that you will tell no one of where we go tonight and of what you learn?’
She thought quickly, for she had already been forced to give one promise and she did not wish to compound the lie. ‘Oh, come now, Gerald. You are making all this sound as though we are about to embark on a sequence from the Arabian Nights. You are fantasising. Or are you engaged in some enterprise which will make your mother and I ashamed of you?’
The ploy worked, for Gerald coloured and avoided her eye.
‘Well,’ he muttered, ‘these are dangerous times, cousin, and the wrong word here or there could get us all into trouble.’
‘Let us get on with it, then.’ She disengaged her hands. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘You will soon see. Follow me.’
They walked through to the entrance of the British Legation. The sentry there, who was used to her coming to and fro during the day, looked concerned. ‘Don’t go far, Mrs … er … The snipers still shoot at night, you know.’
‘Just going for a little walk with my cousin, Corporal. We will be careful.’
They made their way down by the canal, past the Russian Legation, picked their way between the rubble in Legation Street and crossed to where the American Legation still stood, proudly forming the southernmost point of the defences, just underneath the Tartar Wall at the section of the wall still defended on the top by the Americans and Germans. Here Gerald turned left, crossing the little bridge over the canal, to a point just past the sluice gates in the wall. There, he put his finger to his lips, pulled back some large pieces of stone and beckoned her towards him.
‘Climb over,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t make a noise or we could be shot at by the Chinese on the wall above.’
On hands and knees, Alice scrambled over the stones to find a low opening in the great wall. A drainage pipe emerged from the ground under her feet and ran forwards into the darkness of the tunnel. She realised that it was what was left of some kind of service tunnel, only about four feet high, and running ahead into complete darkness. She waited nervously while Gerald replaced the stones, leaving them so that a chink of light shone through. He seized her hand.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Just keep stepping either side of the pipe. It’s quite level. I’ll go first. Keep holding my hand.’
She did so, until he paused and fumbled in the dark. With a creak, a small, wooden door opened and Alice realised that she was standing in the street on the other side of the Tartar Wall. She withdrew in consternation, for she was now outside the perimeter of the defences. But Gerald pulled her forward and they crossed the street to a house opposite, whose door stood slightly ajar.
