by John Wilcox
‘Now you listen, cousin. The Chinese, the true Chinese, like Tung Fu-hsiang, are right to fight the Foreign Powers, who just want to partition China between them. And they will win, I promise you that. And the first card to fall in the line of dominoes will be this artificial piece of foreign territory, the Legation Quarter. You will see.’
He finished, gasping for breath and holding a handkerchief to his bloodied nose.
Alice nodded. ‘Now, at last, Gerald, we know where we both stand. Listen hard. I will give you half an hour – no more – to pack some belongings and to tell your mother what you intend to do. I don’t care what you tell her, but don’t you dare make her worry on your behalf. She will hear nothing from me about tonight. You will have just thirty minutes to do that and then scramble back down this rathole to join your Chinese friends, before they wall it up. Then I shall wake Sir Claude and tell him everything that has happened tonight. So you will leave the Legation Quarter and you will not return until this siege is ended, if you value your life.’ She turned to go and then turned back. ‘And if you try to stop me now, I promise I will kill you. To repeat, I know how to do it.’
She scrambled back towards the shafts of light, half-fearing a sudden attack on her. She had never killed a man with her bare hands – although she had fought a few off – and she had not the faintest idea how to do it. But no attack came and she was able to reach the stones, pull them back and climb through. Then she broke into a run towards the British Legation, startling the guard on her arrival.
CHAPTER TWELVE
If the news brought to Fonthill that it could take some weeks yet before the relief expedition could be mounted was bad, that which was brought by Jenkins shortly after Dorward’s departure was even worse.
The Welshman sat on the edge of the camp stool by Simon’s bed and waved the flies away. ‘I don’t know ’ow exactly to say this to you, bach sir,’ he said.
Fonthill frowned. ‘You can’t find a decent pair of trousers for me?’
‘No, no. It’s not that. It’s just, well, I can’t find old Changy anywhere.’
‘What do you mean, you can’t find him? Where the hell did you leave him?’
‘Well, we both left ’im, so to speak, when you told ’im ’e couldn’t come along with our bit of gate blowin’. ’E was really fed up with that, you may remember, an’ went off in a bit of a sulk. I ’aven’t seen ’im since.’
Simon elbowed himself to a sitting position. ‘I wondered why he hadn’t been to see me. I thought he was just miserable with me for not letting him join in the attack. Have you asked around?’
‘Course I ’ave. Though goin’ around this place sayin’ “Excuse me but ’ave you seen a Chinaman?” is a bit of a waste of time.’
‘Hmm. So he’s been missing since last night?’
‘About that.’
‘Have you made enquiries with the Royal Welch?’
‘No. They’re still in the Chinese City, probably enjoyin’ a bit of rape an’ pillagin’ an’ that.’
Simon thought for a moment. ‘It is not like him to go off and sulk. I can only think that he would have watched us go and waited with the Royal Welch and then charged with them when we set off the fireworks. He’s excitable enough to have been caught up in the glory of the charge and all that. He would have not seen us in that ditch and probably charged straight past us and gone off with the Taffies into the city.’
‘Yes, but, where would ’e be now? ’E’s only a lad, look you, an’ wouldn’t ’ave got caught up in the roisterin’ stuff inside.’
‘I agree. Here’s what you do, 352.’ Simon began scribbling a note. ‘Take this to the CO of the Welch Regiment – I think he’s Colonel Davies. I only met him briefly but he owes us one for opening the door for him into the city. He’ll probably get a DSO for that, if he hasn’t blotted his copybook by letting his lads loose on the civilian population. This explains what you’re after. The NCOs might help. After all, Chang wasn’t just another anonymous Chinaman – he was strangely dressed as a customs officer and there were no Chinese charging with the Welsh. Someone might have seen him. Report back to me here as soon as you can. I’m getting out of this bed.’
‘No, no. You stay there. It’s too early for you to get up yet. Leave this to me.’
‘Very well. Off you go.’
As soon as Jenkins was out of sight, Fonthill pushed back the bed sheets and swung his legs to the floor. He had sustained burns to his right ankle and calf, as well as his hands, but he could stand and, best of all, the ringing in his ears had stopped and his head seemed clear.
A Chinese orderly bustled over. ‘No go yet, sir,’ he said.
‘I have General Dorward’s permission,’ he lied. ‘Now,’ he fumbled in the little drawer in the bamboo table at his bedside. He produced a handful of Chinese coins. ‘Can you do something for me?’
‘Ah, yes, sir.’
‘Good. I want some Chinese clothes. Ordinary clothes used by Chinese workmen. Something that will fit me and the man who has just left. And we shall need two coolie hats. If you can do that, I will double this. Bring them to me at my billet, at this number, as soon as possible.’
The orderly’s face broke into a big grin. He bowed over Simon’s hand and took the money. ‘Can do that, very good, sir. Bring to you quickly.’
‘Good.’
Still in his tattered underwear, Fonthill walked out of the makeshift hospital to the billet which he, Jenkins and Chang had been allocated on arrival. It was little more than a wooden shed with three bunks, but it was private and suited Simon’s purpose well. There he found his and Jenkins’s rifles but Chang’s was missing.
Simon sat on his bunk and tried to think logically. There was no way that Chang would have run away, he would consider that to be deserting his post. He was as keen as mustard and now regarded himself as a soldier. In addition, after their capture by the Kansus and the rough treatment they had received from them, he had become their sworn enemy. Nor would he have wandered off disgruntled. One of the endearing qualities of Chang, he reflected, was his lightness of spirit and his ability to take hard knocks, both literally and metaphorically. No, it made sense that he would come after his two comrades to join in the battle in the city. And then … and then what? He shook his head. There was no way that he could shrug his shoulders and write off the loss of Chang as just another casualty in the Boxer uprising. He could never face Mrs Griffith – or Alice, for that matter. The boy had to be found. But where the hell to look?
Jenkins brought some news, at least. Colonel Davies had, indeed, been helpful and one of the corporals vividly remembered Chang, in his navy-blue jacket, charging by his side as the Royal Welch swept into the city. At first, they had met strong resistance from the Kansus and there had been fierce fighting, street by street, until the Muslims seemed suddenly to disappear, as they fled the city through the gates not under attack.
‘Yes, but what about Chang?’
‘You know, bach sir, you shouldn’t be up. The surgeon major would cripple me if he felt I had encouraged you.’
‘Bugger the surgeon major. What about Chang?’
‘I was comin’ to that, if you ’ad just a touch of patience. Now, the corporal – nice chap, from Rhyl, see, in the north of Wales, just like me—’
‘For God’s sake get on with it.’
‘Well, ’e saw one of the bullets fired by the Chinks ’it the wall just above where old Changy was kneelin’ an’ firin’, see. This bullet knocked a chunk off the wall and it fell an’ seemed to knock poor old Changy out.’
‘What do you mean, “seemed to”? Did it or didn’t it?’
‘Well, I wasn’t there, was I, so I can’t vouch for it. But the corporal said that Changy fell and lay still. ’E couldn’t stay to ’elp ’im, because the Chinks counter-attacked an’ they ’ad to retreat. When they fought their way back, Changy ’ad gone. That’s all ’e could say.’
Fonthill pulled at a stray piece of bandage on his left hand
with his teeth and then tucked it back in. ‘Does he remember where it was?’
‘Oh yes. ’E took me there. In a cobbled street just outside an ’ouse.’
‘I don’t suppose for a moment that you could find your way back there, could you?’
Jenkins looked indignant. ‘Course I could. I marked it well.’
‘Good. We’ll go there tonight.’
‘’Ang on. You should be back in bed.’
‘Balls. We’ll go as soon as some clothes I’ve ordered arrive.’
‘Brand-new suits, is it?’ Jenkins grinned and looked down at his once-smart customs uniform, now burnt in patches and covered in dust.
‘Not quite. I have a feeling that we are going to have to go out into the country again. And we go as Chinamen.’
‘Oh bloody ’ell. Not in the river again …’
‘We’ll go where we have to. But we must find Chang.’
‘Ah, amen to that, bach sir. ’E’s a good lad.’ But the Welshman’s face darkened and he sucked in his moustache under his lower lip. ‘Trouble is, as I’ve pointed out, this place is full of millions of Chinamen, ’cos it’s their country, isn’t it? It’s goin’ to be like lookin’ for a bloody needle in an ’aystack. I mean, where do we start?’
‘We start at the house where he fell, if you can find your way to it, which I truly doubt. But we are going to need an interpreter.’
The orderly arrived, the broad grin still in place, carrying two parcels. They were unwrapped and revealed two virtually identical garments: loose, pyjama-like trousers, pulled in at the ankles, high-button shirts and shapeless, cotton working overalls. Sandals and conical coolie straw hats completed the outfits, neither of which was too clean. But they fitted, more or less.
The orderly was suitably rewarded and Simon pulled him to one side. ‘Are you in the British army?’ he asked. ‘Can you get away from the hospital for a few days? You will be well paid.’
The man’s eyes lit up. ‘I not a soldier,’ he said. ‘Work for English lady in settlements. She gone to Taku. I can leave hospital and work for you. Where we go?’
‘Into the Chinese City to start with. Then we shall see. What’s your name?’
‘Lady calls me Sam.’
‘Very good, Sam. Here, help me into these clothes.’
By the time Sam had finished with them, Jenkins and Fonthill looked exactly like a pair of Chinese coolies, quite nondescript in their earth-coloured, none-too-clean overalls. The fact that they didn’t fit was of no matter. Sartorial elegance was not desired. By keeping their heads down under their cone-shaped hats, their comparatively long, Occidental faces, with their prominent noses and strong chins, could not be seen. At first glance, they looked exactly like the thousands of anonymous figures who peopled the settlements and the city.
‘Do we take the rifles, bach sir?’
Fonthill sighed. ‘I’d like to, but coolies don’t carry British army issue rifles. Here, how well do you know the quartermaster?’
‘Played cards with ’im last week. ’E won.’
‘Good. Hand me that pad. Now …’ He scribbled a note, signing it ‘S. Fonthill, Major, General Gaselee’s staff’, and handed it to Jenkins. ‘Tell him we are off upcountry on an intelligence mission. That will explain your garb. I want him to accept our rifles in temporary exchange for two Webley service revolvers, officers for the use of. It might work and we’d be better off with something we can tuck out of sight. Don’t be all day.’
Simon set about unwinding his bandages and, with Sam’s help, cut them down to a less unwieldy size. Jenkins returned within the hour, discreetly carrying two Mark 4 revolvers and a box of .455 cartridges. Then the three set off for Tientsin City.
A smell of cordite and smoking timber hung over the South Gate and the city itself seemed subdued, after the excesses of the night before. The streets were patrolled by a mixture of Russian, German and British soldiers but Simon and his two companions merged easily into the indigenous Chinese who walked by, going about their business, albeit with their heads down and eyes averted from those of the soldiers.
The trio halted just inside the gate, confronted by a maze of narrow cobbled streets. ‘Which way?’ hissed Fonthill.
‘Ah. Just a minute. Bloody ’ell, these streets all look the same now.’
Simon looked up to the heavens. Jenkins, he knew, had an inbuilt inability to find his way from A to B, even if the route was marked by flaming torches. ‘Concentrate, man,’ he urged. ‘This is important. We haven’t got much time.’
‘I am concentratin’.’ Jenkins tipped back his hat and studied the streets that all opened onto the small square behind the gate. ‘Ah. This one,’ he said. ‘I recognise that funny sign there, tho’ God knows what it means. Yes, it’s up this ’ill, it’s an ’ouse on the left, just past an archway.’
They walked up the hill and it was clear that the street had recently been the scene of heavy fighting. Bullets had scarred the stone of the buildings and tiles were hanging over gutterings. Dark patches of dried blood showed where men had fallen and Simon was glad he had missed this part of the battle, for there was practically no shelter to be had in the terraced street, hardly a doorway in which to escape the bullets.
Jenkins stopped with confidence outside a one-storey house, roofed with the distinctive Chinese terracotta wavy tiles. He pointed to where a sizeable piece of stone had been taken from the wall. ‘Accordin’ to that Taffy corporal, this is where old Changy was knocked down, obviously by this stone, ’ere.’
Simon scrutinised the cobbles underneath and, indeed, there was a distinctive bloodstain. He nodded and turned to Sam. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘knock on the door of this house and ask them if they know anything about a young Chinaman who was knocked down just here during the fighting last night. He was wearing a blue coat and carrying a rifle. And he was fighting for the British. Tell them there is a reward for information – but only if it is correct. Do you understand, Sam?’
‘Understand well, sir. I talk to them.’
The door was not opened at first and when it was, after repeated knocking, it was pushed only slightly ajar. Then, when the occupant, a very old woman with tiny, bound feet, saw that it was a Chinaman and not a soldier knocking, she opened it wide. Fonthill and Jenkins kept their heads down while a conversation ensued.
Eventually, Sam turned to them with a satisfied smile. ‘Yes, she remember man falling and hitting door. They afraid to open but did so when firing stopped and Chinaman on his knees holding head … what you say?’
‘Bleeding?’ offered Simon. Sam nodded.
‘Young or old man?’
‘Very young. He asked to come inside and bathe head, but then Kansu soldiers come before he could go inside and take him away.’
‘Damn! Did she hear them say where they were going to take him?’
Sam turned and again questioned the woman, who had been following the exchange in a foreign language with frightened eyes.
‘She say she think them say take him to Peitsang, where soldiers have their … what you say …?’
‘Headquarters?’
‘That the word.’
‘Thank her and give her this.’ He handed over several coins. ‘Sam, how far is this Peitsang?’
‘It about ten mile north, along railway.’
‘Right. Let’s go there.’
Jenkins gave a frown so face-distorting that his great eyebrows nearly met his moustache. ‘’Ere, you know you should be in bed, and, look you, you won’t be able to walk that far with that burnt ankle, see. An’ ’ow are we goin’ to stroll through all these Kansu buggers? They’ll see we’re not Chinese and then we will be bloody well whipped if they get another chance.’
‘Don’t argue. Thank you, madam,’ and he gave the startled woman a most ceremonial bow. Then to Sam: ‘Which way?’
‘Through city and through North Gate. I take. Follow me.’
They set off, Fonthill hobbling slightly. Jenkins hissed, ‘What if we
get to this Pete Sang place? What do we do there? Surround it and attack from all quarters?’
‘Yes. Good idea. Save your breath for the walk. It’s going to take me some time at this rate.’
Sam knew his way through the Chinese City and they soon found themselves at the North Gate, a similarly impressive entrance at the opposite end of Tientsin. There were Russian guards at the gate but they paid no attention to three coolies shuffling past them, on their way to the parched kaoliang fields stretching away before them. Turning to his right, Sam led them to the railway track and the wide path at its side.
‘We follow track,’ he said. ‘Lead us to Peitsang.’
Fonthill had been concerned that, once out of the city, they would be met by dug-in entrenchments of the Imperial army, but it seemed clear that, following their defeat at Tientsin, the Chinese had decided to retreat further north. They would realise that the Foreign Powers’ next move would be to launch a column in some strength – not two thousand sailors this time, with officers in their white ducks, sitting in railway carriages – to the north-west to attack Peking. But Simon had no illusions. The Chinese army would stand and fight at some place – or places – along the way. Where would that be, he wondered? More to the point, was Chang still alive and, if so, how the hell would they be able to release him? As they trudged along, heads down under the burning sun, Simon recalled a maxim from his then newly opened officers’ training course at Sandhurst: ‘No time spent on reconnaissance is wasted.’ They would have to trust to their disguises to allow them to reconnoitre the place and then form a plan. A plan. Ah yes. A plan. He sighed. He would have to think calmly and rationally – and hope they had a lot of luck. But would Chang be alive? From what he had seen of the Kansu, it would be unlikely. He sighed inwardly and walked on.
