by John Wilcox
It took them nearly five hours to walk the ten miles to Peitsang and it was dark by the time they saw the name, written in Chinese letters of course, so Sam had to translate, on the side of the small station platform. They had followed the railway all along and had met only three people, peasants, like themselves. To their surprise, a locomotive was standing at the station, no carriages, just the engine.
Fonthill concluded that the line was still open back to Tientsin and engineers were working on the locomotive. Steam was hissing from behind the wheels but somehow it looked as though it was going nowhere, waiting, presumably, for trucks or carriages.
The town itself was little more than the rail stop and Fonthill felt uncomfortable walking through it in the semi-darkness, particularly as they passed several groups of Kansu soldiers. There was obviously a depot there for these men and he thanked their lucky stars that they would all be Muslim, otherwise they might well have been accosted by a drunken Kansu or two. But would they have Chang and, if so, where?
On the far side of the town they came upon a large field containing tents that seemed to have been hurriedly pitched. So irregular was the grouping of the tents that Simon felt sure it could not be a military camp – although they had passed nothing else that resembled one. Then he saw the rifles stacked, pyramid-style, along the rows. Two low wooden buildings stood on the periphery of the field.
‘This must be the Kansu headquarters for the region,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Jenkins, looking round carefully. ‘But if it is that, then the old general with the fancy initials cut into ’is back ain’t ’ere. ’E ’ad a damned great marquee of a tent, if you remember. There’s nothing like that ’ere.’
‘True. But one of those huts on the far side has got bars to its windows. And there’s a guard outside. Could be a jail.’
The field had no fence or other means of delineating the boundaries for the camp, except that there was a slightly larger tent on their edge of the field, outside of which two soldiers stood guard. The guard tent?
They walked by unhurriedly, without looking at the sentries, and went round a bend in the path. Simon beckoned to Sam.
‘Sam,’ he said, placing an arm on his shoulder. ‘I would like you to do something a little dangerous. Can you do it, do you think?’
‘If not too dangerous, sir.’ The young man looked nervous. ‘I not soldier, remember.’
‘Of course not. All I want you to do is to walk back to one of those sentries and ask him if they have captured a young Chinaman in a blue coat. Say you think he was in Tientsin. Say you come from the same village and his mother is worried about him. Do you think you could do that?’
‘Ah, that easy, sir. I don’t argue with guard, eh?’
‘No. Just walk up easily and ask if the man is in the camp. Just say you need to tell his mother.’
‘Very good. You wait here?’
‘Yes.’
The young man nodded and slowly walked away. Jenkins blew out his cheeks. ‘That’s takin’ a bit of risk, ain’t it, bach sir? What if they run in old Sam as well? Then we’ll be buggered and very far from ’ome, look you.’
Simon shrugged. ‘We just don’t have time to walk around half of China,’ he said. ‘If they feel Chang was important enough to arrest in Tientsin and bring back here – or wherever, for that matter – then I’m afraid they’re going to torture him to find out what he was up to. There he was, wearing a British customs office coat, fighting with the Brits, remember. So we really have no time to waste. We just must take a risk.’
Jenkins nodded. ‘Poor bugger. I hope he is in there and we can snaffle ’im, then.’
Fonthill’s heart lifted when Sam reappeared a few minutes later, beaming.
‘Yes, sir. Chinese man in blue coat taken here from Tientsin. In wooden hut.’ The smile disappeared. ‘They hit him, I think.’
‘Is he still alive?’
‘Ah yes. Wait for big officer to come tomorrow.’
Simon nodded. ‘Right. That means we get him out tonight.’
‘Blimey.’ Jenkins’s nose wrinkled. ‘’E’s on the edge of the bloody army. They’re camped all round ’im, with a guard with a rifle standing outside the door. ’Ow are we goin’ to do that, then?’
‘I will create a bit of a diversion and then we nip in and take him.’
‘What? Just like that?’
‘Yes, Just like that. We are miles from the front and they’ll all be resting from their exertions in the Chinese City and the march back. By the look of it, most of the troops here are sleeping in their tents. They will not be expecting an attack and certainly not an attempt to take their prisoner. But it is vital that what we have to do we do quietly and quickly. Now listen. This is the plan.
‘We are lucky in that the hut is on the edge of the encampment and that the guard tent for the camp is virtually on the other side of the field to the hut. We are also lucky that this wood seems to go to the edge of the field for two-thirds of the way round, so giving us cover when we get out with Chang. However, we are a bit unlucky that the entrance to the hut faces inwards, into the field, and that is where the guard stands, of course.’ He grinned. ‘That’s odds of two to one in our favour.’
‘Oh, bloody marvellous,’ said Jenkins. Sam was listening carefully, his mouth open in concentration.
Fonthill continued: ‘When we are in place on the edge of the wood, I will walk around to the guard and engage him in conversation.’
‘What,’ asked Jenkins, ‘in fluent Chinese?’
‘Of course. Now, while I have his attention, you creep up behind him, 352, and kill the bastard. Quietly – with your knife. It’s important, though, that you prop him up with some kind of stick – there’s plenty around in this wood – so that it appears as though he is still on guard. Got that?’
‘Oh yes. Kill him and stand him up. Very easy.’
‘Good. Then you, Sam … are you following all this?’
‘Hah. Think so, sir. But not a soldier, remember.’
Fonthill sighed. ‘No. We are not asking you to kill anyone. Then you, Sam, come inside with me. There will probably be a guard inside who will have the keys to where Chang is being kept. I will need you to interpret. We will threaten this man and take his keys and then … er … knock him out so that he cannot raise the alarm. Unlock Chang and escape through the woods.’
Jenkins nodded solemnly. ‘An’ then we all ’obble back to this Tiensingy place?’
Simon shook his head. ‘No, my ankle is killing me. I can’t march far. I suggest we go by train.’
A slow smile crept over Jenkins’s face. ‘Brilliant, bach sir. Bloody brilliant. I just ’ope we ’ave a bit of luck.’
Fonthill’s face was set hard. ‘So do I, old chap,’ he said. ‘So do I. We are going to need it. Come on. Let’s go.’
They slipped off into the wood, leaving the path behind them, treading carefully in the dry timber along the edge of the field, stopping only for Jenkins to pick up a long, sturdy stick, until they came to the dark outline of the second building, nearest to the wood. Fonthill held up a hand and they stayed listening quietly. Nothing could be heard.
Simon indicated with his hand. ‘I will walk around the hut this way,’ he whispered. ‘Give me fifteen seconds, 352, and then walk around the other side. With any luck the guard will have his back to you. I’m afraid it means stabbing him in the back, but it can’t be helped. You come with me, Sam, but wait out of sight behind the hut while I approach the guard. All right?’
‘Good luck, bach.’ The absence of the customary ‘sir’ betrayed Jenkins’s anxiety.
Fonthill took a deep breath and left the protection of the wood. He walked quietly round the hut and came upon the guard who was half-dozing, leaning against the door. ‘Excuse me,’ said Simon, his head down.
The guard immediately presented his rifle and grunted something.
‘Ah, sorry to trouble you, old chap,’ Simon spoke low but clearly. ‘Could you tell m
e the Greenwich Mean Time, please?’
The question had the effect of making the soldier half-turn to face Fonthill. ‘Huh?’ he grunted. It was the last word he spoke. Jenkins materialised behind him, put his left hand over the guard’s mouth and plunged his knife into his back, high up and slightly to the left of the vertebrae. He held it there as the man uttered a half-groan, dropped his rifle, which Fonthill caught, and began to slip to the ground as his knees buckled.
‘Quick, prop him up,’ hissed Simon.
Together they dragged the man to the wall. Fonthill caught a glimpse of Sam watching, his mouth open in horror, and then Jenkins had rammed the staff into the ground and put the other end under the collar of the guard, who swayed for a moment and then stayed perilously erect.
Fonthill propped the rifle against the figure and then drew his revolver. He waved it to Jenkins. ‘Open the door.’
The Welshman did so and the two of them sprang inside, to be followed seconds later by the wide-eyed Sam. One man, in Kansu uniform, was sitting at a desk, his head down on his folded arms, fast asleep. Behind him were two cells, separated from the office by vertical bars. One cell was empty. In the other, lying on the earthen floor, lay the familiar figure of Chang. A familiar, but now sad figure, for he lay hunched, in the foetal position, but with blood oozing from a wound in his head and another from his upper arm. He seemed to be sleeping but his mouth was open and he was sucking in air with a rasping sound. There was nothing left of his blue jacket but a few shreds hanging from his shoulders.
‘Bloody ’ell,’ exclaimed Jenkins. ‘I don’t feel so bad about killin’ that feller now. The bastards.’
‘Open the outside door a fraction and keep watch, 352,’ hissed Fonthill. ‘Sam, when I wake this man, tell him that if he makes a sound I will shoot him.’ He grabbed hold of the sleeping man’s hair – cut short, so no pigtail – pulled his head back sharply and thrust the muzzle of the Webley into his nostril.
Sam spoke quickly to the man and also put his finger to his lips in the universal demand for silence. The Kansu was awake in a second and his eyes widened in terror.
‘Good. Now tell him to unlock the cell door. Quickly now.’
The guard stood, wavered for a moment, and then took down a large keyring from a peg on the wall. He selected a key and unlocked the door to Chang’s cell. ‘Now tell him to remove his coat and his trousers.’
Before the demand could be translated, however, Jenkins called from the doorway. ‘Soldier coming. From the guard tent, I think.’
‘Damn! Only one?’
‘Looks like it.’
Fonthill turned to Sam. ‘Tell this man that I will shoot if he utters a word. Now sit him down, with his back to the door. That’s it. Now, you two, either side of the door, backs to the wall. We’ll grab him as soon as he enters.’
Sam was pushed behind the door, which was left slightly ajar, and Jenkins and Simon flattened themselves against the wall on the other side of the opening. There they all waited, holding their breath, until they heard a gutteral question delivered outside, followed almost immediately by an astonished ‘Hah!’
Fonthill bit his lip. Would the guard immediately give the alarm or investigate inside before doing so? It was a life-or-death question.
Then, with almost agonising slowness, a rifle was pushed through the opening. Seeing the man seated at the desk must have given some assurance because the newcomer half-advanced into the room, asking a question of the seated man. Immediately, Simon grabbed the barrel of the rifle and pulled it and the soldier into the room. At almost the same moment, Jenkins sprang forward and sank his knife into the soldier’s stomach, clutching the man to him as he did so. With a gasp, the guard slumped slowly downwards and Fonthill delivered the coup de grâce by crashing the butt of his revolver into the man’s head. It was all over in seconds.
Fonthill poked his head round the door. The dead man outside was still standing, although he had lurched to one side. There was no sound from the rows of tents and, through the lines of canvas, he could see the flicker of lamps from within the guard tent. He shut the door. ‘All clear, I think,’ he said. ‘Maybe this man was the relief. Now,’ he waved his revolver at the key holder, who was visibly trembling, ‘Sam, tell him he won’t be harmed if he does as we ask. Tell him to remove his coat and trousers.’
With frightened eyes, the man did so.
‘Now, Sam, see if you can find rope or a belt we can tie his hands and feet with. And something to stick in his mouth to gag him. I will keep him covered. 352, see if you can wake poor old Chang and bring him out here. He’s got to get into these clothes, or we’ll never get him out of here.’
With a heavy heart, Fonthill watched as Jenkins knelt beside the sleeping – sleeping or unconscious? – Chang and gently began to bring him to consciousness. Blessedly, he seemed only to be sleeping but it took nearly a minute to rouse him. At last he opened his eyes, immediately flinched as he saw Jenkins’s face close to him, but then he smiled, as best he could. His nose had clearly been broken and his face was a mass of blood. His jaw had been injured and he found it difficult to speak.
‘What’s he saying?’ asked Simon anxiously.
‘I think ’e said that ’e’s frightfully glad to see us,’ grinned Jenkins.
‘Get rid of those rags and see if you can help him to stand and get into the jailer’s clothes.’ Still covering the Kansu with his revolver, Fonthill edged towards Chang. ‘We are going to get you out of here, old chap,’ he called. ‘But we can’t have you walking naked through the streets, so we will need to have you dressed like a Kansu. Can you walk?’
His arm around Jenkins’s shoulders, the boy gave half a nod and immediately almost fell over.
‘Steady, lad,’ said Jenkins. ‘’Ere, sit down at this desk a minute.’
Sam now appeared carrying what appeared to be a clothes line. ‘Bind him, 352,’ said Fonthill gesturing towards the jailer. ‘Hands behind and feet together. Don’t bother about making him comfortable. And tear his shirt up, stick part of it into his mouth and tie it in, so that he won’t make a sound. We need a head start.’
Simon found a tap, returned with a cupful of water and raised it to Chang’s mouth. The young man gulped it down eagerly and then spat out a little blood. Fonthill took what remained of the Kansu’s shirt and, dipping it into the refilled cup, gently began wiping the injured youth’s face. Chang tried to say something but was urged to be quiet. Tearing the shirt remnant into strips, Simon dipped them into the water and did his best to bind the Chinaman’s wounds and staunch the bleeding, which had begun again as he stood.
Eventually, Chang was dressed and the jailer was trussed up and deposited in his own cell, with the door locked. Then, with Jenkins and Sam walking either side of the injured youth, clutching his arms, and Fonthill walking cautiously ahead, they left the jail hut and gained the shelter of the wood and, then, the path that led through the town.
‘If we are challenged, Sam,’ said Simon, ‘say that our friend has drunk too much rice wine and we are taking him home.’
By now, however, it was approaching midnight and the streets of the little town were deserted. They were able to walk along unchallenged until eventually the hiss of steam ahead told them that they were nearing the station.
‘Sounds as though the engine is still there, thank God,’ muttered Jenkins. ‘But will it have steam up?’
‘If it hasn’t, we’ll get it up,’ said Simon. ‘The problem will be if the line down to Tientsin has been torn up. Seymour told me that they were shelled from the rail track on their way to the arsenal, so the chances are that we can get as near as dammit to the city – if, that is, we can persuade those engineers to get the thing moving.’
‘Oh, I think we can manage that,’ said Jenkins grimly, drawing his revolver from beneath his coat.
Chang was now staggering badly and had to be virtually carried, so Fonthill left him at the station entrance, leaning against a tree under the care of Jen
kins, while he and Sam went onto the platform. Since they had first passed the station, a line of open wagons had been shunted and had been coupled to the locomotive, which was still being fussed over by two engineers, although no one else was in sight.
‘Come with me,’ said Simon to Sam, ‘and translate for me.’
One engineer was on the footplate and the second bending down by the front bogied wheels as the pair approached. The man by the wheels stood up and truculently asked a question of them. Fonthill produced his revolver. ‘Tell him to get back onto the footplate, now,’ he said. ‘And tell him if he makes a noise I will kill him.’
The engineer’s jaw dropped and he turned and climbed up to stand beside his mate, who was now looking down in astonishment into the muzzle of Simon’s Webley.
Fonthill climbed up beside them and waved Sam to come up onto the footplate too. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I want to know how long it will take to get steam up and if the line to Tientsin is still open. Explain that we have just killed two men and I will shoot them if they try to raise the alarm.’
Sam asked the questions and gained surly replies. ‘They say they have had problem with … hah … valve but is all right now. Steam is already up. Track good to Tientsin. But they push these trucks north with soldiers at dawn.’
At this, Fonthill’s interest quickened. If the track towards Peking was open again, then the destination for the soldiers could give an indication of where the Imperial army intended to make its stand against a relief column from the south.
‘Ask them where they take the soldiers.’
‘They say, Yangtsun. Is about ten miles to north, I think.’
‘Ah, good. Now, Sam, go and fetch Jenkins and Chang. I will keep these two covered. Make haste.’
Sam nodded and scampered down the steel steps. Fonthill realised that his burnt ankle was now causing him pain and he looked around on the footplate for somewhere to sit. As he did so, he caught from the corner of his eye a quick movement. Instinctively, he turned and fired in one movement, shattering the chest of the nearest engineer, who had seized a shovel and was about to bring it down on his head. Immediately, Simon swung the revolver round to cover the other man, who fell onto his knees and raised his hands high above his head.
