by John Wilcox
‘Shit!’ The noise of the heavy revolver had shattered the stillness of the night. How near were the nearest soldiers? He hung his head over the side of the locomotive in the general direction of Sam and Jenkins and shouted, ‘Come on, quickly. We’ve got to get out of here.’
He turned and motioned to the engineer to get to his feet. He gestured to the controls, made a ‘shushing’ sound and then pointed behind him to the south. The man looked blankly at him. ‘You stupid bastard,’ shouted Fonthill. ‘Get steam up.’ He made a shushing sound again and then made a circular motion with both hands.
‘Hah!’ The engineer nodded and immediately turned, picked up the shovel – an action which made Simon start backwards – and then began shovelling coal into the open furnace. He turned back and adjusted a lever, which made more steam escape. Then he was back shovelling coal.
Keeping a wary eye on the man, Fonthill leant out of the cab once again and saw Jenkins and Sam, with Chang in between them, his limp arms around each of their shoulders. They were making slow progress and Simon fingered his revolver nervously. Had the shot raised the alarm? He moved to the other side of the footplate and looked along the line of trucks, stretching ahead of him. There, in the distance, he saw Kansu soldiers, rifles in hand, running towards the train. Oh hell! The two bodies and the bound jailer must have been found and the revolver shot would have given away the direction taken by the fugitives. He rushed to the other side of the footplate.
His three comrades were now some twenty yards from the steps up into the cab but, as he watched, three soldiers materialised onto the platform behind them. The nearest knelt and raised his rifle to his shoulder. Disregarding the engineer, who was now stoking furiously, Fonthill steadied his revolver with two hands and took careful aim. The shot ricocheted from the stone of the platform immediately in front of the Kansu and took him in the stomach. He clutched his midriff and fell, causing his two companions to dive into the station waiting room.
‘For God’s sake, hurry!’ shouted Simon.
‘Nearly there,’ cried Jenkins. At the foot of the steps, he lifted Chang like a baby, so that Fonthill was able to reach down, clutch the young man round the waist and drag him onto the footplate, where he lay, breathing heavily.
Simon let him lie and rushed to the other side of the cab and leant out. A bullet immediately clipped off the side of the locomotive and winged its way past his head. Sighted awkwardly with his left hand, he released two shots at the advancing soldiers, causing them to duck and take cover under the trucks.
Sam at last followed Jenkins onto the footplate. ‘Tell him to start the engine and reverse out of here, that way,’ Fonthill shrieked at him. ‘Revolver, quickly, 352. Take the other side and keep the Kansus at bay. I’ll take this side.’
Their revolvers were operating at too long a range but they had the effect of keeping the Chinese from advancing along the line of trucks until, suddenly, with a lurch and a hissing of steam, the locomotive began slowly to reverse out of the station.
‘Hey,’ shouted Jenkins. ‘We’re pullin’ a whole line of trucks, look you.’
‘It doesn’t matter. It’ll slow us down a bit but it will also stop the Chinese from loading them with their troops to take up north. Keep a sharp eye, though, in case any of those Kansus have climbed onto the wagons.’ Simon looked down at Chang, who was looking about him with a bewildered air. ‘Chang, my dear cousin-in-law,’ he shouted above the roar of the engine, ‘we’re taking you to the seaside – well, not far off it, anyway.’
The young man tried to force a smile. The locomotive gathered steam and soon they were rushing through the night air, with the click-clack of the rails imposing a reassuring rhythm to match the hiss from the open furnace. Sparks from the locomotive’s funnel flew over them, dancing like glow-worms against the dark sky.
Suddenly, a strange ‘woo, woo’ made Fonthill whirl round. Sam was hanging out of the side of the cab, shouting, grinning and waving his free arm at the hidden countryside hurrying past.
Jenkins exchanged smiles with Simon. ‘Enjoy yourself, son,’ he shouted at the Chinaman. ‘You’re a soldier now.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The train sped unhampered through the night, with Sam, Jenkins and Simon relieving the engineer in stoking the boiler. Their free passage convinced Fonthill that the Imperial army had, indeed, retreated en masse to the north and was about to regroup. Nevertheless, it was a great relief when the locomotive and its line of wagons steamed into an empty and echoing Tientsin station and hissed to a stop.
The engineer was given money – which further bewildered him – but was warned that his locomotive and the wagons were now the property of the Great Powers and that, under pain of death, he should not attempt to steam north again. Chang was gently eased down onto the platform and, after some discussion with passing coolies, a stretcher was produced and he was carried to the hospital and delivered into the care of the surgeon major, who demanded to know where the hell Fonthill had been. As soon as Simon was able to find his store of Chinese currency, hidden in his billet, Sam was further rewarded and returned – not without protestations – to his duties at the hospital.
The next morning, Fonthill and Jenkins sat at Chang’s bedside and were relieved to be told that, although his nose had been broken, his chin was bruised and not fractured and that he had only lost two teeth. He was able to speak much more clearly now and they heard his story.
He had, indeed, charged with the Royal Welch, anxious to join in the action. Dazed by the piece of masonry that had fallen on his head, he was recognised in the street by one of the Kansu soldiers who had pulled them out of the river above the settlements.
‘Damned bad luck, that,’ said Simon. ‘A chance in a million.’
‘Your trouble,’ added Jenkins helpfully, ‘is that you look too Chinese. ’Ave you ever thought about growin’ a moustache, a big black one? You might just pass for a Welshman then, see.’
Chang tried to laugh but it hurt him, so he was encouraged to continue to mumble his story. Convinced that he was a spy, the Kansus had marched him back with them in their retreat – ‘very fast,’ he said – and he had then been interrogated about why he was wearing a British Revenue coat and carrying a British rifle. This had involved having a rifle butt crashed into his face and bayonet points thrust into his ribs and upper arm. But he had stuck to his story that he had escaped from Peking and that, as a half-brother of an Englishman, he was fighting on the side of the Great Powers. His inquisitors had promised that he would be beheaded the next morning.
He gave a weak smile. ‘I was so glad to see you, even Mr Jenkins.’
‘Well, that’s an admission,’ agreed Simon. ‘Stay resting, dear old Chang, and then you can join us in the relief column that leaves for the legations – if one is ever mounted, that is.’
This remained Fonthill’s greatest worry. The sense of urgency that possessed him seemed to have no echo in the comings and goings that now surrounded the military leaders in the settlements. There was no doubt that the fate of Seymour’s original expedition was casting dark shadows across the preparations for the relief. Seymour himself, having failed with his enterprise, had a vested interest in portraying the strength of the Chinese forces and spoke of forty thousand troops being required. The need for even greater numbers was bandied about.
But nothing like these numbers could be found in Taku or Tientsin. Then the question of the leadership of the relief column arose. Far away, in Berlin, the Kaiser entered the fray. He claimed that, because of von Ketteler’s murder, Germany must have priority in this matter and, after he had lobbied the governments of Japan and Russia, it was agreed that a commander-in-chief should be appointed in the form of the German Field Marshal Count von Waldersee. But the field marshal was six weeks’ voyage away, in landlocked Berlin.
When Simon heard rumours of this, he was plunged into greater despair. Taking advantage of the fame he had gathered in the attack on the Chinese City he demand
ed to see the newly arrived commander of the British forces, General Gaselee. This was granted with promising alacrity and Fonthill, still wearing his Chinese coolie garments, found himself facing the general shortly after he had left Chang’s bedside.
Gaselee was white-haired, wore a huge, equally white walrus moustache and had twinkling eyes set in a face that seemed always to wear a kindly, rather puzzled expression. He advanced across the room to meet Simon with outstretched hand.
‘My dear Fonthill,’ he said. ‘Congratulations on your magnificent effort with those damned gates to the city. And I hear that you’ve just returned after plucking one of your chaps from the very midst of the enemy.’
‘Thank you, Sir Alfred. You are very kind.’ Fonthill took a deep breath. To hell with the compliments, he wanted action. ‘When can you set off for Peking? We can’t wait for some blasted Prussian field marshal to get here, can we? The legations can’t hold out for another six weeks, that’s for certain.’
Gaselee chuckled. ‘Ah, I’d heard that you were a touch impatient. Now take a seat and we can talk this through.’
‘Seriously, sir. We just can’t afford much more talking. Lives are being lost up there.’
‘I quite agree. As you know, I have only just arrived, but I have been arguing for immediate action with my international colleagues since I set foot here. And I promise you, Fonthill, that we won’t wait for this Prussian to arrive. Nevertheless, there are problems.’
He held up his hand as Fonthill made to interrupt. ‘Now, hear me out. My own personal problem is that the British army is not well represented here. As you know, we are still fighting a war with the Boers in South Africa – a war that we thought was over weeks ago – and that continues to make demands on our manpower. In addition, I have been ordered to put a brigade into Shanghai to defend our considerable interests there. The result is that we can muster only about three thousand troops for the relief expedition, which doesn’t give me much of a voice in our councils here.
‘Mind you, my colleagues have difficulties, too. The Americans, who don’t have much of a standing army anyway, have got their hands full in the Philippines; in Manchuria the Russians are fighting Boxer-inspired uprisings; and the French have got internal problems in Indo-China. Only the Germans and the Japs are not involved in any overseas fighting.
‘Nevertheless, I believe we can muster about twenty thousand men between us and I think that that is enough. Now, we know we can’t use the railway past Yangtsun – although,’ he smiled, ‘it’s most kind of you to present us with a locomotive and wagons. So what’s your advice on the best way to get to Peking, eh?’
Fonthill smiled, half in apology for his brusqueness and half in relief at finding a senior army officer with a refreshing sense of urgency and one who was prepared to listen! ‘There’s only one way to go, General,’ he said. ‘Put heavy stuff on the river – you may have to pull the junks from the banks over shoals, or even to pole them – and march by its side. It goes virtually to Peking. There’s no major road but in view of this drought you can cover the ground pretty well. It looks to me as though the Kansu troops have retreated or are retreating at least to Peitsang, so you should have a head start. And they were the main and by far the best of the enemy facing us.’
‘Good. And I trust you will come with us and guide us when it comes to getting into the legations?’
‘Of course, sir. My wife is there and I am anxious for all sorts of reasons to get back there.’
‘I can well understand that. Now, are you happy to stay in native dress or shall we rustle up some kind of uniform for you?’
‘I will stay “blacked up”, so to speak, sir. It’s been a long time since I was in uniform, anyway, and I don’t think it will quite suit me to get back into it now. But thank you for the offer.’
‘Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have much to do. I have a feeling, Fonthill, that we can get those twenty thousand men marching within the next few days, whoever the hell is in command.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Perhaps it ought to be you, eh?’
‘Thanks for the compliment, but I would have more faith in you, sir.’
Fonthill left with a heart far lighter than when he had arrived. At last, a general who wanted to move! Again, his thoughts turned to Alice. He knew just how self-sufficient she was, so well able to take care of herself. Yet, if those fragile defences broke, he had no confidence in Sir Claude’s assurances that she would be protected. Gaselee certainly seemed to understand the need for speed, but it was clear that establishing a unified command was rather like getting an elephant to perform in Swan Lake. As he walked back to his billet, Simon decided that, if no real progress had been made within three days, then he and Jenkins would attempt the perilous journey back to Peking on their own. Alice could be left alone no longer.
The good news produced within those anxious few days came from the hospital. Chang had made excellent progress and was discharged after two days with light dressings on his wounds and following a successful operation on his nose that did little for his appearance but helped his breathing considerably. That same evening, Fonthill received an invitation to revisit General Gaselee.
‘I know you are anxious,’ said the old man, ‘and you have certainly done enough down here to receive a progress report. I think I am getting agreement at last.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘Quite. The Russians have a new leader here – a general named Lineivitch – and he is all for waiting, and the Yankee chap, General Chaffee, is worried that he hasn’t got any artillery. But I have talked the Japanese into starting virtually straight away and as they have about ten thousand troops here, which is by far the largest national contingent, we are beginning to sway the doubters, because I have let it be known that the British and Japanese will go it alone, if necessary.’ The general’s eyes twinkled under his grey brows. ‘This has frightened the life out of ’em because the Russians, the French and the Germans, in particular, would lose so much face in the international community back home if they didn’t help to relieve Peking that I am sure they will join the party. It’s blackmail, my dear Fonthill, but it’s working.’
‘Well done, General. So when do you think we can set out?’
‘If we can’t get moving within three days, that’s by the fifth of August, I will eat my hat.’
‘Who will be in command?’
‘Can’t say. We can’t agree. So we will lead our own contingents and probably have a sort of council of commanders to tackle problems as they arise.’
‘Isn’t this a recipe for disaster?’
The general shrugged his shoulder. ‘Quite probably.’ Then he shot a shrewd glance at Fonthill. ‘What would you rather we did, Fonthill, hang about here and sort out these xenophobic haggles or press on and get to bloody Peking as fast as we can?’
‘I think you know my answer, sir.’
‘Quite so.’
‘So, may I enquire the size of the relief force and its breakdown?’
‘Here, look at this.’ Gaselee threw a sheet of paper across his desk. ‘This is my estimate, but we will probably set off with less than this.’
Simon read:
Japanese 10,000
Russians 4,000
British 3,000
Americans 2,000
French 800
Germans 100
Austrians and Italians 100
Total 20,000
Fonthill looked up: ‘Artillery, cavalry?’ he asked.
‘Should have adequate guns,’ grunted Gaselee, ‘but I must confess that we are light on cavalry, so we shall be hampered when it comes to reconnaissance and pursuit. The Japs have one cavalry regiment but their horses are too light and probably useless. We have some Yankee cowboys landed at Taku but their mounts will probably not have recovered in time from the sea voyage. So we shall be left, I think, with a few Cossacks and, thank God, the Bengal Lancers.’
‘And your plan, sir?’
‘We shall follow th
e course of the Pei Ho, as you recommended, taking a train of junks and sampans for our supplies. We are desperately short of road transport, although the Americans have some good mules and wagons. Most of the way there will be only one road, I understand, and God help us if it rains, because we shall be bogged down. Our strategy, my dear Fonthill, will be to launch a frontal attack on the Chinese whenever and wherever we are opposed. And our aim will be to move bloody fast, like some battering ram, until we see the walls of Peking before us.’
Simon grinned. ‘At least, General,’ he said, ‘your plan has the advantage of simplicity.’
Gaselee gave a sad smile. ‘There is no choice, Fonthill. You see, this force will be unique. Never before – except probably in the case of the Crusades, centuries ago – has there been such a polyglot, cobbled-together army. Given these circumstances, we cannot afford sophistication. We must advance as quickly as we can and go straight at ’em. I am gambling that the Chinese will not be well led and that …’ he paused for a moment and the smile widened ‘… as always, God will be on our side.’
‘Good luck, sir.’
‘Be ready to march with us in three days’ time.’
‘We shall be ready.’
In fact, the energy of the old general proved so effective that the ‘army of the nations’ was brought together a day earlier and the relief column set out from Tientsin at dawn on the morning of 4th August, forty days after the siege of Peking began. Fonthill, Jenkins and Chang marched in the van. Ahead of them it was estimated that fifty thousand Chinese troops were assembled to deny them passage.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
So it was that the three comrades found themselves retracing their steps to Peitsang – this time, though, in daylight under a scorching sun. Simon had been introduced to the council of war as someone who could guide the relief column but, in fact, his services were not needed, since it was a simple enough matter to follow the river, and he, Jenkins and Chang therefore allowed themselves to drop back through the marching men to allow Chang to walk at a less punishing pace and to join the British at the rear.
