The War of the Dragon Lady

by John Wilcox

  Gerald was waiting for her, peering from the low entrance to the tunnel. She paused by the pile of debris. ‘I am not coming in there,’ she hissed.

  ‘You must. We can easily be overheard outside by the guards on the walls. Come on.’

  He held out a hand to her from the blackness and, reluctantly, she climbed the pile of stone and bricks and, ignoring his hand, bent her head and stepped into the tunnel. Immediately, strong hands grabbed her, pulled her far inside and then pinned her arms to her side. She was aware of two men on either side, holding her firmly, and realised that Gerald was pulling bricks back into the entrance, leaving only a shaft of light to penetrate at the top.

  ‘You little swine,’ she said. ‘So it was all a trick.’

  ‘Not at all.’ His voice was bland in her ear. ‘Seeing how badly you behaved the last time we met, I felt I needed a little help. These two men are good friends and will do anything I ask, so please do not try and struggle. Now,’ he reached down and withdrew the Colt from her cummerbund and threw it to the ground, ‘you won’t need that.’

  ‘What do you want? Tell me about Simon.’

  ‘What do I want? I want you, my sweet, and, one way or another, I will have you.’ His face was close to hers and she could see, now that her eyes were accustomed to the dim light, that he was perspiring. She could smell tobacco and traces of something sweet – opium? – on his breath. The two men holding her were Chinese. Their faces were quite expressionless.

  ‘As for Simon, I was telling the truth when I said that he is dead. If he was not, surely you would have heard from him by now, eh?’

  ‘I don’t believe you. Give me proof.’

  ‘Alas, dear cousin, I can’t do that. But I have it on good authority that he was blown up, together with that Welsh brute of his, at the gates of Tientsin as he tried to plant dynamite there. Proof will undoubtedly emerge when you come with me.’

  Alice felt herself trembling. Was he lying? He was a born liar. Simon Fonthill, her brave, bold, fearless husband could not be dead, particularly not with Jenkins at his side. And yet something about the picture that Gerald had painted so briefly had the ring of truth to it. Planting dynamite at a fortress’s door – that is exactly the sort of thing the two would attempt to do. They had undertaken such daring, hare-brained schemes so often in the past that eventually their luck was bound to run out. Had it happened now? She refused to believe it. She felt her eyes brim with tears. That would never do. She must never give this brute the satisfaction of seeing her crying.

  But Gerald was continuing, now with a softened voice. ‘I ask you again to come with me, Alice, to a new life. Here, in China. After this mess, the court and the Foreign Office will be reconstituted and I have been promised a most senior post here. You will be a widow – you are a widow – and will need support. With my mother we can live together well in one of the most cultivated countries in the East.’

  ‘What? In a land where brutal young peasants butcher missionaries and their wives and children? No thank you.’

  ‘Look, I am trying to be reasonable. The alternative is horrible to contemplate. These flimsy defences in the Quarter will be torn down, if not tomorrow, then the next day, and you, my dear, will be raped and then subjected to a terrible death. The executioners these days take a hell of a long time to behead someone. I know. I have seen it. I could not prevent that but I can if you come with me now to a safe house. Fetch my mother and we can all leave this horrible place.’

  He paused and put his face close to hers. Once again she felt his breath on her cheek. With hardly a thought, Alice gathered a mouthful of saliva and spat in his face.

  Her two guards hissed and Gerald staggered back, drew a handkerchief and wiped his face.

  ‘You bitch,’ he swore. ‘You spoilt, Christian bitch. Very well, you can go back but not before I have finished with you.’ He gave a command to the two men and Alice felt her feet forced apart so that she was spreadeagled against the curved wall. She heard the Chinamen laugh and realised with horror that Gerald was unbuttoning his trousers.

  ‘I love older women,’ he said, ‘even as old as you.’

  She felt a rough hand undo her cummerbund and then the belt beneath it. Then her riding breeches were forced down and fingers inserted between her legs. He pushed his cheek against hers and then inserted his tongue into her ear.

  With sudden inspiration, Alice slumped completely, letting her head fall forwards, her legs bend and her forearms and hands flop, so that she suddenly became a rag doll and a weight upon the two Chinese and upon Gerald himself. It was as though she had fainted. The guard to her right, anxious to assist in the rape, relaxed his grip on her arm to hold her upright around her waist and she reached forward, grasped his testicles through the loose cotton pantaloons and squeezed hard. With a cry, he pushed her away and Alice slumped down, lifted her right leg, grabbed the little automatic from the back of her boot and shot blindly downwards, to her left.

  The shot boomed and echoed in the tunnel and it took the man on her left in his foot, so that, cursing, he staggered backwards and then fell over, clutching his foot. Alice stuck the muzzle of her revolver into Gerald’s stomach.

  ‘Get away from me, or I will blow a hole in you.’

  He jumped away, bumping into the Chinaman who was bent over, both hands holding the ache in his loins. ‘Don’t shoot,’ Gerald cried, holding up his hands. ‘Don’t shoot. It was a joke. Don’t kill me.’

  ‘Why not? No one would ever find you in here.’ Alice put her left hand onto that which held the gun to stop it shaking and backed away slowly, breathing heavily, but covering both men. A dozen thoughts ran through her head, then she spoke in a low but steady voice. ‘Tell your two partners in rape to get out of this tunnel, otherwise I will kill them and you. But you stay. I want to talk to you.’

  Falteringly, Gerald spoke to the two men and jerked his head, his anxious eyes all the time on his cousin. The Chinamen hobbled away, one bent double, the other leaning on him, hopping on one foot and leaving a trail of blood behind him. They let in a shaft of light as they opened the door to the tunnel.

  Alice watched them exit to ensure that no one entered and then she turned back to Gerald. ‘Now listen to me. You are a coward and a traitor, cousin,’ she said, her voice now trembling with emotion. ‘You undoubtedly caused the death of your father and you were going to rape me. So you deserve to die. But as you are the son of my father’s brother, I will give you a chance. Now,’ she held up the pistol. ‘I have five more cartridges left. I will let you turn and run towards the opening at that end, the one that leads into your world. I will count to six and then I will start shooting. That’s the only chance I will give you. Go. Go on. Go. Now! One … Two …’

  He turned and half-fell over the pipe that ran along the length of the tunnel, scrambled on his hands and knees for a moment and then continued slipping and sliding towards the far end of the tunnel. Alice let off one parting shot, aimed directly at the ground well behind him to hasten him on his way. Then, as she saw him disappear, she adjusted her breeches, picked up her Colt from the ground and trod carefully back the way she had come, scrambled through the hole and then replaced the bricks to cover the entrance.

  Anxious not to draw the attention of the guards on the wall high above her, she walked quietly away, begging the god that she had followed trustingly all her life not to make her a widow.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Their plans laid for the attack on Peking, the troops of the strange, multinational army of the Foreign Powers marched on from the city of Tungchow, turned to the west and left the river behind them. They reached their agreed bivouac site, some three miles to the east of the capital and well within sound of the gunfire that sounded from within the walled city. The march had been difficult, although no attack had been launched on them. The humidity and heat had remained high and the Bengal Lancers in the British contingent looked bizarre as they rode with long maize fronds tucked under their helmets and
hanging down their backs to avoid sunstroke. Then heavy rain fell, turning the main path and numerous rutted tracks that the troops followed into slippery channels.

  On the eve of the planned attack, therefore, it was with relief that the men erected their tents under the heavy downpour and tried to snatch some sleep before the final approach to the city.

  Fonthill, trudging along with his two companions, had considered leaving the column and walking across the fields of kaoliang, the sunken paths and the irrigation ditches and finding some way through the black walls of the city to satisfy himself that Alice was still alive. But then he realised that he must keep his promise to Gaselee to take the British troops into the Legation Quarter once they had fought their way through the outside walls.

  And, as Jenkins had pointed out, ‘’Ow the ’ell would we get through them bloody great gates? We can’t blow ’em down on our own.’ So now Jenkins, Chang and Simon were huddled together in their small bivouac tent, surrounded by the Sikhs, Rajputs and Welshmen of the British contingent, listening to the rain and trying to sleep.

  Fonthill’s thoughts, as ever, concentrated on Alice. He knew her temperament and he was convinced that she would not be content to stay with the other women, tending to the sick in the hospital. She would want to be on the walls and the barricades, fighting with the defenders and consequently putting her life at risk. These thoughts did nothing to help him find sleep and his mind wandered to the events of the last few weeks and of how his life, perforce, had been plunged back into violence.

  He speculated with a sinking heart that he had probably been involved with the killing of more men personally since his arrival in China than in all of his previous career as an infantry officer, member of the Corps of Guides in India and army scout in two continents and only God knew how many countries. Simon stirred under his blanket. This had to stop. He was becoming a butcher.

  * * *

  He must have dozed off because he was suddenly woken by a hand on his shoulder. He sat upright. ‘Listen,’ said Jenkins in his ear. ‘Gunfire. Much nearer. Either we’re bein’ attacked or somebody’s launched our attack too soon.’

  Fonthill put his head outside the tent. The rain had slackened somewhat but it was still bouncing off the canvas. He saw bright flashes to the left, due east, at the base of the great black mass that was the walled city of Peking. ‘That’s just about where the Tung Pien Men Gate should be,’ he mused. ‘That’s the Americans’ objective. They must have jumped the gun.’

  ‘No, cousin.’ Chang materialised from out of the blackness. ‘I couldn’t sleep so I went to look. All the Americans’ tents are still standing and their guards are posted.’ He frowned. ‘It is all frightfully strange, is it not?’

  ‘Frightfully,’ echoed Simon. ‘Well, if anybody has stolen a march to be first into the legations, I want to be among them.’ He ducked back into the tent and began pulling on his boots. ‘You two needn’t come with me. I will rejoin the British contingent as soon as I can.’

  ‘You’re not going without me,’ grunted Jenkins, throwing aside his blankets.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Chang, ducking back into the tent and grabbing the tattered cloak that he used as a mackintosh.

  ‘Very well. Keep the breech blocks and magazines of your rifles dry under your jackets. Come on.’

  The three set off in the rain across the muddy fields, guided by the flashes of the cannon fire that stood out from the blackness of the city walls. They had not gone far when they met Gaselee’s young ADC riding back towards the camp, his smart, upwards-brushed moustache now looking decidedly bedraggled.

  He recognised Fonthill. ‘It’s the bloody Russians, old boy – oh, sorry, I mean sir,’ he said reining in. ‘What a capital mess! They’re the very people who wanted us to rest here before attacking because their general said they were tired. Now they’re going at that gate hammer and tongs. What’s more, the bloody fools are attacking the wrong gate. They’re supposed to go in the morning for the Tung Chih Men in the north, but they’re attacking the Tung Pien Men in the south.’

  ‘What, the whole Russian contingent?’

  ‘In fairness, sir, no.’ Steam rose from his horse’s flanks as he curbed the bridle. ‘It looks as though what happened is that their general sent a fairly strong force – a battalion and half an artillery battery – to reconnoitre the approach to their objective ready for the attack in the morning. But their leader – they’ve even got a bloody general in charge of that, a whole general, mind you – saw that the outer guardhouse was lightly defended and couldn’t resist attacking. But the fool’s got the wrong gate, don’t y’know.’

  ‘Has he broken through?’

  ‘His artillery is pounding the gate now. Now you must excuse me, sir. I must report to General Gaselee. He’ll be furious when he knows what’s happened. Mind what you’re doing … er, with respect, sir. The Chinks seem to be fighting back hard.’

  ‘Thank you. We will.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of all that, bach sir.’ Jenkins’s face looked lugubrious in the rain, with his black hair plastered over his forehead and his moustache – he had long ago given up trying to grow it Chinese fashion – looking like some feral excrescence under his nose. ‘We know ’ow difficult them gates are to knock down an’ these Russkies sound barmy to me. Shouldn’t we wait until our lot comes up in the mornin’, look you?’

  Fonthill shook his head. ‘No. If they break through I want to be among them. I’ve got to see if Alice is all right. You two go back if you want to.’

  ‘No. We’ll stay.’

  The three pressed on, sometimes wading thigh-deep through the irrigation channels which, bone dry for the previous four months, were now running high in rainwater. As they neared the gate, they could see that the walls above the gate and on either side were manned by Chinese riflemen, who were pouring a steady stream of fire down onto the Russian infantry, who were desperately trying to find cover in the featureless landscape. Two Russian pieces of field artillery, their crews protected by their gun shields, were punching holes into the iron-clad gates and, as they watched, the doors were breached. With a cheer, the leading company of the infantry battalion ran towards the opening, pushed aside the wreckage and rushed through.

  ‘Hell!’ cried Fonthill. ‘They should have tried to clear the walls first.’

  Jenkins frowned. ‘Why is that, then?’

  ‘Because Chang tells me that there are always two gates in these big Peking walls. So they will rush into a courtyard only to find another door. And they will be fired down upon and caught like fish in a barrel. It’s all very medieval-castle stuff, really.’

  Simon had retained the wide-brimmed slouch hat given to him by the American in the attack on Yungtsun and, wearing it now in the rain and half-light, he looked at first sight as though he were a Yankee soldier. He caught the sleeve of a Russian officer. ‘Do you speak English?’

  ‘A leettle.’

  ‘Why are you attacking this gate?’ Fonthill demanded. ‘This is the American target. Our objective.’

  The Russian shrugged. ‘Same city,’ he grunted. And moved away.

  From beyond the broken gate a fusillade of musketry could be heard, mingled with cries as the bullets found their targets. ‘They’ll be ages trying to get through there,’ muttered Simon. He turned to Chang. ‘Is there any other way we can get through these outer walls?’

  The young man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Afraid no, Simon. These are big walls and meant to be defended. Gates only way in.’ He paused and then frowned thoughtfully. ‘Except perhaps …’

  ‘Yes, yes. What?’

  ‘Well, when I was a boy, with other boys, we sometimes climbed the walls, you know?’

  Jenkins scowled and ran his eye along the sheer, forty-foot-high brick face. ‘You must ’ave been like monkeys then, Changy, that’s all I can say.’

  The Chinaman’s face brightened. ‘No. Not so very difficult. Because, you see, these walls are very old and are cracked
in many places. Cracked vertically, you know. Gives spaces to put toes in. Almost like ladder.’

  Fonthill looked dubious. ‘Impossible to climb when riflemen are firing down on you, of course. Can you remember where these cracks are, Chang?’

  ‘Ah yes. Think so. Let us go along here.’

  ‘Wait a moment. You might be able to get up but neither Jenkins nor I could, with or without bullets coming down on our heads. We need a rope. We passed a couple of hauliers’ carts back there, 352, behind the guns. See if you can filch something.’

  Jenkins sniffed. ‘I’ll find a rope but you know what I’m like with heights, bach sir. You’ll never get me climbin’ up that bloody wall.’

  ‘Just find a rope. That’s all. If the top of the wall is manned, then there’s no way any of us can get up. But it’s worth investigating. Get us a blasted rope, there’s a good chap. We’ll walk on this way, right close to the wall, so, hopefully, we won’t be seen.’

  Mumbling to himself Jenkins departed and Simon and Chang walked away from the gate to the right, away from the shooting, until Fonthill could see no sign of life on top of the castellated wall. Then the two scrambled quickly to the base and huddled there for a moment.

  Fonthill looked up, his rifle at the ready. There seemed to be no one on the top. ‘It looks as though the Chinese have gathered their defenders around the gates,’ he said. ‘If there’s one of your cracks along here, we might be able to get up. Though God knows how we’re going to get old 352 up there. Best not be underneath him when he tries because he’s bound to soil his breeches.’

  Chang grinned. ‘I think there is big crack along here, if I can remember right. I think by this old, stunted tree.’

  Sure enough, the wall bulged outwards at this point and had cracked visibly where water had cascaded down, revealing a zigzag of broken bricks leading to the top. It glistened now in the rain. Not an easy climb, thought Simon. And what if troops appeared?

  ‘Let us wait to see if the top is patrolled,’ he whispered. ‘If it isn’t, do you think you could get up?’