The Stone Dragon

by Peter Watt

  Tung Chi dozed lightly with his back against a large tree. It was hot and humid under the canopy of the small piece of jungle left by the Europeans who had cleared the rainforest to plant sugarcane. He was hungry, weary and alone in this foreign land far from his beloved Shantung province in China. But now it was time to search for the second man, and to do that he would need to make contact with the Chinese community in Queensland’s north.

  The slightest change in the air in the small clearing alerted him. Carefully, he eased himself away from the trunk and reached for the razor-sharp knife in his belt. Then he saw the uniformed policeman stalking through the shadows.

  As lithely as a snake, Tung crawled to a better position to observe the heavy-footed European. It was obvious from the way the man moved that he was not aware of Tung’s location. Tung knew this because he had spent many years hunting men himself and, although it was not within his orders to kill anyone not associated with the mission, the policeman presented an immediate threat. He would have to kill the barbarian as soon as he was within striking distance.

  Ogden edged closer, totally unaware that he was being watched by a highly professional killer and was only seconds from death. Tung prepared to spring his ambush with a speed of a striking snake.

  ‘You bin stick ’em up!’ a voice challenged.

  Startled, Tung swung to peer into the very black face of an Australian Aboriginal who had a revolver levelled at him. What was more frightening – and totally surprising – was that the Aboriginal was mere paces away. How had he done it? How had he been able to approach so silently to within striking range? Tung had been informed that the Aboriginal people would never really pose a threat to his mission. He had been briefed that they were now a broken people dispossessed across the land. But the young man he was facing had the air about him of a warrior to be reckoned with.

  ‘Chinee man, drop the knife,’ Billy further ordered.

  Tung obeyed.

  Now that Ogden was upon Tung he realised just how close he had come to being ambushed by the Chinese man with the knife.

  ‘You heathen bastard,’ Ogden roared, using the butt of the carbine to club Tung to the ground. ‘Try to kill a white man, would you?’ he snarled, smashing the rifle once again down on Tung’s head, drawing blood.

  Semi-conscious, Tung slumped to the ground where Ogden manacled his hands and feet. It was a lot of trouble for one whose only crime had been to kill another Chinaman, Ogden mused, pulling the prisoner to his feet.

  • • •

  In his late forties, the Eurasian still had the body of a man twenty years younger. John Wong had the powerful frame of his Irish mother’s family and the tanned skin of his father’s Chinese ancestors. At first glance he appeared to be more European in his looks. A closer examination revealed the liquid, black eyes that seemed to conceal a dangerous man. His short-cropped hair was now almost all grey but he still held an appeal to women of all races with his fine looks.

  Beside John stood a younger version of the Eurasian – although he appeared more Asian, thanks to a Chinese mother. Andrew’s broad shoulders, however, were an inheritance from his long dead Irish grandmother’s people on his father’s side. He wore an expensive tailored suit with an elegance that bespoke his upper middle class position. Besides being the son of the colourful John Wong – whose exploits were part of north Queensland folklore – he would hopefully one day be known as Dr Andrew Wong. Andrew had escaped the cold sleet of his university campus during the term break to return to the warmer climes of Australia on extended leave. Soon he would go back to Scotland to finish his last term in the far off Edinburgh medical school before returning to the Australian colonies to practise medicine. Surgery was of particular interest to him.

  Both men stood among barrels and bales of exotically scented articles in a roomy, corrugated shed gazing over the latest shipment of goods shipped from Hong Kong: spices, silks and pieces of Oriental artwork in vogue with Europeans.

  ‘We need to reship the porcelain pieces down south to Sydney and Melbourne,’ John said. ‘Always a good market for them there.’

  Andrew loved the big, tough man he called father. Standing in this newly opened place in the port of Cairns, he found himself reflecting on his family and the two precious women who were absent from his life.

  With the premature death of his mother when Andrew was only five years old his father had steered his life with gentleness and discipline in equal amounts. But the discipline had not been applied to his little sister, Naomi, whom the big man spoiled beyond the comprehension of her older brother. Naomi was the princess, his father once explained, and he would have to be the gallant knight in the life ahead. It was only now that Andrew was older that he understood why his father had been seemingly hard at times. Being of mixed blood and living in a European world had not been easy. But Andrew had been blessed with a natural talent for sports and excelled at cricket, rugby, swimming, athletics and boxing. This had ensured a place in colonial society where such achievements were enough for many to turn a blind eye to his mixed blood – at least in social circles until the daughter, sister or even wife of a European associate vied for the handsome young man’s attention.

  Andrew treasured the short time he was home from his studies to be with his father who he proudly knew had led a colourful and dangerous life when his own age on the wild, lawless Queensland frontier of the 1870s. It had been rumoured that his father had once belonged to a Chinese secret society and that he had even ridden with the legendary Christie Palmerston, the explorer and adventurer who had opened up much of north Queensland. Even more intriguing had been his father’s involvement with the infamous Michael Duffy – a man related to the well-known Duffy family of Sydney and linked to the gentry of the Macintosh dynasty. But his father never spoke of those times when he and Michael Duffy had disappeared into the Far East on mysterious missions. To the world John Wong was a prosperous man, well known in racing circles for the fine horses he bred on one of his many properties. The Wong financial empire also had offices in Brisbane, Sydney and Melbourne along with agencies in Hong Kong and mainland China. It had been the Wong contacts in China that had assisted in placing Naomi with one of the company’s agencies in Pekin.

  Andrew remembered the day he witnessed his father become truly angry with Naomi. She had approached John with the suggestion that she go to China to learn more about the family business. As she was a mere nineteen years old the idea was ludicrous. But his father also had argued that women did not have a place in commerce. It was his daughter’s duty to meet the right man and settle down to a life as a wife and mother.

  Even then, Andrew had known that beneath Naomi’s female exterior beat the heart of a lion. He had come grudgingly to respect her and suspected that his father would lose the argument.

  ‘Why in hell would you want to go to China?’ his father had exploded.

  Naomi had burst into tears. ‘I would like to visit the land of my mother,’ she replied in a humble voice, her eyes downcast.

  Andrew had stood at the end of the verandah of their sprawling house and watched with just a touch of satisfaction. Finally his sister had not got her way. But he was startled to see his father throw his arms around her petite frame and draw her close to him. For a second Andrew swore that he saw an evil glint in his sister’s tear-glistened eye – and even a smirk.

  You little minx, Andrew had thought. You have tricked him with your crocodile tears!

  And Naomi had.

  That had been two years ago and the only contact in that time had been her letters from Pekin to say how exciting the city was and just how much she was learning. Her father had to grudgingly admit that she was proving to be more astute in business than even he could have anticipated. She had an eye for obtaining the most valuable artefacts from village markets and shipping them back to Queensland.

  Now, there was no doubt in John’s mind that his son would be a medical doctor of great importance and that his financial emp
ire would one day be ruled by his daughter – despite her defying all that he understood of a woman’s role in Victorian times.

  ‘I hope that she is all right,’ John said softly, as if reading Andrew’s thoughts.

  ‘What?’ Andrew replied, startled by his father’s statement.

  ‘Your sister,’ John said softly, turning to his son. ‘Reports being sent to me from Pekin indicate that there is bad trouble brewing over there. I would rather have her with us – away from it all.’

  ‘You know Naomi,’ Andrew tried to reassure his father. ‘She is as tough as you. I am sure that if anything is happening in Pekin she will have taken measures to ensure that Wong & Co – as well as herself – are safe from any trouble.’

  ‘Maybe you are right,’ John said uneasily, placing his hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘When do you return to Scotland to complete your studies?’

  Andrew was about to reply when a shadow filled the entrance to the depot.

  ‘Mr Wong?’ a deep voice called, and both father and son turned to view the uniformed policeman striding towards them with the assuredness of one used to being obeyed.

  ‘I don’t mean to trouble you but I got a job you might be able to help us with,’ he said. ‘We picked up a Celestial …’ The big policeman hesitated, aware that he was using a derogatory term in front of the important citizen of the north. ‘Begging pardon from present company,’ he continued in a more contrite tone.

  ‘Sergeant Ogden,’ John said, extending his hand to the dust- and sweat-coated policeman. ‘I don’t think you have met my son, Andrew.’

  Andrew had flinched at the reference to Celestial and did not bother to extend his hand to the burly policeman. Instead, he gave a small nod of acknowledgment to the meeting.

  ‘My son is studying medicine at Edinburgh,’ John continued with noticeable pride in his voice. ‘He will soon be in practice.’

  ‘You going to work with them missions in China?’ Ogden asked with what Andrew detected was just a note of contempt.

  ‘I expect to practise medicine in Sydney,’ Andrew replied coldly. ‘I see that my father was wrong about your rank,’ he continued. ‘You are only a first class constable and not a sergeant.’

  ‘I should be an acting sergeant,’ Ogden answered defensively. ‘But those in Brisbane have given us this other rank instead. But I am here to solicit your father’s assistance in questioning a Chinee man we picked up on suspicion of murder of another Chinee man just south of here. We got tipped off yesterday by one of your own in Cairns.’

  ‘You need my son’s help,’ John said. ‘My knowledge of Chinese is a bit rusty and it will also depend on what dialect your prisoner speaks as to whether we can help you.’

  ‘I thought all Chinee men spoke the same language,’ the policeman replied.

  ‘Depends on where in China he is from,’ John answered. ‘But my son is relatively fluent in Mandarin as well as having a working knowledge of other dialects.’

  ‘Well, we will see,’ Ogden grunted. ‘Master Wong,’ he continued. ‘If you will please follow me outside.’

  Andrew cast his father a questioning look. John nodded and followed both the police officer and Andrew into the scorching tropical sun.

  On the almost deserted, dusty street they saw a badly beaten man sitting manacled on the dry earth. Blood had caked around his head and oozed down his face. Guarding the prisoner was an Aboriginal tracker with a rifle pointed at him. John thought this was unusual, as the police very rarely considered Chinese prisoners to be of much trouble.

  ‘He has proven to be a very dangerous man,’ Ogden commented as they approached the barely conscious prisoner. ‘Already killed one man and tried to kill me.’

  Andrew examined the prisoner and with his trained eye could see that one of the cuts in the scalp would require stitches.

  Andrew straightened and addressed the police officer. ‘If he does not get medical treatment then I suspect that he could die from his wounds.’

  Ogden looked down at the ground for a moment. He was aware that the death of even a Celestial would mean a coroner looking into the matter and that always meant more paperwork to interfere with drinking time.

  ‘No doctor available at the moment,’ he answered. ‘Maybe something you could do.’

  Andrew considered the matter. He was not qualified but he had learned much in his studies and stitching was something he knew how to do, despite not having the right surgical equipment.

  ‘Get him into the depot,’ Andrew said. ‘I am sure that my father will find something with which I can carry out first aid on your prisoner.’

  Ogden hauled the man roughly to his feet and Andrew assisted the police officer to escort Tung inside the relatively cooler shed.

  ‘What is your name?’ Andrew asked softly in the Mandarin dialect.

  Tung did not reply.

  Late May 1900

  Pekin

  China

  Naomi Wong was well away from the broad, shaded, avenues of the foreign legations where she had been visiting and now walked along streets where long lines of goods-laden camels from Mongolia plodded into the city vying with springless, wooden carts flanked by armed outriders. The rough and ready traders from the far-flung deserts of China shared the filth-strewn roads with Imperial mandarins clothed in long sable or silk coats in their human-propelled sedans. Pairs of weary mules with palanquins slung between them were accompanied by tough, sword-bearing men passing the stalls of barbers, scented Soochow prostitutes and roadside cooks from Canton.

  The noise, dust and fetid smell all merged to become what Naomi had come to accept as the exotic, if not dubious fragrance of this crowded city of Far Eastern commerce surrounded by massive walls of stone.

  At first impression, Naomi appeared to be one with the other Chinese women on the street, albeit she did not have her feet bound and her exotic beauty caused the male eye to linger. Because of her European dress she was given a wide berth by the water carriers jogging through the raucous crowds filling the marketplaces. The local Chinese peasants had come to learn that disrespect to a European could incur a savage reprisal from the barbarian occupiers of their city of a million people. Naomi had been closeted by her father’s wealth and power while growing up in Queensland and any slurs there against her ancestry were not overt. She was aware of the tragic history of the land of her Chinese ancestors. The European powers, Japan and the United States of America, had insidiously occupied her country and split China into colonies. Although they allowed the Chinese to rule themselves under an imperial system it was the colonisers and their armed forces that actually dictated policy. Throughout the nineteenth century the Chinese had attempted to rise against this oppression in what was known as the Opium Wars. The Chinese had attempted to eradicate the opium forced on them, by the English in particular. But they had failed and now were acutely aware that they were subservient to Western rule. They knew their oppressors considered them sub-human, little more than a source of raw materials for the European markets. In return, the occupiers helped justify their presence with the excuse of bringing Christianity to the heathens, and missionary organisations of every denomination spread across China under the protection of Western firepower. As well-meaning as the missionaries were, they had in fact acted to erode traditional values established long before the birth of Christ in far-off Palestine.

  As Naomi had been raised under a European educational system, she had been imbued with Western values and hardly thought of herself as Chinese. She was a British citizen of Chinese heritage and enjoyed the privileges afforded to one of her place of birth. But she did find living in Pekin had slowly made her aware of the Chinese plight although she still refused to seek any sympathy within herself for those around her who were not European. After all, she was in China to learn her father’s business and profit from the status quo as established by Britain’s powerful Royal Navy and civil service.

  Naomi did not walk alone when she was away from the Pekin office o
f her father’s company. The manager, Mr Soo Chow, insisted that she be accompanied by a tall, powerfully built Sikh bodyguard armed with a sword and revolver. His presence beside her as much as her European dress ensured that Naomi received free passage along the streets. The Sikh was totally devoted to her and it would have been a foolish bandit or would-be pickpocket who would attempt anything improper towards Miss Wong in his presence. He was an older man who carried the scars of his years fighting with the British army on the North-West Frontier of India. Naomi had grown fond of the taciturn giant with his dark eyes and skin and huge, bristling moustache. She had nicknamed him Raj and now Raj found himself carrying the carefully wrapped parcels of precious and semi-precious ornaments Naomi had been able to procure from street hawkers for instalment in the Wong & Co inventory prior to shipment to Europe and the Americas via her father’s depot in Queensland.

  What had amazed Naomi in the last few days was the sudden appearance in the marketplaces of so many previously hard to obtain items. But she had soon learned from various sources she had cultivated that all was not well in the surrounding countryside. The word on the street was that the enigmatic Boxers were coming, sweeping all before them and forcing thousands to flee with all that they could carry, to barter for food and lodging. And now they were already within the walls of the city, brazenly demonstrating their martial skills with spear and sword while calling down the spirits of such deities as Pigsy, Sandy and Monkey to take over their bodies. In trance-like states the Boxer adherents would fall to the ground, snorting like a pig when the spirit of Pigsy possessed them or capering like a monkey when possessed by that spirit. As amusing as these ancient deities may have appeared to Westerners they were wellestablished gods to the Chinese.