The Stone Dragon

by Peter Watt

  Andrew stood up, stretching his legs as he did. ‘I will be gone for some time,’ he said to Billy. ‘Make sure that the Chinese man is treated well.

  Billy nodded and Andrew went in search of his father.

  ‘You are planning to do what?’ John exploded as he sat at an old, battered desk poring through shipping papers for his exports and imports from Asia. He could hardly believe what Andrew was proposing.

  ‘You are planning to ride out and go to the dead man’s camp to find what sounds like rubbish? And if the prisoner’s story proves to have merit, then return and assist the man to escape?’ John rubbed his forehead as if he had a bad headache. He stood and his imposing size and obvious anger would have intimidated any other man than his son.

  ‘Tung is not a criminal,’ Andrew said calmly. ‘He is little different to a soldier fighting for his country.’

  John stared at his son in a new light. Growing up Andrew had been so stable and placid, he reflected. Medicine had always been his choice and John had never really seen any of his son’s wild, impetuous side before. Maybe he had been apart too long from Andrew, as the boy had grown up in boarding schools and then gone off to Scotland to study. It had been Naomi who had been closest to John, who at least had been able to blame his Irish ancestry for his yearning for excitement. But Andrew was more Chinese in his attitudes and looks.

  ‘Father?’ Andrew asked, observing John’s reflective silence.

  ‘You may as well go and verify the man’s story,’ John sighed. ‘At least get your facts straight before you go off half-cocked on some foolhardy mission. You have too much to lose.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Andrew replied with a broad grin for the adventure ahead.

  True to Tung’s directions, Andrew located the deserted campsite. He dismounted and gazed around until he noticed a large log. Striding across to the fallen tree Andrew poked inside the hollow with a stick, aware as he was that such logs often harboured deadly snakes. Satisfied that the log did not conceal any snake, Andrew reached inside to retrieve a thick satchel.

  He opened the leather case and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

  ‘God almighty!’ he swore as he perused the ornate paperwork with its impressive stamps embossed on the heavy sheets of paper. ‘A bloody fortune!’

  The papers were promissory notes drawn on a British bank in Pekin and valued at almost £50,000 sterling. Never before had Andrew seen a promise of fortune and for a moment he was almost paralysed by what he held in his hands. It was clear that Tung had not lied and this was only half of what was outstanding.

  Placing the papers back in the leather satchel, Andrew returned to his horse which was grazing nearby. His hands trembled when he took hold of the reins and he understood why. He was about to commit himself to a new path in life – a path that would no doubt at best put his life in peril and at worst land him in prison. Bringing dishonour on his family was not something the young man took lightly. Death was preferable to that option.

  With the sun sinking over the hills surrounding the village of Cairns, Andrew returned to his father’s depot, where he reined his mount to a halt and stared at the police milling angrily before the big shed. Ogden was prominent in his rage, yelling curses upon the Aboriginal tracker, and for a moment Andrew thought that he might strike Billy with the butt of his service revolver.

  Amidst the furore John stood calmly, smoking a cigar and watching the smoke curl away lazily on the still, tropical air. Ogden hardly noticed Andrew return.

  ‘What is going on?’ Andrew asked his father in a whisper.

  ‘Tung escaped about an hour ago,’ John replied with what Andrew thought was just a hint of a smile.

  ‘He what?’ Andrew gasped. ‘How?’

  ‘Well, it was like this,’ John said, turning his back on the police officer who was still berating the tracker, and two young uniformed police accompanying him. ‘I thought that your man should have some tucker and so I fed him. Just after that he seemed to have been able to release the chains on his ankles and wrists and sprang on poor old Billy, disarming him. Billy ended up in the manacles. It seems that Tung had a key and damned if I know how he got one. Now it seems that you are free of any obligation to help him escape,’ John ended quietly in Chinese out of Ogden’s hearing.

  ‘You helped the bloody Celestial to escape, Mr Wong,’ Ogden screamed, detaching himself from his confused men.

  ‘Careful, First Class Constable Ogden,’ John growled. ‘That is a serious accusation and one that I might personally bring to the attention of your superintendent who just happens to a be a good friend of mine.’

  Ogden came to a halt as if hit by a brick. He was aware that the Chinese entrepreneur and his superior officer were indeed friends, linked by a love of fast horses and good whisky.

  ‘You don’t frighten me with your threats, Mr Wong,’ Ogden snarled. ‘I promise you that when I recapture the prisoner he will talk and tell me of your conspiracy in his escape. Manacle keys do not just turn up in the possession of Celestials.’

  ‘Maybe you dropped your keys,’ John shrugged.

  Ogden immediately slapped his pocket and smiled grimly. ‘My keys are still in my pocket,’ he sneered. ‘And Billy did not have any keys on him.’

  ‘Well, you know these Chinks,’ John said, flipping away the stub of his cigar. ‘They are very cunning and resourceful. Maybe he just picked the locks with a piece of straw.’

  Ogden glared at John before finally turning his back and stomping back to his men.

  ‘Saddle up. And Billy, get on the Celestial’s trail,’ Ogden roared as he gripped the reins of his mount. ‘Just don’t shoot the bastard out of hand,’ he continued as he swung astride his police mount. ‘He has some questions to answer before he goes to the gallows.’

  Father and son stood alone in the rapidly gathering dusk in front of the big shed, watching the dust raised by the hooves of the departing horses float like gauze in the still air.

  ‘Time we had something to eat, and you can tell me what you have in the leather satchel,’ John said mildly.

  Andrew suddenly became aware that he had been holding the satchel all the while the police had been milling about in their confusion. ‘Do you think Tung will be able to elude Ogden?’ he asked.

  ‘He should – if he got aboard the boat I told him about,’ John replied. ‘It’s headed south, so if he goes looking for any passengers of Chinese blood attempting to sail north Ogden will be thrown off the trail.’

  Andrew had a great urge to put his arms around the big bear of a man who was his father.

  Late May 1900

  The British Legation

  Pekin

  It was Queen Victoria’s eighty-first birthday and in true colonial style, an occasion for a grand celebration. As Britain’s minister to China, Sir Claude MacDonald, the distinguished former soldier and tall, aristocratic Scot, was pleased to leave the organising of the dinner party to his wife, Lady Ethel MacDonald. Such things required a woman’s touch and none were disappointed when the theatre in the British legation was transformed into a dining room. The lavish affair was attended by the who’s who of British colonial society in Pekin.

  Lady MacDonald, a dignified woman in her early forties, shone when she entered the dining room with the handsome Australian journalist George Morrison on one arm and Sir Robert Hart, the elderly inspector general of the Maritime Customs, on the other. When the dinner places had been cleared members of the other foreign delegations attended to share the free-flowing wine and some very good music. The latter was supplied by Sir Robert Hart’s own band as they played on the edge of the tennis courts, bathed in the soft glow of Chinese lanterns that had been provided for the dancers, the ladies in neck to ankle dresses and the men in dinner suits or colourful military uniforms.

  Lieutenant Robert Mumford also attended the affair, as was his duty as a liaison officer. He had received orders that the next day he was to travel down to Tientsin on the railway. He stood to one side of the i
mprovised dance floor with a flute of champagne in one hand, gazing at the dancers swirling to the popular tunes of the day. Laughter, music and good wine combined to provide a festive air that Robert wished he could share with Naomi.

  ‘Alone, old chap?’

  Robert turned to see a tall, athletic, handsome figure whom he recognised as the London Times correspondent in China.

  ‘Dr Morrison, how are you?’

  George Morrison was an unusual man. Trained as a medical doctor, he chose instead to be a journalist and his colourful past well prepared him for life in China. As a younger man he had walked from one end of Australia to the other, he had been speared by natives in New Guinea on one exploration of that savage and wild country, and along the way found himself reporting for the prestigious newspaper. An intelligent and courageous young man, and single, he caught the eye of every young woman wherever he went.

  Morrison stepped forward from the shadows. ‘So, what do you think of the situation?’ he asked the British officer.

  ‘By that I presume you mean the Boxer troubles,’ Robert replied.

  ‘You are a man with his ear to the ground,’ Morrison said, swirling the wine in his glass to catch the light. ‘I seem to be getting mixed opinions from many of the distinguished guests here tonight.’

  Robert liked the tall Australian. Had he not been a journalist or medical practitioner, Robert knew he could have also been a brilliant soldier. But then, Dr Morrison was capable of being anything he wanted – such was the character of the man. ‘Are you asking on the record?’ Robert asked guardedly.

  ‘Not on the occasion of our Queen’s birthday, God bless her,’ the Australian said, raising his glass as a salute.

  Robert raised his glass and echoed, ‘God bless her and her heirs. Off the record, I think that there is trouble coming,’ he continued, sipping his champagne.

  ‘I have to agree with you,’ Morrison commented gloomily. ‘I have seen the Boxers drilling in the grounds of the Imperial barracks and yet many say that the Empress will not allow them to be unleashed on us. I have my suspicions that she says one thing but secretly hopes those dogs from hell will do her dirty work and drive us all from China.’

  ‘I tend to agree,’ Robert responded. ‘My sources in the old city have passed on intelligence that the servants have been warned to leave our employment or risk death if they continue. Sadly, it seems that a lot of highly positioned people around here have their heads up their bums on any threat.’

  ‘By your sources would you mean the beautiful young lady, Miss Naomi Wong?’ Morrison asked with a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Er, yes, she and others,’ Robert replied blushing. ‘We tend to be a little cut off from the rank and file of the Chinese within the walls of the legations whereas Miss Wong is living out among those people.’

  ‘So, old chap,’ Morrison said, ‘the question really is, would we be capable of defending ourselves if the worst comes to the worst?’

  Robert glanced around at the guests at the party before replying. ‘If we had sufficient warning then we may be able to bring in reinforcements to beat off any Boxer assault, but at the moment, I do not think that we would have a hope in hell of surviving a concerted attack.’

  ‘Maybe we should ask our Yankee cousins their opinion of the situation,’ Morrison said, noticing an American marine officer in his smart dress uniform escorting a matron from the dance floor.

  ‘Harry, old chap, come and join us,’ the Australian journalist shouted, catching the attention of Lieutenant Harold Simpson, United States Marine Corps. Sweat streamed down the American officer’s face as he approached.

  ‘Dr Morrison, Mr Mumford,’ the straight-backed, steely-eyed young marine officer greeted, taking a flute of champagne from a passing Chinese waiter. ‘What are you Limeys up to?’

  ‘Only one Limey here,’ Morrison replied. ‘I’m an Australian, but will accept the term on Her Majesty’s birthday. How is it that you were not here earlier?’

  ‘God-damned matter of business at our offices held me up,’ Simpson said, taking a long swig. ‘Damned funny thing, a half-dead Chinese coolie turned up to see our minister, Mr Conger. He said that he was from one of our missionary stations where a massacre had occurred some days ago but we haven’t had any confirmation on the matter as yet. Said he had posed as a Boxer and almost died in the process of getting here. All he had was a fossil rock and a letter he said was from the mission station. Mr Conger was busy and I got the job of sorting the matter out. I tried to read the letter but it had become drenched with water and the writing was unintelligible. By the time I sent the coolie off for a feed I missed a lift to your party. I had to wait around and now have a lot of catching up to do.’

  ‘Why do you think that one of your missionaries would go to all the trouble of sending a fossil to you when he was in most dire peril?’ Morrison asked, his journalist’s curiosity piqued by the rock and its hazardous journey to Pekin.

  ‘God-damnedest reason that I would know of,’ Lieutenant Simpson snorted. ‘I’ve seen these rocks with fossils in them before and you can buy them in the Chinee markets as paperweights. Maybe the rock has some gold or something in it besides the stone dragon – though it looks more like a stone salamander to me. I should think about sending it to Tientsin to one of our mining engineers, Mr Herbert Hoover, who has pulled back his team saying that he fears for their safety out in the countryside. Maybe I can make arrangements to get the rock to him and see what all the fuss is about.’

  ‘I am travelling by train to Tientsin tomorrow,’ Robert said. ‘I could do you Yankee Marines a favour and take it with me in my baggage.’

  The American soldier glanced at Robert. ‘All you have to do is get me a receipt from Hoover when you see him and I will buy you a bottle of the best Kentucky I know. It would save me a lot of trouble not having to go through our system. As the missionary was a good friend of Mr Conger’s I know that he would probably insist that I provide a military escort. We don’t consider you Limeys to be any real threat to our country right now, so I am sure my boss will approve of you conveying the rock to Tientsin.’

  ‘Consider it done,’ Robert said, extending his hand. ‘A favour on behalf of Her Majesty’s government to former rebels.’

  Simpson smiled. It was only seventy-five years since Britain and the USA had exchanged angry shots in war.

  The following morning, Robert reported to the United States legation and took possession of the stone dragon. On the train travelling to Tientsin he examined the rock, with its fossil bones clearly to be seen. Robert shook his head. Simpson had been right. There was nothing remarkable about either the rock or the fossil and it would no doubt end up in some museum or simply be used as an interesting paperweight. Why would a man facing probable death go to such drastic measures to have the sample sent to Pekin? He mused on the question as the steam train rattled its way east towards the Chinese coast. The stone dragon was an apt name, Robert thought. This was China: a land where such spiritual creatures ruled the minds of the people. He once heard someone say that China itself was a sleeping dragon – and the way things were shaping up with the Boxers he prayed that the dragon would remain asleep.

  Robert slipped the rock back into its cloth bag and placed it on the seat next to him. His mind was on other things – and foremost in his thoughts was Naomi Wong. The situation was growing worse by the day and he wished that he could be with her at this very moment, rather than travelling to Tientsin. At least he had the assurance that he would be returning to Pekin as soon as his mission was over.

  Late May 1900

  Cairns and District

  Far North Queensland

  Andrew Wong laid the bank documents on the table. ‘What do I do?’ he asked.

  John fingered the papers by the light of a kerosene lantern. ‘They are not ours,’ he replied. ‘I suppose we have to get them back to their rightful owner.’

  ‘Easier said than done,’ Andrew said, slumping into an old but sturd
y chair in the corner of the compact office attached to the depot. Above his head a fat, almost translucent gecko screeched its challenge to others of his kind in the ceiling of exposed beams. The tiny crocodile-like creatures were fearsome in defence of their territory.

  John frowned. He had struggled with a decision and now the parchment before him seemed to be a strange omen of where his life must lead him. ‘I have something to tell you,’ John said. ‘I have decided that I should go to China to visit our office in Pekin.’

  Andrew was not surprised. He sensed that his father was wasting away worrying about Naomi and he was not a man to wait for a reply to any letter he might send requesting that she return to Queensland. He would rather go and personally fetch her. After all, a letter could easily be lost in transit. ‘I could take these papers back to China and somehow put them in the right hands.’

  ‘Then I will come with you,’ Andrew said quietly. ‘You are not getting any younger, and your knowledge of our language is a bit rusty.’

  ‘Our language?’ John asked, arching his eyebrow. ‘Our language is English.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Andrew hurried. ‘My mother’s language.’ Andrew’s mother could barely speak English when John married her and Andrew had spoken his first words in Chinese.

  ‘I would rather you returned to Scotland to finish your studies,’ John said. ‘I can take care of myself as I have done in the past before you were even born.’

  ‘I can always take a term off,’ Andrew reasoned. ‘And that would allow me to see the land of our ancestors.’

  John stared at his son for some time, considering the request.

  ‘Maybe that would be a good idea,’ John finally relented. ‘We can both bring back your sister.’

  First Class Constable Stanley Ogden was not a stupid man. Despite any formal education he had that rare ability of a good police officer to sniff out those who would attempt to break the law. He was a man hunter and to date no one had been able to elude him in the north.