by Tim Symonds
Above all, until you get to Peking, do not readily reveal you are a member of the medical profession. The only western doctors in China are missionaries. In much of China’s hinterland, if you are mistaken for a Christian missionary, I cannot guarantee your life. I have no idea whether you are a man of religious faith or entirely without, but I simply state the truth when I say the Chinese people suffer as much from the missionary onslaught as from all of Europe’s and America’s standing armies combined.’
He paused, then with a slight air of apology explained, ‘If I may speak bluntly, these missionaries are forcing their faith ever deeper into my country. They build their churches all over the place with no heed to our deep belief in Feng-shui. Not even our graves are dug until the geomancer has determined the exact spot, its orientation and design, yet with reference to nothing your Christians erect buildings of stone, with arches and tall spires pointing straight towards Heaven. Are you surprised these outposts of your Empires get blamed when the next outbreak of disease strikes the surrounding peasantry? The next famine? The next invasion of locusts? The next drought? Is it surprising that to the Chinese every foreigner is fair game?’
He continued, ‘They seek the overthrow of our traditional religions, Buddhism, Confucianism and Taoism. They even vilify each other in their scramble for Chinese souls. Do we send our priests wandering over the earth to destroy the gods of other peoples? The foreign prelates seem to believe we Chinese are an immoral, cruel and degraded race; that we are utterly dishonest opium-eaters and in every way depraved; and that only a forcible diffusion of Christianity can save our Empire from speedy and overwhelming ruin. They say our people believe more in ghosts, fox spirits, immortals and demons than a Creator, more in fate and destiny than either heaven or the soul.’
The indignant outburst was followed by a swift grin and pleasant nod in my direction. His eyes twinkled.
‘Dr. Watson, on rather more mundane matters. I ask your advice.’
He gestured at my Morning Suit.
‘It will be my first visit to Sherborne School. I wish to emulate an English gentleman. What attire should I arrive in to attend a cricket match?’
Tongue-in-cheek I replied, ‘If you wish to amuse the schoolboys, a black top-hat, frock-coat, high gaiters and a hunting-crop. However, something quieter might confound the young beggars. The weather’s still warm enough. I suggest flannel trousers and a blazer. Blue, green and red stripes are the fashion.’
I had only the day before purchased a fine boater for summer visits to the Gatwick Races, a ‘skimmer’ crafted from stiff sisal straw and finished with a smart black Petersham ribbon.
I continued, ‘As to a hat, a Panama boater. A stylish fino. Like the American President Theodore Roosevelt. I recommend the cool summer weave.’
‘Where would I acquire such a thing?’ he inquired.
‘Nowhere better than my own hatters, Lock & Co, St. James’s Street,’ I responded. ‘Also, while you’re making Englishmen of your sons, when you’re in Brighton you might pop into Blackwell’s Bookshop and buy the latest Wisden’s, the Cricketers’ Almanack. Wisden’s is the ‘bible’ for every player of the British Empire’s favourite game.’
With a polite ‘I shall pay both Lock’s and Blackwell’s Bookshop a visit, thank you for the suggestions,’ the General turned to the others, bowed, exchanged hand-shakes, turned once more to salute me and made his exit.
Outside, a posse of bodyguards in leopardskin-patterned uniforms came running and fell in around him. Through the window we watched the gaggle progress across the short bridge like the ducks on the lake’s placid waters.
At a nod from Sir Edward Grey, the War Minister turned to me.
‘Dr. Watson, Sir Edward and I are about to take you into our deepest confidence. Indisputably your medical advice will be of great value to the Yuán’s New Army but there would be an additional dimension to your journey. The General’s request is fortuitous from England’s strategic point of view. As Sir Edward will now explain, it could affect the well-being of our entire presence in Asia. Britain’s possessions share a common border with China extending from Sinkiang to Yunnan yet we have no idea what goes on in the deeper reaches of the Middle Kingdom, disposition of garrisons, communications, roads, railways, that sort of thing. Even which mountain passes are kept cleared in the depths of winter.
We know nothing of the interior except along stretches of the Yangtze nor even which Powers keen to rival the British Empire in reach and authority are up to no good there. His Majesty’s Government needs to know a great deal more about the situation from within. We know the Russian Tsar’s soldiers have been raiding and ransacking China’s provinces virtually at will. We haven’t the faintest inkling what the Japanese are up to, and not much about the Kaiser’s shenanigans either.’
Sir Edward stepped in.
‘Dr. Watson, England’s aim must be the containment of Petersburg and Berlin. Our bellicose friend, the German Kaiser, is spearheading a scramble for colonies everywhere. He seeks territorial aggrandisement no matter the cost. If his armies are to succeed, Germany must have access to strategic supplies far beyond those of Europe. We want to discover how China will react to his aggression. We may need to bolster her, guarantee her security.’
‘But surely our diplomats keep you informed?’ I responded.
Haldane and Grey exchanged rueful looks.
‘We have diplomats, indeed,’ Haldane replied. ‘But few diplomats and traders leave their enclaves. They huddle together in Shanghai and other Treaty Ports. As a source of information they are of limited value. Nor are they especially welcome to the locals. The Chinese refer to them as Xi Yang Guizi - western foreign devils.’
The War Minister crossed to the wall-map. He pointed to England’s South coast.
‘Start your journey at the port of Dover as though taking an ordinary holiday. To muddy your tracks, put the word out you plan to spend the season in Ostend attending the motor race and the chess championship. You can say you have a posse of rich and famous patients awaiting your ministrations there, hence taking a medical bag and quantities of medicines. We can assure you every dispatch of a sensitive nature telegraphed back to London will be placed solely in Sir Edward’s and my hands.’
As a former Army officer I had my own special interest in keeping to the savage route outlined for me by General Yuán. Ever since seeing a Han dynasty bronze statuette of a Gansu Flying Horse I had wanted to discover the homeland of the famed Ferghana horse. A revered myth proclaimed it a relative of the dragon. Indeed, all wonderful horses, such as the steed of the pious Hsüan-tsang which carried the sacred scriptures from India, were avatars of dragons. In antiquity the tallest horses owned by a Chinaman were called simply ‘dragons’, legendary creatures in Chinese folklore symbolizing potent and auspicious powers, particularly control over water, rainfall, typhoons, and floods.
The War Minister left Duck Island Cottage first. A few minutes later the Foreign Secretary and I followed him out. We strolled along the edge of the lake. Two pelicans, the gift of a Russian Ambassador, and a crane with a wooden leg returned our gaze. Sir Edward, a known ornithologist, pointed an arm as though discussing the pelicans.
‘The scramble for Africa is almost over. The scramble for China has just begun. Certain Old China Hands - former tai-pans - will never be satisfied until we have made the Sacred Earth And Divine Land a part of the British Empire, a second India. They say Imperial China is going to pieces anyway. She is the sick woman of Asia who might crumble into dust at any moment. We English should slice up the melon. Every week memorials to this effect pour into my office from our manufacturing towns, from Huddersfield, Leeds, Liverpool, Bradford, Halifax. For them the extinction of China is a fact in the natural order of things. In the British order of things.’
‘Surely you can prevent any such moves...?’
‘Perha
ps, but it won’t be easy. For half a century a fundamental clash of opinions has existed between the mercantile and the official British Government policy toward China. Our own citizenry in Guangzhou, Shanghai and Weihaiwei plus an assortment of missionaries, merchants, military, customs officers and journalists want to hitch themselves to a path of imperial glory. To them China is a landscape as much inviting exploitation as the American Wild West. I don’t believe you got as far as China in your army days. They are a singular people, quite different from the peoples of the Indian sub-Continent. We have traded with India since 1600. Underlying that relationship is a mutual respect - the Indian for the power of our guns and ships, the English for Mughal architecture and the kaleidoscope of colour. From the English language to cricket, the legacy of the British Raj will forever be a part of Indian identity.
Not so China. Her scholars pride themselves on treating strangers from afar with courtesy and consideration but despite the politeness of your reception you will sense deep-rooted and far-reaching contempt for the barbarian. Behind our backs China accuses us, rightly enough, of concern solely for material profit or bargaining for our places in Heaven by rummaging around for Chinese souls. They say the British are audacious and treacherous, and that we know nothing of the ‘Five Duties Of Man’: loyalty, piety, harmony, duty and ceremony, wisdom and good faith. They are convinced every Englishman carries crafty plans in his pocket threatening the Chinese Empire with the gravest danger.’
My companion pulled out a pocket-watch. It was time for parting words.
‘We shall of course cover all your costs. You must take care, Dr. Watson. Under the influence of Russian nihilism a period of assassination has begun in China. Haldane was right to say you embark on a dangerous enterprise. England can only wish you well.’
‘I shall take care,’ I assured him. ‘After all, my time in Afghanistan was hardly...’
‘Quite so,’ Sir Edward broke in. ‘We must hope Commandant Yuán builds an army so powerful no more adventurist Powers will try their luck at gulping his country down their maw.’
As though these words broadcast a signal, the six-cylinder Napier drew up at the bottom of the Charles Steps. The same smartly dressed chauffeur saluted even before the great horseless carriage came to a stop. Grey acknowledged the arrival and said, ‘Dr. Watson, one last thing, what do you think of the expression The Yellow Peril or The Yellow Spectre?’
I knew the swaggering Kaiser Wilhelm had coined the phrase ‘yellow peril’ in the 1890s following a dream in which he saw the Buddha riding a dragon threatening Europe. England was not immune to such irrational fears. Punch magazine ran cartoons and poetic stanzas of impeccable offensiveness about high-ranking Chinese visitors: ‘With his eyes aslant, and his pigtail’s braid/Coiled neatly round his close-shaved head...’
I replied that Sherlock Holmes and I were well acquainted with the opium dens beyond the Tower of London and there were no more than a dozen such smoking establishments in the whole of Limehouse. As to a Trojan Horse, ‘the enemy within’, I doubted if there were more than 800 Chinese in the whole of England.
‘Good,’ he returned. ‘Such nonsense. Three years ago when the Kaiser met King Edward in Kiel he ranted on about the Yellow Peril. He termed it ‘The greatest peril menacing Christendom and European civilization’.’
***
The chauffeur had stayed seated in the Napier with the engine running. He jumped out to hand me a letter accompanied by a small package. They were, he told me, from ‘Mr. Holmes’. The writing seemed familiar though it was not Sherlock Holmes’s but his brother Mycroft’s. The envelope bore the imprimatur ‘The Diogenes Club’. The Diogenes was located in London’s famous ‘clubland’ - Pall Mall and St. James’s. To readers who are not conversant with this unusual and secretive gentlemen’s club, I can best offer Sherlock Holmes’s own words:
‘My brother Mycroft was one of the founders, and I have myself found it a very soothing atmosphere. It is named after Diogenes the Cynic. There are many men in London who, some from shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for the company of their fellows. Yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the latest journals and The Times. It is for the convenience of these that the Diogenes Club was started. It now contains the most unsociable and unclubable men in town. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one. Save in the Stranger’s Room, under no circumstances is talking allowed. Three such offences render the talker liable to expulsion.’
For those unfamiliar with Mycroft Holmes, it will serve to describe him in the terms I used in The Sword of Osman:
‘The elder by seven years, Mycroft Holmes holds an important if ill-defined position in His Majesty’s Government. He dwells in the self-contained world of Whitehall, his office within an isosceles triangle bounded by Whitehall, Pall Mall and the Diogenes Club. His reach as puppet-master is immense.’
I recorded Sherlock Holmes’s description of him in The Bruce-Partington Plans:
‘Mycroft has the tidiest and most orderly brain, with the greatest capacity for storing facts, of any man living. The same great powers which I have turned to the detection of crime he has used for this particular business. The conclusions of every department are passed to him, and he is the central exchange, the clearinghouse, which makes out the balance.’
***
I placed Mycroft Holmes’s letter and the small package in my pocket and bid the chauffeur goodbye. I walked back to my medical practice by a circuitous route past Buckingham Palace. I would be returning to the furthest reaches of Asia after a gap of more than twenty-five years. The blue beret of the Army Medical Department was tucked away in my old tin-box, the cap badge with the regimental motto In Arduis Fidelis still attached.
En route I stood a while on the Serpentine Bridge contemplating the task ahead, staring down at the placid waters of the boating lake, the surface covered with the eager heads of a hundred waterfowl looking up to me for bits of bread - Mandarin, Gadwall, Shoveler, Pochard, Tufted and Ruddy, and Little and Great Crested Grebes. I murmured the words of Rudyard Kipling’s Kim: ‘Now I shall go far and far into the North, playing the Great Game...’
Alas, those who helped Kim were long up in the Great Beyond - Mahbub Ali, Ghilzai Pashtun, horse trader and spy for the British, Lispeth, the Woman of Shamlegh, Huneefa, the sorceress who performed a devil invocation ritual to protect Kim. Nevertheless I would cross Kim’s path along the Great Trunk Road, and seek out the River of the Arrow.
At the Wigmore Street Post-Office I sent a telegram to Sherlock Holmes suggesting I pop down to his farmstead. I didn’t want to set off for what could be my last journey on earth without some sort of farewell. I would refrain from mentioning my impending adventure. I would merely say I had newspaper clippings for him.
A package from the War Department awaited me at the surgery. It contained a T-square, a pair of dividers, a military protractor, a calliper-gauge, a supply of cartridge paper, and a fine Gibbin’s horseman’s folding Combination knife with saw blade, corkscrew, a hoof pick, a pair of tweezers and a pin. At the earliest quiet moment, I reached into a pocket and took out Mycroft Holmes’s sealed envelope and the accompanying small packet.
The letter commenced,
‘The Diogenes November 6, 1906
Private & Confidential.
My dear Dr. Watson - You have accepted General Yuán’s invitation to help form a National Medical Corps. To ensure absolute secrecy we have opened a private account for you at Parr’s Bank rather than contacting your own bank, Cox’s. In all Capital cities on your route you will be able to obtain whatever funds you need. You might start by calling on a few pocketsful of Spanish colonial Mexican dollars. They are widely in use in China.
When you reach the Forbidden City at the end of your journey you will be introduced to Cixi, the huang taihou. Do not be taken in by the unassuming title ‘Empress Dowage
r’ as though she lives tucked away in a small dowager house on the edge of the estate. She is the powerhouse of the Middle Kingdom, the dynamic brain. By her own intelligence and the force of her will she has triumphed over conspiracies, poisonings, arbitrary and whimsical executions, torture and Palace intrigues. All this in a culture which despises the feminine and offers women nothing but contempt.
Once you set off, communication with England will necessarily be slow and increasingly open to misuse. As the capital of our own vast Empire, London is the rumour-monger city of the world. Even I cannot take a step in the tangle-web of Whitehall without tripping over some other nation’s spies. For our peace of mind about your well-being, please route all communications - even personal ones addressed to my brother Sherlock - through the Diplomatic pouches to the Political & Secret Department (L/P&S/20) at the India Office. That will ensure they find their way free from prying eyes!
I hope you will permit me to offer thoughts gleaned from three decades of contact with experienced China Hands, all free trade and Armstrong guns. The species spends a great deal of time on leave at the Diogenes Club.
As you have already been warned, in his heart the Oriental despises the European. Do not expect to be greeted with open arms. Every inhabitant of the eighteen provinces believes China is the centre of civilization and power, his language and customs the only ones worthy of attention from native Chinaman and ‘barbarian’ alike. Few Englishman visit fabled Cathay with any other intent than to convert, trade, rule or fight. From coolie to Mandarin to the ruling High Court every Chinese actively dislikes our soldiers, our sailors, our missionaries, our officials, our merchants, our manner and our style. In return we accuse China of ineradicable Oriental ingratitude.
