Who was he, and where was he? The light returned to John’s world. He was confused and had little memory of either who he was or where he had found himself.
‘He is waking,’ a distant voice said from what seemed to be miles away.
It was a female voice, one he vaguely remembered, but his peaceful world was rudely shaken by the sound of scattered rifle fire followed by the crump of something exploding. The sounds and stench he was becoming aware of brought back vague but unpleasant memories.
‘Pekin,’ he whispered hoarsely through dry and cracked lips. He felt a cool cloth on his brow.
‘Do not try to sit up,’ the soothing voice said as John slowly opened his eyes. ‘I will give you water to drink.’
John flinched when the light came back into his world and illuminated a face hovering over his.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, staring at the pretty young woman. ‘I think that I know you.’
‘I am Elizaveta,’ she said with an expression of concern.
‘Where am I?’ John asked, accepting the water being dribbled into his mouth. He felt so weak that he had trouble swallowing.
‘You were brought to the hospital when Lieutenant Mumford found you,’ Liza said. ‘Your wounds were infected and you have been delirious. I thought that you might die.’
‘When was I brought here?’ John asked, slowly remembering parts of nightmares and dreams that must have been real events in his life.
‘You have been here eight days,’ Liza answered.
Despite her protests John struggled to sit up in the hospital bed and lean against the wall behind him. When he gazed around he saw many soldiers and from their bandages realised they were casualties of a war.
‘I am in Pekin, China,’ John said softly. ‘There is something happening and I have met you before,’ he continued.
Liza nodded. ‘Have you lost some memories?’
‘I think so,’ John replied, turning his attention to the woman tending him. ‘How did we meet?’
‘We met here,’ Liza replied sadly. ‘When you were first wounded. You do not remember our meeting?’
‘I wish I could,’ John answered, shaking his head sadly. ‘Do you know why I am here? I vaguely recall that this place is not home.’
‘You came to Pekin with your son, Andrew, to find your daughter, Naomi,’ Liza replied.
‘My son and daughter,’ John repeated. ‘Where are they now?’
‘I think that you should rest and take some soup before you wear yourself out,’ Liza said. ‘I will inform the doctor that you have regained consciousness and that your fever has broken.’
Liza turned her back on her patient and walked away, forcing back the tears. How could she tell this man who was fortunate to be alive that his son had been reported missing just hours before John had regained consciousness? How could she tell this man she had strong feelings for, that he had lost a daughter, and now his son? Liza had learned that a Chinese convert had informed Dr Morrison that he had seen the young man – well known to them for his dedicated service to the sick and injured – slip beyond the defensive barricades and disappear into the Boxer-held territory beyond. In Morrison’s opinion, to do so had been suicidal.
‘Please, God, help me,’ she prayed as she went in search of the overworked doctor on duty that day.
Blood streamed down Andrew’s forehead into his eyes as he attempted to rise from the hard earth but felt the butt of a rifle drive him down again.
‘I have a pass,’ he groaned. ‘I have a pass from your general.’
The bashing ceased and Andrew became aware of what seemed to be a sea of legs all around him in the dimly lit room, smelling of sweat, urine and rotting bodies. They had snatched him from the street in the dark and dragged him into a building before he could even explain that he was in possession of a pass. The beating had commenced at once and Andrew knew that a mere scrap of parchment was the only thing between him and a painful death.
‘Rice bowl Christian,’ a voice snarled. ‘You expect us to believe you when you do not even sound like a true son of the soil. Soon, when we have tired of hurting you, we will take your head and collect our reward. You were seen coming from the foreign devil’s compound.’
Andrew removed the pass, holding it out to his tormentor who snatched it from his hand.
‘What does it say?’ he heard the voice of his chief torturer ask, handing the pass now blotted with Andrew’s blood to another Boxer warrior who could obviously read.
‘It is a pass granted by the general,’ the man said with just a touch of awe.
‘How do I know that you are not lying?’ the man snarled. ‘How do I know that you did not steal this pass from someone else?’
Andrew lifted his head, and staring up at his tormentor saw a pockmarked face scarcely concealing a deep cruelty. ‘There is one of you who can vouch for the authenticity of the pass,’ Andrew said, aware that the eyes boring into him were those of the devil himself. ‘His name is Tung Chi, a former Shaolin priest who I believe is of some standing in your cause.’
‘Tung Chi,’ the man said. ‘You claim to know him?’
‘I do,’ Andrew replied, knowing that his life hung in the balance.
He was cursing himself for his foolish, impulsive act of leaving the barricades to go in search of his sister. But the grief of losing Liling and learning of his father being hospitalised had made Andrew consider the situation. In the balance it appeared they were most likely to be overrun, as there had been no indication of a relief force coming to their rescue, and Andrew had decided to at least take the risk of using the pass to find Naomi. After all, that is why he and his father had risked their lives. Now, it seemed that once too often he had gambled against the odds on succeeding.
‘Honourable commander Han,’ a warrior said. ‘This man has the same family name as the woman you kept, according to what is written on the pass.’
Andrew thought that he saw the man called Han blink, but he did not take his attention from him.
‘You have the same accent as woman called Naomi Wong,’ Han said. ‘Are you her husband?’
At the mention of Naomi’s name, Andrew experienced a fleeting moment of happiness.
‘I am her brother,’ he replied softly.
‘Then you are an enemy of the people,’ Han said with a satisfied smirk. ‘You can expect no mercy.’
‘Honourable Commander Han,’ the soldier who held the pass said. ‘I think that it would be wise to inform Commander Tung that we have this man as a prisoner.’
Han turned slowly to stare at the warrior who had dared suggest a course of action to him, contemplating the option of slowly killing the man at his feet. It was possible that having this man in his custody might assist in bringing the former Shaolin priest down. All he had to do was think of an angle to approach the challenge of disgracing Tung. Han returned his attention to Andrew and the Boxer adviser breathed once again; it did not help one’s life expectancy to upset Commander Han.
‘Why did you risk your life leaving your defences?’ Han asked. ‘Did you come to spy?’
‘No,’ Andrew answered. ‘I had hoped to see my sister, Honourable Commander.’
‘I know your sister,’ Han said with a cruel smirk. ‘She has been of great assistance to the morale of my men on many occasions.’
Andrew felt a sudden rage grip him. Oh, how he wished that he had kept the pistol and could now ram it into that pockmarked face and pull the trigger. But he also knew his only hope of surviving the next few minutes was to kowtow to his captor’s whims.
‘It is good that she is of service,’ Andrew replied, forcing back the rising bile in his throat. ‘Is there a chance that I may see my sister?’
‘I would grant you that wish, dog,’ Han hissed. ‘But she is the prisoner of the Shaolin priest you say you know.’
Andrew heard Han’s words and felt a hope rise to wash away the bile. If what Han said was true then maybe Naomi was in safe hands after all. ‘I beg you to let me live to see my sister, Honourable Commander,’ Andrew said, feigning subservience. ‘I can see that you are a man much respected by your men.’
Han knew that his captive’s words were motivated by fear rather than any respect for him, but this did not matter. He still held the foreigner’s life in his hands. ‘It is possible that I will grant you time to see your sister before I execute you,’ Han said. ‘I will take you to Commander Tung on one condition only. To refuse me will mean a slow death without ever seeing your sister again.’
‘I will do whatever you say,’ Andrew answered, sensing that his life would be spared.
Han turned to his adviser and spoke to him while Andrew remained on the ground. He remained thus for some minutes until Han ordered him to his feet, directing him to a small table.
‘Sit down and sign this paper,’ Han said, thrusting a sheet of paper in front of him.
Andrew perused the freshly written document. Although it was in Chinese he could follow the script and paled under the blood streaming down his face. ‘This is not true,’ he said softly.
Han leaned forward into Andrew’s face. ‘It is true, if you sign it,’ he said with a stony face. ‘The choice is either your signature or your death in a way that will have you screaming to be killed quickly.’
A quill dipped in ink was placed before him. Andrew stared for a moment at the pen. He may as well have picked up a knife or gun for what he was being asked to do.
‘You will not be killed if you sign,’ Han said. ‘After all, I will need you to corroborate your story before the general.’
Andrew reached for the quill and held it above the parchment. He knew that by signing he was sentencing Tung to death but the memory of the great Chinese library burning helped him decide although he knew that he was being forced to choose between his former friend and his sister. As Andrew applied the ink to the paper he thought he saw the slightest glimmer of a smile on Han’s face.
‘Now you will see your sister,’ Han said, slipping the signed document from the table. ‘And I will make an appointment with the Honourable General. I am sure that he will be unpleasantly surprised to see what you have told us about the Honourable Commander Tung’s treachery.’
Andrew suddenly felt violently sick and could not prevent himself from vomiting on the floor.
‘The boys was wonderin’ when you was returning,’ Private Larry Gilles said.
‘Er, as soon as possible,’ John dutifully replied, to humour the tall, broad-shouldered young soldier standing by his bed.
‘The Lootenant agrees with the boys that you are lucky for our section,’ Private Gilles continued. ‘We have been takin’ a hammering on the line. But I should let you get some rest so I will see you soon, Mr Wong.’ John took the young soldier’s hand and felt his strong grip. ‘So long, Mr Wong. Be seeing you soon.’
‘I obviously know him,’ John said to Liza, who had returned to his side at every possible opportunity since he had regained his senses three days earlier. She had told him how he had lapsed in and out of his fever, drinking and taking a little food, seemingly oblivious to all around him. And it was only when the fever fully abated that he appeared to be conscious of the world around him, but without any real memory of the past.
John’s next visitor was his compatriot Dr Morrison, who seemed to accept John’s lack of memory.
‘Our Chinese converts found an old artillery piece,’ Morrison said, sitting by John’s bed and briefing him on events since his admission to the hospital. ‘Sergeant Mitchell from the US contingent has been able to get it working and we recovered the Russian shells from a well where they had been dumped. The calibre was just about right and the old gun has caused the Chinese a few headaches. We do not understand why the Chinese army has not brought up his best gunners and guns to finish us off and I suspect that they are deployed to stop any reinforcements reaching us. But the Imperial troops and Boxers are continuing to build barricades further each day and many of our converts are trying to flee, poor devils. They usually end up as mutilated corpses floating in the river. Our Japanese allies have been fighting superbly,’ Morrison continued. ‘Of all our contingents I think they have suffered the hardest blows. Their Colonel Shiba is a remarkable man.’
‘I have a son, Dr Morrison,’ John said, cutting the informal briefing short. ‘Do you know him?’
Morrison sat back in his chair and cleared his throat. ‘Your son, Andrew, is a fine young man who has provided sterling service in the last week or so tending to the Chinese in the Fu.’
‘Could you get a message to my son that I would like to see him?’ John asked.
Morrison looked uncomfortable. ‘I am afraid that your son was last seen slipping out of the legation yesterday, in the late evening hours,’ Morrison answered.
‘Would not that be extremely dangerous?’ John asked.
Morrison looked away. ‘I cannot answer that question, Mr Wong. Nothing has come to me through my sources to report his death.’
‘I must find him and my daughter, who I have been told is also a captive of the Chinese,’ John said, staring at the fly-specked ceiling of the improvised ward he shared with many other wounded soldiers.
‘Well, Mr Wong, Miss Gurevich has informed me that you are getting well very quickly,’ Morrison said, rising to his feet.
‘Why is it that I do not remember so much?’
Morrison paused. ‘I have heard a theory that the constant stress of facing death, coupled with a severe illness, can cause a block to our memory,’ he said. ‘But, with good food, treatment and rest I am sure your memory will return, Mr Wong.’
‘Thank you, doctor,’ Liza said, taking over. ‘I will ensure that he receives all three.’
Morrison picked up his rifle. ‘I know he is in good hands,’ Morrison said and walked away leaving John alone with Liza.
‘You should sleep,’ she said gently.
John closed his eyes. When he next opened them it was dark and humid and he realised that he had slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep. When he turned his head he could see Liza sitting in a chair by his bed, her eyes closed.
‘Liza,’ John called softly.
She woke with a start. ‘What is it?’ she asked, bending over him.
John suddenly pulled Liza’s face down to his, and kissed her with a passion that came from the heart. ‘I remember,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘I remember the kiss.’
Liza gasped, attempting to pull away, but he drew her down onto the bed where he kissed her again. She did not resist, surrendering to her feelings. Then, straightening up, she brushed down her dress, pleased that the ward was so dimly lit.
‘It is obvious that your memory has returned,’ she said with her own gentle smile.
‘I remember everything,’ John said softly. ‘And I know why I am here. Tomorrow, I am leaving the hospital.’
Robert sat at his battered desk in what was left of his quarters. Sweat dripped onto the sheets of paper laid out on the desk. The last thing he wanted to do was write a report for Sir Claude when he would rather have accepted an invitation to dinner with the American Conger family. But an unexpected truce had been called by the Chinese, and Sir Claude wanted a report on the situation as it stood for the defenders. Robert, like many others, was at a loss to understand why the Chinese would want a truce. Was it possible that advancing European forces had forced the Empress and her army to reconsider their situation? But one never knew with the Chinese mind, Robert thought, shaking his head. They were not as predictable as many of the European community had presumed.
Glossy black flies crawled over his exposed flesh and the British officer was only too aware of why they were so fat. He brushed them away with a sense of disgust and leaned back in the chair, attempting to dismiss the ever-constant stench of rotting bodies that pervaded the hot, summer air. Two mines buried under the French legation buildings by Chinese sappers had exploded earlier in the week, forcing the French soldiers to give up two-thirds of their territory. The defences were shrinking every day, with no sign of help from the outside world.
The tough and courageous Japanese soldiers had been forced to pull out of the line for badly needed rest and, while they were recovering, the defences were vulnerable.
The damned, demented Nestergaard had succeeded in going over to the enemy lines, where he was welcomed. It seemed that the Chinese had a respect for mad men. After a hearty meal supplied by the enemy, the missionary had informed the Chinese soldiers that they were firing too high, along with providing them with the latest information on the layout of the defences. The Chinese marksmen had since rectified that situation and the casualties mounted behind the barricades. Many in the legation wanted Nestergaard shot as a traitor when he was returned unharmed, but Robert had joined those defending him, saying that it was not cricket to shoot a mad man.
Robert glanced at the loose sheets of papers submitted to him from the hospital. It was the casualty list and two names on it made the British officer sigh. Both were men he knew well. One was young Henry Warren, a British student interpreter with the civil service who had been hit in the face by shrapnel from an exploding artillery shell while serving alongside the Japanese in the Fu. Robert had heard how the doctors had fought to save his life on the operating table but a bone from his shattered face had slipped into his throat and even a tracheotomy had not been successful. Polly Condit-Smith would miss him, Robert mused, remembering how many times before the siege he had seen the two dancing together under the Chinese lanterns.
A fellow officer, Captain Strouts, was listed as killed in action. Below his name was that of Dr George Morrison with the initials WIA – wounded in action. Again, it was a situation Robert knew about from eye witnesses. Strouts and Morrison had accompanied the British relief force to replace the Japanese in the Fu and while returning with the Japanese commander, Colonel Shiba, had run into a hail of enemy rifle fire. A bullet had ripped into Morrison’s thigh, shattering his thigh bone, while Strouts fell mortally wounded into the Japanese officer’s arms. A bullet tearing the artery in his thigh caused Strouts to bleed to death three hours later in the hospital, where he had been carried by a stretcher party under heavy fire.
Robert neatly drew up columns on a sheet of paper and added each man’s name as either military or civilian, officer or enlisted man, dead or wounded.
When his report was completed, there was little time to reflect on finding a meal and getting some badly needed sleep before accepting the American diplomat’s invitation. At least Robert knew that he would be eating something other than horse meat at the Congers’ table. They had their own cache of tinned food and with any luck Robert might get to eat tinned fruit.
Despite his pass from General Tung Fu-hsiang, Andrew was treated as a hostile prisoner by Han. He was force-marched along darkened streets through Chinese military formations until they reached the Forbidden City, the palaces of the Empress. He was taken through lavish, ornate gardens until they reached a building surrounded by heavily armed guards who challenged Han and his warriors.
After a discussion with the guards, Han was admitted alone into the building that Andrew guessed, from the activity he observed around him, was being used as a military headquarters. His head throbbed from the rifle butt blows but the blood had dried forming a scab on his scalp.
A short time later Han returned, gesturing to Andrew to follow him inside and, although he was not bound, Andrew realised that escape was impossible in the streets teeming with Imperial troops and Boxers. He followed Han through avenues of armed guards until they reached an anteroom decorated with murals of Chinese rural scenes. The room was lit with braziers that cast eerie, flickering shadows in the corners.
‘Get down on your knees,’ Han hissed, prostrating himself at the same time.
Andrew obeyed, ensuring that his eyes were fixed on the marble floor. Then, the feared Chinese general entered the room and Han’s plot to have his hated opponent removed was set in motion.
‘This is the man who has sworn the statement that Commander Tung is a traitor to our cause?’ the general asked.
‘Yes, most Honourable General,’ Han replied, kowtowing respectfully. ‘My unit captured him attempting to make contact with Commander Tung. He carried a pass purporting to be granted by you.’
‘Let me see the pass.’
Han quickly produced the now crumpled piece of paper and handed it to one of the general’s staff. It was in turn passed to the general, who had now sat himself in an ornate chair raised on a small dais.
‘I know of this pass,’ the general said. ‘But why is it that this foreigner should confess to a statement condemning Commander Tung as a traitor?’ he asked in a menacing tone.
Han suddenly felt a chill of fear. Had he overstepped his mark in getting the captured man to lie? After all, he was attempting to discredit one of the general’s own blood. Now, he wished that he could retrieve the statement and simply do away with the captured man for the price the Empress had secretly put on all captured and killed defenders from the legation.
‘I admit that I applied more than persuasive means to extract the confession from this man called Andrew Wong,’ Han said quickly, attempting to find a way out of a situation that was turning dangerously against him. Sweat had broken out on his brow despite the coolness of the marbled room. ‘I also thought it was a lie and that this unworthy dog was attempting to smear the good name of the honourable Tung Chi.’
The Chinese general stared hard at the Boxer commander. Trouble was breaking out between the Imperial troops of the Chinese army and the rebel Boxer units and such a rift could cause serious problems. Besides being a tactical soldier, the general was also a good politician. He suspected that the man before him had a deadly grudge against his nephew but at the same time he could not be seen to be playing favourites.
‘Does not Commander Tung currently hold a foreign woman in his care that you were forced to hand over?’ he now asked in a menacing tone that frightened the already terrified Boxer commander even more.
‘He does, most Honourable General,’ Han confirmed. ‘She is to be returned to me at first light tomorrow.’
‘You, prisoner,’ the General said, turning his attention to Andrew. ‘I have been told that this woman is your sister.’
‘She is, most Honourable General,’ Andrew replied, his eyes still downcast. ‘I was only attempting to find her.’
‘How do you explain this statement condemning Commander Tung?’ the general asked, waving the statement of written lies in the air.
‘Commander Han was so enthusiastic in his interrogation of me when I was first captured that I thought I would not see my sister so I made up the lies,’ Andrew said, knowing that for some reason he had to extract the odious Chinese captor out of this difficult situation for both their sakes. ‘The Honourable Commander Han is most obviously dedicated to the cause of freeing China and I bitterly regret saying those things when I consider Commander Tung a friend.’
‘A friend,’ the general growled. ‘How is it that my nephew knows you?’
‘My father and I assisted Commander Tung when he was in the Land of the Golden Mountain.’
‘He spoke of your help,’ the general said. ‘He said that you were a Western-trained doctor of medicine.’
Andrew did not think it wise to correct the feared Chinese general about his qualifications. A final year medical student was not a registered doctor. ‘I am,’ he lied once again.
‘I have need of medical men to treat my sick and wounded,’ the general said. ‘As a prisoner of the Empress, you will be supplied with medical supplies that we have captured from the missionary stations and go about the work of treating my men.’
‘Most Honourable General,’ Han said, attempting to hold onto the last scraps of whatever he could retrieve from the dangerous situation that he had put himself in. ‘The woman is to be returned to me.’
The general glowered at Han. ‘She remains with Commander Tung, and the prisoner will also be placed in his custody. You are dismissed, Commander Han, to return to your post on the lines.’
Kowtowing again, Han retreated from the room but as he passed Andrew he cast him a look that spelled death and Andrew had no doubt that he would have to protect his back at all times from this man.
‘Dr Wong,’ the general said when Han was out of the room, ‘you are now a prisoner, but will be treated with courtesy, so long as you comply with my wishes and directions from Commander Tung. He has told me how you risked much in your country to protect him and, more importantly, how you aided his mission. You will meet with your sister.’
Andrew could hardly believe how his fortunes had changed in a matter of minutes. He also realised that if not for his relationship with his former friend, Tung Chi, he would have been dead.
‘I thank you, most Honourable General,’ Andrew replied, kowtowing. ‘I promise on my life that I will carry out my sacred mission to assist the sick and wounded.’
‘Take Dr Wong to Commander Tung,’ the general said, turning to one of the aides standing by his elbow. ‘Make sure that he is kept safe at all times.’
The general left the room, followed by his staff of uniformed army officers. How strange it was, Andrew thought, that he could not hate all these people who were seen by the Europeans at the besieged legation as being little more than barbaric savages. That he was granted the respect of a healer meant a lot to Andrew, and he had no concern that he would be treating the sick and wounded of a people considered the enemy. He was, after all, a doctor in their eyes.
But as he was being escorted from the palace to meet with Tung, Andrew felt more nervous than frightened. Soon Tung would come to learn of his betrayal. How would he react?
A huge, well-fed dog nosed among the scattered bones in front of the legation barricades. It snatched a thigh bone and scuttled away to enjoy the feast that the Europeans had provided in the vicious fighting.
Robert had joined many others who now dared raise their heads and scramble onto the top of the sandbags to survey the silent scene before them. The truce seemed to be holding, he mused, as many of the former enemy approached their positions without any sign of malice. When he looked back from his new perspective of the legation he noticed that many of the old, familiar landmarks were now little more than rubble. He spotted Kai, formerly Dr Morrison’s servant, approaching the lines and wearing the colourful uniform of a Boxer. He could see that the man, who had mysteriously disappeared during the fighting weeks earlier, had been wounded. Dried blood discoloured his uniform.
‘Kai,’ Robert called. ‘You old rascal. What are you doing in the uniform of our enemies?’
The old Chinese man, his face a mask of misery, looked up at the British officer.
‘Sir, it is good to see you,’ he replied.
‘Why is it that you are wearing the uniform of our enemy?’ Robert repeated.
‘I went to see my cousin in the city,’ Kai answered. ‘I thought that he might have food but he turned me over to the Boxers and they made me fight with them. But now I want to return to my master, Dr Morrison.’
‘Dr Morrison has been seriously wounded,’ Robert chided. ‘Because you were not there to defend him.’
Kai’s face crumpled. ‘I, too, have been wounded,’ the old man whined. ‘I must go to my master.’
‘You would not do that, you old scoundrel,’ Robert said. ‘Unless you knew something of importance.’
Kai screwed up his wizened face. ‘The Boxers and the army are sick of fighting, and we have heard that great battles have been fought from the Taku forts to Tientsin. Many are being sent to fight there.’
The news caused Robert to take a deep breath. From what the old servant had said it appeared a force was indeed fighting its way towards them and, for an instant, he felt no need to punish the old man for his treachery; he had relayed the best news he had received in all the time of the siege. The vital intelligence had been unwittingly relayed. ‘You can enter and go to Dr Morrison,’ Robert said gruffly.
It was time to pass on the valuable information to Sir Claude MacDonald. Robert had already calculated that their siege was far from over but now there was hope – so long as they held out in the legation and wisely ignored the pleas of the enemy to leave.
Sitting with his back to a tree inside the legation, John leaned on his rifle, staring blankly at the soldiers and civilians who passed by. He was tired and despondent. The killing never ceased and he doubted that the truce would last. Andrew was missing – just as Naomi was – somewhere in the city. At least with the truce he had the opportunity to plan a way of resuming his search.
‘John.’
He snapped from his reverie to focus on Liza. From the weary expression and dark circles under her eyes he could see the siege was taking its toll on her. ‘Liza,’ he said with a faint smile. ‘Would you like to sit down with me and share the shade?’
Liza sat beside John on the dry earth under the bulletpocked tree. ‘I have heard about Andrew and Liling,’ she said. ‘I am sorry for your loss.’
‘If I know my son,’ John said, ‘he is still alive, having talked his way out of any trouble, and in time will rejoin us.’
‘Why did he leave?’ Liza asked, turning to gaze at the profile of the man who seemed to occupy her thoughts more and more each day.
‘He was searching for his sister,’ John sighed, leaning back against the substantial trunk of the tree. ‘It is funny how much they used to fight when they were young, but he was the most protective brother any sister could have.’
‘I have read a notice on the board at the Bell Tower that a combined force of 11,000 troops are on their way to relieve us,’ she said. ‘Colonel Shiba was able to get a messenger through to Tientsin and back with the good news. It will not be long before we will be relieved and you will be able to go in search of your son and daughter.’
‘I will not wait that long,’ John said softly. ‘I am only here for one purpose.’ He ceased speaking when he noticed the look of hurt cross Liza’s face. ‘But I would like you to leave with us when we return to Queensland.’
‘I could not do that,’ Liza said, looking away from John.
‘Why not?’ John asked. ‘What is holding you back?’
‘It is something that you would not understand,’ Liza replied, not daring to look at him.
‘I love you,’ John said, grasping Liza by the shoulders. ‘I would like to share the rest of my life with you.’
Liza shook off John’s hands and stood up. He could see tears streaming down her face which she attempted to wipe away with the back of her sleeve. ‘I must return to the hospital,’ she said. ‘And you must pursue your foolish idea of going in search of your son and daughter when the situation is still so dangerous.’
Liza walked away. Was she so unimportant that this man who professed to love her would risk getting himself killed and still expect her to believe he really loved her? The memory of another young man from a time not so long ago flooded her thoughts. He had chosen to enlist and fight in Cuba against the Spanish. Had he not promised to return and wed her? But all he found in his choice was a grave on foreign soil. She was no longer a young girl but a mature woman and had learned that men such as her former fiancé, and now John Wong, were men who chose to face death without much thought for those whom they loved and left behind.
John watched Liza walk away and was confused. He cursed himself. What had he said that could cause Liza to doubt his love for her? ‘Talk to her, you bloody fool,’ he muttered to himself, and was just about to follow when he was surprised to see Kai at the end of the street. ‘Kai!’ he called.
The servant stopped walking and turned to face John who had caught up with him. ‘Mr Wong, it is good to see that you are well,’ Kai said, bowing respectfully.
‘Have you been in the city all the time that you were missing from here?’ John asked.
‘Yes, Mr Wong,’ Kai replied. ‘And I have seen your daughter, who is well, but I could not speak to her.’
‘You have seen my daughter!’ John gasped, grasping the little man by the shoulders. ‘When?’
‘Yesterday,’ Kai replied. ‘She is a prisoner of Commander Tung, but he treats her well.’
Tung! John knew that the name was held by many Chinese. And as far as he knew, his former travelling companion was also a high-ranking Boxer.
‘What do you know of this Commander Tung?’ John asked.
‘He is the general’s nephew and was once a revered Shaolin priest who speaks your language and has travelled beyond our lands.’
It had to be the same man, John exalted. If so, he must have discovered Naomi’s identity.
‘What of Master Andrew?’ John asked, but Kai shook his head. ‘Where did you see Miss Wong?’
‘She is being held by Commander Tung on the Street of Dragons,’ Kai answered. ‘But I think she may not be there now as the general has been ordered to take his troops to fight at Tientsin. Commander Tung will probably go with him and if so he will take Miss Wong also.’
‘Has the general left yet?’ John asked, holding his breath for the answer.
‘He left this morning when the truce was called,’ Kai said, noticing the expression of bitter disappointment sweep across the big Eurasian’s face. ‘But he might have left his prisoners behind,’ he hurried to add.
Andrew knew something was very wrong. On the way out of the general’s headquarters one of Han’s bodyguard had intercepted his escort. A heated discussion occurred that Andrew could not hear but the Boxer from Han’s bodyguard turned to the men escorting Andrew and barked, ‘Bind the prisoner.’
The guards immediately fell on him, securing his hands tightly behind his back with rope.
‘Am I to be taken to Commander Tung?’ Andrew asked Han’s man as he was pushed forward at the end of a bayonet.
‘It seems that the general is to leave the city for the front at Tientsin,’ Han’s bodyguard sneered triumphantly. ‘His influence is not so well established with the Boxer command here, and you are now Commander Han’s to dispose of. You can forget ever seeing your sister again.’
Andrew was propelled forward to slam into the hard earth.
‘Get up, dog of the barbarians,’ his guard snarled. ‘The Honourable Commander Han has a fate for you that will make you wish I had killed you with my bayonet.’
Struggling to his feet, Andrew felt the total despair of a man standing on the scaffold staring at the noose to be placed around his neck. Although he suspected hanging would have been a merciful death compared to what Han might have planned for him.
‘First, I will smash your knees,’ Andrew’s guard said with a cruel smile. ‘Then I will smash your elbows, before slinging you over a pot of boiling water, where I will lower you slowly into the pot. You will scream to be killed but I will ensure that you stay alive to feel the flesh peel from your bones before death eventually comes to you.’
Bound and helpless in the stifling heat of the room, Andrew broke into a sweat and fought to control his bowels lest they let go in his terror. He had already seen the large metal pot being set over timber and overheard the guards laying bets as to how long he would live when lowered into the boiling water. ‘Please, God, grant me mercy,’ Andrew prayed softly as his guard stood over him, stinking of sweat and fish.
Han had not appreciated his efforts to protect him before the general, Andrew thought bitterly. What kind of demon had his sister been forced to endure?
‘When?’ Andrew rasped.
‘When do I get to execute you for the Honourable Commander Tung?’ the guard asked. ‘As soon as the water boils.’
Andrew dared not look again through the narrow door at the pot being tended by Han’s soldiers in the courtyard littered with the rubbish of occupation. All he could do was to continue praying for a quick death.
‘Bring the prisoner,’ Han’s voice called from the courtyard.
The guard grabbed Andrew by the hair, pulling him to his feet. There was no point resisting, Andrew knew.
‘I can walk on my own,’ Andrew said to his guard.
He walked from the room into the blazing sunshine to see around twenty Boxers standing in a semi-circle around the pot, keen to observe the puppet of the foreign devils die a slow and agonising death. A solidly built Chinese soldier, stripped to the waist, swung a length of hard timber while two uniformed soldiers left the semi-circle, advancing on Andrew. When they reached him they untied his ropes and seized him by the arms. The Boxer with the length of timber approached and it was obvious that he was going to smash Andrew’s limbs. Casting desperately around him, Andrew sought a miracle to save his life, but all he saw was Han’s impassive face staring back at him. Andrew promised himself that he would not cry out for mercy, as that would be futile.
The two soldiers forced Andrew to the ground on his back and two more Boxers joined them to grip Andrew’s ankles, while the Boxer with the timber raised above his head loomed over him.
‘This is the death we grant those who would come to invade our sacred lands,’ Han orated to the assembled Boxers. ‘This man is of our blood, and like those dogs who accept the religion of the foreign devils among us, he will experience the death due to those who would sacrifice our children and drink their blood.’
A short silence followed and Andrew closed his eyes, preparing for the searing pain he knew would come when the timber connected with his knees. He could feel the vomit already rising in his throat.
The blow did not eventuate and Andrew opened his eyes. Rolling his head to the side, he could see through the legs of his guards many other legs on the other side of the courtyard. A heated conversation was underway between Han and an intruder backed by many men.
‘Get him to his feet,’ Andrew’s guard growled.
Andrew was hoisted grudgingly to his feet. The sun was in his eyes and he shaded his eyes to try to see the newcomers.
‘Bring the prisoner to me,’ a voice he recognised commanded.
Andrew wanted to cry with joy. He was propelled roughly forward, stumbling, his legs still devoid of strength as he recovered psychologically from how close he had come to an agonising death. Tung was dressed in a uniform of black and scarlet and on either side of his saviour were men similarly dressed and armed with modern rifles casually pointed at Han’s warriors.
‘He is my prisoner,’ Han spat at Tung’s feet. ‘I have deemed that he die in an appropriate manner befitting his crimes.’
‘He is my prisoner, on the directions of General Tung Fu-hsiang,’ Tung said. ‘I have come to claim him in the name of the Honourable General.’
‘The general is no longer in the city,’ Han sneered. ‘And you are a commander in the Boxer cause and not under the direct command of the Empress. You carry no more authority than me in these matters.’
‘You speak treachery, Commander Han,’ Tung said menacingly. ‘It is her will that we fight alongside our brothers in her army and the General is one of the Empress’s favourites. Would you dare question her authority?’
Han reddened to the point that Andrew thought the man might suffer a heart attack. Clearly Tung’s quiet authority was causing his opposite to lose face. That and the many guns facing Han’s warriors in the courtyard.
‘Take the man,’ Han finally relented, turning his back as if the matter was not really of any great importance.
Andrew was left standing alone. Without further ado, Tung ordered his men to take him with them. As they edged away from the confrontation with Han and his men, Tung appeared to ignore Andrew and continued to do so as they marched along the street. Andrew accepted being ignored. He was simply grateful that his former friend had saved his life.