The next evening the detachment from Tientsin, mainly sailors, arrived. They marched through the streets of Peking into the Legation Quarter with bayonets fixed, a fine sight. Yet their journey had not been uneventful. They had to be transported from their ships in the bay by lighters and other shallow-draught vessels past the Chinese forts guarding the River Pei Ho to the small river port of Tangku, from which they were able to entrain for Tientsin and travel on, via the now repaired railway, to the line terminal at Machiapu, just outside the walls of Peking. There, however, six thousand Muslim soldiers from the northern province of Kansu had been concentrated by the Chinese authorities to await the arrival of the foreign force.
Throughout that day, Fonthill and his companions had grown increasingly aware that the residents within the enclave did not share Sir Claude MacDonald’s sanguine view of events. Crowds could be heard in the streets outside the Legation walls chanting and shouting. It was said that many of the missionaries in their compounds out in the Chinese City had donned native dress, twisted their long hair into pigtails and prepared for flight.
It was a huge relief, then, when, at the last minute, the Kansu troops were withdrawn and the polyglot contingent was allowed to pass unmolested through to the Yung Ting Men, the main, gated entrance to the city, and then through the streets to the Quarter. In all, 337 officers and men, comprising guards specifically for the British, French, Italian, Japanese and Russian legations, marched in, led by a tiny contingent of the United States Marine Corps.
Fonthill and Jenkins watched them, silent among all the foreign residents around them who were waving and cheering the arrivals.
‘It’s not much, is it?’ sniffed Jenkins.
‘No, it’s not,’ Simon agreed. ‘And it’s a mixed bunch of nationalities, always difficult to command in action. Still, they look professional and I would back trained troops any day, however small, against a mob.’
A further contingent of fifty-two German and thirty-seven Austrian sailors arrived three days later and the presence of the troops had an almost magical effect on the city. The mobs outside the Quarter dispersed, the tension eased and those missionaries who had taken refuge within the Legation went back to their compounds in the city. Mrs Griffith, who with the rest of her party had attended the burial of her husband, began making plans to return home with her two sons.
Fonthill took advantage of this one evening to ask the old lady about Gerald. The young man had continually absented himself during the first days after their arrival, only returning for the evening meal at the hotel. Why, asked Simon, did he seem so antagonistic to his fellow ex-patriots in Peking?
Mrs Griffith smiled and nodded. ‘I understand your question,’ she said. ‘He can be dogmatic on the point sometimes. But, you know, Simon, he is a good boy at heart, even though his father used to despair of him sometimes.’
‘I’m sure he is, Mrs Griffith, but sometimes he almost seems to favour the Boxers. And where does he go during the daytime here?’
‘Well, you should know that, since he graduated from university here, he has wanted to join the Chinese foreign service.’ Her eyes, which had remained sad since their arrival, now briefly shone with pride. ‘Gerald is a very good Mandarin speaker, you know, even better than his father. He has made some very good friends at court and has always admired the Empress. He has had this ambition to serve this country, but, of course, it is terribly difficult for someone who is not born of Chinese parents to work in the court here. But he still has hopes.’
‘I see. But surely this is a difficult time to do that?’
‘Oh quite. But he feels that this is when he could be of most service. Seeing both sides, you see.’
Fonthill fought back the desire to answer ‘or just one’. Instead, he nodded and smiled acquiescence. ‘Well, I wish him luck,’ he said. ‘He is obviously a bright lad.’
She smiled. ‘Yes, isn’t he? He will be a great comfort to me, now that … now that Edward is gone.’
‘And Chang?’
‘Ah, Chang. He has been with us since he was a baby and we have always tried to treat him as one of our own – the same as Gerald.’ Her brow clouded for a moment. ‘But in the last couple of years Gerald seems to have taken against his brother. It is something that had begun to worry Edward quite a lot. We had hoped that they would both go into the ministry together, you know.’
‘What now?’
Mrs Griffith pushed a stray strand of hair back into its bun. ‘Chang is still quite young, of course, but he may take holy orders. Perhaps, once he is ordained, he could take over his father’s mission. That would be nice, if it is God’s will.’
They were interrupted by the arrival of an agitated Alice. She sat next to Mrs Griffith and took up the old lady’s hand. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid. We have just heard that another two British missionaries have been murdered by the Boxers at a place about forty miles south of Peking.’
Mrs Griffith put her free hand to her mouth. ‘What are their names? We are sure to know them. Where, did you say?’
‘I don’t know, Aunt. But there is worse. The Boxers have made another raid on the railway. A heavier one this time. Stations have been burnt, the Chinese troops guarding them have fled and the rails have been torn up. The line to Tientsin is definitely broken. More and more missionaries are coming into the Legation. You can’t leave now, I fear, my dear.’ Alice turned her face to Simon. ‘It is rumoured that the Boxers are marching on the city.’
Fonthill put his hand on her shoulder. ‘That rumour has been rife since we got here, my love. But I agree. You can’t leave Peking, my dear Aunt, even though this heat has got so much worse. I will try and see Sir Claude and find the true position.’
Outside, he met a perspiring and indignant Jenkins. ‘’Ere,’ he said. ‘’ave you ’eard what ’appened when they burnt down that racecourse place?’
‘No.’
‘These boxin’ chaps got ’old of one of the native Christian blokes and roasted ’im alive in the ashes of the place.’
‘Good Lord. Look, I think trouble is definitely coming here.’ Simon looked with affection at his former batman and his comrade in so many tight corners. ‘352, you once were the best scavenger in the British Army. Do you think—’
‘What’s a scavenger, then, like?’
‘Thief. Well – more the picker-up of unwanted trifles. A taker of things from people who don’t need them and the giver of them to friends who need them.’
‘Well, I did my small best, bach sir, when that sort of … er … skill was needed. What do we need now, then?’
‘We need rifles, 352. We need rifles. Two of them, as modern as you can get but we will put up with older ones, if need be. A couple of Martini-Henrys would be fine. One for you and one for me. If trouble comes, those Colts will not be adequate, I fear. Here, take this money. It should be enough.’
‘Very good, sir. I shall go scrimmaging. Personally, I’d be much ’appier with a proper rifle than with them pea-shooters. I’ve made a couple of drinkin’ mates who might be able to ’elp. No promises, mind you.’ Mopping his brow, he walked firmly away, a sense of purpose in his step.
At the British Legation, Simon found that Sir Claude was in conference with the heads of the other delegations. John Sims, however, an aide who had once served with Simon’s old regiment, the 24th of Foot, and with whom he had consequently struck up a friendship, was forthcoming about the situation.
The young man, working in his shirtsleeves in a small office as hot as an oven, was emphatic. ‘We’ve heard that the Boxers have seized and are in the process of destroying the railway bridge at Yangtsun, just about the one irreplaceable link in the line between Peking and Tientsin,’ he said. ‘The heads of the legations here can’t agree on concerted action and we’re getting absolutely no change from the Manchu court. So Sir Claude has telegraphed to Admiral Seymour in Tientsin to send a large force to us here before it’s too late.’
He held up a telegram. ‘Haven’t been able to show this to the old man yet, because he’s still chewing the fat with the other ministers, but it says that two thousand armed men of eight nationalities have steamed out of Tientsin this morning. They should be here tonight.’
Fonthill blew out his cheeks. ‘Thank God for that. Look, just in case they can’t get through …’ he held up his hand to stop his friend from interrupting ‘… it sounds as though it’s going to be damned difficult to come the eighty miles by train. Just in case they have to slog through on foot, how many men do we have who could defend the Legation Quarter until they arrive?’
Sims frowned and shook his head. ‘Afraid I have no idea, sir. Apart from the sailors who arrived the other day, there is just a handful of Legation guards, don’t know how many.’ He looked up at Fonthill ruefully. ‘I know what you’re thinking. There should have been some sort of contingency planning, but Sir Claude has been so busy trying to push his colleagues from the other legations into some kind of agreement …’ His voice tailed away and he wiped his brow. ‘It’s been like trying to get a bunch of opera prima donnas to sing all together in tune.’
He was interrupted by the arrival of Sir Claude, resplendent and perspiring in his high-buttoned blue jacket, replete with polished buttons and gold braid. He shook Fonthill’s hand.
‘Been to the Spanish Legation,’ he said. ‘The minister there is officially the doyen so we meet there, but, he is elderly and, as a leader, he is useless. We are getting nowhere with the palace. Do you know, Fonthill, when I went to protest formally about the deaths of our British missionaries, one of the Tsungli Yamen, that’s a sort of Foreign Office, went fast asleep openly.’
He put up a silencing hand to Sims who was waving his telegram. ‘I’ve been trying to get us to demand that the Empress receives all the members of the corps diplomatique in a formal audience, but we couldn’t agree unanimously even on that.’ It seemed as though the ends of Sir Claude’s moustache were quivering in frustration. He turned to Sims. ‘Yes, John, what is it?’
Wordlessly, the aide offered him the telegram. Sir Claude read it and then looked up. ‘Thank God for that,’ he exclaimed. He sat down on the edge of Sims’s desk and eased open the gold-embossed high collar of his tunic, allowing his Adam’s apple to leap, it seemed, with relief. He addressed Sims. ‘Tell the commanding officer of the force that arrived the other day that I want him and his sailors and marines to turn out in force tomorrow, with carts, to march to the station to escort these troops in. Make a bit of a show of it, you know.’
He turned back to Simon. ‘Well, Fonthill, we should be all right now. Two thousand troops is more than enough to put down these renegades if they attack us – and more than enough to impress the Court.’ Then he frowned. ‘If they can repair the railway, that is. But even if they can’t, it’s not a huge distance to march and I don’t see a force like that being deterred by an undisciplined mob.’
Simon’s face remained impassive. ‘What about the Chinese army, though, sir? Would they join forces with the rebels?’
MacDonald shook his head firmly. ‘Most unlikely. That would amount to a virtual declaration of war on the Foreign Powers. The Empress would never do that. No. I’m getting up early to welcome the troops in just after dawn at the station. Won’t you join me?’
‘Of course, sir.’
Well before dawn the next morning, Fonthill and Jenkins joined the small party of ministers, dressed in their finery, who waited, amongst a crowd of Chinese – unusually silent – for the arrival of the troops. The sailors and marines had drawn up carts to convey the two thousand newcomers into the Quarter and, as the sun came up, European civilians on horseback pushed their way through to get a better view. Also present were the Kansu soldiers, drawn up outside the city, in the park-like grounds near the Ha Ta Men Gate.
But no trains were reported as pulling into the station. The sun grew higher, the heat increased and the waiting became more and more uncomfortable for the officials and other Europeans.
‘I knew it,’ breathed Fonthill to Jenkins. ‘The main bridge is down in the south-east, the line is up and there’s no way a force like this can get through by rail. It could be some time before they get here.’
The Welshman nodded, his great moustache half sucked under his lower lip. ‘Just as well, then,’ he whispered, ‘that I’ve managed to get us two rifles, ain’t it?’
Simon grinned. ‘Oh, well done. I knew you would. Where are they?’
‘Under me bed, next to me potty. I’ll show you later.’
‘How old?’
‘Well, I reckon they was used at Waterloo, but I think they’ll do. They are only single-shot Martini-Henrys, like we used in Zululand. But they were good enough for us against them black fellers, so I reckon they should be able to knock over a few Chinks, look you. I’ve tested them and they fire ’igh, so remember that. I also bought two lungers – bayonets, just like we ’ad in Zululand – and two ’undred rounds of ammunition each.’
‘You’re a miracle, 352, that’s what you are. I only hope we don’t have to use them.’
‘So do I. Oh, I’ve got some change for you.’ He dug in his pocket and produced a handful of Chinese coins.
‘Oh no. You keep that. As long as you don’t spend it on the demon drink.’
‘Who, me, bach sir? Never.’
‘Well, I wish we’d got the things with us now.’ Fonthill looked about him. ‘There could be trouble here.’
The crowd of Chinese milling about the gate had grown now and were beginning to press in on the waiting troops. The Muslim troops from the north were beginning to stamp their feet and jeer. The crowd took up the chant and the commander of the sailors and marines looked up at MacDonald. The minister nodded his head and the troops shouldered their arms and began to escort the empty carts back through the gate. At this, the jeers grew louder but no one attempted to prevent the movement and within minutes the carts, the waiting dignitaries, the mounted civilians and the troops were safely back inside the Legation wall.
Sir Claude took off his plumed hat and wiped his brow. ‘Damned disappointing,’ he confided to Fonthill. ‘They must have been delayed repairing the line. But they will get here – and at least we didn’t have any actual trouble down there.’
The trouble came, however, that afternoon, as, back in the hotel, Jenkins was showing Simon the rifles. Once again it was Alice who was the harbinger. Her face was white.
‘It’s the Chancellor of the Japanese Legation,’ she said. ‘For some reason, he chose to go down to the station this afternoon. He went alone and was dressed formally wearing a tailcoat and bowler hat. Outside the Yung Ting Men Gate he was dragged from his cart, by the Chinese troops, and hacked to pieces, with the crowd all around urging them on.’ She gulped and went on, ‘His corpse was left lying in the gutter and they say that his heart was … was … cut out and sent to General Tung Fu-hsiang, the commander of the Muslim troops.’ She sniffed. ‘So much for the Empress’s troops protecting us.’
Chang had entered with Alice. He nodded his head. ‘It is true,’ he said. ‘I hear it from one of the guards at Japanese Legation. He say that commander of the guards was going to commit hara-kiri because of dishonour, but was persuaded against. It is frightfully distressing, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, I do, Chang,’ said Fonthill. ‘Frightfully distressing indeed.’
Alice looked up sharply at Simon. But there was no hint of sarcasm on his face. Instead, he took Chang by the arm. ‘Sit down … er … old chap,’ he said. ‘What do you think about all this?’
‘Well, old fellow,’ said the Chinaman, ‘I most disturbed that my countrymen should do this sort of thing. I know that they not Christians but this violence is not in Chinese religion. Confucius would not approve, oh dear me no. Not approve at all. And Empress surely cannot approve. Very, very distressing.’
Simon studied the young man’s face intently. Chang looked, of course, completely Oriental. His face was oval-shaped and his eyes shone from slits set in the smoothest of skins, from which the bruises sustained in the affray with the Boxers had now disappeared. He wore a conventional pigtail and the customary white smock buttoned at the throat. A black skullcap completed the picture of a lower-middle-class Chinaman. Only the choice of the occasional, startlingly British phrase betrayed his upbringing. But these were strange times. Was he to be trusted? Fonthill decided to probe deeper.
‘Gerald,’ he said, ‘seems to have some sympathy with the Boxers. And, indeed, I can understand his position, to some extent. The Great Powers have not behaved very well in carving up large portions of China for themselves. Some sort of uprising, given the circumstances, is not unexpected.’
Chang shook his head vehemently, so that his pigtail swung behind him. ‘I not agree with Gerald,’ he said. ‘Manchu court has also behaved badly over years in trying to prevent intercourse with foreign traders … er … you would say, “intercourse”?’
‘Perhaps “discourse” would be a better word.’
‘Ah so. Discourse, yes. I must remember. Anyway, my father always say that she too old-fashioned for this year of 1900. Must move with … er … years.’
‘With the times?’
‘Precisely, cousin. She must move along with times.’
Simon stifled a smile at the young man’s earnestness. He was sure that there was no dissembling there. Chang was a true son of his father.
He turned back to the others. ‘Well that settles it,’ he said. ‘If there was any question of Aunt Lizzie returning to her home, that has gone now. It looks as though things are getting worse. I do hope that Sir Claude and his colleagues in the corps decide to pull their fingers out at last and begin to arrange some sort of defences. The Quarter is very vulnerable, as things stand now. And if he doesn’t know that, I’m afraid I shall have to tell him.’
Despite the murder of one of their number, however, all the members of the corps diplomatique seemed to remain sanguine and Sir Claude continued to shuttle back and forth to the Spanish Legation. The streets outside the Legation Quarter’s walls were now ominously quiet. From within the enclave, Chinese servants, grooms, gardeners and chair-bearers were slipping away, to be replaced by an influx of missionaries from the surrounding areas and from the many missions within the city itself. The Legation Quarter was now becoming crowded, with accommodation having to be found for the refugees, as well as the four hundred military who had arrived. The discomfort was compounded by the heat and the drought, still unbroken after many months.
Then, at last, the Boxers arrived. They burst through the Ha Ta Men Gate, to the east of the Legation Quarter. Here, there was no targeting of Christians. The red-sashed horde ran through the narrow streets, pillaging the shops and houses and killing any who stood before them. The shopkeepers and residents fled before them, crowding the streets and shrieking in fear as the Boxers began burning the buildings. The many missions, customs offices and the homes of the teachers at the Imperial University were fired and the East Cathedral went up in flames, its old French priest and many of his flock perishing within.
The flames could be seen from the Legation and, as night fell, torches could be seen bobbing in the distance towards the Austrian Legation, which lay outside the walls of the Quarter. From the eastern wall of the enclave Fonthill, Jenkins and Chang watched the torches approaching.
‘Are the Austrians still within the legation building?’ Simon asked Chang, who had become the most reliable source of information about the city.
The young man nodded. ‘Oh yes. But they have seven guards there to protect the building – and a machine gun.’
Fonthill grunted. ‘That may not be enough. Go and get the rifles, 352. We must help them. But there is no need for you to come, Chang. It could be dangerous.’
The Chinaman looked offended. ‘Of course I come, cousin. May I have loan of one of your excellent revolvers, please?’
‘Er … yes. Do you know how to use it?’
‘I watch you in the wagon. You just point and fire, yes?’
‘Well, ah, something like that. I’ll show you. One Colt as well, then, Jenkins. Get a move on.’
The three, now armed, slipped through the Legation gate and ran up Custom Street towards where the Austrian building stood at the north-eastern corner of the Legation enclave. Could they get there before the Boxers? They did so, but it was a close thing, for the torches could be seen bobbing down the narrow street towards them.
‘Where’s the machine gun?’ demanded Fonthill of the young Austrian sergeant in charge of the guard.
‘No. No good up there. Bring it down here. To shoot up the street. Quickly now. Er … schnell jetzt!’
The young man nodded, immediately responding to Simon’s air of authority, and he doubled away, taking two of his men with him.
The Boxers were now some three hundred yards away and the cries of ‘Sha! Sha!’ could clearly be heard. Fonthill clipped the old, triangular-shaped bayonet to the end of his rifle and nodded to Jenkins to do the same. With the lunger fitted, the rifle became a stabbing weapon six feet long, which even the Zulus had feared.
The Austrians had protected the door of the Legation with mealie bags. ‘Drag ’em out so that they give us some protection facing up the road,’ Simon shouted. ‘Quickly, before they are on us.’ The three laid aside their weapons and pulled six of the bags out into the road so that they formed a rough, low bastion.
As Fonthill knelt, resting his rifle on top of one of the bags, he had a momentary impression of Chang, standing very erect and extending his arm holding the Colt and pulling the trigger – with no result.
‘Safety catch,’ he yelled, ‘just by the trigger.’ Then, ‘Rapid fire!’
At one hundred yards they could not miss, and three of the leading figures fell, their torches scattering across the road before them, burning on the cobbles. The Boxers halted for a moment and then came on again. But their hesitation was enough for Fonthill and Jenkins each to thrust a round into the breech and fire again and then again. Four more of the red-banded figures fell again, causing the mob to stand irresolutely.
Except for one brave man. Screaming ‘Sha!’ and brandishing a large sword, he bounded forward, red bands at forehead, wrist and ankles flying behind him, presenting a terrifying figure by the light of the burning brands. Simon was still fumbling to thumb another cartridge into the breech of his rifle and Chang was clumsily attempting to reload his revolver. Jenkins, however, put one hand on top of the mealie bag and vaulted over, in time to present his rifle and bayonet to the Chinaman, who stopped, puzzled with how to deal with this strange, crouching man with the large moustache.
‘Come on, yer yeller bugger,’ coaxed Jenkins. ‘Yer not so brave now it’s not a woman or child or some poor little bugger of a clergyman facing yer, are yer? Come on, boyo.’ And he made a feint to the right shoulder, which the Boxer clumsily countered with his sword. Immediately, the Welshman brought up the butt of his rifle and caught the Chinaman on the chin. As he staggered back, Jenkins reversed his rifle and plunged his bayonet into the man’s chest. For a moment the two stood, seemingly connected umbilically, before Jenkins twisted the bayonet and withdrew it, allowing the Boxer to slump to the floor with a sigh.
Fonthill heard a sound behind him and swung round in consternation. The three Austrians were staggering through the doorway, carrying the heavy machine gun.
‘Quick!’ shouted Simon. ‘On top of the bag. Come back, 352. We’re going to fire.’
Laboriously, the Austrians mounted the gun on its tripod and fed the ammunition belt into the breech, while the Chinese watched, unsure, it seemed, whether to charge or run away. Then the soldier at the handles depressed the trigger and the gun chattered into life. It was enough. The Boxers turned and fled, casting aside their torches and showing the white soles of their bare feet in the flickering light. Fonthill watched, expecting the gun to cut a swathe through the running horde. Instead, telegraph poles in the distance were severed, falling and bringing down the wires.
‘You bloody fools,’ screamed Simon. ‘You’re firing too high!’
But the Austrians paid no heed. Exhilarated by the clatter of the bullets, the gunner kept firing, bringing tiles down from the buildings at the far end of the street and causing showers of plaster to rain down on the retreating Boxers. Soon the attackers were out of sight, leaving their dead lying on the rough surface, their blood soaking into their like-coloured ribbons and sashes.
Chang was looking at Jenkins with a mixture of horror and fascination. ‘You are indeed extremely good fighter, Mister Jenkins,’ he said. ‘You frighten me.’
Jenkins had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Well, son, it was ’im or me. I ’ad to go at ’im with the lunger ’cos I didn’t ’ave anythin’ up the spout, look you.’
The Chinaman was puzzled and turned his head around. ‘Where do I look, Mr Jenkins? Where is spout?’
Simon sighed. ‘Never mind, now, Chang. You did well.’ He turned to the Austrian sergeant, speaking slowly. ‘The Boxers might come back,’ he said. ‘Is your minister inside?’
‘No, mein herr. He is in der Legation Quarter.’
‘Very sensible of him. Well, tell him that I do not think it possible to defend this building here, outside the Legation walls. He should evacuate it.’
‘I will tell him. Excuse me, mein herr. Who are you?’
‘I am formerly a captain in the British infantry and this is my comrade, formerly a sergeant in the army. We are … er … advising the British minister. I know what I am talking about, Sergeant, I assure you. Evacuate this Legation. It is indefensible. Oh, and tell your men to fire lower with that Maxim.’
‘Ach so. Very gut, sir.’
The three walked back down Custom Street, their weapons at the ready, but there was no sign of Boxers. They met, however, a small band of European civilians, armed with an assortment of sporting rifles and similar weapons. They were on their way, the Frenchman at their head explained to Fonthill, to the exposed South Cathedral, which seemed to lie directly in the path of the advancing Boxers. A cluster of Catholic missionaries were sheltering there who needed to be escorted to the Legation enclave, if it was not too late.
‘We’ll come with you,’ said Simon. ‘You may need us.’
In fact, the cathedral was not under immediate threat when they arrived. But the little party rounded up more than twenty Catholic missionaries sheltering within the venerable cathedral, plus five Sisters of Charity and twenty Chinese nuns. As they turned back towards the Legation walls they saw the glow of the Boxers’ torches to the north and heard the distant chanting, growing nearer. Hurrying through the silent streets back to the Legation gates, they saw the old cathedral go up in flames behind them.
Back in the Legation compound, they were met by an anxious Mrs Griffith and Alice. Of Gerald, once again there was no sight.
Alice put her hand on her husband’s arm. ‘The whole commercial quarter – the richest part of the city – has been burnt down,’ she said. ‘All those lovely pearl and jewellery shops, the beautiful textile stores, the silk and satin warehouses have been destroyed. Simon, I would prefer it if you would not go out again outside the Legation walls. It is clear that the Boxers are starting now to infiltrate the city and, if they come at you from all sides, even you and the mighty 352 would not be able to defend yourselves. And I do not wish to be left alone in this strange country, if you don’t mind.’
Fonthill seized her hand and kissed it. ‘I’m afraid, darling, that we shall have to go again, although not tonight. We cannot give up the streets to the Boxers. They should be patrolled. I also think we shall have to start erecting some defences. The Quarter is very vulnerable, particularly from the south. I fear I must start laying down the law a bit with Sir Claude.’
So it was that the next morning Fonthill requested an interview with the British minister. He found the tall Scotsman very preoccupied.
‘Thank you for your work last night, Fonthill,’ he said. ‘I knew you would be useful. I have to report to you that we are now completely cut off. Our last telegraph link, running north to Russian territory, has been severed. I have no idea what has happened to the relief contingent from Tientsin, so we are very much on our own now, I fear.’
Fonthill nodded. ‘I see. This gives added urgency to what I have to say, sir.’
‘And what is that, pray?’
‘So far there has been no direct attack on the Legation Quarter. But if there is, it would be very difficult to defend the whole of the perimeter with the few troops we have at our command.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘We should destroy those houses that come up close on the other side of our wall and which would give cover to any attackers. This would give us a field of fire. From what I can see – and I do not know all of the geography of the place – there are parts of the perimeter that are virtually indefensible anyway, so we should abandon them, so shortening our line, so to speak. We should build a second, tighter, line of defence inside that we could man more adequately – digging trenches, erecting barricades and so on – and we should begin patrolling the streets outside our walls, bringing in those who are being threatened.’
The minister frowned. ‘Good Lord, Fonthill. We cannot just bring in people willy-nilly. We are overcrowded as it is. Where would we put them all? And it could be dangerous. We could be importing spies and malcontents within our midst.’
‘It’s a risk but we can’t leave people out there to be murdered. The Boxers outnumber us. So far, they do not appear to have guns. But, from what I hear of the Manchu court, they will soon get them and things will then be very different. There is also the matter of the Imperial Army. If they side with the rebels – and there have been indications of this, the assassination of the Japanese minister, for instance – if they turn on us, then we shall be in a pretty pickle.’
MacDonald mused for a moment. ‘Very well. My responsibilities are heavy and I must be aware of them. I agree that we must improve our defences. The problem, of course, is getting all of the nationalities represented here to move in unison, for we are a rather uneasy coalition, you know, and it is difficult to find agreement. However, I retain some influence and I will see what I can do. I value your advice, my dear fellow.’ He gave a melancholy smile. ‘After all, in my army days, before I joined the diplomat service, I was only a subaltern. You were a captain.’ He fluttered a mock salute. ‘So – very good, sir.’
In fact, events moved quickly. Within the next few days, some two thousand Chinese Catholics found their way into the legations and the Methodists followed suit, evacuating their own compound near the Ha Ta Men. As Sir Claude had predicted, the overcrowding became acute, but one great benefit accrued. These Chinese proved to be a willing and hard-working labour force. Within the next few days, houses near the walls were burnt to the ground; barricades were erected at strategic points; trenches were dug; and shell-proof shelters were erected – all under the supervision of Fonthill and Captain Strouts, of the Royal Marines, the British Legation’s guard commander.
The Peking Hotel, although it remained open, was considered by Simon to be too close to the eastern defences, so his party – Mrs Griffith, her two sons, Alice, Jenkins and himself – were given shelter inside the walls of the British Legation.
After the original sorties of the Boxers, a strange quiet had descended upon the beleaguered Legation Quarter. Rumours and counter-rumours flew. The Empress issued an edict blaming the death of the Japanese chancellor and the burnings upon ‘brigands and seditious characters’. Troops of the Imperial army continued to remain passive and her ministers continued to send flowery messages to the heads of the legations assuring them of their safety and deprecating the need for foreign troops to be sent from the coast.
Then events took a dramatic turn. Each of the heads of legations received an ultimatum from the Chinese Foreign Office. It reported that the Foreign Powers had demanded the surrender of the Taku Forts at the head of the River Pei Ho, the sea gateway to Tientsin. If the demand was not met, the powers would occupy the forts by force. As a result, said the ultimatum, emotions were running high among the people of Peking and the Imperial Government could no longer be responsible for the safety of the ministers and their families in the Legation Quarter and they should leave the legations for Tientsin within twenty-four hours. Imperial troops would be provided as an escort.
These letters threw the ministers into a state of confusion – and indignation. Firstly, they had no idea that hostilities had broken out at the coast and they blamed their compatriots there for compromising their position at the capital. Secondly, and predictably, they could not agree on whether or not to surrender to the ultimatum. Equally predictably, they decided to play for time. A letter was sent, agreeing to depart but pleading for more time and asking for details of the protection to be provided and of the transport being made available.
Sir Claude, however, confided to Fonthill that, whatever the reply, he had no intention of ‘moving an inch’. Nevertheless, the ministers and staffs of some legations began their packing, although in fear of what might happen once they had left the walls of the Quarter.
‘It would be madness to leave,’ confided Simon to Alice. ‘Once out there on the plain we would all be attacked and butchered by the Chinese troops, just like the Japanese chancellor. We must stay with Sir Claude and, if necessary, concentrate our forces on defending the British Legation.’
‘Wherever you are,’ replied Alice calmly, ‘I will be.’
The denouement of the situation, however, arrived in a quite different way. The ministers fulminated for hours around their large table in the Spanish Legation awaiting a reply but none came. Finally, the bellicose German minister, Baron von Ketteler, declared that he would wait no longer, but journey to the palace himself and demand an answer ‘if I have to sit there all night’.
He set off with his Chinese secretary to the Foreign Office, both travelling in sedan chairs with canopies of red and green proclaiming their status and with two liveried servants riding on ponies as outriders. Half an hour later, his dragoman, who had been shot through both legs, dragged himself into the American Methodist mission near the Ha Ta Men Gate and declared that the minister had been shot in his chair by a Manchu solider ‘in full uniform with a mandarin’s hat and button and blue feather’. A patrol of fifteen German sailors went out to try and retrieve the minister’s body but were driven back. The word spread throughout the legations. There was no more talk of accepting the offer of evacuation.
Instead, and with belated speed, the legations prepared to defend themselves at last.
It was agreed that the British Legation, by far the largest and, by its position, not commanded by the Great Tartar Wall but with a good field of fire, should be a kind of central redoubt. It would be a place where, if the worst came to the worst, all the defenders of the legations could fall back for a last stand. However, it was decided that it should also offer shelter to non-combatants.
As a result, the whole of the foreign community of Peking, together with ponies and mules, a small flock of sheep and one cow, gathered within the compound. An area of some three acres, which normally housed sixty people, was now occupied by nine hundred.
The separate buildings of the Legation had been hurriedly allocated to the different nationalities. The missionaries who had fled their missions in the Chinese City were crowded together in the Legation’s chapel. The elegant front pavilions were stacked with all kinds of luggage, the most notable being provisions and wine; the stable-house was allocated to Norwegians; the rear pavilion was divided into small rooms for miscellaneous use, and in one of the tiniest Mrs Griffith and Alice made their new home, with Gerald, Chang, Simon and Jenkins housed together next door.
All was activity in the other legations, too. As a squadron of Chinese cavalry, in their black turbans, galloped down Custom Street past the isolated Austrian Legation, guards of all the threatened nationalities were busy strengthening makeshift barricades, laying out primitive firefighting equipment and, near the American and German legations, manning the outposts that had been erected on the Tartar Wall.
At four o’clock – the hour at which the formal Chinese ultimatum was due to expire – Fonthill and Jenkins stood on the front lawn of the British Legation, once marked out for clock golf, while Simon consulted his watch. At exactly the hour, firing broke out from the outlying Austrian Legation, which, despite Fonthill’s advice, had not been evacuated.
‘Well,’ frowned Simon, ‘I’m afraid we are now well and truly under siege. Will we be able to hold out, I wonder?’
Jenkins sucked in his moustache. ‘We’ll just ’ave to, bach sir. I wouldn’t want to think about the alternative if them yeller bastards break through.’