The trio were able to pick their way through the tunnel on the banks on either side of the odiferous water and crawl round the low gates. There, they paused. The moon had not risen and the street was dark. To the right, in the distance, figures could be seen but there was no one to their left.
‘That way,’ said Fonthill. ‘Stride purposefully, as though we know where we are going.’
‘Mind you don’t trip over my moustache,’ said Jenkins. ‘I’m growin’ the ends, yer see,’ he explained helpfully to Chang.
‘No talking,’ hissed Simon. ‘Take the lead, Chang. Get us out of the city as quickly as you can. Will the gates be guarded?’
‘I do not know, cousin. But if they are, I think they only question people coming in, not going out.’
‘Good.’
Even though the hour was late, they met many people as they made their way through the narrow streets, including small groups of Boxers, distinguished by their youth and the red bands they wore round their foreheads, midriffs and ankles. They also had to thrust their way through milling crowds of garishly uniformed Imperial soldiers. But they kept their heads down and no one accosted them. In fact, they were given respectful passageway whenever there was a crowd and Simon recalled being told that the Kansu soldiery had a reputation for fierceness – to friend and foe alike.
They passed through the Tung Pien Men Gate as the moon rose, and Fonthill hardly recognised the countryside from what he remembered from their entry into the city less than a month ago. The rains, although short, had been very heavy and the fields had blossomed as a result. The road had become muddy and the ditches were now running with water.
There had been no time for a proper consultation about their route. Chang had been relied on to find the best and quickest way to Tientsin, some eighty miles away. Although making haste was imperative, it had not been possible to provide them with transport. There were now only nine ponies left within the Quarter. But there would have been no way for them to have ridden out through the defensive perimeter and, anyway, the mounts were needed for food. It was presumed that they would walk to Tientsin and somehow pick up either the relief column limping back to the town or the new one marching – for the railway link had been broken – to the north-west to relieve the legations.
Now, however, lifting one muddy foot after another, Simon had another idea.
‘Where are we making for?’ he asked Chang.
‘We make for my home village. It is on the way to Tientsin. Perhaps we can shelter for the night in our home.’
‘No. Too dangerous. You might be recognised. We march through the night and lie up somewhere during the day. It will be safer that way. But Chang, tell me: the River Pei Ho is somewhere quite near, to our left as we look now. Is that right?’
‘Oh yes. Quite precisely, cousin.’
‘And the river has traffic on it? Trading junks and so on?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where does the river come out at the coast?’
‘At Taku, where ships of Great Powers lie.’ Chang frowned in concentration, perspiration running down his face as they walked, for the humidity remained high. ‘It is about twenty miles past Tientsin. Everyone think Tientsin is big seaport. But, in fact, it is river port, lying inland.’
Simon nodded. ‘Yes, I know. Well, Chang,’ he spoke deferentially, ‘if you agree, I think we’ll change our plans. It will take us a long time to walk to Tientsin at this rate and we are likely to be picked up and questioned at any time.’
‘Quite so. Oh, I agree. But … er … what do we do?’
‘We make for the river on our left. I have money. We hire a junk that is sailing south-east, towards the coast. We get off when we have news of either the old expedition retreating or of a new one advancing. With the current taking us to the sea we will be much quicker and,’ he frowned, ‘time is of the essence.’
Jenkins looked up and beamed. ‘What, sail instead of walk? What an incredibly good idea, bach sir. ’Ere, just a minute. Are there any crocodiles in this river, Changy?’
‘No, Mr Jenkins. I don’t think so.’
‘Good. Not that I was worried, mind you. But they … er … do tend to clog the river, look you. And we want to get a move on.’
Chang smiled. ‘I think it excellent idea, cousin. We are here, I think, about six, seven miles to river. Turn off at next crossing.’
It took them, however, about another three hours of trudging through the mud before they found the turning, onto a smaller track that now wound through fields of kaoliang that stood well over head high following the rains. At first, this gave Fonthill a feeling of security, for visibility was now considerably reduced and he did not feel as exposed as when on the open plain. This was soon replaced, however, by unease as he realised that they could stumble upon a Chinese patrol in the darkness without warning. He called a halt.
‘We are all tired,’ he said, ‘so I think we will try and get a couple of hours’ sleep before we go on. Let us try and find sufficient space among the maize to lie down. It should be safe enough on this little road to walk in daylight, so we will press on at dawn.’
They found a gap in the kaoliang, on slightly higher and drier ground, big enough for them to lie down, wrapped in their waterproof capes. Before trying to find sleep, Simon had second thoughts on their story, if stopped.
‘We must change our explanation now if we are accosted,’ he told Chang. ‘Say that we are going to the river to pick up a junk to take us to Tientsin because we have a message from our general, what’s his name?’
‘Tung Fu-hsiang.’
‘That’s the fellow. Say that we are taking a message from him to the general commanding the Imperial forces at Tientsin and that we are taking a boat at the river.’ He smiled at the young man. ‘If we do get stopped, Chang, we must rely on you to talk us out of it.’
‘Oh yes. I do that well, I think, cousin. Rely on me.’
Simon nodded and offered up a silent prayer that the missionary’s son’s Chinese was less stilted than his English. Their reliance on him was total.
That reliance was called into play far quicker than he would have liked after they rose, shortly after dawn, and continued their journey. Within minutes they rounded a bend in the path and came upon three horsemen, dressed in the flamboyant colours of the Imperial cavalry, topped by black turbans, walking their horses towards them.
Taking the lead, Fonthill stepped to one side deferentially, into the maize, to allow the horsemen to pass. He gave a stiff incline of the head to acknowledge the seniority of the lead horseman and kept his eyes to the ground.
The horseman, seemingly an officer, pulled to a stop and addressed a question to Simon, who gestured mutely to Chang. The two exchanged words for a moment and Fonthill clutched to himself a half-forgotten statistic that less than nought point one per cent of Chinese people had ever seen, let alone talked to a European. He just hoped that this cavalry officer was part of that majority.
The conversation went on interminably, or so it seemed to Fonthill. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jenkins, his black eyes gleaming from underneath his cap – no subservience here – slowly unsling his rifle.
Then, with a grunt, the officer kicked in his heels and the three horsemen rode away slowly, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared. Simon put his finger to his lips then gestured with his head and the three walked on.
After two minutes, Fonthill called a halt. ‘What did he say?’ he asked Chang.
A thin line of perspiration had appeared on the young Chinaman’s upper lip. ‘He don’t seem to believe me,’ he said, his eyes wide. ‘He said that he had served in Peking and knew that Kansu soldiers were manning northern parts of the legations’ defence and fighting particularly in the Fu, and that Kansu soldiers not allowed in the southern part of city. He asked me name of Chinese commander in Tientsin to whom we take the message.’
‘Oh Lord. What did you say?’
‘I invent a name – in Chinese like English Smith. I very afraid he would know man. But he rode away.’
Simon smiled. ‘You did very well, cousin,’ he said. ‘But I think we should move quickly now and get to this damned river.’
‘Shush.’ Jenkins held up a hand. He was lying prone, with his ear to the ground. ‘They’re coming back – and galloping.’
‘Quickly. Into the maize. If we have to fight, we use swords. No shooting. There might be other patrols about.’
Chang’s face paled. ‘Oh golly.’ But he followed Simon into the kaoliang, while Jenkins ducked into the other side.
Within seconds, the three cavalrymen thundered round the bend, their heads low over the mane of their horses and their swords drawn. They swept by with scarcely a glance into the tall growth on either side and disappeared once again, in the direction of the river.
‘They will be back.’ Simon stood for a moment, deep in thought. Then: ‘Chang, you walk back a few paces and then lie face down across the path …’
Chang gave an exclamation in Chinese, and was joined by Jenkins. ‘Blimey, why …?’
Fonthill tossed his head impatiently. ‘I want to disconcert them. They will stop for a moment wondering what the hell to do. You and I, 352, will be in the maize behind them by this bend. As soon as they have passed us and their attention is drawn to Chang, we will spring out behind them and bring them down. Swords, remember. No shooting.’
‘Then I get up and fight, yes?’ Chang’s eyes were bright.
‘No, be lying on your sword but don’t move until we do. If you are attacked run back into the crop. Quick now. They will be back soon. Further back into the maize this time, 352. They will be looking for us in there.’
Once more the two comrades plunged into the tall crop, but this time Fonthill’s heart was in his mouth. Leaving the boy out there was taking an awful risk. Would they be able to bring down the two men in the rear before the lead rider realised what was happening? And would he ride on and attack Chang anyway? The boy would stand no chance against an experienced cavalryman. He gulped. But there was no further time for introspection. There was no sound but suddenly, peering low between the stalks, he saw the officer, walking his horse slowly and looking carefully into the kaoliang on either side of him. Then the other two came into view, walking their horses side by side. Simon offered up a silent prayer that Jenkins had penetrated deeply enough to be out of sight.
Then he heard a loud exclamation. Chang had been seen. Simon plunged through the tall stalks, crushing them, and emerged in time to see Chang, sword in hand, standing and defying the officer, whose horse was rearing. Damn! The stupid boy was fighting! The cavalryman on Simon’s side of the path was trying to quieten his own horse and had his back to him. Fonthill paused for a split second and then he gulped, sprang forward and, reaching up, he thrust the point of his heavy blade through the man’s side, feeling it scrape bone. With his other hand, he grabbed the man’s belt and pulled him to the ground and delivered the coup de grâce to his breast. As he did so he felt a thunderous blow to his back, sending him pitching forward and his sword spinning away.
He lay for several seconds as the hooves of horses crashed to the ground all around him, one of them delivering a second blow, this time to his calf. He heard the cry of ‘Roll over, bach, to yer right’ and he did so, his hands to his head to protect his face. Half into the maize, he staggered to his feet and saw Jenkins, the blade of a bloodstained sword between his teeth, standing between the two rear horses in the narrow path, holding onto their reins and trying to sooth them. To his right and ahead, however, a far more fascinating battle was taking place.
The officer was trying to control his rearing horse and, at the same time, deliver slashing blows to Chang, who was ducking and weaving away from the blade. As he watched, he saw the boy slash at the soldier’s thigh, causing blood to burst out from just above the boot. Then he slapped the rear of the horse with the flat of his blade, causing the beast to rear again, sending the wounded cavalryman sliding to the ground, where the young man thrust his blade through the man’s throat.
‘’Old on to that bloody ’orse, Changy,’ roared Jenkins. ‘We don’t want to walk anymore. Don’t let ’im charge away.’
The boy threw down his sword and grabbed the reins of the startled beast, holding on and circling with it as it continued to rear and whinny, as though in despair at the death of his master.
Fonthill stood, his breast heaving, and surveyed the scene. The three cavalrymen all lay on the pathway, in different postures but all dead from sword thrusts. The three horses were now becoming quiescent. Chang and Jenkins seemed unharmed and Simon straightened his back gingerly and lifted his leg. There were two stabs of pain but neither was severe. Probably the result of bruising; nothing broken, it seemed. He walked forward to take one of the horses from Jenkins.
‘Well done, lads,’ he said. ‘Bit of a bloodbath, I’m afraid. Good Lord, Chang. You fought like a dervish.’
The boy, his face glistening with sweat, grinned. ‘What is “dervish”, cousin?’
‘I hope you never have to find out, old chap. Let’s say he’s just a bloody good fighter. Like you. Now, Chang, take the reins of the horses, they seem all right now. 352 – are you all right?’
The great chest of the Welshman was heaving, but he nodded. ‘Yes, thank you. But I’m gettin’ a bit old for this sort of thing. I think all this effort has opened up this old wound in me arm, but it’s not bleedin’ much. Got an earwig in me ear, though.’
‘All right. You take the horses, then. Chang, help me lift these bodies into the side, out of sight into the maize. I don’t want to leave any evidence. That’s it. Good man.’
Within ten minutes the site was cleared, only three distinct patches of blood staining the pathway to show where three men had died. Simon pushed dust over them with his sandal. Then he walked to study the saddles and accoutrements of the horses.
‘If we are going to take these horses – and we definitely are – then we don’t want us to appear to be riding Imperial cavalry mounts,’ he explained. ‘Here, lend me your knife, 352. I think I can cut this fancy stuff away. Rough old Kansu infantrymen wouldn’t be riding like bloody medieval knights.’
In a moment the job was done. Fonthill delayed long enough to inspect the old wound in Jenkins’s arm, which had now stopped bleeding, and the three of them mounted and resumed their trek to the river. Once on horseback, Simon realised that he was trembling. Killing a man at long range with a rifle shot was one thing. Stabbing him from the back with a sword was another and his lip curled and he shook his head. Was he becoming some sort of monster? What would Alice think of him if she had witnessed the mini battle on the pathway, not to mention the bayoneting of sleeping men at the tower? And was he training a sixteen-year-old boy to become a killer? He rode in silence for a while, his head down.
Jenkins noticed and gently urged his mount forward so that they rode side by side. ‘She said you were to come back, bach sir,’ he said, eventually. ‘So you’ve got to think of yourself, like. It’s the old story. It was them or us. Same as it always is. Goodness gracious me, we’ve done it enough times. Can’t be ’elped. It’s the life we lead, see.’
Fonthill slowly nodded. ‘I suppose you’re right. But I really felt that we’d left all that behind us.’
‘So did I. But I knew somethin’ was up as soon as we stepped off that ship. I sniffed the air, like, and I knew we was back in it. But we didn’t look for it, now did we? So it can’t be ’elped. An’ those blokes was comin’ back to get us right enough, weren’t they? So don’t think about it.’ Jenkins paused for a moment, then he gave Fonthill a sly, sideways smile. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘you’ve got to admit that, for most of the time, it’s fun, ain’t it?’
Simon looked at him and returned half a smile. ‘I wouldn’t call it fun,’ he said, ‘though I grant that it’s exciting.’ Then the remnant of the smile slipped away. ‘But sometimes it’s just bloody horrific.’
They rode in silence for a while. Then Jenkins sniffed. ‘As long as young Changy wasn’t lyin’ about them crocodiles,’ he said, ‘I don’t mind a bit of a sail, see.’ And he gave that great, moustache-bending smile of his that immediately made Simon feel better.
They came to the river without further incident: the brown, turgid, not-so-very-wide highway that, hopefully, was to lead them to Tientsin and – even more hopefully – the relief column. There was not so much traffic on it, as Simon had hoped, and Chang’s questioning of a fisherman on the banks provided the reason.
‘He says, cousin, that further down – about twelve miles, perhaps more – is where the great foreign army decided to turn back from the railway and go back to Tientsin by river. They take a lot of junks. That is why we see not many boats now.’
‘Ah, so they have turned back, dammit.’ Fonthill frowned. ‘All that great expectancy and hope from the legations! Ask him if he knows if another army is coming to Peking.’
Eventually, Chang shrugged his shoulders. ‘He don’t know, but he think that army going back has been defeated many times. Many yang kuei-tzu killed. But he say we come to village soon. Can hire junk there, he thinks.’
‘Good. Let’s get on with it, then.’
Simon’s mind turned over. How badly had the relief column been mauled? Pretty badly if they had been forced to turn back. And if Tientsin itself was besieged, what hope of another force being gathered in time to relieve Peking? The besieged in the river port would surely have enough on their plate. The prospect was depressing. He shrugged his shoulders and dug his heels into his horse’s side. Their task was clear. They had to persuade somebody in command in the south that the legations’ plight was desperate and that time was short.
The village was small but it was a trading point where jobbing junks called in to pick up cargoes, usually of rice or grain, to take north and south. While Fonthill and Jenkins remained watering the horses, Chang, now bearing himself with the confidence of a soldier who had killed his first man, went into the village. He came back within ten minutes, his young face carrying an earnest expression.
‘There is a junk that can take us and horses downriver. He has oats for horses. It leaves soon so we must be jolly quick.’
Fonthill patted his shoulder. ‘Good man. How far can he take us?’
‘Ah, that is the point. He says he cannot take us to Tientsin. There is much fighting just above there. Foreign troops are there. Chinese army attack them.’
‘Very well. We will go as far as we can with him. Let’s go to the battle.’ But Simon was not as sanguine as he sounded. Fighting! How were they going to get through the lines? If they could persuade the Chinese to let them get through to the actual combat, how to prevent the British from killing them as the enemy? He shrugged. Ah well, they would have to face those problems when they came to them.
They trotted their horses through the hamlet to a wooden loading stage that jutted out into the river, where an old junk was moored. The two-man crew was adjusting a canvas cover over the open hold and the captain, a wizened, tiny man with skullcap and pigtail, looked with trepidation at first at the three wild men of the north, with their stained clothing, rifles and bandoliers, but bowed low and smiled over the handful of coins that Simon gave him. The horses, uneasy at the swell that rocked the boat, were tethered to a rail and given a feed from a sack full of oats. The three comrades sat down gratefully at the stern of the junk and accepted bowls of rice as the square sails were raised and the boat eased out into the gently flowing current.
‘Now this,’ observed Jenkins quietly, ‘is the way to travel.’ He looked out with approval at the unbroken, brown water. ‘I don’t care if there are crocodiles out there, because, look you, I ’ave no intention at all of takin’ a dip today. I shall just sit ’ere all day and contemplate life. I am now too old to be swimmin’ about an’ killin’ people.’
Chang, now a fully qualified member of the trio and having, at last, begun to comprehend the Welshman’s idiosyncrasies, beamed with approval. Simon scowled. ‘For goodness’ sake, 352, keep your voice down. We’re supposed to be Kansu soldiers.’
‘With great respect, bach sir, I was merely makin’ an observation in a very low voice. If these Chinese blokes pullin’ on the ropes ’eard me, they would just as likely think I was speakin’ Kansu talk.’
‘Ah, that reminds me.’ Simon looked up at the blessedly weak sun. ‘Which way is east? Yes, there. When we’ve finished the rice, it will be time for us to pray.’
Chang nodded understandingly but Jenkins’s jaw dropped. ‘Eh?’
‘Kansus are Muslims and Muslims are supposed to pray five times a day. We must face the east, kneel, bend down with our foreheads on the deck and say something incomprehensible. It could be important later if we are stopped and the captain is questioned.’
‘Ah, very good. I’ll give ’em a bit of Welsh.’
They carried out their devotions, much to the consternation of the crew, and Fonthill instructed Chang to explain the reason for them. Then Simon sat in the stern, inspecting a rough, hand-drawn map of Tientsin and its environs that Sir Claude had given him.
As Chang had explained, the city itself lay some twenty-five to thirty miles inland from the Taku Forts that guarded the entrance to the river on which it lay. Tientsin itself was a native walled city but, unlike Peking, the foreign holdings or settlements were discrete and situated outside the city itself to the south. The Pei Ho and the railway wound their way in parallel north-west from Tientsin towards Peking for some twenty miles or so before parting company at Yangtsun, where the essential rail bridge had been destroyed and from which the relief column, it seemed, had turned back and taken to the river for its retreat. But it seemed that the column had not reached Tientsin. Was it being held up by the force of Chinese arms or was it simply resting and recuperating? Sir Claude’s message had implied that the city was invested, but how strongly? And was it the settlements that were under siege or the city itself? Surely, it should be possible for the defenders, whatever they were defending, to link up with the retreating relief force? Depending upon how fierce the opposition was to the remnants of the British force as they trudged south, they should not be too far from the city.
Simon shook his head. Too many imponderables! It seemed to make sense for him and his comrades to try and contact the relief force, rather than try to reach Tientsin. They must surely be nearest and, depending upon how many casualties they had suffered, perhaps the commander of the column could be persuaded to turn back towards Peking, given the dire nature of the defenders there?
Right. That was decided. He folded the map. They would get through to the British force, somewhere downriver of them. But they must make haste!
All day they bowled along, swept by a following wind as well as by the river itself. Chang and Jenkins dosed intermittently, for it was soporific, lying back in the stern, their heads on their waterproofs, sleepy eyes taking in the sparse river traffic – small junks, tacking against wind and current and skiffs, flitting across the water like insects, most of them making their way upstream, away, it seemed, from the fighting. Fonthill, however, stayed awake, his hand not far from his rifle, his eyes on the banks of the river.
Soon he witnessed signs of battle. The vegetation on the banks on both sides had recently been beaten down and the soil trampled as far as he could see. Here, the river was dominated by the railway embankment which ran parallel to it and the banks on both sides were pitted by craters – shell holes, presumably, showing that the British had come under fire from guns mounted on railway carriages. Rickety buildings creeping down to the water in a succession of villages all showed bullet holes in their walls. Leaning over, Fonthill could see the bottom of the river. It was extremely shallow. Had the British junks run aground and the men been forced to land and haul them off the shoals? And it looked as though each village had had to be taken by force before the boats could continue. It must have been a hell of a journey, under fire and in the heat.
Now, traffic had ceased on the water but both banks were busy highways for Chinese troops of all descriptions, wearing various uniforms and in individual groups. Not an army, more a ragbag collection of soldiers straggling – not marching – along. They were all heading south and curious eyes were cast towards this solitary junk.
Simon felt uncomfortable, for even though he and his two companions were not easily visible, lying low beneath the deck sides of the vessel, the horses, with their military saddles, could clearly be seen. He sat up, for, faraway but clearly, he could hear the sound of shellfire. It was time to leave the river.
He roused his comrades and looked ahead. Dusk was falling but he welcomed that. It would be safer to land in the darkness, but where? He beckoned to Chang. ‘Tell the captain that we must soon go ashore,’ he said. ‘Is there a landing place soon where it will be easy to land the horses?’
It was clear that the captain was not anxious to keep his passengers now that gunfire could be heard. ‘He says, soon,’ reported Chang. ‘Round the bend is landing place. Road goes away from river here but about a mile to south is great arsenal of Hsiku Arsenal. He don’t know what this is but he thinks British have captured it and are fighting there.’
‘Splendid.’ He felt in his pocket for more coins. ‘Give him these with our thanks. Tell him to land us there.’
Dusk settled on them comfortingly as the junk was steered towards where another wooden landing stage leant out into the river. Simon scoured the area with his eyes but he could see no one. He turned to Chang. ‘New story now, cousin,’ he said with a grin. ‘Now we are just three Kansu cavalrymen from the north who were sent scouting and lost their way. We are now looking for the front line to join in the fighting.’
As the sail was lowered and the boat was held to the landing stage with boathooks, the trio led their horses ashore and then mounted them. With a wave to the sailors they clattered away in the lowering darkness.
‘Nice, enjoyable little sail,’ observed Jenkins. ‘Now what do we do?’
‘We try and find where the British are fighting and then play it by ear.’
‘What is this “playing by ear”?’ enquired Chang. ‘Is it a game?’
Fonthill grinned. ‘Not exactly, old chap. We react according to the circumstances. But we must somehow get through the Chinese lines and cross the British defences without both sides killing us. Yes, well, put like that, I suppose it is a sort of game. Trouble is, I don’t know the rules. Come on. Let’s ride with a sense of purpose, as though we are under orders.’
They kicked their horses into a canter and rode through a shell-scarred thicket before finding the road. Most of the groups of Chinese troops had halted their journey southwards and had bivouacked for the night. Fires had been lit and bedrolls laid out. The trio rode on determinedly. Several times they were challenged – greeted? – but Fonthill gave a cheery wave and cantered by. Luckily, they met no other cavalry and saw no other Kansu soldiers.
The firing ahead seemed to have died away with the onset of darkness but, looming up ahead, on the banks of the river, they saw the blackness of a great building. Before they could get near to it they met a Chinese sentry, rifle slung across his shoulders. Chang trotted forward and engaged in conversation with the man for several minutes.
He came back grinning. ‘He think I am blooming Kansu and he afraid of me, all right,’ he said.
Fonthill nodded. ‘Glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘But what is ahead?’
‘Ah yes. Big building ahead is big place for Chinese weapons, ammunition et cetera. It is called Hsiku Arsenal. British have taken it and Chinese are very mad. Imperial army is now trying to take it back. So far they don’t do it.’
‘Good Lord! I suppose that’s the remnants of the relief column. Are the Chinese attacking during the night?’
‘No. Wait till morning.’
‘Good, then that’s what we’ll do.’ He turned his head. ‘Let’s get back into those woods and find a place to tether the horses and lie down for a few hours.’
Jenkins grinned in approval. ‘Good idea, bach sir. I’ve ’ad a busy day. But what do we do in the morning? ’Ow do we get through the lines?’
‘I don’t know but I’ll think of something. Come on, into the woods.’
They rested through the darkest hours, although only Jenkins slept well. As dawn was lightening the sky to the east, they rose, rubbed down the horses as best they could and mounted. The firing had not yet recommenced. They sat uncertainly for a moment.
Then: ‘Have you got a spare vest in your pack?’ Simon asked Jenkins.
The Welshman’s jaw dropped. ‘A what?’
‘A spare undervest. And is it white?’
‘Well, sort of. I washed it before we left.’
‘Good. Get it out and tie it to this rifle.’
Jenkins shook his head in disbelief. ‘Blessed and wonderful are the ways of the officer class,’ he muttered as he unrolled his slender pack. He had attended Sunday school chapel as a child.
One arm of the vest was tightly knotted round the muzzle of Fonthill’s Mauser and the other to the breech just before the trigger guard. Simon nodded in approval but held the rifle low so that the vest hung downwards.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘this is no longer the disgusting undergarment of a very dirty Welsh Kansu soldier—’
‘’Ere, steady on,’ interrupted Jenkins.
‘… but a flag of truce, although it won’t be raised until we get to the front line. There, we will ride in a V formation towards the gate of the arsenal, you two behind me, sitting very upright, and me in the lead, carrying the flag, as though we are an official delegation come to parley.’
‘Ah,’ nodded Chang.
‘Brilliant, bach,’ said Jenkins.
‘Until we get to the front, though,’ continued Fonthill, ‘we will not display the flag and, Chang, you will lead. We shall be stopped, I’m sure, and you will explain that we have come with a message to the commander from our general in Peking, General … what’s his name again?’
‘Tung Fu-hsiang.’
‘That’s the chap. Explain that it is urgent and we can’t be delayed. Then, when we reach the line, we will raise the flag and ride straight ahead – cantering, not galloping, mind you. Straight to the main gate of the arsenal and there we will explain that we are English and ask to be admitted.’
‘What?’ asked Jenkins. ‘Stand there an’ ’ave a chat while we get shot in the back by the Chinks and in the front by the Brits?’
‘Something like that.’ He grinned. ‘It’s risky, I admit. But I think that it’s a fair bet that the English will be wary, but they won’t defile a flag of truce and once they hear my voice they will let us in. As for the Chinese, I am gambling that everyone but the commander will think that it’s a parley that has been ordered from on high. And once he realises what’s up we shall be inside the arsenal.’
‘Then do I get me vest back?’
‘Of course. But it could have bullet holes in it. Come on, gentlemen. Let’s advance.’
Once again, Fonthill’s confidence was only reflected outwards. He would have felt happier if he could have reconnoitred the ground – particularly the Chinese lines – for himself. The main danger, he felt, would be getting through those lines. Chang’s story would not stand up to much interrogation. Their main hope would be that the young man would argue with, not only conviction, but also with the superiority and arrogance that stemmed from being a general’s messenger. He sighed. Once again, it would be a case of dipping a toe in the water to see how hot it was.
They rode back to where they had met the sentry the previous evening. He had been replaced and the new man made no attempt to stop them as they rode by. Confidence, reflected Fonthill, was all under these circumstances.
They rode on through scattered contingents of troops and heard intermittent firing from directly ahead of them. Luckily, they met no cavalry and no other Kansu troops, for they would surely never have survived interrogation from ‘one of their own’. The dead cavalryman must have been correct in saying that these Muslim soldiers were restricted to fighting on the north of the Peking legations’ perimeter.
They were stopped by one sentry, however, who was beginning to engage in a conversation with Chang when Simon interrupted, curtly gesturing them forward with an air of command that only an ex-British public schoolboy could call upon. They rode on and halted at the edge of a sad little thicket.
Before them loomed the huge, high walls of the arsenal, looking impregnable in the early-morning light. Stone outbuildings skirted the foot of the walls and these were manned by the defenders, who were directing a desultory fire at a line of hastily dug trenches some thirty yards away from the thicket and which curled down to the river. Smoke and cooking smells came from the trenches, as the Chinese soldiers prepared their breakfasts. The gap between the outbuildings and the trenches was some two hundred and fifty yards. The muzzles of light artillery pieces poked out from gaps in the line of outbuildings but Fonthill could see no artillery in place behind the Chinese lines. In any case, he mused, it would have taken very heavy guns to have made any impression in the walls of the arsenal.
He drew a deep breath. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘no point in waiting. We will ride straight ahead towards that gap where the cannon is pointing out. Rifles slung behind us so that they don’t threaten. We ride at a stately canter, now, and backs very straight. We are elite Chinese cavalry.’
‘Even though we are Mussulmen who ’aven’t said their prayers this mornin’,’ muttered Jenkins through clenched teeth.
They cantered out of the thicket, Fonthill in the lead, carrying his rifle high, with Jenkins’s vest fluttering at its muzzle. They took the narrow trench in a leap, startling the troops below them huddled around their braziers, and set off across no man’s land, in stately fashion as though they were leading the trooping of Her Majesty’s colour in Whitehall, London.
Two bullets hissed by Fonthill’s head from the direction of the British lines. He immediately removed his cap, coiled the reins around the thumb of his left hand and held it palm extended towards the British, in the universal sign of peace, and raised his ‘flag’ even higher. He heard someone bark a command from the outbuildings and the firing ceased.
They continued to ride in an eerie silence, for all firing had ceased along the lines. It was as though both sides were watching a tableau being staged for their entertainment.
When the trio had reached about sixty yards from the outbuildings, close enough to see the faces of the British soldiers, a Chinese voice rang out sharply.
‘They say, come no further,’ shouted Chang.
Fonthill rose in the stirrups. ‘I am an English officer,’ he cried. ‘My name is Fonthill. I have come from Peking with a message for your commander from Sir Claude MacDonald, the British minister in the capital. We have ridden through the Chinese lines in disguise.’
Silence fell. Then a voice displaying authority came from behind the cannon: ‘If you are an English officer, state your rank and regiment.’
Fonthill muttered a curse and then responded loudly: ‘I was commissioned in the 24th Regiment of Foot in 1876. I fought at Rorke’s Drift and Isandlwana and I am a Commander of the Bath. If we are left sitting out here much longer presenting three fine targets to the enemy I shall make bloody sure that you are cashiered. Now, let us in. Quickly.’
There was another silence and then the voice – this time carrying an edge – ordered: ‘Very well. But ride in slowly and do not touch your rifles or your packs.’
Thankfully, Simon kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks and the three of them walked forward to the gap in the line. Just before they reached it, a shout rang out from the Chinese lines and a ragged volley sent bullets singing past their ears. With alacrity, they urged their steeds forward and sprang through the gaps on either side of the cannon.
Hurriedly dismounting, Simon faced a ring of rifles and a haggard-faced young subaltern, who looked at him with some unease.
‘Good morning,’ he said, cheerfully, extending his hand. ‘Simon Fonthill. Sorry to have seemed rude but I was expecting a bullet up the arse at any minute.’
The young man shook hands, still a little warily, and then waved down the rifles. ‘Good morning … er … sir. I’m afraid you took us all rather by surprise.’
‘Yes. Had no time or the wherewithal to send you a letter. Ran out of stamps. Now, who is in command here?’
‘Admiral Seymour.’
‘Admiral?’
‘Yes. We are the relief mission that set out to relieve Peking. The lieutenant took out a tattered handkerchief and ran it across his brow. ‘I’m afraid we’ve had rather a rough time. We’ve had to fight every inch of the way back from Langfang …’
‘Langfang!’ Fonthill’s jaw dropped. ‘But that’s only about thirty miles from Peking. You got so near.’
The young man smiled ruefully. ‘Yes, we all know that. But I think you had better see the admiral, if you say you have a message for him.’
‘Yes please, right away. Oh – I wonder if it would be possible to rustle up some breakfast for my two companions? May I introduce 352 Jenkins and Chang Griffith. I wouldn’t have been able to move an inch without them.’
The lieutenant shook their hands – just a little uncertainly in the case of Chang – and gave quick orders to a sergeant. Then he walked with Simon back through a small post door set in the giant gate in the walls of the arsenal. They climbed a stone stairway and then Fonthill was kept waiting outside a semi-open door while a conversation took place within. Then he was ushered into a grand room, which, situated at the heart of the stone fortress, was blessedly cool. At the far end stood a tall, thin, bearded man, dressed in what was once the white ducks of an admiral of the British navy. Now they were creased, dirty and still covered in dust.
Seymour advance to meet Fonthill and held out his hand. His face was drawn beneath the beard and his eyes tired. ‘Fonthill?’ he asked. ‘Are you the Fonthill of Khartoum and Matebeleland?’
Simon nodded and then grinned. ‘I suppose I am, Admiral, though for the last two days, as you see, I have been a Kansu soldier.’
The grin was returned. ‘So I see. No wonder we wouldn’t let you into the lines. Congratulations on your disguise. We’ve been fighting Kansus for days and they and their general, Tung Fu-hsiang,’ he pronounced it perfectly, ‘have been giving us hell.’
‘Really? I thought the Kansus and their general have been restricted to the siege at Peking.’
‘Certainly not. They’re down here in force. Now please don’t tell me – please don’t tell me – that you have come to announce that Peking has fallen?’
‘No, sir. At least not when I left two days ago.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘No. But I have come to urge you to make all haste to relieve the legations. They are holding out, but only just, and I don’t know how much longer they can defend the Legation Quarter. Can you turn around and march on Peking? You could be there in a few days.’
‘My dear fellow, do sit down.’ The admiral gestured to a chair and took the one opposite. ‘Fonthill,’ he spoke wearily and with heavy emphasis. ‘There is no question of that. We can’t relieve anyone. It is we who need relieving. You see, we ourselves are besieged here. And, from what I can hear, so are our people in Tientsin. I fear that, at the moment, we are losing this damned war with the Dragon Lady.’