Simon Fonthill stared blankly at the admiral. ‘But,’ he said, ‘we were told that you had set out with two thousand men.’
‘So I did.’ Seymour’s face was expressionless but his eyes were those of a man who realised that his career had come to an end. ‘Because of the need for haste, we decided that the railway was the obvious and quickest way to advance – after all, Peking was only some eighty miles away and we were being faced not by a regular army but just a bunch of peasant rebels. Well,’ he smiled sadly, ‘it wasn’t quite like that, I’m afraid.
‘Of course, we were strung out along the line in a succession of trains and we had to keep repairing the line ahead to remedy the damage done by the Chinese, so our progress was painfully slow. The Boxers first attacked us on the third day. They came on at our lead trains just a touch north of Langfang.’ The admiral’s voice was soft and low, as though he were telling a fairy story to a child, but Fonthill could sense the agony behind the words. ‘They attacked us with supreme courage, although they were only armed with swords and spears. We brought down about sixty of them and they retreated but then they came on again, making it impossible for our chaps to get out to repair the line. In these subsequent attacks there were more of them and better armed.
‘We began to run low on ammunition and water and it was damned hot. You see, as we had advanced, we had been forced to garrison every station we passed to prevent the enemy tearing up the line behind us. We were on half rations and stretched out like a thin piece of string …’ Seymour suddenly shook his head. ‘I am forgetting my manners. You would like some tea, of course?’
‘That would be kind, sir. But what about your supplies?’
The admiral waved his hand. ‘That is the good news. We have found that this place is stacked with weapons, ammunition, medical supplies, fifteen tons of rice and a seemingly endless supply of tea. All left by the Chinese when we shooed them off.’ He shouted and a bluejacket appeared. ‘A pot of tea for two, please, Jackson. Now, where was I?’
‘You were stretched out like a piece of string.’
‘Yes, so we were. Then the Chinese destroyed the bridge at Yangtsun and we were cut off from our supply trains, which had to retreat back to Tientsin. We thought long and hard about pushing on to Peking overland but there was no major road, we had no transport and a growing number of wounded to care for. We decided to fall back on Yangtsun, commandeer junks for our wounded and supplies, and advance up the river to the capital. But there the German force we had left as a garrison was attacked by about four thousand of the enemy and their train was pursued for some miles as it retreated back to Tientsin, from which we could now hear gunfire.’
Wearily, Seymour rose and poured tea. ‘The important point here, however,’ he continued, ‘is that the force attacking the Germans were not Boxers but well-led contingents of the Imperial army. In other words, this rebellion was now being backed by the Chinese army, presumably on the orders of the Empress. So it was no longer a rebellion, it was war.’ He sighed. ‘This meant that it was impossible for us to continue towards Peking, with our wounded and cut off, as we were, from our supplies. So we took four junks and turned back for Tientsin. We have had to fight every inch of the way, deploying men at every village to take them at bayonet point and often pulling the junks containing our guns and wounded off the shoals as they grounded. We were under attack all the time. Then, suddenly, looming up out of the dusk we came upon this place, of which we had no knowledge at all. We mounted a night attack and, although it was fiercely defended, we managed to break through and send the garrison packing.’
Fonthill nodded, not quite knowing what to say, for his thoughts were beginning to turn to Alice and the beleagured defenders at Peking. But the admiral was not finished.
‘Our pursuers, of course, closed in all around us, cutting us off. Here, we are only about six miles from the foreign settlements at Tientsin and we can hear gunfire from there, so they are clearly under siege. But we have not been able to make contact with them, of course. You see, Fonthill,’ Seymour leant forward, ‘we are dead beat. Of what was left of my small force when we were cut off north of Yangtsun, we have lost sixty-two dead and two hundred and thirty-two wounded. We have successfully fought off a series of counter-attacks but we are simply not strong enough to break out.’
He sat back. ‘There. That’s our story. Every step of the way I have thought about our people in Peking and, since turning back, I have half expected to hear that they have been overwhelmed.’ He smiled wanly. ‘You can imagine the frustration and even the feeling of guilt. So please tell me how things were when you left and also how you were able to get through the lines.’
Simon relayed the message from Sir Claude MacDonald and then told his own story of how he and his two companions were able to reach the arsenal. At the end, both men fell silent.
It was Seymour who broke the silence. ‘You’ve shown remarkable courage and resource, Fonthill,’ he said, offering his sad smile, ‘and when the people back home hear about it, you will surely get rather more plaudits than I. But that is of no account. What matters now is that we have to get out of this place.’
‘Quite so.’ Fonthill’s mind raced. The story of the relief expedition was undoubtedly an unmitigated disaster. Surely someone – someone, that is, with some experience of land warfare, not an admiral, for God’s sake! – should have realised how vulnerable to attack would be an advance through enemy territory by train. Cutting the advance into segments by pulling up the line and then attacking each exposed segment would be as easy as snipping a piece of string here and there. His mind flashed again to the vulnerability of Alice now and of how the defenders of the Legation Quarter had been relying on relief and expecting it daily, scanning the sky to the south-east for searchlights and listening for the distant rumbles of guns to show that a column was near. Indignation flared within him at the incompetence of it all. Then a look into the sad eyes of the man before him, a man who had tried his best and who knew that his long and distinguished career had now ended in disastrous failure, rid him of thoughts of blame. What to do now, indeed!
‘You have tried to get help, presumably, from Tientsin?’
‘Oh yes. Only a Chinaman, of course, could get through and all of the reliable native people with me have refused to attempt it. I have to say that I don’t blame them. Reports have come in that Tung Fu-hsiang – a vicious bandit, by all accounts – is torturing and then beheading any of his countrymen found helping the enemy. We shall just have to lick our wounds here until we are strong enough to break out.’
‘Hmm.’ Fonthill thought hard. ‘We can tell by the sound of the guns, of course, that the Tientsin settlements are still holding out. If only we could link the two forces – here and there, I mean – then we would have a much stronger unit to attack the Kansus. Is there hope of reinforcements coming to Tientsin from the sea?’
Seymour’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes indeed, that is my hope. Before I left, the Foreign Powers were being asked to send troops to reinforce us from their possessions in Asia. The Russians, of course, are the nearest.’
‘Good.’ Simon fumbled within his long jacket and produced the rough map that Sir Claude had given him. He moved the teapot and spread the paper out on the table before them. He jabbed the map with a grimy forefinger. ‘You are presumably about here,’ he said, ‘on the riverbank, some six miles or so from the settlements?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the river flows from here downstream directly past the settlements?’
‘Then that is the route for a messenger to follow.’
The admiral shook his head. ‘But a boat would never get past the Chinese, who are watching every inch of the river. Then, of course, there is the question of getting through the ring of Tung Fu-hsiang’s troops who are besieging the settlements.’
‘It should be possible for someone in disguise to get through the Chinese lines around the settlements. We have done it here. And I would not use a boat to go downriver.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I presume you have access to the river?’
‘Yes, after dark.’
‘I have seen that there is plenty of driftwood that floats down the river with the current. It should be possible to pull some such detritus to the shore, take cover under it, in or out of the water, and float downstream, swimming ashore when the settlements are reached – all under cover of darkness.’
The admiral scratched at his beard. ‘It’s ingenious, but highly dangerous, I would have thought. But who would …? You are not suggesting that you would go?’
‘Of course.’
‘But, my dear fellow. You don’t know the territory, you would not be able to control your means of travel, you would not know when you had reached your destination … I can think of a dozen reasons why the whole thing would be ridiculously hazardous.’
Fonthill leant forward. ‘I have to confess, Admiral,’ he said, ‘that I have a vested interest in getting you out of here. You see, I had to leave my wife behind in the Legation Quarter in Peking. I don’t know how long the defenders can hold out there but their resources are running low and unless help comes soon they will be overwhelmed. If that happens, I do not wish to think of what could happen to her. If the fit remnants of your column and the defenders at Tientsin are merged – plus, of course, any reinforcements that have been able to land from the sea – then it should be possible to mount another attempt to relieve our people in the capital. But all this will take time, of course, and we have precious little of that. So I intend to leave tonight.’ He paused for a moment. Then he added slowly but with emphasis, ‘I need to go myself to impress the authorities of the need for haste and for care in the planning of this second relief column. It needs to go quickly – and it must get through.’
The two men sat gazing at each other in silence for a moment. Then the admiral stood. ‘I admire your courage and your determination, Fonthill,’ he said. ‘Of course, I will do all I can to help. Now come over here and I will show you a better map.’
The two walked to the admiral’s desk, where he unrolled a large-scale chart. ‘This arsenal is not marked but we are roughly here on the right bank of the river, as you have indicated. The river flows more or less straight for about three miles, then it gets a bit complicated. Just above the Chinese City of Tientsin here, you see that the river bends back on itself and the Lu-T’ai Canal comes in from the left. Then the river itself becomes like the head of a buffalo, facing north; you come in on the right horn, so to speak, and the left horn goes to your right and becomes the Grand Canal, flowing past the city. You must not be swept into the canal because that takes you away from the settlements, which are down here, sou’-sou’-west, about another mile away. If you can get ashore at the northern extremity of the settlements, here, with the railway station on your left, that would be best. Do you speak French?’
‘Yes. Well, reasonably.’
‘Good, because the French concession occupies the northern end of the settlements and I assume that French sailors will be occupying this part of the defences. Now, do you intend to go alone?’
‘Yes, I cannot ask my companions to undertake such a journey.’
‘Very well. I suggest that you strip down but carry your Kansu clothing tightly wrapped in a waterproof. Rub down if you can find cover on the riverbank and then dress. You can’t wander naked through the lines. Ah, one more thing.’ He rolled the map up again. ‘Just on the edge of the arsenal here, where it comes down to the river, there is a promontory, which juts out and collects driftwood. We should be able to find material for some sort of transport there.’
Simon nodded in appreciation. ‘Splendid! I am most grateful for your help and advice. Now, I would welcome the chance to have something to eat and to talk to my companions.’
‘Good Lord! Of course. I have been most neglectful.’
Moments later, Fonthill joined Jenkins and Chang, who were finishing a plate of rice and meat of indeterminate origin and drinking from large tin mugs of tea. Similar fare was provided for him and, between mouthfuls, he related the story of the relief column to his companions.
‘Barmy, goin’ by train,’ said Jenkins. ‘Did they think they were goin’ on ’oliday to the seaside?’
Chang nodded and concurred. ‘It is jolly regretful that they should go that way.’
Jenkins mopped up the remains of the rice with a crust. ‘What’s the plan now, then, bach sir?’ He looked around him. ‘I could quite enjoy this postin’, out of the sun, like, an’ with a bit of decent somethin’ to eat. I suppose we will stay ’ere for a bit to get our breath back, so to speak?’
‘Yes, well certainly you two will.’ He then explained his plan to them. Chang, as usual, was imperturbable but Jenkins listened with mounting horror.
‘What!’ he exclaimed, his nose wrinkling and his eyebrows nearly meeting his moustache. ‘We float down that bleedin’ river on a bit o’ wood, with the crocodiles nippin’ at our balls and lettin’ the Chinks take potshots at us? It’s barmy, look you.’
Simon sighed. ‘No, my dear old comrade. We don’t go. I do. Two of us certainly would present a target and, anyway, you can’t swim and you are afraid of crocodiles. I love them. Nice creatures.’
Chang broke his silence. ‘Three too many, cousin. I quite agree. But you need interpreter. And I can swim and I love crocodiles too. So I come.’ He grinned. ‘Mr Jenkins stay behind because he is not family.’
Jenkins blew out his cheeks. ‘If you go, I go. Or I shoot you in the leg, as instructed by Miss Alice. I think this counts under the ’eadin’ of “stupid, brave thing”, or whatever it was she said.’
Fonthill shook his head slowly. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘but I do this one on my own. Three of us are too big a party. And it is far too dangerous, anyway.’
Jenkins leant across and put his hand on Simon’s arm. ‘Now, listen, bach sir,’ he said. ‘This is no time to break up our partnership. You’re as brave as a lion, I know that, and you’re cleverer than General Roberts and General Wolseley put together. But you need me, you know you do. I can do the killin’ while you do the thinkin’. We’re a good team, but not so good, with respect, when we split up. Whatever you say, anyway, I shall come with you.’ He turned to the Chinaman. ‘An’ you, Changy, should stay ’ere an’ write to yer mother.’
Chang, his face set, shook his head. ‘You need interpreter,’ he said. ‘You don’t get through lines without talking. I go, too.’
Simon made one last effort. ‘But you can’t swim and you hate the water,’ he said to Jenkins.
The Welshman shook his head. ‘Who was it that swam … well, sort of … across that river in Matabellyland ’oldin’ on to your ’orse’s tail?’ He turned to Chang. ‘An’ you said, didn’t you, Changy, that there aren’t any crocs in this river?’
Chang nodded affirmatively.
‘There you are, then. What time do we go?’
Fonthill looked hard at his old friend. If there was one thing that Jenkins hated more than heights and crocodiles it was water. For him to volunteer to hang on to a piece of timber and float downstream in a fast-flowing river was the epitome of courage. But for all of his idiosyncrasies, Simon had never met a braver man than Jenkins. It was not like either of them, however, to be sentimental. So he merely smiled and nodded. ‘Oh, very well, but I call this insubordination. We leave as soon as it is dark and when we have managed to pull some driftwood out of the river.’
He shook his head disparagingly. ‘It’s going to be a big load and it looks as though we shall need something like Brunel’s “Great Eastern” now. We don’t take rifles, just the Colt revolver, and we will need to pack our clothes tightly in our waterproofs. Try and get some rest now. It could be a long night.’
* * *
The three dozed intermittently through the day, to a background of artillery and rifle fire. Then, just before dark, Fonthill made his way to the rear wall of the arsenal, that which faced the river. The water lapped at its high walls but, true enough, to the right where the wall turned at right angles, a thin tongue of land jutted out, containing just enough scrub of cover to anyone watching from downriver or the opposite bank. As the water swirled up to it and round, it had collected enough driftwood to found a timber yard. Prominent amongst the detritus was the trunk of a medium-sized tree, which still had branches protruding from the base, to which a few, sad traces of foliage still clung.
Simon nodded his head. That would suffice.
As dusk settled on the river, the three set out from a little post gate near the promontory. With them came Admiral Seymour and four barefooted sailors. Fonthill and his companions had stripped down to their underpants and clutched bundles of their Kansu uniforms, wrapped in their waterproof capes. The warm air engulfed them and even the water was tepid as Chang and the four sailors waded out, their backs bent low, to retrieve the tree.
Seymour clutched Fonthill’s hand. ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘that you go to the right bank when you are abreast of the railway on your left. Be careful not to be swept to your right up the canal as you meet the “buffalo head” of the river. I don’t know who is in charge at Tientsin, but tell him that we can hold out here for quite some time but that, if we hear nothing for a week, we shall try and break out to reach them.
‘Good luck, my dear Fonthill. May God go with you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ They shook hands as the tree trunk was pushed to the bank. Simon stole a glance at Jenkins. Despite the humidity, the Welshman was shivering. He avoided Fonthill’s gaze but waded out and hesitantly climbed onto the trunk, lying prone on it, his legs slightly apart to maintain balance, with one hand clutching his bag and the other holding on to a branch that rose vertically just by his head.
‘That’s good, 352,’ whispered Fonthill. ‘The river is not turbulent so you should be quite safe if you hold on tight and spread your legs apart to keep your balance. Chang, you hold onto that branch to the right and I will take the left side. Kick with your feet if this bloody thing starts to drift to either side. Right. Here we go.’
There was a distinct muttered cry of ‘Oh, bloody ’ell’ as the two swimmers pushed the log away from the strip of land and the current caught it, causing it to roll a little. Then it righted itself and Fonthill and Chang kicked their feet in breaststroke fashion to propel it into the centre of the river. Once there, Simon felt the full surge of the river as they were taken up by the current.
He kept his head low, so that the water lapped his chin, and stole a glance to either side. Campfires glowed on both banks, but they were, of course, more numerous on the right bank, facing the arsenal.
He could make out no figures in the darkness and they seemed to be undetected. Thank goodness the trunk was not yawing and Simon offered up a fervent prayer that Jenkins would continue to lie supine, looking from the bank like some gnarled, knotted protrusion in the middle of the tree.
After the heat of the day, it was not at all unpleasant drifting down the river in the comparative cool of the night. They passed several junks moored for the night on the banks but nothing was moving on the river except them, as either he or Chang kicked out to maintain their position. He soon realised that the young Chinaman was like an eel in the water and, after a time, he left it to Chang to correct their position whenever the need arose.
Fonthhill became aware that their biggest danger would arise if they met shoals of shallow water, for, despite the recent rains, the long drought had severely reduced the river level. Several times he felt his feet kick the bottom as they wandered a little from the deeper channel in midstream. He took comfort, however, from the fact that Seymour had told him that there were no rapids marked on the map above Tientsin.
As they drifted, he began to address the question of when and how they would forsake their tree and gain the riverbank. He had no watch, of course, but he tried to record the position of the pale moon in the dark sky above him and also to assess the speed of the current.
Seymour had estimated that it seemed to be between one and two miles an hour, say one and a half. That meant that, given they were six miles from the foreign concessions, they should be abreast of them after about four hours. Good, that meant that they would arrive still in darkness. How he would successfully navigate the ‘buffalo head’ junction, he had no idea, except to keep to the left side of the river – if, that is, he knew when they had reached the junction, for little could be seen of either riverbank at the moment.
He was startled by a sudden grunt and then a low moaning sound. He let himself slip back to the rear of the trunk and raised an enquiring eyebrow to Chang, who was on his back and allowing his feet to trail behind him, fluttering in the stream, as though he always used this form of transport to travel on the Pei Ho. The Chinaman grinned and pointed forward. Jenkins, he who was terrified of water, was fast asleep and snoring!
Fonthill crept back up the log and firmly held Jenkins’s ankle. He was anxious that his comrade should not suddenly wake up and upset their makeshift boat. The Welshman came to with a start and Simon hissed, ‘I told you you would enjoy the trip but don’t go to sleep, for God’s sake.’
‘Oh, sorry, bach sir.’
A light flickered from the right riverbank and then, suddenly, a rifle exploded with a crack and a dart of flame. The bullet hissed into the water behind Fonthill, who breathed, ‘Nobody move. Keep perfectly still.’
Another shot was fired which splashed even further behind and then the river lapsed into silence once more. ‘I think he was just amusing himself,’ called Fonthill softly. ‘A bit of nocturnal target practice to amuse himself on the long night-watch.’
‘As long as ’e wasn’t shootin’ at crocodiles,’ grunted Jenkins.
The water seemed to be turning cold and a shiver ran through Fonthill. He estimated that they had been in the river for about three and a half hours, although the moon had now slipped behind what seemed like a thick bank of cloud. Ah, rain would be a good thing! Under its cover they could land easily enough. But the night remained dry.
A new and hitherto hidden danger of the river, as Jenkins had discovered, however, was that their method of transport proved to be soporific and Simon felt himself drifting off to sleep, despite – or perhaps because of – the coldness now of the water. He was rudely stirred from his drowsiness when the trunk hit the bank and was immediately sent swirling around, jettisoning Jenkins in the water with a resounding splash. Fonthill immediately struck out for him and caught him by the arm, as he began to thrash the water.
‘On your back and keep quiet,’ he hissed into his ear. Simon slipped behind the Welshman, thrust both hands under his armpits and began kicking to take them to the riverbank. He realised that Chang was at his side, helping to hold up Jenkins, but that the tree trunk, with their bundles of clothing caught in the thrusting branches, was floating away downstream.
At the same moment, there was a babble of voices from up above them on the bank and, looking up, Simon saw half a dozen rifles thrust towards them and as many faces – Chinese faces, of course – gazing down at them in consternation.
‘Chang,’ called Simon. ‘Tell them not to shoot.’
They scrambled ashore under the threatening rifles and Chang shouted, ‘I think they shoot us now as spies.’
Fonthill’s brain raced. ‘Tell them that we are not spies,’ he said, ‘but that we are English and come from Peking with an important message for General … damn … what’s his name … from Sir Claude MacDonald. We came by boat but it overturned in the shoals and we have been forced to swim. Make it sound good, cousin, for God’s sake.’
Chang burbled away urgently while the three stood in their underpants, water dripping from them. A shamefaced Jenkins stood, clenching and unclenching his fists, his great moustache looking as though his nose had caught a water rat. ‘Sorry, bach,’ he murmured, ‘all my fault. I’ll take this lot on while you dive back into the river and get away. That’s best.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the kind. That way we will all be shot. And, anyway, it was my fault for falling asleep. We will just have to see if we can talk our way out of this.’
It seemed that Chang was not having much success, for a rifle butt was suddenly swung into his face, knocking him to the ground.
Fonthill strode forward. ‘That’s enough of that,’ he said, with the confident and reprimanding air of a British colonel. ‘You do not hit that man again.’ And he wagged his finger in the face of the antagonist. ‘We are British soldiers and …’ The muzzle of the man’s rifle was suddenly thrust sharply into his stomach, winding him and causing him to bend over and drop onto one knee.
Jenkins sprang forward and delivered a perfect left hook onto the jaw of the soldier, sending him staggering, before the Welshman was felled with a rifle butt from behind.
Grimacing, Fonthill looked up at the hostile faces all around him. They were, he realised, all Kansus. Their eyes, set in Mongolian faces, regarded him quite expressionlessly. These were the toughest, most vicious soldiers in the Empress’s army, little more than bandits, rapists and killers, led by the biggest brigand and foreigner-hating man in all China. As he watched, he saw the man Jenkins had struck walk forward and aim his rifle at the dazed Welshman’s head and pull back the bolt.
Then the name came to him. He stood erect. ‘General Tung Fu-hsiang,’ he said firmly. ‘Take us to him.’ Then he repeated the name. ‘General Tung Fu-hsiang.’ He embraced the three of them with a whirl of his arm. Then gestured from his breast and then vaguely to the south. ‘General Tung Fu-hsiang.’
Chang pulled himself to his feet, his eye half closed, and began speaking in Chinese again.
Whatever he said, that and Simon’s firmness had an effect, for they were pushed forward with rifle muzzles. Fonthill became aware of the sound of artillery fire, much closer now, and they were being marched towards it. After five minutes they saw campfires and all three were forced to their knees by blows from rifle butts into their backs and left under a guard of two men on the edge of the camp.
‘Are you all right, the two of you?’ asked Fonthill.
‘Me ’ead is singin’ but it’s me pride that’s wounded mostly,’ grunted Jenkins. ‘Sorry, bach sir, for sleepin’ at me post and fallin’ off into the water. It looks as though I’ve got us into a fine mess.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish.’
Chang squinted across at Simon with his good eye. ‘I think, cousin, that they now believe you that you have message for general and they go to fetch officer. But I think they will be jolly angry when they find you have no message.’
Fonthill shrugged. ‘I’ll think of something. I had to stop them shooting us out of hand. They’re Kansus, aren’t they?’
‘Yes. Not very nice people.’
‘By the sound of the guns, we are very near the settlements, if only we can get out of here.’
Jenkins looked down at his nakedness. ‘If we get through the lines, we’ll probably be arrested for indecency. Or catch cold and die of flu.’
Eventually, an order was barked from out of the semi-darkness and they were bundled forward, rifles at their backs, until they reached a large tent. Inside, a Kansu was seated at a trestle table. He was dressed and looked exactly the same as the soldiers but he was obviously an officer, for he was treated with great deference by the escorts. He spoke rapidly to Chang.
‘He want our names and where we come from and why we go downstream on log,’ he explained.
Fonthill nodded. ‘Give our names and ranks – captain and sergeant. You are our interpreter. Do not say that you are the son of a missionary. Explain that we escaped from Peking with a personal message for the general from Sir Claude MacDonald, the senior minister in the legations. We made for the river, where we hired a small boat. Upriver it hit an obstruction during the night and overturned, throwing us into the water. We were all asleep on deck in just our undergarments because of the heat. We found this log floating and hung onto it, because we were all poor swimmers.’
‘Blimey,’ muttered Jenkins. ‘There’s ingenious for you, isn’t it?’
Chang gave his translation, while Simon watched the officer closely to gauge his reactions. The man’s face was impassive. Then he spoke curtly.
‘He say, give him message and he will relay it to general.’
‘No. The message is confidential and is not written. I have orders to deliver it to the general personally. Ask him to take us to him immediately.’
‘He say, how you know general is here and not in Peking?’
‘Word came through to Sir Claude that the general had given up his command of the troops attacking the Wang Fu to direct operations against the Tientsin settlements.’
Fonthill sucked in his breath and hoped to God that Seymour’s information about the whereabouts of Tung Fu-hsiang was correct. If his gamble had failed then the odds on being shot straight away were short. But the officer’s face gave no indication either way.
The Kansu fixed his gaze on Fonthill, who returned it without blinking. The two stared at each other in silence for a full thirty seconds before the officer turned and barked a command.
Chang let out an audible sigh of relief. ‘We are to be taken to general,’ he whispered. ‘He gives orders that coats are to be found for us, for it would be insult to commander for us to appear before him naked.’
‘Quite right,’ muttered Jenkins. ‘Well, bach sir, first round to you. But you’d better think of a good message to deliver. The general wouldn’t be Sir Claude’s illegitimate son, by any chance, would he?’
Fonthill frowned. ‘Do be quiet, 352. I’m trying to think.’
Three dun-coloured coats were thrown around their shoulders, their hands were bound roughly behind their backs and they were pushed out of the tent. The first signs of dawn were streaking the sky to the east and they were marched away, following the officer and surrounded by a guard of Kansus. The gunfire was louder than ever and Fonthill realised that they must be near to the line surrounding the settlements, although little could be seen in the darkness.
This was confirmed as they climbed a hill and saw ahead, just out of rifle shot, a dark outline of buildings, linked by a low and indistinct line of what must be barricades. Troops were now all around them, crawling from their bedrolls and congregating around small open fires over which cooking pots were hung. To their right and behind them, cannon were firing desultorily and the sour smell of cordite hung on the air. At the top of the hill, tucked away among stunted trees, a large, low tent had been pitched, lit from within by a dim light.
‘Let’s ’ope that the general ’as slept well,’ muttered Jenkins.
They were forced to wait for ten minutes while the officer spoke with guards outside the tent and then disappeared inside it. Then they were pushed through an opening in the canvas.
The tent seemed even larger from within and three vertical poles supported the roof. To one side, sleeping mats had been spread and three women, dressed in traditional Chinese style but looking a little dishevelled, as if they had dressed hurriedly, were folding blankets. In the centre of the room stood a table on which a large map had been spread and, at the far end of the tent, a fourth woman was ladling rice into a wooden bowl set on a smaller table, behind which sat one of the largest men Fonthill had ever seen.
Although he was sitting, it was clear that he was not tall, perhaps Jenkins’s height. But he was wide – wider than the Welshman by far – and immensely fat. He was half-wearing a green tunic that had been buttoned up only to the midriff, revealing rolls of flesh. The head was either completely bald or shaven, although a long moustache adorned the upper lip, the ends of which hung down on either side of his mouth like rat’s tails. The man was eating rice and meat with chopsticks, displaying a delicacy of movement that denied the grossness of his appearance.
He looked up as the trio were ushered in and gestured briefly with his chopsticks. Immediately, rifles were crashed onto the shoulders of the three, forcing them to kneel before him.
Fonthill looked with interest at the general. He knew that the man enjoyed the confidence of the Empress, because of his diligence in stamping out isolated examples of insurgency in the north of China and his oft-declared hatred of the foreign barbarians whose presence in the country was humiliating its people and the Dragon Lady herself. He was a warlord in his own right in the north but he gave devoted allegiance to the Empress and had been one of the early supporters of the Boxers. His competence as a military leader had been reflected in the fact that the Peking sector that he commanded, the Wang Fu, had posed the greatest threat to the legations, causing the diligent Japanese who defended it to concede ground regularly, if stoically. Now he regarded the three prisoners with tiny eyes, set in a round, jowled face.
Fonthill decided to take the initiative.
‘Are you General Tung Fu-hsiang?’ he demanded, looking directly at the general, rather than Chang, who interpreted in a diffident voice.
There was an intake of breath from the dozen or so Kansus in the tent. It was, clearly, lèse-majesté for a prisoner to address the general without being spoken to first and a rifle butt crashed into his back, sending him sprawling.
Chang hurriedly answered, although no one had replied to the question. ‘Yes, cousin,’ he said, ‘this is the general. Please be careful.’
‘Then tell him I have a message for him from Sir Claude MacDonald.’
The general acknowledged the statement with a wave of his chopsticks. ‘Tell me the message,’ translated Chang.
‘No,’ said Fonthill. ‘I speak to no man while kneeling before him.’
There was another intake of breath, not least from Chang and Jenkins, and the general looked up, a flicker of interest momentarily lighting up his face. ‘Then you will be beheaded as you kneel,’ he replied, indicating for one of the guards to step forward and draw his long, curved sword.
‘Then you will not hear the message,’ answered Simon, still fixing his gaze on that of the general.
‘Bloody ’ell,’ muttered Jenkins. ‘Steady on, bach sir.’
A slow smile began to spread across the general’s face but he lowered his head and continued eating for a moment before looking up and growling a command to the officer. Immediately, Simon was levered to his feet.
‘Very well,’ said Simon. ‘I wish my companions to stand also.’
Another signal was given and Jenkins and Chang were brought to their feet, rifle barrels thrust under their armpits.
‘Now,’ said Fonthill. ‘Sir Claude MacDonald is the leader of the eleven foreign ministers who, with their staffs and families, are being kept under siege in Peking.’
‘He knows that,’ interpreted Chang, ‘and he says that the man is a fool.’
‘If he is a fool, he represents the British Empire, the most powerful empire in the world, which is three times the size of the Chinese Empire. He is also the elected leader of the ten other European powers who, with the British, have navies and armies thirty times the size of the Chinese. Sir Claude is imprisoned within the Legation Quarter but, even so, he sends his greetings to the general.’
At this, the Chinaman put down his chopsticks and leant back in his chair. Encouraged, Fonthill continued.
‘He respects the general, because he knows of his prowess as a fighting man and he respects his Kansu troops, who have a similar reputation. But he is afraid for the general’s life.’
Tung Fu-hsiang lifted his eyebrows and gestured for Simon to continue. ‘Yes,’ said Simon, ‘at this moment twenty thousand Russian troops are on their way to Taku from the Russian provinces in Asia and the British are also sending troops from India. The British Admiral Seymour has captured the great Chinese arsenal of Hsiku near here and has at his disposal great quantities of field guns, machine guns, rifles, and seven million rounds of small-arms ammunition.’ At this point, Chang held up his hand for Simon to slow down while he translated.
The general looked unimpressed. ‘You lie,’ he said. ‘We have both Peking and the Tientsin settlements surrounded and there are no reports of foreign reinforcements in Taku. Even if this were so, these are matters for the Empress, not me. Why should your minister fear for my life?’
There was a muted murmur of acquiescence from the soldiers in the room.
Fonthill drew in his breath. He had no knowledge of reinforcements being imminent. They would come, he had no doubt about that. But they would probably be too late. Nevertheless, he continued.
‘Because, General, the Foreign Powers, when they land and have defeated your outnumbered and outgunned army, will advance on Peking and storm the Forbidden City and the Manchu Palace. The Empress, of course, will not be harmed. She will be needed to reunite the country after the dreadful revenge that the powers will take on your people. But the generals who have supported the Boxers and led the attack on the capital and on the settlements will be killed – all of them.’
A silence fell on the room as Fonthill’s words were translated by Chang, who was now speaking in a loud and firm voice, as though taking heart from the words he was conveying.
A glance from Chang showed that he had finished and Simon hurried on. ‘However, because he admires your fighting spirit, Sir Claude is prepared to guarantee that you will live after punitive actions have been taken. But you must withdraw your men from the settlements immediately.’
‘Good try, bach sir,’ whispered Jenkins. ‘Good try.’
A slow smile spread across the round face of the general. He nodded his head slowly, as if in admiration of Simon’s audacity. Then he spoke slowly, giving time for Chang to translate, which he did with increasing glumness.
‘He say you speak with the honesty of a snake and the wisdom of a cow,’ he said. ‘The whole of China is rising against the foreign pigs who have defiled our country with their religion and allowed their missionaries to murder our babies.’ The general’s tone rose and his words became a rant. ‘None of your so-called armies will stand against the power of the Divine Empress. Just as we destroyed your pathetic attempt to relieve Peking so we will crush any further troops that land here.’
He paused. Then went on, ‘As for you three, you will die the death of a thousand lashes. Tie them to the posts.’
With a yell, the Kansus ran forward and seized the trio, untying their hands and then retying the wrists of each of them behind each of the three posts. Fonthill turned his head to issue a further threat in an attempt to save them. He saw a messenger come through the opening and say something in the general’s ear, then, more ominously, six long whips being produced as six of the Kansus stripped off their shirts and took post, two to each of the intruders. It was clear that the men would take it in turns to deliver each stroke, giving the flogged no respite. The coats of the three were torn from their backs in preparation for the beginning of the torture.
Jenkins groaned and, half-turning to Simon, said, ‘Oh bloody ’ell. Not again.’
Fonthill, who was pinioned to the furthest of the poles on the left, turned his head. ‘I am sorry, lads,’ he said. ‘The gamble failed. Thank you both for—’
But he was interrupted by a cry from Tung Fu-hsiang. Immediately the whips were lowered and Simon felt a finger prod the middle of his naked back. He also felt the general’s breath on his cheek. It reeked of cinnamon and other spices. The Chinaman prodded his back once more and turned and shouted to Chang.
‘He says, what are those marks?’
Puzzled, Simon replied, ‘They are the marks of the flogging we received from the Mahdi at Khartoum, in the Sudan. My comrade next to me was also whipped. What does it matter?’ The punishment had been administered more than fifteen years before but the tan which they had both received on the slow plod on the ship across the Pacific a few months ago had not concealed the scars, which now stood out like white wheals.
‘He say, how many lashes you receive?’
What was this about? Fonthill sighed. Perhaps the bastard would double the dose for them – but he had already promised a thousand, which was the death penalty, so it didn’t matter. ‘I had fifty lashes and Jenkins twenty-five.’
‘Ah!’ The ejaculation came from Tung Fu-hsiang, who immediately jumped in front of Simon and Jenkins, removed his jacket and turned his back. A gasp came from the soldiers now crowded into the tent to witness the entertainment, for the general’s back also bore the signature of the lash, criss-crossed and standing out whitely, like those of Fonthill and Jenkins.
‘He say,’ said Chang, his voice a little louder now, ‘he say he got forty lashes as young man from Empress’s nephew, the deposed Emperor, a cowardly man. He salutes you two as similar brave warriors. These are marks of courage. Many men die as result.’
The general, now beaming, interrupted Chang, who listened with growing disbelief and then translated with as much of a smile as his closed eye would allow. ‘He say, because of this, he will release us and let us through the lines to settlements. But, he wants you to know that this is not because of minister’s attempt at bribery, which he treats with scorn, but because he admires bravery. Cousin, we are not going to be whipped to death. God be praised!’
‘’Ere, ’ere,’ muttered Jenkins. ‘Tell the old bastard that I’ll vote for ’im, see, when he stands for emperor, so I will.’
Fonthill maintained a straight face and nodded sagely. ‘Thank the general. We admire him as a man of courage also.’
Their bonds were cut and their ill-fitting coats restored to them. Simon gave the general a half-bow, which the others emulated, and followed the officer out of the tent, amidst a hum of – what, derision, approval, disappointment? – from the assembled soldiers.
‘Have you noticed something?’ asked Simon. ‘The firing has stopped.’
‘I think I know why,’ beamed Chang. ‘It all bally interesting, cousin. I tell you why when we get through lines.’
They followed the officer who picked his way through the shallow trench works that constituted the Chinese forward lines. They passed hundreds of Imperial soldiers, rifles at the slope, who were marching away from the settlements. Then the officer pointed towards a low mud wall which fronted the Chinese lines some two hundred yards away. It was studded with rifles at its crest and broken occasionally by the snout of a cannon. But all firing had stopped.
‘He say, there are French lines,’ interpreted Chang. ‘We free to go towards them.’
With a half-smile, the officer gave them a ceremonial bow and marched quickly away, to catch up with the departing infantry.
Simon turned to Chang. ‘What was so bally interesting back there, cousin?’
‘Ah.’ The Chinaman gave a lopsided smile. ‘Just as we being tied to posts a man came in and gave general a message.’
‘Yes, I noticed that. Did you hear what he said?’
‘Not completely. But I hear distinctly words “thousands of Russian troops” and “retreat”.’
Fonthill returned the smile, slowly nodding his head. ‘I thought this “comrades-in-arms and fellow sufferers” stuff was all too good to be true. The old rascal freed us because reinforcements had arrived for the settlements and he wanted to get some credit with the Allies for releasing us. The old fraud.’
‘Well,’ said Jenkins, ‘I don’t really care what ’e thought as long as ’e let us go. Now let’s get moving towards the Frenchies, shall we?’ And he began to stride forward.
‘No!’ Fonthill held up his hand. ‘If we march across this no man’s land wearing these coats, we are just asking to be shot by the French. Take ’em off and we will saunter across in our underpants, waving the coats. That should amuse the French and also stop ’em shooting at us. Come on – and try and smile. We could be having French onion soup for lunch …’
And so, barefooted, wearing fixed grins and nothing but their filthy and still-wet and virtually transparent underpants, the three comrades strode towards the defenders of the Tientsin settlements.