The War of the Dragon Lady (12 page)

‘So – what happened to them, do you think?’

‘I believe that the messengers just absconded with them without making any attempt to deliver them. The Chinese are like that, you know.’ He gave a sad smile. ‘No. This time, I want someone reliable – someone resourceful – to get through to the relief column. There is an additional point in this context. I want the messenger to have a strategic appreciation of our position here. Someone with military – not diplomatic – experience, who can advise the commander of the relief column on the best way to enter the city and to attack our besiegers. I can’t think of anyone who could do this better than you, my dear fellow. After all, you got through the Mahdi’s hordes surrounding Khartoum to get a message through to Gordon, did you not?’

Fonthill smiled wryly. ‘I was a bit younger then, sir.’

MacDonald sighed. ‘My dear Fonthill, in the last few weeks you have led at least two bayonet charges against the enemy, you have climbed a forty-five-foot tower and destroyed two large guns and you have worked seemingly non-stop to keep our defences in good order. Indeed, I am told that when you received my request to come to the office, you were working with the coolies digging out a trench. I can’t think of a fitter, more qualified man for this dangerous mission.’

‘Well, thank you, sir. There is, however, the question of appearance. A European surely would be recognised quickly in this countryside. It would be particularly difficult to get through the besiegers here and at Tientsin.’

‘I have thought of that. Both you and your man – er … 352, isn’t it?’

‘Well done, sir. Yes.’

Sir Claude gave a distant smile. ‘Yes. I presume that you would wish to take him with you?’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘Well, both you and he have high cheekbones and are not extraordinarily tall. That’s a good start. I suggest that we disguise the pair of you as Kansu soldiers from the north. They are more Mongolian than indigenous Chinese and their facial features change considerably from man to man. We have captured several of these chaps and their uniforms are quite distinctive. They straight away proclaim that the fellows wearing them are Kansu. We can dress you up quite well.’

‘What about a guide? Jenkins and I just don’t know the territory.’

The minister stirred in his chair, a trifle uncomfortably. ‘I can offer you your choice of a dozen or more reasonably reliable Chinese. Trouble is, I fear they are not completely to be trusted. But I agree you must have someone.’

‘Ah!’ Simon slapped his thigh. ‘I have it! We will take Chang, the Reverend Griffith’s adopted son. He is as keen as mustard, speaks the language like a native, of course, and I know has made the journey to and from Tientsin several times.’

‘Good.’ The faint smile returned to Sir Claude’s long features. ‘You will accept, then?’

‘Of course. I see the importance of it, although,’ he frowned, ‘I know my wife won’t like it.’ He leant forward. ‘And I have to confess that I am worried about leaving her here. Without myself and Jenkins, who would protect her if the worst comes to the worst?’

‘On that point, Fonthill, you must be assured. I will personally undertake responsibility for her safety, even if the Chinese do break through. She will be as important to me as is my wife. She will be part of my family, so to speak, and, in any case, I am confident that the
Empress will not wish to see any of the ministers, or their families, harmed, in the unlikely event of there being a breakthrough. It would mean the end of the Manchu court, for the revenge of the Western powers would be punitive. The Empress will know that.’

Fonthill was not convinced but he decided to say nothing. ‘Very well. When do you wish us to go?’

‘As soon as possible. We have garments for you. I suggest you leave the Quarter at night, perhaps tomorrow, just after sunrise? The safest way, I suggest, is through the sewer hole in the wall. Not pleasant, I fear, but, as far as we can see, it is not guarded by the Chinese. It is quite small but men singly can slip through it easily.’

‘Very good, sir. Tomorrow night it shall be.’ Fonthill and the minister rose and shook hands.

As he predicted, Alice was incensed at the news. She argued strongly that two Occidentals would easily be detected, from their physical appearance and their language. Capture would be inevitable and it simply would not be possible to talk their way out of it. If they insisted on undertaking the mission, then she would go with them. A woman with the party would reduce the risk of being taken for spies and, anyway, she was damned if she was going to be left behind to become another widow holed up in Peking!

It took all of Simon’s persuasive powers to induce her to change her stance. It would be far more difficult to disguise her appearance, with her fair hair and grey eyes. And the worry of having her with them, he argued, would adversely affect his ability to lead the mission.

Then the problem arose of how to explain Chang’s absence to his mother. The youth was anxious enough to take part but, if Gerald, for all
his new seeming affection for Alice, was, in fact, relaying information to the enemy, then he must not be made aware of the mission. In the end, it was agreed that Chang would leave a message for Mrs Griffith, explaining that he had been seconded to the American Legation for special duties and that, long after their departure, Alice would find a way of explaining, as diplomatically as possible, the real reason for his absence.

The next morning, the trio assembled in the privacy of MacDonald’s office to be fitted by Lady MacDonald with their disguises. The minister’s wife, tall and as elegant as her husband, bestowed as much enthusiasm for getting their costumes right as she did for dressing the participants in her very popular annual pantomimes.

None of the garments, which had been stripped from prisoners and washed carefully, fitted, but they were sufficiently voluminous for this not to matter. Each wore a canvas cap reminiscent of that of a scullery maid in an upper-class British house; long, smock-type coats, emblazoned with Chinese symbols proclaiming their allegiance to their leader, Tung Fu-hsiang; baggy cotton trousers; and
single-strap
sandals, through the front of which their toes poked. Heavy bandoliers were carried, either crossways or around their waists, and straight, short swords were thrust through their belts.

‘What about rifles?’ asked Jenkins. ‘I don’t fancy going halfway across China without our Henry-Martinis.’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Fonthill. ‘Carrying two British rifles would betray us straightaway. We take the two Mausers we picked up at the tower. And Chang still has one of our two Colts. I wish to leave the other with Alice.’

‘What if we are stopped?’ asked Chang. ‘What do I say about you not speaking Chinese? And where do I say we are going? This could
be frightfully difficult, don’t you think?’

Sir Claude, who had been an interested observer of the
dressing-up
, smiled at the young man’s colloquialism. ‘Some of these Kansus,’ he said, ‘are really Tartars from over the northern frontier who don’t speak any of the Chinese tongues. I suggest you explain this and say that you are anxious to take part in the fighting at Tientsin and that you are guiding them there.’

Chang nodded. ‘Yes, thank you, sir. I think I could do that jolly well.’

‘You look Oriental enough at a quick glance,’ said Lady MacDonald, standing back to admire her handiwork. ‘Just keep your hats well down over your foreheads. And if you, Mr Jenkins, could grow the ends of your moustache so that they trail down either side of your mouth, in the Chinese style, that would help.’

‘Well, I’ll try, milady. But this moustache has had a life of its own for nearly forty years, now, and it takes no notice of me, see.’

‘Yes, well try, there’s a good fellow.’

They all shook hands, wrapped up their Chinese clothes into bundles and went to their bunks to try and gain some sleep before their departure. Then, as desultory firing marked the end of the daylight, they followed the open sewer down to where it swept through a passage in the Legation wall. Alice, who had accompanied them this far, held her nose and then kissed her husband goodbye.

‘If you don’t come back, I shall kill you,’ she whispered into his ear.

Then to Jenkins: ‘352, if it looks as though he’s going to try something heroic, shoot him in the leg.’ She was smiling but also crying as she spoke.

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.’