The War of the Dragon Lady (13 page)

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?’