The War of the Dragon Lady (16 page)

‘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.