The War of the Dragon Lady (2 page)

Fonthill ignored the extended hand and ran towards his wife. ‘Oh, wonderful shooting, Alice. I’d have been cut in half if you hadn’t arrived.’ He embraced her. ‘Are you all right, darling? Where’s the cart?’

Gently she pushed him away. She was shivering slightly, despite
the heat. ‘Perfectly all right, thank you. I am so used to rushing about China in this heat and shooting at the peasantry.’ She handed the Colt to Simon, wiped her brow and then frowned. ‘Ah, Jenkins is hurt.’

The Welshman was clumsily attempting with one hand to tie a very soiled handkerchief around his upper arm, where blood poured from a deep cut in the biceps. Alice ran to him.

‘Sit down, 352.’

‘No, missus. I’m all right, really. Just a scratch.’

‘Sit down, I say.’ Alice eased the man to the ground and knelt beside him. With a gesture of disgust, she threw away the rag, took her own handkerchief from a pocket in her skirt and folded it onto the wound, then bound it with the scarf taken from her throat. ‘Hold that tightly to stop the bleeding, and we’ll get back to the cart and wash the wound and dress it properly. Now, can you stand?’

Jenkins sniffed. ‘Course I can. As a matter of fact, I never wanted to sit in the first place, if you remember, Miss Alice. I’m all right, thank you very much.’

Alice grinned at him. Jenkins had long since lost his hat in the affray – in her experience he rarely retained a hat for longer than a couple of hours in any one day, anyway – and, now covered in dust, he looked like some labourer from a stone mine, his thick hair standing up like grey stubble and his great moustache bristling with grit. Jenkins stood at only five foot four inches but he was not a small man. In fact, he seemed almost as broad as he was tall, so wide were his shoulders and so deep his chest. It was no surprise that he had turned the tables on the Boxer. Even at forty-nine, he was as quick on his feet as a fox, and throughout his life he had fought: in his early days in British army barrack rooms, detention centres and bars
throughout the length and breadth of the Empire and then, for the last two decades, at the side of Simon Fonthill, his former subaltern, turned mentor and comrade, in a dozen adventures around the world. Formally employed now as gentleman’s servant, Jenkins was part of the family. His Christian name long since forgotten, he was known as ‘352’ – the last three numerals of his old army number, used to distinguish him from the seven other Jenkinses in his company in the old 24th Regiment of Foot, that most Welsh of army units – and he formed an essential third leg of the Fonthill stool.

Now he grinned back in gratitude at Alice as she and Simon helped him to his feet. Then Alice suddenly became aware of the Chinese youth, standing by deferentially. His shirt was torn, blood was trickling from several head wounds and swellings were appearing on his face. As she regarded him, he began to sway.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ cried Alice. ‘Quick, Simon. He’s going to fall.’

Fonthill sprang forward and caught the young man in his arms.

He lifted him easily. ‘Back to the wagon,’ he said. ‘This chap needs a bit of shade under your parasol, darling. Here, take the Colt, Jenkins. They might come back. We need to get out of here. Alice, bring the horses.’

They hurried, as best they could, round the bend to find to their relief the cart standing at the side of the road where the mules had dragged it to find shade. Of their guide and driver there was no sign.

‘’E’s buggered off,’ panted Jenkins.

‘Good riddance.’ Fonthill lowered the boy onto the bags and jammed Alice’s parasol so that it provided some shade for his head.

‘Now, water, Alice, if you please.’

She unscrewed her water bottle and offered it to the youth’s lips.
At first the water trickled down his chin and then, as his eyes flickered open, he drank.

‘Good,’ muttered Alice. ‘Now lie still and let me bathe those bruises.’

As she did so, Simon retrieved his own canteen and, removing the temporary dressing on Jenkins’s arm, began to dab gently at the wound beneath.

‘Bloody ’ell,’ swore the Welshman. ‘That’s a bit sharp, see.’

‘Don’t be such a baby. You said yourself it was only a scratch. Here, you do it. I’m no nursemaid. I’ll hitch the horses up to the wagon. We must get moving. I don’t want the Boxers back.’

Jenkins looked up. ‘Why are they called that, then? They don’t seem to fight by the Queensbury Rules, now do they?’

Fonthill gathered the reins of the horses and attached them to the rear of the cart. ‘I’m told that they’re mainly young men,’ he said, ‘all supposed to be fierce patriots who hate foreigners and who practise martial arts, though I don’t think they include boxing as we know it.’ He climbed into the seat of the wagon and cracked the whip over the mules. ‘They’ve adopted this Japanese form of wrestling, called ju-jitsu, or something. Anyway, I don’t want to fight ’em again with the stub of a walking stick.’

‘Simon,’ Alice called. ‘Have you noticed something strange about this place?’

‘Well, it’s bloody hot, for one thing.’

‘No. Despite all the noise we haven’t seen one single person from the village. No one has come out of the houses. It’s like a ghost village.’

‘Ah,’ the boy struggled up onto his elbow and spoke. ‘That is
because they frightened of Boxers. Watch from windows. They in terrible funk, you see.’

Simon grinned over his shoulder at the colloquialism. ‘Goodness me, young man, your English is very good. Where did you learn it?’

‘At school and at home with father and mother. They my teachers.’

‘Do they live near here? Can we take you to them?’

The boy raised a smile. ‘I think you go there, anyway. I think you Captain Fonthill, Mrs Alice and Sergeant Jenkins. Am I right?’

The three looked in amazement at the young man, whose smile had broadened into a grin. ‘You are, indeed,’ said Alice. ‘Who are you?’

The lad squirmed until he was sitting upright. ‘My name is Chang. There is more to it than that, of course, but it is difficult for English to say rest of name. So call me Chang.’ His grin lapsed into a frown. ‘But you not supposed to be here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I go to Peking last week to send you cable to ship in Tientsin, saying too dangerous to travel here because of Boxers. Cable from my father, Reverend Griffith.’

‘Your
father
…?’ Alice was incredulous. ‘
My
Uncle Edward is your … er …
father
?’

‘Oh yes.’ The boy nodded his head, the most earnest expression on his face. ‘And Mrs Griffith my mother. They buy me from warlord when I was a baby and bring me up. My real parents dead. So I think we are all cousins, or something like that. I am very glad indeed to meet you all.’ And he extended his hand.

They each took it solemnly.

‘Well that’s solved the problem of finding the mission,’ said
Fonthill. ‘It must be near here. What were you doing when the Boxers found you?’

‘I was going to buy rice, if I could find someone in village to sell.’ He looked round earnestly. ‘It is very scarce, because of drought. Drought a bally nuisance, you know.’

Simon smothered a smile. ‘I am sure it is. But why did the Boxers attack you? I thought they were only against foreigners, and you are Chinese.’ He coughed. ‘Albeit a very English one.’

The boy fingered beneath his torn shirt and produced a crucifix hanging on a chain. ‘Because I am Christian, follower of Lord Jesus Christ. Boxers hate Christians in particular, and they hate missionaries most of all. Reverend Father had been warned that Boxers were coming. That is why he sent me to capital to cable you not to come. Why you come, then?’

Alice resumed her treatment of the bruises. ‘Your cable must have arrived after we left the ship in Tientsin – in fact, after we left the port. Now lie still.’

‘No.’ Fonthill turned his head. ‘Can you come up here, Chang, and show us the way? If you are feeling up to it, that is?’

The boy squirmed onto his knees and crawled across the baggage until he was kneeling behind Simon. ‘Oh, I am very up to it, thank you very much. Yes. You follow this way and then, in a moment, you will turn right. I will show you. Mission about five minutes away now.’

The cart with its attendant horses slowly wound its way through the barren countryside. There was no question of distancing themselves from the Boxers, for Simon could summon up nothing from the mules
other than a slow trudge. But it seemed as if the insurgents had been deterred by Alice’s pistol shot, for no one followed them and, indeed, the members of the little party felt as though they were the only moving life on that empty, dry plain.

Eventually, they meandered their way into another village, virtually a small town, for it was considerably larger than the place of their attack. The road led them into a warren of alleyways where, at last, people were evident, moving through the narrow streets and staring with a singular lack of benevolence at the cart and its exotic cargo of white-skinned foreigners. The party passed the open doorway of an indigo dye works, where rising steam obscured the workers within, and then a large, three-storey building, the smell of which confirmed to Jenkins, at least, that it was a rice-wine distillery.

Following Chang’s very explicit directions – ‘Now, cousin, pray take this next turning on the left’ – they emerged into a small square dominated by a two-storeyed, wooden church, unmistakeable from the crucifix attached above the doorway. Next to it was a small house, built, like those fronting the square, of cream-coloured mud brick and featuring ochre-coloured window shutters closed against the fierce sun and a rippling roof of purple tiles. Outside the house, looking anxiously up the street and rubbing her hands together in obvious anxiety, stood an elderly woman. She was small and dressed, Chinese fashion, in a shapeless cotton garment, her smock buttoned up to the chin and her long skirt ending just above wooden clogs. Unlike other women in the square, however, she wore no straw hat and her grey hair was scraped back into a serviceable bun at the nape of her neck. Her high cheekbones and the walnut-grained skin of her face made her appear Chinese, but the set of her eyes, distinguishable to the
occupants of the cart as it came closer, confirmed her as European.

Alice let out a cry, ‘Aunt Lizzie!’ and leapt from the cart before it had stopped, engulfing the woman in her arms. The two stood rocking together on the doorstep of the house before the old lady gently pushed her niece away and peered anxiously over her shoulder into the wagon.

‘Oh, thank the Lord,’ she cried. ‘You’ve got Chang.’ And she held out her arms to the lad, who scrambled down and embraced his adoptive mother. The two stayed locked together for a moment before Mrs Griffith let him go and stretched out her hand to Fonthill.

‘And you must be Simon,’ she said. ‘Oh, forgive me.’ She pulled up a corner of her apron and wiped away a tear. ‘You must think me so rude but,’ she smiled at the boy, ‘I was so sure that something had happened to …’ then her voice tailed away as she saw the cuts and bruises on Chang’s face. ‘Ah, I knew it. He has been hurt. What happened? Tell me.’

‘Oh, I am all right, Mother. But I fear I would have been killed but for the intervention of my … er … my cousins. They were very brave. It was a party of Boxers, you see …’

‘Enough,’ cried the old lady. ‘It is best to come inside, all of you. These are dangerous times. Simon, can you and your young man,’ she indicated Jenkins, who beamed at the compliment, ‘take the cart and mules into the courtyard through that door there. I will send someone to unharness the mules and take your bags. But it would be wise to get off the street as soon as possible. Come, dear Alice. This way. We tried to stop you coming but obviously our message did not get through. I thank God that you have not been harmed. Come in. Come in.’

Fifteen minutes later, they were all seated in the shade of the courtyard, drinking tea beside a large stone basin within which three white and gold koi carp circled languidly.

‘Edward is making a visit to a sick parishioner,’ explained Lizzie, ‘but he will be here soon. Like me, he will be sorry but happy to see you. Our other son, Gerald, has been on a trip to Peking but he should be back tonight.’

‘Have the Boxers bothered you, Mrs Griffith?’ asked Simon.

‘No, but we have been told that they have targeted us and that they are on their way here. That must have been the party that attacked Chang.’ The old lady sniffed. ‘Edward has refused to leave but we have just had a message from the bishop in Tientsin, ordering us to leave the mission and go to Peking.’

She put a brown-speckled hand to her brow and Simon marvelled, not for the first time, at the courage of these missionaries who spent their lives abroad, usually in discomfort and often in danger, to spread the word of their God. But Mrs Griffith was continuing, ‘Mind you, I am not sure that the capital will be entirely safe, for I understand that the insurgents have burnt down the grandstand at the racecourse just outside the city.’ She pursed her lips. ‘It was the centre of social activity for the Europeans in the city, you know. Such a disgraceful thing to do. So uncalled for. I think we must leave now, though.’

Her voice tailed away and she looked around the courtyard. A shard of sunlight had been allowed to creep through the overhanging roof and it fell on the osmanthus plant in the corner, which she had proudly shown to her visitors and boasted that it was said to be more than four hundred years old. Simon realised what a wrench it would be for the Griffiths to leave their home, where, Alice had explained
to Simon earlier, they had worked for thirty-two years, building the wooden church with their own hands and confirming hundreds of Chinese into the Christian church.

His reverie was interrupted by the arrival of the Reverend Edward Griffith, who expressed both the inevitable consternation and joy at their arrival. A tall, broad-shouldered man, Griffith presented as hearty and healthy a figure as his wife offered up frailty. It was clear that, unlike his spouse, he had prospered physically in the harsh climate of Northern China and, with his side whiskers and red face, he reminded Simon very much of the dominating presence of the clergyman’s brother and Alice’s late father, Brigadier Cecil Griffith, also of Simon’s and Jenkins’s old regiment, the 24
^th
of Foot.