The War of the Dragon Lady (26 page)

With a forefinger touch to his cap brim, he turned and galloped away. Fonthill and Jenkins exchanged glances.

‘Well, there you are,’ sniffed the Welshman. ‘Nearly drowned in that blasted river, narrowly avoiding gettin’ whipped to death by the
Chinese, nearly blowin’ ourselves up with dynamite and now just escapin’ by our teeth from a shellin’ by the Russkies. This is a bloody dangerous war, I’m thinkin’, bach sir. Too dangerous for me.’

‘Rubbish. We’ve been through worse. Now give me a hand to get up. I wonder if the cooks are brewing any tea back there.’

The relief column spent that evening and the next day resting at Yangtsun, waiting for the supply junks to catch up and, in the words of one senior officer, ‘sorting itself out’. Having been present at the council of war held at Tientsin on the eve of departure, Fonthill knew that the original plan had been to advance no further than Yangtsun until reinforcements had arrived. Some fourteen thousand troops had reached that town, a number originally felt to be insufficient to push on to Peking. But the comparatively easy victories in the two battles experienced so far had firmly put the bit between the teeth of the Allied generals involved. The old competitiveness had also reared its head.

‘I fear that this is no longer going to be an advance, more a damned race,’ observed Fonthill, when orders were given to break camp and resume the march on the morning of the eighth, just four days after leaving Tientsin. The field had now thinned out and of the eight starters, only the Japanese, British, Americans and Russians were sufficiently well organised in terms of transport and commissariat logistics to be able to continue. The much smaller German, Italian, Austrian and French contingents were forced to return to Tientsin and reorganise, without having fired a shot in anger.

Nevertheless, the four nations that now comprised the column were determined and quite undaunted by being outnumbered – at least in practice – by the enemy. It was, however, a gruelling march. Much of
the plain now was covered in the tall
kaoliang
which provided ideal conditions for ambushes. None came, however, and it was the sun and the lack of drinking water that were the worst enemy for the column.

The British were once again forming the rearguard, with Fonthill, Chang and Jenkins marching with them. Despite the harsh conditions, both Simon and Chang had recovered from their injuries well enough to be among the 7th Rajputs of the Indian contingent when the latter marched through an American detachment.

‘Blimey,’ whispered Jenkins, ‘look at ’em. ’Alf ’ave got their eyes closed and it looks as though they’re goin’ to fall over at any minute.’

‘Yes, Mr Jenkins,’ said Chang. ‘But they’re plodding along, you see. They’re not giving up. They’re making a splendid effort.’

The Welshman grinned. ‘Yes, Changy, but you can see ’ow them Injuns beat old General Custard. Take away their ’orses and make ’em march an’ the Yanks are buggered.’

Fonthill shook his head. ‘Well, they fought well in that trench and on the wall at Peking. And I hope to God they’re still doing that last bit.’

More and more his thoughts were turning to Alice and the Legation defenders. He was relieved and delighted when the commanders of the column decided to push on from Yangtsun without waiting for reinforcements. He kept telling himself that they would have heard if the Legation compound had fallen. But the fear grew that, as the news of the advance neared the capital, so, too, would the efforts of the attackers there. If, in breaking through, the Chinese took prisoners, then the better they would be able to bargain with the relief column outside the walls. So, despite his aching body, Simon put down his head and trudged on amongst the dust at the rear.

One night, around their campfire, Fonthill took advantage of their
close proximity to question the Chinaman about his half-brother, Gerald. How well, he asked, did he know him?

These days, Chang took time to consider his answer to questions, as though in the light of the new understanding of the ways of the world that his experiences of the last few weeks had given him. His recent injuries – particularly his broken nose – had also changed his countenance, making him appear older. So, his head on one side, he pondered the question for a moment before answering.

‘Well, cousin,’ he said, ‘he was, I think, about seven or eight when I was introduced, so to speak, into the family. As a result, there has always been a gap between us. Mainly because of age, of course, but also perhaps because of our ethnic backgrounds.’

‘Yes, Chang, I understand that. Yet it seemed to me that Gerald appeared to be more Chinese than you in many ways.’

Again Chang considered the question. ‘Yes, I can understand that. Perhaps it was because we were both of us, for different reasons, trying to change our … what is the word? … ah yes, our
ethnicity
to match the surroundings into which we had been placed. Me, you see, to be more English, to match my mother and father, and Gerald to be more Chinese to match his surroundings and the many Chinese friends he had made.’

‘But did you notice that Gerald, perhaps, took this rather further than you? You have never, as far as I can see, become anti-Chinese – although, I hasten to add that I know you do not like the Boxers, and with good reason. But you have never expressed your dislike of the Chinese people in general. Gerald, on the other hand, seems to have become almost virulently anti-British.’

Another pause. Then: ‘Yes, I think that is probably so. He has studied history, you see, and he has become very annoyed at the way
the Foreign Powers have, in one way or another, colonised parts of China. And I think he has never forgiven the British in the way that they created the Opium Wars so that they could take their own share of our country and also continue to benefit by the trade in opium.’

‘But you know these things too, Chang, and you seem to have less antagonism towards us than your brother.’

The old smile came back to Chang, lighting up his battered face. ‘Ah, that is because I like you more, you see. And I think your culture is as great as ours – Shakespeare, Milton, Pope and so on. If you can’t beat the jolly old British, I say, then you should jolly well join them.’

At this, everyone grinned. ‘Blimey, Changy,’ said Jenkins, ‘you’ll be playing cricket soon.’

Chang’s face lightened again. ‘Oh, but I do already, Mr Jenkins. I can bowl this new googly that everyone is talking about. Look, I can show you how you do it—’

Fonthill held up a hand. ‘Not just now, cousin,’ he said. ‘Perhaps some other time.’

The advance continued, as did the hardship, particularly the heat and the lack of water. The Russians and the Japanese seemed to stand it best, despite the fact that the Japanese remained in the lead now and bore the brunt of what fighting was left. On 12th August, they blew up the South Gate of the City of Tungchow and the Chinese garrison streamed away without a fight. The Allies made camp, resting there and replenishing their supplies. The city was the site of a large American mission that had been brutally sacked by the Boxers with much loss of life in the early days of the uprising. One officer suggested that what was left of the mission should be burnt as an example to the local populace. Fonthill was with General Gaselee
when the suggestion was made. But the old general demurred.

‘My dear fellow,’ he said, putting a paternal hand on the officer’s shoulder, ‘I do not agree. I intend, in fact, to establish a market here, right away, so that it is operating before we leave. A place where the local populace can come in and trade with us. Now don’t you think that would be better than setting these ruins on fire again? After all, we do not wish to antagonise the three hundred and fifty million people of China, now, do we?’

He turned to Fonthill. ‘Would you be so kind as to ask your Chinese chap – Chang, isn’t it? – to write a suitable notice in the local dialect, asking the people to come in and bring their local produce to sell to us. We will put it up here. So much better, I think, than more burning. Don’t you agree?’

‘Oh, very much so, sir. I will ask him right away.’ He turned away and smiled to himself. How refreshing to meet a military commander who considered the feelings of the civilian population!

Very tentatively, the Chinese who had fled their city began to drift back, bringing rice and other vegetables to trade with the column. Rumours also began to flood into the camped army as it rested at Tungchow. It was said that the general commanding the retreating Chinese forces, the xenophobic Li Ping-heng, had poisoned himself and that Yu Lu, the viceroy of the Chihli province, had blown out his brains – stories that later were found to be true. More concerning for Fonthill, however, was the rumour that the legations had fallen and that all of the foreigners within had been murdered. This was quickly quashed, however, when a cavalry patrol sent out from Tungchow to probe the state of the country between the city and the capital was able to ride virtually to the walls of Peking without meeting any
organised resistance. The patrol reported, however, that it could hear heavy gunfire coming from within the city. So the siege continued!

Simon, of course, was vastly relieved but was also full of frustration once again at the seeming sanguineness of the Allied leaders who were resting their troops almost within sound of the Chinese cannon at Peking.

He expressed his concern to General Gaselee, whose own patience was beginning to show signs of fraying at the repeated demands of his fellow countryman.

‘You know, my dear fellow,’ he said, fixing Fonthill with his kindly eyes, ‘we cannot trot up to Peking non-stop. This relief force has done remarkably well to get this far so quickly, with such success and sustaining so few casualties – particularly considering that we are more a not-so-mobile Tower of Babel than a military force. We have marched for some seventy miles in this burning heat and with very poor water supplies and we have defeated the Chinese whenever we have met them. To charge on to Peking without pause for breath or consideration of how we are going to get through those great walls would be the very negation of well-established, military, strategic thinking. And you, as a former soldier and a distinguished servant of the Empire over many campaigns, ought to know that.’

The general’s tone softened and he leant over and put a hand on Fonthill’s knee. ‘I well understand your concern about your wife,’ he went on, ‘but we now know that the defenders are still holding out. In addition to the report of our own cavalry, one or two messages have filtered through from Chinese sources to say that the legations are still manning their barricades, although we understand that they are hard-pressed now.’ He sighed. ‘But the attack on Peking will be by far the most difficult thing we have undertaken. It is vital it succeeds.

‘Now, the council is meeting tomorrow and – I may say to my great relief – we will then formulate a plan in detail to allocate roles and to decide on our tactics for the final attack. We have already decided to press on immediately afterwards and to regroup within three miles of Peking from where we shall spring forward to the attack. I promise that I will report back to you and inform you on those plans, because, as I have already said, I would wish to use your local knowledge. You have already explained that the only way to penetrate the outer walls, given that we have no siege artillery – nor time, for that matter – is to attack the great gates. We shall need you, once we are inside the Chinese City, to show the best way through to the legations. So, my dear Fonthill,’ the eyes under the great bushy brows were twinkling again now, ‘do rest content for the moment, I implore you.’

Simon responded with a slow smile. ‘I accept all that you say, of course, General, and I really am most grateful to you for taking me into your confidence in this way. It goes without saying, of course, that my companions and I will do all that we can to assist in the attack. I look forward to hearing from you tomorrow.’

That night, Fonthill did not sleep well. He had to confess to himself that he had no real confidence in the ability of the generals leading the relief force to prepare an attack based on military principles rather than national considerations. Each would want to report back to their anxious governments and peoples back home that they and their own troops had performed gloriously in the relief of Peking. There would be honour and medals to be won. And, he reflected sadly, lives to be lost. He just hoped feverishly that one of them would not be Alice’s.

The council took place the next day and lasted for some time.
True to his word, Gaselee, whom Simon suspected was beginning to grow in stature among his international colleagues, not only for his seniority in rank but because of his sagacity and experience, summoned Simon to his tent.

He explained that the Russian commander, General Lineivitch – a soldier of similar seniority to Gaselee – had reported that his men were too exhausted to carry out an assault immediately on completing the approach march and he had persuaded the generals that the attack should be carried out in two phases. The column would bivouac three miles from the walls and the army would put in a coordinated attack on the morning of 14
^th
August.

‘Coordinated?’ enquired Fonthill with a lifted eyebrow.

‘Oh yes. For once, we have agreed on the details. Each of the five nations will attack one of the four gates in the walls on the eastern side of the city, swinging round in a synchronised attack—’

Simon interrupted him. ‘
Five
nations, sir?’

Gaselee smiled. ‘Yes, the tiny French contingent, which, you will remember, had to retreat to Tientsin, have burst their buttons to catch us up and are at this moment very, very proud of themselves.’ His smile broadened. ‘You know what the French are like. So … the plan is as follows: the Russians will attack the Tung Chih Men Gate in the north, on our right flank; and the Japanese will go for the Chi Hua Men, the next one down in the wall, so to speak. They will both attack on the north side of the Imperial Canal. We and the Americans will be on the south side of the canal. The Americans, with the … um … no doubt gallant assistance of the French, will attack the Tung Pien Men and we will go for the Hsia Kuo Men, the southernmost gate in the eastern wall, leading directly into the Chinese City.’