The War of the Dragon Lady (30 page)

At the back of his mind, Fonthill noted once again how Jenkins’s Welshness increased exponentially to the danger of the situation. ‘Nonsense, you’re just not trying. Go on. We can’t leave Chang on his
own up there. He will be shot if we hang about much longer. Look, this is how to do it.’

Simon demonstrated and took about five steps up the wall, gritting his teeth at the pain shooting up his leg from the burnt ankle. ‘There.’ He slid down. ‘If I can do it with a buggered-up leg, you can do it easily. Get up that bloody wall. Now!’

Jenkins closed his eyes, seized the rope and tried again. In fact, the strength in his arms and shoulders were such that he could have hauled himself easily up the rope without using his feet but, as it was, he made remarkably good progress – with his eyes firmly shut all the way. At the top, Chang seized his jacket and pulled the Welshman through the embrasure head first, where he lay on the walkway, panting. Then Chang waved for Simon to make the ascent, which he did but not without considerable difficulty, to Jenkins’s evident joy.

‘No trouble, then, bach sir, was it, eh?’

‘Oh, do be quiet. Pull the rope up, Chang, we might need it again. That’s it. Good. Right, now, a bullet up the spout in each rifle and off we go. We’d better fix bayonets but don’t fire until I give the order. We are going to be severely outnumbered, so surprise is the thing. Stay quiet.’

Simon checked himself and looked at Chang. The youth was now so self-confident and competent in most things that it was easy to forget that he was only sixteen. Slim and fit, certainly, but not as strong nor as skilled in battle as a professional soldier. They could certainly do with his rifle in clearing the battlements above the gate, but it would be thoughtless and heartless to pitch him into a confrontation that would demand all the experience and guts of a seasoned warrior.

‘I think, Chang,’ he said, ‘that it would be better perhaps if you
stayed here, fixed the rope again and defended it in case we have to double back and make a quick exit.’

The young man stared at his cousin in consternation and tears came into his eyes. ‘Oh no, Simon,’ he cried. ‘You do not leave me behind. I can fight. There will be plenty of enemy. You will need me. I don’t stay here.’

Jenkins interrupted softly. ‘He’s right, bach sir,’ he said. ‘We’re goin’ to need ’im and I couldn’t think of a better bloke to ’ave up there, look you.’

Chang shot him a glance of gratitude and Fonthill sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but stay close. If you get killed your mother will never forgive me.’ He grinned. ‘Good. Let’s go.’

Rifles at the trail, the three set off trotting along the wide walkway that formed the parapet. Fonthill was surprised that they met no one and then he heard, from the north, firing and shouting. He realised that the Russians’
coup de main
had forced the rest of the column to bring forward their attacks and that the other gates were now under fire. The Chinese had obviously concentrated their forces at these entrances to the city, the most vulnerable points in the defences. To their eyes, the walls were unclimbable and the city’s long perimeter therefore needed no defenders all the way round.

The tall tower above the gate loomed up out of the darkness and the steady rattle of rifle fire showed that the Russians were still pinned down in the courtyard in front of the second gate. A row of Chinamen were lined up, leaning over the parapet as it turned to overlook the courtyard, and were firing down upon the Russians.

Simon held up his hand and whispered: ‘I’ve just about had enough of killing and I’ll be damned if I’ll shoot men in the back. There’s
not many and, given their record on the way here, I reckon we can frighten ’em off. Shoot to kill only if we have to. There’s no cover up here, so line up across the walkway and kneel to present the smallest target. Then fire rapidly,
over their heads
, when I give the order.’ Then to Chang, ‘That means work the bolt in the breech as quickly as possible, reload and keep firing. Right?’

The boy nodded, wide-eyed.

‘Good. Now kneel, just over their heads, aim, fire!’

Despite the noise from below, the resultant volley sounded startlingly loud on the narrow walkway and the Chinese riflemen turned, as one man, their eyes wide in fear. One brought his rifle to his shoulder to fire but Jenkins’s second shot caught him in the chest and he fell. Simon and Chang worked their breech bolts and sent two further shots close over the heads of the remainder and they, seeing rifles flashing in the darkness from so close behind them, turned and fled through the open door of the tower – all except one.

Made of sterner stuff, this man jettisoned his rifle, drew a sword and hurled himself at Chang, the nearest of the three, who was reloading, as was Fonthill, and in no position to defend himself. It was now that Jenkins, a terrified coward on the wall face, revealed his colours as a warrior.

The Welshman caught the descending blade with the tip of his bayonet, which shattered. His assailant gave a jubilant yell and brought the sword around in a great sweep, catching Jenkins’s rifle and sending it spinning away. Chang fired but missed. Fonthill worked the bolt of his rifle and found that the round had jammed within the breech. Cursing, he reversed his grip on the gun to attack with the bayonet but he was not needed. Jenkins, as light as a cat, had dodged
the next sweep of the sword, bent low and hooked his leg around that of the Chinaman, pushed hard with his elbow and upended him. Chang quickly swept the sword away with his own bayonet and then, Jenkins, in a quick, seemingly effortless movement, picked up the man by the front of his tunic, swept away his legs, hoisted him on his shoulders, whirled around to gain momentum and tossed him over the edge of the parapet.

The Welshman regained his rifle, wiped the perspiration from his bow and nodded to Chang in appreciation. Then he grinned to Simon. ‘They don’t fight as well as the Zulus, now, do they?’

‘Bloody well done, 352. Here, lend me your knife to get this damned cartridge out.’ Fonthill took Jenkins’s blade, inserted it into the breech and flicked out the offending round. The parapet before them was now unmanned, so he ran to the door in the tower. ‘It looks as though this leads down to behind the inner gate,’ he shouted. ‘We’ll go down, fire a volley at whoever is down below and then you, Chang, will open the gate while we keep off the Chinese to give you time. Get behind the bloody thing when it’s open, otherwise those mad Russians will kill us all. Ready? Go.’

They thundered down the stone, circular steps and came out behind the great doors, which were now being assaulted by some sort of battering ram, fashioned by the Russians. Iron-bound, however, they were showing no signs of breaking. A handful of Chinese away to the right were hastily assembling a machine gun mounted on a tripod, preparing to mow down the attackers if they broke through. Others were trying to erect a barricade.

‘Bring down the gunners,’ ordered Fonthill. The resultant volley killed the men at the gun and, as one man, the others at the
half-assembled 
barricade turned and fled, no doubt thinking that the attacking army had somehow scaled the walls. Simon and his comrades were now sole custodians of the gates, which were held in place by two sturdy pieces of timber slotted horizontally into brackets and a great, iron lock in which the gatekeeper had conveniently left the huge key. Two large iron bolts completed the security.

‘Wait,’ shouted Fonthill. He was conscious that, on the other side of the gates, the battlements were still manned by armed Chinese. He ran to the door leading to the top of that wall and the tower and found that it, too, had a key in its lock on the inside. He heard someone running down the steps, so he withdrew the key, slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock.

‘Now,’ he called, ‘352, see if you can turn that damned great key. Then we’ll lift off these cross-beams and pull back these gates. Stand well behind them as they open or we’ll get shot.’

With great effort, the key was turned, the bolts pulled back, the beams lifted off and the three struggled to pull back the doors. There was no immediate result. It was as though the Russians were too dumfounded, after all their aggression, to find the gates suddenly opened for them – or perhaps they suspected a trap. Then, after some thirty seconds, there was a great roar and the troops rushed through, immediately spreading out to make their way up the network of streets that opened up before them and from which came the sound of gunfire, showing that the Chinese had by no means given up.

Fonthill and his comrades were still wearing their Welch Regiment khaki jackets and these, together with Simon’s angry gesticulations, certainly saved them from being shot by the Russians, who had been denied entry for so long and who had lost so many men in the
courtyard. The three made their way through the throng of attackers out beyond the walls, to find that the rain had stopped completely and that the dawn was now well established, colouring the sky to the east in shafts of orange and red.

‘I thought you wanted to go straight to the British barracks, or whatever they’re called,’ said Jenkins.

Fonthill shook his head. ‘I reckon that the Russians will have a bit of a fight on their hands to get through the streets of the Chinese City till they get to the Legation. I promised I would lead General Gaselee through the inner walls to the British Legation. Our men are supposed to be attacking the Hsia Kuo Men Gate further down the wall and I want to get there as quickly as I can. It’s this way. We just follow the wall down. Come on.’

Fonthill seemed to be possessed by a surge of almost demonic energy and his two comrades now followed him doggedly, as the sound of rifle fire intensified from within the city as the Russians began their struggle to penetrate the narrow streets. Then, as they moved southwards the sound died away, making Simon wonder why it was not replaced by that of the British attacking further along.

The tower above the Hsia Kuo Men soon came into sight and, milling before it, Simon could see the troops of the British contingent in their recognisable khaki, the turbans of the Sikhs standing out in particular. Behind them, a battery of the 12th Regiment, Royal Field Artilley, were unlimbering.

‘Good Lord,’ cried Fonthill. ‘There seems to be no firing.’ They pushed their way through the troops to where they could see a knot of officers on horseback, prominent among them the portly figure of Lieutenant General Sir Alfred Gaselee.

‘Where the hell have you been, Fonthill?’ demanded the general. ‘I thought you were anxious to get in. We’re just about to attack and get these damned gates down.’

As briefly as he could, Simon explained what had happened and that the Russians had now broken through. He looked up at the seemingly undefended line of battlements before them.

‘I think it’s quite possible,’ he said, ‘that the Chinese are not defending these gates, suspecting that our attacks will be launched on the gates in the eastern walls, the direction from which we have approached the city.’ He cast a glance at the light cannon now unlimbering. ‘And, with respect, sir, it is going to take you some time to bring those gates down – they’re iron-clad, you see – with those guns.’

‘Well, is there any other way in?’

Fonthill looked at Chang. ‘I think so.’ He explained how they had climbed the walls on the eastern face. ‘Let Chang here find a way up, while we make sure he’s not fired on from up top, then he can let that line down and I suggest that your Sikhs could be up that wall in a flash – as long as they took their boots off.’

The general’s white eyebrows descended in a frown and he turned to his staff. ‘What d’yer think, eh?’

There was a general chorus of approval and Chang once again was despatched to find a convenient crack in the wall. No Chinese appeared on the ramparts, although rifle fire could now be heard more clearly from within the city. Within minutes, Chang was lowering his rope down and a whole group of bootless Sikhs, their dark faces split by great watermelon grins at the unusual nature of the task given them, were forming a line to climb up the wall. Some shots were exchanged as they disappeared from sight but it was not long before
the great gates of the Hsia Kuo Men were being grindingly pulled back. The British contingent of the relief force had gained admission to the outer Chinese City of Peking with the exchange of only five shots and without sustaining a single casualty.

The strange tranquillity was broken, however, as soon as they began forming up, inside the gates.

‘Which way, Fonthill?’ cried Gaselee, astride his horse.

‘To the right, sir. But I suggest that you and your staff dismount because you will present too obvious a target if we meet trouble within these narrow streets.’

Trouble, in fact, was not late in arriving. Uniformed troops of the Imperial army were to be seen running towards them down several streets and an irregular firing began. The alarm had obviously been given and soldiers from the Imperial City, only a few kilometres away, had been summoned.

The British contingent consisted of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, the Bengal Lancers, 1
^st
Sikhs, 7
^th
Rajputs and 24
^th
Punjab Infantry, the Chinese-based Weihaiwei Regiment, the 12
^th
Regiment Royal Field Artillery, the Hong Kong Artillery and a small detachment of Royal Engineers. But it was the Indian infantry now who led the way through the winding streets, firing from doorways, occasionally charging with the bayonets to clear specific knots of dedicated resistance, but all the time moving forward, towards the inner wall which marked the southern boundary of the British Legation.

Fonthill, Jenkins and Chang were with them, Chang pointing the way whenever there was doubt. This was urban fighting, street warfare, and among the most dangerous form of conflict in the world, for the range was short, the options for cover limited and the terrain
narrow and constricted. But the Rajputs and the Sikhs, accustomed to putting down rebellious conflagrations in the towns of the British Raj, were good at it: light on their feet, flitting from doorway to doorway like cat burglars and as brave as lions.