The War of the Dragon Lady (21 page)

The two men crouched together while Fonthill gave Jenkins his five sticks of dynamite. ‘When I give the order,’ he whispered, ‘you run up to the right-hand side of the gate, and flatten yourself to the wall. I will do the same on the other side. When I nod, crawl up to the gate, put the dynamite as close to the door as you can, where it meets the other door. I will do the same. Trail out the fuse your way, the way you came, and I’ll do the same. When I nod, light it.’

‘What do we do then? Run like hell back down the road?’

‘Absolutely not. It would be easy to pick us off, if they’ve got their wits about them. No. We flatten on the ground, as near to the wall and as far away from the bloody gates as possible. Hands over heads and just hope that the damned walls don’t fall down on top of us.’

‘Very good, bach sir.’

Simon took a deep breath. He could see no sign of movement on the battlements. ‘Right. Off we go and good luck.’

The two men regained the causeway and, bent double, they ran towards the massive gate looming before them. Out in the open and feeling completely exposed, Fonthill realised that they were demanding a lot from Dame Fortune, if they were to reach the wall without being seen. And so it proved.

He heard a cry from up above him and then the sharp crack of a rifle. The bullet hit the paved road and pinged away, but by the time the second bullet was released, he was up against the wall, safely underneath a large stone overhang that ran all the way along, just
beneath the embrasures, so preventing anyone manning the top from firing down vertically. ‘Are you there, 352?’ he called.

‘I’m ’ere. To the gates now?’

‘Fast as you can.’

The two men ran and met at the foot of the huge pair of gates. Simon placed his bundle of deadly sticks, almost touching those of Jenkins. Behind the door, the two men could hear voices shouting and the sound of running feet. Fonthill looked up and saw that there was a small post gate, set into the massive door. He unslung his rifle.

‘Light your fuse and run,’ he shouted.

‘’Ere. What are you goin’ to do?’

‘Never mind. Light the bloody thing.’

Throwing his rifle on the ground, Simon fumbled with a match, struck it, lit the fuse and then ran back, unwinding the fuse as it fizzed and crackled. Then he doubled back, picked up his rifle, just in time to see the post gate open. Firing from the hip, he brought down the first man to run through the gate, worked the breech bolt, fired into the open doorway, then ran back alongside the wall, hurling himself to the ground as the night exploded with a mighty boom and a thousand flashing lights that penetrated through his spread fingers. Debris, some of it blazing, rained down on him, for he had not made the comparative sanctity of the base of the wall. Then there was a great crash as the two doors forming the gate crumpled outward, shaking the ground where he lay. He became aware of a burning sensation across his leg and kicked away at a flaming ember that lay across it. His ears were singing but he could hear a faint cheer coming from far, far away, as he lapsed into unconsciousness.

He came to to find himself lying half in an irrigation channel close
to the wall. Jenkins was splashing water onto his face.

‘Are you all right, bach? Ah, thank God. I thought you’d gone for a minute. You were half on fire when I got to you.’

Fonthill raised his head and realised that heavy boots were pounding up along the causeway by his head as the Welch Regiment ran towards the open gateway. Cheering came from their rear but there was firing from within the city.

‘Ah, thanks, 352,’ he said. ‘I feel a bit warm and my head’s singing, but I think the fire’s out. Are you all right?’

‘Right as ninepence. Blimey, but you were barmy to go back to fire into that doorway. Bloody barmy, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so. You almost went up with the gates.’

Simon sat up and shook his head but the singing in his ears continued. ‘Had to do that,’ he shouted. ‘Otherwise those fellers would have been through and been able to stamp out the fuses. I should have realised that there would be a post gate. Must be losing my touch. Here, help me up. I’m all right now.’

Together the two men stood, swaying slightly as the British infantrymen charged by them, their rifles and bayonets at the ready.

From within the city the firing was now muted, although screams could be heard.

Jenkins sniffed. ‘I don’t think there’s much quarter bein’ given by them Taffies,’ he said, ‘after bein’ cooped up for so long in them settlements. An’ they’ve ’eard what them Boxers ’ave done to the missionaries an’ their families. They’ll be goin’ in with the bayonets, all right.’

‘Let’s get back,’ said Fonthill. ‘I don’t think I’ll be much good charging in there with them. My head is still singing.’

Together, the two comrades walked through the advancing troops –
the French were moving in now, behind the Welch Regiment – along the causeway and back to the settlements, where Jenkins found a doctor to examine Fonthill. His face was blackened and what was left of his Customs uniform singed and burnt, but he was found to have sustained only superficial burns and was put to bed with a soothing pill.

The next morning, he was visited by Dorward, who gingerly shook his bandaged hand. ‘Congratulations, my dear fellow,’ he said. ‘You did a wonderful job. We stormed into the city and took it within the hour. Both the Chinese Imperial troops and the Boxers fled, streaming through the East and West Gates, those that weren’t bayoneted. I fear that there was quite a bit of looting, but that can’t always be helped in these conditions. Anyway, everyone here is very grateful to you.’

Fonthill waved his bandaged hand. ‘Glad it worked, Brigadier. I thought for a terrible minute that we had blown it – no pun intended, you know.’

‘No. The gates caved in beautifully and my sapper chap is going around saying it’s all his work.’ He grinned. ‘And there’s more good news.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Lieutenant General Sir Alfred Gaselee has arrived from the coast with God knows how many troops.’

Fonthill’s eyes lit up and he pushed himself into a half-sitting position. ‘Ah, that’s the best news I’ve heard. Now, when do you think we could put together a column and march to the north, eh?’

Dorward frowned. ‘Oh, my dear fellow, not for some time yet. We have got to occupy the city and sort things out here first. Can’t leave the settlements denuded. It may take some weeks yet, I fear.’

Fonthill groaned and sank his head back onto the pillow.

Alice Fonthill dressed for that evening meeting with Gerald Griffith with as much care as she had displayed for that ‘chance’ meeting earlier in the day. No cosmetics this time, however. Despite the heat, which never slackened until long after the sun had gone down, she wore riding breeches, her long boots, a soiled cotton shirt, a bandana round her waist and her hair tied back severely with a scarf. From a box under her bed she retrieved the small French automatic pistol and six cartridges, which she inserted into the magazine. Then she tucked the gun into her bandana and sat on the bed, deep in thought.

What exactly was she hoping that this meeting with Gerald and his friends would reveal? Well, the first priority was to try and learn something about the whereabouts of Simon, Jenkins and Chang. She frowned. It was, of course, preposterous to think that the trio might be dead. Simon’s whole life had consisted of getting into scrapes and
getting out of them again. It was inconceivable to think that his time had come at last; he had so much … so much …
life
left in him. And there was 352 Jenkins with him, the Great Protector. She allowed herself a smile. No. Even if they told her that Simon was dead, then they would have to provide proof before she believed them.

Alice had to admit that the original, underlying reason why she had agreed to this assignation was to probe beneath that cool,
self-satisfied
demeanour of her cousin. She had learnt much already this afternoon, but the key question of whether he was an active spy, working within the Quarter for the Chinese, remained unanswered. And, if it proved that he was relaying vital information to the Manchu court, what would she do about it? She tossed her head. She would hand him over to Sir Claude, without compunction. Anyone who betrayed the defenders in their sad predicament deserved to be shot – or placed in prison. The punishment would be the minister’s decision.

But what about her aunt? She had lost her husband, was she now about to lose her son – and possibly her adopted son also?

Alice put her head in her hand. Despite her great inner strength, that would surely be too much for the little widow to bear. And yet – she looked up and stared unseeingly at the wall of the room – what if Gerald had deliberately told the Chinese of Simon’s mission and what if this had led to his death? She thought for a moment and then stood. It was now quite dark outside and time to go. She would face all of these questions later, if she had to.

Gerald was waiting for her, crouched by the side of the hospital from the interior of which came faint groans.

‘You are late, cousin,’ he said.

‘I am sorry. I had things to do.’

He stood before her and seized both her hands. ‘Now Alice, will you promise that you will tell no one of where we go tonight and of what you learn?’

She thought quickly, for she had already been forced to give one promise and she did not wish to compound the lie. ‘Oh, come now, Gerald. You are making all this sound as though we are about to embark on a sequence from the
Arabian Nights
. You are fantasising. Or are you engaged in some enterprise which will make your mother and I ashamed of you?’

The ploy worked, for Gerald coloured and avoided her eye. ‘Well,’ he muttered, ‘these are dangerous times, cousin, and the wrong word here or there could get us all into trouble.’

‘Let us get on with it, then.’ She disengaged her hands. ‘Where are you taking me?’

‘You will soon see. Follow me.’

They walked through to the entrance of the British Legation. The sentry there, who was used to her coming to and fro during the day, looked concerned. ‘Don’t go far, Mrs … er … The snipers still shoot at night, you know.’

‘Just going for a little walk with my cousin, Corporal. We will be careful.’

They made their way down by the canal, past the Russian Legation, picked their way between the rubble in Legation Street and crossed to where the American Legation still stood, proudly forming the southernmost point of the defences, just underneath the Tartar Wall at the section of the wall still defended on the top by the Americans and Germans. Here Gerald turned left, crossing the little bridge over the canal, to a point just past the sluice gates in the wall. There, he
put his finger to his lips, pulled back some large pieces of stone and beckoned her towards him.

‘Climb over,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t make a noise or we could be shot at by the Chinese on the wall above.’

On hands and knees, Alice scrambled over the stones to find a low opening in the great wall. A drainage pipe emerged from the ground under her feet and ran forwards into the darkness of the tunnel. She realised that it was what was left of some kind of service tunnel, only about four feet high, and running ahead into complete darkness. She waited nervously while Gerald replaced the stones, leaving them so that a chink of light shone through. He seized her hand.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Just keep stepping either side of the pipe. It’s quite level. I’ll go first. Keep holding my hand.’

She did so, until he paused and fumbled in the dark. With a creak, a small, wooden door opened and Alice realised that she was standing in the street on the other side of the Tartar Wall. She withdrew in consternation, for she was now outside the perimeter of the defences. But Gerald pulled her forward and they crossed the street to a house opposite, whose door stood slightly ajar.

Gerald knocked on it, pushed it open and called softly inside. He was answered in Chinese and a further door opened to reveal a room lit by several Oriental lamps. It was furnished severely in Chinese style, with tapestries and several vertical banners, decorated with Chinese symbols, covering the walls. At one end there was a kind of shrine, with candles burning at it, and also a highly coloured photograph of the Dowager Empress. Ceremonial Chinese swords, sheathed in ornamental scabbards, hung from the walls. A large wall map of the Chinese Empire caught her eye and, underneath it,
what she immediately recognised as a map of the Legation Quarter. Everywhere, there were the red sashes and scarves of the Boxers – flung over chairs, hanging from pegs in the doors and lying loosely on the central table.

‘Oh my God,’ thought Alice. This must be the headquarters, the very heart of the Boxer movement.

Four men immediately rose to their feet as they entered. They were dressed seemingly identically in nondescript, loose-fitting garments – uniforms perhaps? – with black skullcaps, and all seemed
middle-aged
(Alice still found it difficult to tell the age of Chinamen). They bowed to her and Alice and Gerald bowed in return.

Then Gerald spoke quickly to them in Chinese and Alice sensed that she was being introduced. Was there an acerbic note in the response of the oldest man, who seemed to be the senior of the group? He wore a single gold epaulette and Alice noted that his hands were beautifully manicured. She caught a glimpse of silver hair swept back under the skullcap. Gerald bowed to him again and then turned to Alice.

‘This is General Kuang Li, the chief of staff to General Jung Lu, who commands the Imperial army in Peking, and these gentlemen,’ he waved his arm, ‘are senior members of the army.’ Gerald looked crestfallen. ‘I am afraid that the General has rebuked me for bringing you here.’

Kuang Li bowed again to Alice and then addressed her in almost accentless English. ‘Yes, Mrs Fonthill, I am afraid that Mr Griffith has compromised us and, indeed, you, by bringing you here. But, nevertheless, let me welcome you.’

‘I am sorry, sir,’ replied Alice, ‘but I had no idea where my cousin
was bringing me. If you wish, I will leave immediately.’

‘Ah.’ The smile on Kuang Li’s lips did not reach his eyes. ‘I am afraid that will not be possible – at least, not yet. Since you are here perhaps you can be of use to us. I should add,’ he inclined his head towards her, ‘that you are in no danger here. Would you care for some tea?’

Alice’s brain whirled. The threat was clear. Gerald, the vain oaf, had blundered by bringing her here and they clearly had no intention of letting her go until she had helped them in some way. At least they obviously were not Boxers and their manners were those of cultivated Chinese. So what could they want of her?

She cleared her throat. ‘I should make it clear to you, sir, that I cannot, under any circumstances, reveal details of the defences of the Legation Quarter.’

‘No.’ The little half-bow came again and Kuang Li shot a quick glance across at Gerald. ‘I would not expect that of you, madam, nor do we need it. We have very good sources of that nature already, I assure you. No. But perhaps you can be of service to us – and, indeed, yourself, in other ways. But first … ah … do excuse me.’

He reached towards Alice and she took an involuntary step backwards.

He put out a placatory hand. ‘No, if I may …’ And, very slowly, he reached towards her cummerbund. He gently pulled down the top of it and inserted two long fingers inside it, pulling out her automatic pistol. Then, he expertly opened the magazine in the butt, shook out the six cartridges, snapped shut the magazine and, with a courteous bow, offered the pistol back to her.

‘Forgive my … ah … clumsiness, but we have no weapons here.’
He gestured to the swords on the wall. ‘These are just ceremonial trappings. Better that we speak without the thought of force, in any way. To repeat, madam, you are quite safe here. Now, won’t you please sit down and take tea with us.’

Alice blushed and slipped back the pistol into her cummerbund. What an astute old rascal! ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

She sat at the table, which was rapidly cleared of the Boxer sashes. Tea was brought quickly. Fine, delicately scented tea, served without milk or sugar, the like of which Alice had not tasted since first they had landed at Tientsin. She sipped it gratefully and looked across at Gerald. No place was made at the table for him and he remained standing, drinking his tea.

Alice decided to take the initiative. ‘My cousin,’ she explained, ‘gave me to understand that you might be able to give me news of my husband and his two companions, who recently left the Quarter for Tientsin. I would be grateful to know anything you can tell me about them.’

The General turned and spoke to his colleagues. A conversation ensued and Alice waited, her heart in her mouth. What would they say – and, whatever it was, would it be the truth? She stole a quick glance at Gerald, who was following the conversation with wide eyes.

He caught her glance and had the grace to look uncomfortable.

At last Kuang Li turned back to her. ‘I shall tell you what we know,’ he said, and she had the sudden and firm conviction that what he would tell her would be the truth.

‘We know of your husband, of course, madam. He led the attack on our cannon on the Chien Men and he is clearly a …’ He hesitated, obviously searching in his English vocabulary for the right phrase. ‘I
think you would call him a “doughty” warrior.’ He smiled, happy that he had found the correct expression. ‘Because of information given to us – but a fraction too late – we nearly cut him off on his return, but he broke through our men and was able to make his way back to the Legation Quarter.’

Alice frowned in impatience. She did not want flowery compliments – this was so Chinese, she thought – but only the truth about Simon. For God’s sake, was he still alive?

The General continued. ‘We also knew about his mission to Tientsin – again a little too late. So we were unable to prevent him leaving the city but we did send three horsemen after him to apprehend him and bring him back here. But, alas,’ he held out his hands, almost in supplication, ‘these men seem to have disappeared.

‘The next we heard of this remarkable man, Mr Fonthill, is that he and his companions were fished out of the river above the Tientsin settlements by Kansu soldiers – very much alive, I hasten to add – and they were all brought before our distinguished colleague, General Tung Fu-hsiang and interrogated.’

Alice winced at the word, but Kuang Li went on. ‘Then, a most remarkable thing happened. The general, who, what shall I say, has a reputation for the most intense questioning of prisoners he takes, let them go! We do not know why – he is not the sort of man one questions about these things. But he did so and, madam, your husband and his two companions seem to have, ah, disappeared. That is all I can tell you.’

Then he bowed to her across the table.

Alice felt a flush of exhilaration flow through her and she had to look down at her teacup for a moment to hide her feelings. Then
she inclined her head in return. ‘Thank you, sir. I am grateful for the information and for your courtesy.’

‘Now,’ said Kuang Li, ‘may we ask something of you in return, now that,’ he paused and looked across at Gerald, ‘you have strayed into our house?’

‘I will help you all I can, short of betraying the defenders of the legations,’ said Alice firmly.

‘We will not ask that of you. Now.’ He leant back and put the tips of his fingers together. ‘I am told that there is some puzzlement in the Quarter about why we do not unleash on you the full force of the artillery we have at our disposal.’ He gave a wan smile. ‘We were annoyed that your husband put our two Krupp guns out of commission but not seriously inconvenienced by his action. We have much more artillery, you see, and it is quite within our power to reduce all the legations to rubble if we so wish.’

Alice remembered Simon telling her that the Chinese had other large guns and plenty of ammunition that they did not bring into play.

‘Why, then, do you not do so?’ she asked.

‘Ah yes. Why indeed? To give you the answer, I fear that I must now take you into the labyrinth that is Chinese politics.’ The fingertips came together again and Alice formed the impression that the old man was rather enjoying himself. ‘You see, despite what you see here,’ and he gestured towards the Boxer scarves bestrewn around the room, ‘we are not all supporters of these peasant militants. There are people within the Manchu court who have attempted to persuade the Dowager Empress that it was foolhardy and even dangerous to back these uprisings.’