The War of the Dragon Lady E-Book

John Wilcox

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Simon Fonthill
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 505

Beschreibung

The year is 1900 and once again China is plunged into barbaric chaos. The Boxers, a cult of young peasants who blame the foreign barbarians living in their country - particularly the missionaries - for the nation's ills, are rampaging through the country, killing foreigners. China's Dowager Empress - 'The Dragon Lady' - secretly encourages them. Into this maelstrom land former captain and army scout Simon Fonthill, his wife Alice and '352' Jenkins, Fonthill's former batman and trusted comrade, to visit Alice's uncle, a country missionary. Threatened by the Boxers, the three escort the missionary and his family to the safety of Peking. En route, the party is attacked by the red-bannered Boxers and the missionary is killed. The survivors reach Peking only to find that the capital is no sanctuary. The Legations of the foreign ministers within the city is surrounded and the Siege of Peking begins. Fonthill, Jenkins and Chang, the missionary's adopted son, volunteer to slip through the enemy lines to bring help. It proves to be Fonthill's most dangerous mission...

Leseprobe

THE WAR OF THE DRAGON LADY

JOHN WILCOX

To Peter Jackson, editor, writer, critic, teacher and old friend.

Contents

Title PageDedicationCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENEPILOGUEAUTHOR’S NOTEACKNOWLEDGEMENTSAbout the AuthorCopyright

CHAPTER ONE

Chihli Province, China. June 1900.

Simon Fonthill eased himself in the saddle, stood a little shakily in the stirrups – he was tired but, at forty-five and even after twenty-four years of hard campaigning throughout Queen Victoria’s empire, he remained an uncertain horseman – and looked around him. The plain of Northern China presented little to see. There had been no rain that spring and no corn had been sown. Two years of drought had sucked the moisture from the rice fields and the sun’s rays flinched back from the hard earth as though even they were burnt by the touch. In the distance the white road wound towards the roofs of a village, but no other living thing stirred: no people, no animals, not even a bird, for there were no trees or bushes to give it perch.

Jenkins urged his mount alongside. ‘’Otter than bleedin’ Africa, I’d say.’ He sucked in his great moustache as though to gain moisture from it. ‘Don’t remember it bein’ as ’ot as this in the Sudan, look you.’

He sniffed. ‘Can’t see why we’ve come, to be honest, bach sir.’

‘Don’t let’s get into that, for God’s sake.’ Fonthill pulled down his white topee, the better to shield his eyes, and nodded ahead. ‘Should be able to find a bit of shade in that village. Stop for a cup of green tea or something.’

He relaxed back into the saddle but his mind remained on edge. It wasn’t just the heat. The temperature must be well over ninety degrees, even in the shade – that which could be found – but the feeling of oppression that sat above him in the yellow sky had nothing to do with the sun. In truth, he had been uneasy since they had landed at Tientsin a week ago. China, or at least this Province of Chihli, had not been welcoming.

The teeming streets of the inland port had seemed to lack that cheerful bustle that so characterised Bombay, Alexandria or Cape Town, where white people, particularly the British, were accepted and even welcomed as traders and bringers of wealth. In Tientsin, the people had hurried by, their eyes downcast under their wide, conical straw hats and their features sullen, and the peasants glimpsed as they penetrated deeper inland seemed to share this same resentment. Fonthill had served in Zululand, Afghanistan, the Transvaal, the Sudan and Matabeleland and he recognised aggression when he met it. Here, he could almost smell it.

His unease communicated itself to Jenkins. ‘There’s trouble about, ain’t there?’ he said. ‘D’you think it’s them boxing blokes?’

‘What, the Boxers?’ He grinned. ‘Well, we haven’t exactly met any of them yet, have we? But something’s up. I can feel it. But then, perhaps I’m imagining it. Too much sun and bloody dust.’

‘Are you all right, Simon?’ His wife called from the cart at the back of which she perched less than comfortably on their baggage, trying to find shade beneath a parasol. Their Chinese servant and guide slumped on the single seat before her, letting the reins leading to the mules fall into his lap. He seemed as glad as the animals to stop for a moment.

Fonthill turned his horse and let it amble back to the cart. ‘Yes, fine, my love. I thought we might stop at that village up ahead and see if we can get some tea. Yes?’

‘Oh absolutely. Find some shade.’ She smiled at her husband.

Alice Fonthill was exactly the same age as her husband but there was very little sign of middle age in her face or figure. Dressed in a loose, white, cotton shift with sandals on her feet, she seemed neither plump nor slim but sturdy rather, with her midriff pulled in tightly by a lime-green bandana. Her face was open, her features regular and her eyes a steady grey; indeed, she could have been called beautiful if it had not been for a certain squareness to her jaw which bestowed a sense of purpose. Under her floppy white hat her hair was fair with only the lightest dusting of grey and her skin was unfashionably tanned. Not for her the protected pallor of the Raj’s memsahibs. Mrs Fonthill, known to her readers of London’s Morning Post by her maiden name of Alice Griffith, was as comfortable out of doors as her husband.

In fact, the two of them made a handsome couple as they smiled at each other in the heat. He was of middle height at five foot nine inches, though now he slumped in the saddle. His shoulders were wide and no fat had encroached to widen his waist, for a life spent farming and campaigning had made his body hard. His eyes were brown and normally showed traces of reserve, but not now as he looked at his wife with a tenderness that had survived years of sadness as well as joy. The most prominent feature of his face was the nose, broken years ago by a Pathan musket and now hooked, giving him a predatory air, that of a hunter looking for his prey. Yet his mouth, though thin-lipped, was soft and betrayed sensitivity; perhaps that rarity in Queen Victoria’s great empire – a warrior with a conscience?

Fonthill jerked his head towards their guide, now seemingly asleep as he sat, hunched. ‘Has he said much?’ he mouthed.

She shook her head. ‘Not a sausage,’ she whispered. ‘He’s not exactly sociable, is he?’

‘Ah well, we can’t be far from your uncle’s place. This should be the last stop. Let’s get on.’

He pulled on the rein and gently leant over and gave the sleeping man a prod, pointing ahead. ‘We’ll stop at that village,’ he said slowly.

The Chinaman opened his eyes. He said nothing but he jerked the reins and flicked his whip and the two mules shuffled ahead, hardly disturbing the dust on the road.

They had ambled barely a hundred yards when they heard the noise. It was difficult at first to tell the origin; then it became clear. Voices raised, Chinese voices, of course, but with that distinctive sing-song pattern now lost and merged into a high-pitched howl. It came from the village ahead and it personified hate and anger. The communal voice of a mob.

Fonthill turned and shouted to their driver, ‘Stay here.’ Then to Jenkins, ‘Come on.’

They spurred their weary horses into something resembling a canter and rounded the bend that wound into what seemed like the main street of small dwelling houses, more a hamlet than a village. The place was deserted except for some dozen Chinamen who were surrounding a youth, who stood, befuddled, as abuse was hurled at him as he twisted and turned to find a way out through the ring.

The men were dressed all alike. They were barefooted and wore the loose pyjama-type garment of the Chinese peasant. But the pastoral effect of their clothing was completely dissipated by the red cloths tied round their heads, the red ribbons that fluttered from their wrists and ankles and the scarlet girdles that circled their waists. Two of them carried swords, others large sticks.

‘Boxers!’ breathed Simon.

The boy in their midst was probably no more than sixteen and he raised his hands in a desperate attempt to defend himself as the blows began to rain down on him. Then the lad went down on one knee under the force of the attack from all sides and, as he did so, two of his assailants drew their swords.

‘That’s enough,’ shouted Fonthill. ‘Stop that!’ He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and rode straight into the crowd, scattering them. He was conscious of Jenkins riding closely behind him as he groped behind his saddlebag for some kind of weapon. He found only the end of his ash walking stick and drew it as he burst through the crowd. Wheeling his mount around, he realised that the mob had scattered only momentarily. The boy lay dazed on the ground but the Boxers now ignored him and approached the two horsemen, fanning out to surround them.

‘Watch out, bach sir.’ Jenkins’s vocal Welshness always seemed to increase in proportion to the danger faced. ‘The buggers ’ave got swords and they’ll come at our backs, look you.’

‘We mustn’t let them attack the wagon.’ The pitch of Fonthill’s own voice now betrayed the peril of their situation. ‘Dammit. Shouldn’t have left the revolvers with the baggage. Only one thing for it. Cavalry charge. You ready, 352?’

Jenkins’s eyes were black and cold under the rim of his wide-brimmed hat. ‘Most certainly. But don’t fall off, ’cos I might not ’ave a chance to pick you up, now, see.’

‘Rubbish. I’m as good as a dragoon now. Use your stick as a sabre. Right at ’em, then – and shout. Now. Charge!’

The two lowered their sticks, put their heads down and urged their horses into a startled gallop. As they charged, they shouted – or rather, screamed. Jenkins’s was a high-pitched, Celtic cry that seemed to come from deep within him; a prehistoric place of dark valleys and hills. Fonthill’s seemed half embarrassed, more a desperate appeal for a catch from first slip on the cricket field than a battle cry. Both, however, were effective, for the Boxers broke and ran. Not, however, before one of them swung his club backhandedly at Simon’s horse, catching him on the rump and causing him to rear.

Fonthill, with only one hand on the reins, was unable to control his mount and he felt himself slip backwards and then crash to the ground, temporarily winding him and sending his stick clattering away. Within moments, as he attempted to scramble to his feet, he realised that Jenkins was beside him, a knife gleaming in his hand.

‘I just knew you’d fall off,’ muttered the Welshman. ‘On your feet, boyo, they’re coming at us again. ’Ere, ’ave my stick, it’s better than nothing. Back to back now.’

Taking deep gulps of hot air, Fonthill tried to regain his breath. The Boxers had whirled around and the two swordsmen were advancing on them now, preparing to take easy prey. Simon noticed that neither betrayed the slightest expression as he stepped forward.

Their eyes were completely dispassionate, like those of two snakes, preparing to strike.

‘Bit of dust in their faces when they come in, bach sir,’ muttered Jenkins. ‘Might just give us a moment. If I can get close, I’ll slit their gizzards, so I will. See if you can get be’ind me, like.’

‘Certainly not. I’ll fight my own bloody battle, thank you very much.’

The partners knelt down slowly, as though in supplication, but each gathered a handful of dust in his free hand and then they rose equally slowly to face the swordsmen.

Fonthill’s mind raced. He knew that Jenkins was a superb close-quarters fighter. He had seen him confront and subdue a strapping assegai-carrying Zulu warrior, fighting only with his hands. But he himself had no such skills. The agony was that, if they were killed, Alice would be left completely defenceless in the wagon just outside the village. The Boxers would surely take it and she, too, would perish, for their guide would be useless. He must use what skills he had. The ash walking stick would become a rapier.

Slowly, he raised it and adopted the fencing en garde position, as he had been taught to do so many years ago at Sandhurst, the training school for young British officers. The ridiculous posture – side on, feet planted fore and aft and knees bent, while the stick was presented, horizontal to the ground, to the opponent – caused the Boxer to pause in his advance. The man stood for a moment, his mouth gaping, perspiration pouring down his chest in the gap shown by his open vest and his pigtail moving, pendulum like, as his head moved from side to side. Slowly he absorbed the situation. Then he grinned and jumped forward, swinging his sword in a silver arc.

Fonthill moved back and immediately crashed into the posterior of the Welshman, who judging by the clang of steel on steel was now engaged in his own fight for life. Somehow, however, Simon deflected the swing of the sword with his stick, so that it passed harmlessly to his side. Moving to his left, he lunged forward classically, taking the Chinaman firmly in the midriff with the point of the stick, causing the man to gasp and fall away, holding his stomach.

Seizing the moment, Simon attacked, thrusting with his ash as though it was an épée made of finest steel. Except that, of course, it was not. With a contemptuous swipe, the Boxer swung his blade across his body, cutting Fonthill’s staff in half and leaving only a shattered stump in his hand.

‘Dammit to hell.’ In desperation, the Englishman sprang forward and threw the sand into the face of his opponent, causing the man to clutch at his eye. Before the Boxer could recover, Fonthill thrust the stump of his stick into his face. The splintered end grazed the cheekbone, producing a cry of pain and anger.

But it was the aggression of despair, for the Chinaman was not hurt. He backed away for a moment, wiped his eye and then sprang forward, raising his sword for one last and surely fatal attack.

Suddenly a shot rang out and the man clutched at his shoulder, blood spurting between his fingers. The sword dropped from his hand and he turned and looked with astonishment at the figure of Alice, standing some twenty-five yards away, the long barrel of an American Naval Colt revolver smoking in her hand.

For a split second the scene became frozen, like some mimed tableau, all movement stilled as though the actors were waiting for applause at the end of the drama. The rest of the Boxers were standing around in various postures, waiting for the swordsmen to end the entertainment by killing their men. The youth knelt on his hands and knees in the centre of the road, his mouth open. Jenkins had somehow turned his man and now had him from the back, his long knife at the throat of his assailant, whose sword lay on the ground.

All was still and then, as though acting on some hidden signal, the scene broke up: the Boxers ran as fast as their bare feet could take them, led by Simon’s wounded opponent, clutching his shoulder as he loped away. The boy stood to his feet, swayed for a moment and then approached the two Englishmen.

Incongruously, he stood before Simon and held out his hand. ‘How do you do?’ he asked in impeccable, if mannered, English. ‘Am I right in believing that you are English, sir?’

‘Bugger that.’ Jenkins’s interruption was low and gutteral. ‘Do you want me to kill this bloke, bach sir? Might as well. He tried to kill us and I don’t think I can ’old ’im much longer. Got a bit of a cut on me arm, see.’

‘What?’ Fonthill wiped the perspiration from his eyes. ‘Good God, no. Let the swine go.’

Jenkins relaxed his grip and immediately the Boxer ducked away, like a trout returned to a stream, and ran after his fellows. In a few seconds the dusty street was deserted except for the boy and his rescuers.

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 24th of Foot.

It had been the deaths, disconcertingly close together, of both Alice’s and Simon’s parents that had prompted the Fonthills to embark on the round-the-world trip that had led them to this small town in China. Some six years before, after taking part in Cecil Rhodes’s invasion of Matabeleland and surviving the clash with King Lobengula’s impis there, they had returned to Norfolk to farm Alice’s estate. Restive with the unaccustomed tranquillity, however, and financially buttressed by inheritances from both sets of parents, the couple had decided to make a first visit to America and visit Alice’s uncle in China on their way home. They were enjoying the vastness of the prairies of North America when news reached them of the outbreak of war in South Africa. Simon was anxious to hurry to Cape Town to join in the fight against the Boers, but Alice – not unsympathetic to the cause of the Afrikaner farmers – persuaded him that the war would be over by the time they reached Africa, so they continued their journey to China. It was only when they reached Tientsin that they heard of the Boxer Rebellion.

They were all changing for dinner when Gerald Griffith arrived, dusty from his journey to Peking. He was a tall, thin young man in his early twenties, English but dressed as a Chinaman and wearing the beginnings of a beard. He washed for dinner but did not change and seemed less than delighted to see the visitors as they assembled around the table.

‘It is dangerous here, you know,’ he said. ‘You should not have come, for the downtrodden people of China do not like the yang kuei-tzu.’

‘The yang …?’ enquired Alice.

‘The foreign devils.’ The young man spoke with a curl of his lip.

‘That will do, Gerald,’ said his father quickly. He turned apologetically to his guests. ‘My son has grown up with the Chinese people – in fact he has never been home – and he shares an affinity with them. It is,’ he shrugged, ‘understandable and he has a point.’

‘Of course,’ said Simon. ‘Perhaps you would explain a little of the background to this uprising – if that is what it is.’

‘I will tell you what I know but first let us eat. Shall we say grace?’

They ate a surprisingly delicious dinner of herbal pancakes, a hotpot of fish and braised tofu – Simon surmised that Aunt Lizzie had raided what was best of her drought-denuded pantry to put on a show for her guests – and as their Chinese servant cleared away the plates, Simon repeated his request. The clergyman wiped his whiskers and settled back in his chair. ‘It’s all our dashed fault, really, you know,’ he said.

‘What?’ asked Fonthill. ‘Do you mean the British? The Opium Wars and all that?’

‘Well partly, I suppose. But I really mean all the European imperial powers who have imposed themselves on this country. Dashed disgraceful, if you will pardon my language.’

‘Damned disgraceful,’ echoed Gerald. His face was flushed.

‘Please watch your own language, Gerald,’ Mr Griffith rebuked. ‘There is no excuse for that.’

‘Sorry, Father.’

Edward Griffith took another sip of rice wine and continued. ‘The Manchu dynasty – it still rules, of course – always exercised a blind, reclusive xenophobia and until 1848 the only part of the Chinese Empire on which foreign merchants were permitted to set foot, and then only between October and March, was a plot of land on the Canton waterfront. Things began to change after we – the British, that is – forced the First Opium War on the Chinese in the 1840s. It was a shameful act on our part, you know.’

‘Incredibly shameful,’ added Gerald.

Griffith sighed and frowned at his son once again at the interruption. Mrs Griffith, however, took Gerald’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Let the boy speak, Edward,’ she said gently. ‘He has a right to his opinion.’

‘Hmm. Now, where was I?’

‘The Opium Wars, Reverend.’ Jenkins was leaning forward, his chin on his fist, listening intently.

‘Yes, thank you. Well, after the Treaty of Nanking which settled the war, the Chinese were forced to cede to Britain that barren lump of rock called Hong Kong, pay a swingeing indemnity, remove the most vexatious restrictions on commerce at Canton, open four other ports to trade and grant foreigners the right to reside in them. We had our foot in the Chinese door and we pushed it wide open.

‘You see,’ the clergyman filled his pipe with tobacco and stared at the ceiling, ‘imperial expansion was the order of the day. China was weak.’ He began thumping a large finger into the palm of his other hand in emphasis. ‘Portugal had got Macao; France occupied a large part of Annam; in 1862 Britain annexed Lower Burma, just across the frontier; France then took three provinces of Lower Cochin-China and gained control of the Mekon basin; Russia then occupied a large tract of Chinese Turkestan; Japan took the Liu Chiu Islands; Britain annexed Upper Burma; and then, in 1887, the rest of Annam, Cochin-China and Cambodia were sequestered to form French Indo-China. It was a land grab of epic proportions.’

Griffith blew a blue cloud of tobacco smoke to the ceiling. ‘Then came the war with Japan of 1894 to 1895 which ended in crushing defeat for this country and set off the land scramble again. It seemed as though it was China’s destiny to be carved up, just as Africa has been.’

He gestured with his pipe. ‘By 1895, most of the outlying dependencies of the Empire – I mean the Chinese one, not ours – had been lopped off. I don’t know the figures, but the size of this vast country had been severely reduced. But it didn’t stop there. The Germans were probably the worst. Two German missionaries were killed three years ago in the interior near Kiaochow. Instead of negotiating with Peking, the Kaiser rattled his great sabre and threatened war. As a result, he gained a ninety-nine-year lease of Kiaochow Bay, the city of Tsingtao, a whacking great indemnity for the two dead missionaries and extensive railway and mining concessions in that province. Then everybody jumped in.

‘Spheres of influence became the thing to have. Germany claimed exclusive influence here in Shantung, Russia in Manchuria, of course, Japan in Fukien and Britain in the Yangtze Valley. Can you imagine that sort of thing happening in the British Empire? Eh?’

A silence fell on the gathering. Gerald took a deep breath to speak, but his mother laid a quietening hand on his arm.

Eventually, Simon broke the silence. ‘And the Boxers?’ he asked.

‘Ah yes, the Boxers. Well something had to give – or more precisely something had to rise. They first appeared in this province about two years ago, when the Germans were pressing hard on the Kiaochow Bay business. They are mainly young men, often youths, and they call themselves … er … what is it, Chang?’

The youth cleared his throat to answer but a glowering Gerald intervened. ‘The I Ho Ch’uan,’ he said, as though with pride. ‘The Society of Righteous and Harmonious Fists.’

Jenkins let out a great guffaw, to be silenced by a glare from Fonthill.

‘Quite so,’ continued the clergyman. ‘Strange, of course, to us. White people called them “Boxers” because they were so fit, although they would never know how to fight with their fists in a skilled manner, as we do. Like uneducated insurgents the world over …’ he gestured with his pipe towards Simon – ‘you in particular will remember the Mahdi’s followers in the Sudan—’

Fonthill nodded.

‘—they all think that they are “the chosen ones” and that no bullets can harm them. They hate Europeans and particularly members of religious groups and poor devils like us, the missionaries.’

He puffed at his pipe. ‘Although it is the Catholics who seem to have caught it in the neck most. I suppose you could say that the priests had it coming to them. Back in 1860, the French had negotiated a treaty under which their Roman Catholic missionaries were given all kinds of rights denied to others – rights of residence in the interior, the building of churches and the establishment of orphanages. The last bit has caused all kinds of problems, giving rise to rumours that the priests were stealing Chinese children and killing them. But it was worse than that …’ He gestured with both hands. ‘All Catholic bishops were granted the same rank as provincial governors, they were allowed to wear a mandarin’s button and carry the umbrella of honour and even,’ he blew out his cheeks in disgust, ‘awarded the discharge of a cannon when they come and go. It had all got out of hand. As a result, we are all being tarred with the same brush.’

Mrs Griffith took up the story. ‘You see, all this has coincided with terrible times here,’ she said, her eyes glistening in the lamplight. ‘The drought is the worst for decades, ruining the rice crop and putting water at a premium. We – the so-called foreign devils – are getting the blame for this, including the mining and railway engineers here. It is being said that the laying of railway tracks is desecrating the graves of ancestors and the new telegraph poles cause moaning in the wind, which the peasants on whose lands they have been erected say is the crying of the dead. We foreigners are being blamed for upsetting the balance of nature, as well as killing the cotton market by importing cloth and garments.’

‘The British are the worst.’ The truculence in Gerald’s voice was evident. ‘Although the Empress has banned the opium trade,’ he said, ‘the British traders keep it going, of course, and make much money from it. Everyone knows that.’

The visitors all looked down at the table, unsure of what to say. Then Fonthill looked up and studied the young man for a moment. There was none of his father’s fortitude in his face, nor any of his mother’s sensitivity. His features reflected intelligence, there was no doubt of that, but his mouth was weak and his eyes showed only antagonism.

Simon cleared his throat. ‘What about the Empress?’ he asked of Griffith. ‘Does she approve of the Boxers or try to suppress them?’

The missionary smiled. ‘A good question. She’s a formidable woman. Oiled, black hair pulled straight back, skin like porcelain and long, manicured fingernails, curved like claws. They call her “The Dragon Lady”. You may know that the old girl – she’s actually the Empress Dowager – deposed her nephew the Emperor Kuang Hsu about eighteen months ago, for being too much in favour of Western modernisation?’

Simon shook his head.

‘Well, she’s as clever as a fox leading the hunt. Officially she disapproves of the Boxers, but in reality she is encouraging them, there’s no doubt about that. She thinks that they will teach the foreigners a lesson or two without her getting the blame and, anyway, they would be too expensive to put down.’ The old man sighed. ‘They’re spreading out quickly, you see.’

‘And coming this way,’ added Gerald, his eyes alight. ‘They told me in Peking that the Boxers who burnt the racecourse pavilion are only the vanguard. It is said that the army might join them.’

‘Ah, I doubt that,’ said Edward Griffith. ‘The Empress would never allow that. It would upset the apple cart completely with the British and the other foreign ministers at the Manchu court—’

‘Who are complete ciphers,’ interrupted Gerald. ‘Weak men representing weak regimes.’

‘Blimey,’ muttered Jenkins in a whispered aside to Fonthill. ‘’Oos side is ’e on, then?’

Another silence fell on the little gathering. The shadows flickering across the faces of the group seemed to presage and emphasize the dangers that lay outside the walls. A sense of impending disaster permeated the room. ‘Well, sir,’ asked Simon. ‘Will you leave your home here?’

At first it seemed as though the old man was ignoring the question. He leant across the table and took up his wife’s hand. He addressed her in a low voice: ‘I think, my dear, that we now have no alternative.’ He nodded towards Chang, who sat listening intently to everything that was being said. ‘What has happened to our son today confirms the danger. I have been stupid in delaying so long. But now, I think we must leave before dawn. These people are so close. They could come tomorrow.’

Lizzie Griffith put a hand to her mouth. ‘That quickly! We can never pack in time.’

Her husband squeezed her hand. ‘We cannot take much with us, Lizzie. I am so sorry, but we must leave almost immediately. Time for a little sleep and then we must away. Of one thing, I promise you …’ He looked into her eyes. ‘We shall return.’

Tears were now trickling down Mrs Griffith’s cheeks. ‘But where shall we go?’

‘To Peking. We shall find shelter there and we can stay until this trouble blows over. It will be transitory I feel sure.’ He looked up at his visitors. ‘I am so sorry, dear friends, that I must ask you to leave as soon as you arrive. But there is no other choice.’

Alice stood and moved behind her aunt’s chair, putting her cheek next to hers and embracing her. ‘My dear aunt,’ she said. ‘It is lucky we are here, for we can protect you on the journey. And I shall help you pack the few things you can take. We can jettison the things of ours we don’t need to make room in the cart. All will be well, you will see.’

And so the little gathering broke up. In a corner of the room, Simon detained the Reverend. ‘Do you have any weapons, sir?’

The old man gave a wan smile. ‘One rather old fowling piece. I fear that is all. But I do not favour violence. I speak fluent Mandarin and, if we are accosted, I think I can reason with them. I believe I am known for doing good work in this region for many years. And anyway,’ he put his hand on Simon’s shoulder, ‘I know that the Good Lord will protect us.’

As he stepped away, Jenkins moved to Fonthill’s side. ‘The Good Lord,’ he growled, ‘plus one old fowling piece and two Colt revolvers. It’s not much, bach sir, is it?’

Simon nodded and gave a half-smile. ‘Alice has a small pistol, but no, not much. I fear it could be quite a journey. Gird your loins, 352, gird your loins.’

‘Ah yes.’ Jenkins frowned. ‘D’you know, I’ve never been quite sure what loins are …?’

‘They’re things that have to be girt. Bed now.’

CHAPTER TWO

They were on the road well before sunrise. There were no tears on Mrs Griffith’s face now as she organised the departure with calm efficiency, as though they were merely making a summer visit to the capital. The crude cart that had carried the visitors was left behind and the Griffiths’ much larger wagon was put into service to carry both sets of baggage. As the little party wound through the narrow alleyways, Simon on horseback took the lead, with a surly Gerald on his pony alongside to point the way; the Reverend Griffith drove the wagon, with Chang at his side, the two women sitting amidst the baggage and a mounted Jenkins rode behind as rearguard. Fonthill and Jenkins each carried a pearl-handled Colt revolver, and the sporting shotgun, which the missionary chose not to load, lay amongst the bags at the back of the wagon.

‘How far to Peking?’ asked Fonthill.

‘About fifteen miles,’ replied Gerald. ‘The road gets better nearer the city, of course.’

‘Is it open country?’

‘Most of the way.’

Simon thought for a moment. ‘Is there one place where we might be ambushed – where there is cover on either side?’

‘Er … yes. Probably.’ The young man’s eyes widened. ‘It’s a small village. We have to go through its centre.’

‘Can we get round it?’

‘No, not really. Fields are too rough on either side.’

‘Right. Tell me when we near it.’

The sun rose to make the world a heat bowl once again and Griffith stopped to stretch a tarpaulin over the rickety frame on the wagon to give its occupants some shade. The barren nature of the plain afforded them no relief from the sun, of course, but it gave them an excellent view all around, enabling them to detect any sign of pursuit, even from far away.

They skirted two villages without incident. Outside one, they met two peasants, attempting to work in the hard ground. Griffith called to them and asked for news of Boxers but the men’s faces remained quite impassive and he received no reply, even when the question was repeated by Chang in a more colloquial dialect.

Jenkins rode up. ‘I think people are comin’ up be’ind us, bach sir,’ he reported.

Fonthill whirled round in the saddle and squinted back down the road. ‘Dammit. I wish I had field glasses. Can’t see a sign of anyone. Can you, Gerald, you’ve got young eyes?’

‘No. Nothing.’

Jenkins sniffed. ‘Oh, they’re there all right. Look ’ard. There’s a bit of a dust cloud, way back.’

Simon shielded his eyes and squinted. ‘Ah, yes. I see what you mean. Boxers, do you think?’

‘Who else would be travellin’ in a crowd, like that?’

‘Gerald?’

Fear showed in the man’s eyes. ‘Yes. I should think so. They’re coming after us, all right. We shouldn’t have left. We could have stayed and spread ourselves round amongst neighbours. That way they probably wouldn’t have found all of us.’

Fonthill eyed him keenly. ‘Just your father, eh?’

‘No. I didn’t mean that.’

‘Right. We’ll wait here for them.’

Gerald’s jaw dropped. ‘You must be mad. We have four mules. If we whip them hard, we might be able to outpace them, if they’re on foot.’

‘Not in this heat – and mules don’t like to run. Neither do I, for that matter. No, we’ll wait here for them. Reverend,’ he walked his horse over to where Griffith was tying up a loose part of the tarpaulin, ‘it seems that we are being followed and they are probably Boxers.’

Mrs Griffith drew in her breath sharply but her husband’s face betrayed no emotion. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Even in this heat, the Chinese travel fast on foot, so I doubt if we can outdistance them. What do you propose?’

‘I agree that we can’t run. I suggest that we wait here for them. The road is narrow and there are quite wide ditches on either side, so it could be difficult for them to surround us. I think we might deter them with our pistols.’

‘Ah no.’ The clergyman shook his head. ‘No violence. Let me talk to them. Some of them could be locals and they will know me. We must put our trust in the Lord.’

Simon eyed him for a moment, then nodded. ‘Very well, sir. But I reserve the right to shoot if things get nasty. From what I’ve heard, the Boxers don’t have firearms, they rely on swords and clubs, so we might have a chance of putting them off, anyway. Right. We don’t have much time. Jenkins.’

‘Sir.’

‘Hitch your horse to the far side of the wagon – not the rear, close to the ditch – and take that shovel. See that declivity in the field over there …?’

‘What’s a declivity when it’s at ’ome?’

‘Oh Lord, I do wish sometimes that you had finished that Army Certificate of Education that you started on.’

‘Well, I would ’ave, wouldn’t I, if you ’adn’t taken me off to fight the savage Zulu, see.’

‘All right. That dip in the ground over there? See it?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Dig a hole in it, sufficiently deep to give you cover. Don’t pile up soil, though. I don’t want the Boxers to know you’re there. Take ammunition for your Colt from the box in the wagon and then go quickly. There’s little time. If firing starts I want you to give covering fire. But don’t fire unless I do. Understand?’

Jenkins’s eyes had become cold and hard again. Fonthill knew the signs. The Welshman was ready for – was about to revel in – action and danger.

‘Very good, bach sir.’

‘Good. Double away.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ Gerald Griffith’s voice was querulous.

Simon looked back at the wagon. The missionary was sitting on the driving seat, slowly turning the pages of his Bible. Alice, Lizzie and Chang were now out of sight behind the tarpaulin, although, of course, the wagon was open fore and aft. Fonthill turned to Gerald.

‘If fighting does start,’ he said, ‘we will be fairly useless on horseback, for gunfire will disturb the horses and make it difficult to fire accurately. So we will hitch the horses to the side of the wagon to stop them boarding from that side. Please tie your horse and then load the fowling piece. We will wait under cover while your father speaks to these people. But we will demonstrate that we are armed. We must not fire unless we have to. However …’ he now spoke with emphasis ‘… Do not fire until I do. And when you do fire, aim to kill. There can be no hesitation once the fighting begins – if it does, that is. Now, tie your horse and then get into the wagon.’

Wide-eyed, Gerald nodded and led his horse to the far side of the wagon. Fonthill followed him, hitched up his own mount and climbed inside. As he did so, the Reverend Griffith stepped down and, Bible in hand, walked a little way down the road towards where the dust cloud could now be clearly seen.

‘What is happening, Simon?’ asked Alice. Mrs Griffith was by her side. Anxiety was reflected in both their faces. Chang, sitting at their feet, seemed quite unperturbed.

‘I think there is no need for alarm yet,’ said Fonthill. ‘However, it looks as though the Boxers have followed us and are approaching. We cannot outdistance them so we shall wait for them here. Mr Griffith is confident that he can talk them out of violence and so there will be no shooting unless we really have to defend ourselves.’

Mrs Griffith shot a glance over her shoulder. ‘I do not like Edward going among those people,’ she said. ‘He should stay in the wagon.’

Simon nodded. ‘I quite agree. I will ask him to return. In the meantime, Alice?’

His wife nodded.

‘Do you have that little popgun of yours that was so useful in the Sudan?’

‘It is not a popgun, Simon. It is a very effective French officer’s side arm, a very fine, eleven-millimetre Chamelot-Delvigne, that served me well in Egypt as well as the Sudan.’ She withdrew the scarf that lay across her lap to reveal the little, steel-blue automatic.

Fonthill gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Good. I am sorry we can’t give you a Colt, because you are probably a better shot with it than me. But have your little gun ready. Don’t shoot until I do.’

Then he bowed his head. ‘Sorry, Mrs Griffith. I promise that we will try and avoid violence.’ He climbed down from the wagon and walked towards where the clergyman was standing, looking down the road. Their pursuers could now be seen and flashes of scarlet revealed their identity.

‘I think it would be safer if you addressed them from the wagon, sir,’ he said.

Griffith smiled, a little wistfully. ‘No, Simon. I want to show that I am part of them. So I shall walk towards them, in peace, and speak to them from their midst. I think it is the best way.’

Simon’s heart fell. If the clergyman formed part of the crowd, it would be extremely difficult to defend him if the mob turned on him. He turned to his right and looked across the field. There was no sign of Jenkins, except what could be a ripple of fresh earth, some thirty yards away. Good. That flank was covered, anyway. He smiled confidently at the missionary.

‘Of course, sir. Good luck. Don’t be afraid to run back to the wagon if you have to. We will cover you.’

‘I will.’ Griffith held out his hand. ‘God bless you, nephew.’

They shook hands and Fonthill climbed back into the wagon. He addressed Gerald. ‘Have you loaded the fowling piece?’

‘Yes, but I can’t see me harming anyone with it. It only shoots pellets.’

‘It doesn’t matter. It will have a deterrent effect. Now,’ he addressed the others, ‘Mrs Griffith please keep low. The rest of us will show our weapons when the Boxers come up, I will pull back the tarpaulin to show them that we are armed. Gerald, you take the rear of the wagon, Alice you guard the front, Chang you hold the reins of the mules and attempt to quieten them if shooting starts. I will guard the side facing the road. The horses hitched on the other side should stop them climbing aboard from that side. Let me repeat – do not fire unless I do.’

‘Where is 352?’ asked Alice.

‘He is hidden out in the field. If we have to shoot, firing coming from the flank should disconcert the Boxers.’

Gerald’s face was white. ‘What if they have guns? We could be mown down.’

‘I doubt if they will have rifles or anything like that. If they do, shoot at the marksmen first. Here they come. Good luck everyone.’

Fonthill finished unfurling the tarpaulin, so that the interior of the wagon was revealed. As he tied the last cord, he caught a glimpse of the Reverend Griffith stepping forward to meet the Boxers, his hand upheld in the universal gesture of peace. Simon bit his lip as he watched. He tried to count the Chinamen and gave up at fourteen. Perhaps there were twenty. Far too many, anyway. A Daniel – a very old but brave Daniel – was about to enter the lion’s den, with only his Bible to protect him.

Fonthill adopted what he hoped was a commanding posture: one booted foot on the sideboard of the wagon, one arrogant hand on his hip and the other holding the Colt at his side, the sun glinting on its long barrel. He nodded sharply to Gerald.

‘Show your gun, young man. You too, Alice.’

Small beads of perspiration were now showing on his wife’s upper lip, but she nodded and moved to the open rear of the wagon and began making a great show of loading her little automatic pistol. Gerald Griffith crept up behind her and held up his fowling piece as though about to shoot a passing bird. Mrs Griffith knelt a little unsteadily on an old leather case, her hands clasped together and her eyes tightly closed as she prayed. Chang, one of whose eyes had partly closed following yesterday’s affray, had taken up his post on the driver’s seat, waiting in silence.

Simon turned his gaze back to the missionary. He had now reached the Boxers, who immediately opened their ranks and allowed him to mingle with them. He stood out, tall and erect, in their midst, both hands held high, one of them holding his Bible. The Chinese had fallen silent now and the missionary’s voice could just be heard, speaking quite slowly and evenly and sounding even more mellifluous in Mandarin. To Fonthill, he cut a biblical figure, as though he were a medieval preacher addressing his flock. His mind went back to an old painting that had hung in his father’s study. The metaphor was made even more apt by the rapt, open faces of the young men surrounding him. Simon was reminded that they were peasants, many of them seemingly still in their teens. As far as he could see, few of them wore shoes or sandals. Violence suddenly seemed far away on this warm, sunlit morning.

Suddenly, there was a sharp report from within the wagon and Fonthill swung around to see Gerald Griffith staring at the smoking barrel of his gun.

‘What the hell—?’ snarled Simon.

‘It just went off.’ The young man’s mouth hung open.