Part 8

The following day, when the Yamen messenger came for the telegram, the other Ministers sent cipher messages also, hoping they might be sent. They were returned, however, with no apology. Since then there has been a message of some sort on every other day from the Yamen, signed “Prince Ching.” The attacks are so irregular now that one cannot count on them, except that they are apt to occur at the most inopportune time during the day, and when least expected. Once, even two or three of the clerks or under-secretaries of the Tsung-li Yamen “called.” They were evidently frightened and nervous at what they considered actually coming into the lion’s den, but amenities only were discussed. We very naturally considered them of too inferior rank to treat officially. In one of the many letters in answer to Prince Ching’s, Sir Claude wrote that we could hold out indefinitely with food, soldiers, and ammunition, but that the ladies and children felt the need of ice, eggs, and fresh fruit; so yesterday, the 20th, came three carts full of melons, six bags of flour, egg-plants, and an uneatable Chinese vegetable—no eggs, no ice, or fruit, except the unripe melons.

We have been trying to make a kind of market with the Chinese soldiers doing duty on the Chinese sentry lines, but although they would be very glad to pocket the big commission which they could get out of the transaction, they have not been allowed to do so by their officers, but they smuggle in eggs for us every morning at high prices (_bien entendu_), just enough for a very small supply for the hospital.

An interesting rumour that comes to us by a captured Chinese, and is generally credited to be true, is that Tung Fu-hsiang’s army has retired south from Peking to meet the foreign troops. Another rumour, however, says that Tung Fu-hsiang has departed westward, and as he was only a Mohammedan brigand before the Empress-Dowager elevated him to the head of her army, the Chinese think he has gone, not to meet our troops, but to continue the good work and merry life as a bandit in Mongolia. A letter comes to-day to Sir Robert Hart from the Yamen which is most polite and gushing. They regret most sincerely that his house and compound have been burned, and state at the same time that the Customs affairs have been turned almost upside down in consequence of lack of orders during the past six weeks from the Inspector-General. It is probable that they will come to Sir Robert for help as soon as things become more quiet.

The other day, when they sent us fruit and vegetables, they said they regretted they could not send us ice, because, if they attempted to do so, the Boxers, who like ice, would be sure to capture it. Apropos of ice, another baby’s life could undoubtedly to-day have been saved had there been any in the compound. These “might-have-beens” are so agonizing.

M. Pichon, the French Minister, to-day had a very nice telegram sent him from France, saying: “You are unanimously voted to have the Legion of Honour. Your mother sends her love and greeting, and 15,000 Frenchmen are on their way to your support.”

On the 18th a messenger got through from the Japanese Consul in Tien-tsin to Narahara, saying that he hoped the large foreign contingent of soldiers would get started by the 20th for the relief of Peking; he hoped there would be 24,000 Japanese, 6,000 Russians, 3,000 British, and 1,500 Americans; and that the Chinese city of Tien-tsin had been burnt, but not the foreign settlement.

The Russians seemed horribly worried about so many Japanese soldiers coming, but there are rumours that the Russians have been keeping away from Tien-tsin so as not to join the allied Powers, and perhaps be forced to make some promises which they might regret later, and that they are doing some seizing of territory at the present on their own account on the plea of defending their railways. An Englishman here, being, of course, anti-Russian, insists that this nation is absolutely careless about its Minister or the other Russian people trapped here, whether they live or not. If it is a question of making some coup for the aggrandizement of their country, they would not hesitate to sacrifice their people in Peking. One of the men in the Russian Legation is named Pompoff, and has a very pretty wife with a gorgeous voice, and as Russia is known to want Manchuria, he put it quite aptly in speaking of probable orders from St. Petersburg: “They will say, _Mon Dieu_, what is Madame Pompoff to Manchuria?”

A day or two ago, when news came to the Japanese that the allied troops were mobilizing in Tien-tsin, a letter came to M. Joostens, the Belgian Minister, from Kettles, the Belgian Consul, telling him in an excited way a little of the news we are all thirsting to hear—that Seymour’s relief party had got near Peking about the end of June, but had been driven back toward Tien-tsin, owing to great numbers of Chinese soldiers opposed to them, and lack of supplies and water. They were then cut off from Tien-tsin by the Chinese under General Neih, and their whole column would have been massacred there had not 3,000 troops from Tien-tsin gone out to their rescue. Neih was defeated, and, in consequence, committed suicide.

The foreigners and soldiers then in Tien-tsin proceeded to take and burn the native city, over 700 being killed and wounded. Towards the end of this interesting letter Mr. Kettles naïvely remarked that he doubted if the Belgian Minister would ever get this letter, but if he did it might please him to learn that his home Government had wired to M. de Cartier to remain in Shanghai and await orders, for he undoubtedly would be sent to Peking as Chargé d’Affaires, “the Minister, M. Joostens, having been massacred.” No matter what queer things happen in this world, humour is always left if one looks for it.

At the hospital an apparatus for applying X rays would have saved the lives of many. Poor Narahara, a Japanese officer, died this morning from lock-jaw produced by a bullet which pierced his thigh. He has suffered horribly for three weeks. Dr. Lippitt, after waiting four weeks for his leg to be in a condition for the surgeons to make another search for the bullet, had the pleasant news told him, after an agonizing examination, that it could not be found. We are hoping that if the troops arrive soon their medical corps will have X-ray machines, and that Lippitt’s leg may be saved. He has suffered and is suffering much physical pain, but more mental, I think, from the close proximity to the bed on which so many men have died, all the details of which he has seen, and the climax was reached during the night by the death of Narahara, whose wound was almost similar to his, although lately Narahara’s wound has been complicated by lock-jaw, whereas in the doctor’s case there have been no complications. If we get out of Peking, Dr. Velde deserves from every nation that is represented here a grateful acknowledgment of his services during the siege.

The wife of the Russian Minister, Madame de Giers, a handsome woman with a great charm of manner, has been a veritable angel of mercy in the hospital. She has personally nursed most of the Russian patients, for while all Russians of education speak either French or German, and the hospital nurses understand their wants, to the poor sailors, who can express themselves only in their own language, her nursing is a Godsend, and she is on duty with her suffering compatriots an incredible number of hours out of the twenty-four. A graduate trained nurse, working to make a record, could do no more than she is doing, and her physical strength, patience, and gentleness are a joy to witness.

No Minister’s wife in Peking can approach in any way to having helped with the burdens of the siege as Madame de Giers. The old saw of “Scratch a Slav and you find a Tartar” could be changed by those who see them here in Peking in so many instances “making good” to, “Scratch a Slav and you find a hero.” The past week while these negotiations, communications, and messengers have been arriving the calm has been very noticeable, only I must admit that it seems almost as if one would prefer to say, “If it is war, then let it be war,” for under these circumstances one would not, or, I should say, could not, have time to appreciate to the full extent this fiendish weather, this war and siege regimen, and the eternal and without end discussions about the troops. As long as the continual attacks were going on we knew it was a matter of life and death, and every man did his allotted work without a murmur, but now, owing to the half-armistice that exists, the five-week strain during this terrible weather is beginning to tell; everyone is seedy, and most of the work is done by dragging one leg after the other, while dysentery has a terrible hold on most of the people here. To me the most pitiful of all scenes in this compound is the collection of perambulators, huddled together in the shadiest part, with limp, languid babies in them, some looking so ill that their parents must feel that each day more of the siege brings their little ones nearer death.

Yesterday, July 25, another communication came from the Yamen, saying that they again asked us to leave Peking, under, of course, their solicitous care; that they feel that they can no longer protect us, although in any circumstances they will continue to do all in their power, and that they would like all the Ministers to send open telegrams to their respective Governments that they are all quite well.

We suppose that the pressure of the world is being brought to bear on such high Chinese officials as can be reached to find out how we are, and they in turn are trying to force us to reassure our Governments by these covert threats. At ten o’clock this morning the Ministers had a meeting, and sent a unanimous statement, saying that Legations never send telegrams unless in cipher, so they could not comply with the Yamen’s request, and that, as for wanting us all to leave for Tien-tsin immediately, we might consider the proposition if the Yamen would be kind enough to give us complete and accurate information as to what kind of a convoy they would give us, and what comforts would be furnished for the women and children. Of course, we have no idea of going _anywhere_ with them as protectors; but it is well to keep up communication, as it gives us time.

Surely it will be a surprise to the world to find us not dead, and to hear how we held our own. Last night the hospital statement was as follows: 165 men killed and wounded—12 per cent. killed, and 20 per cent. wounded.

People’s larders are getting terribly empty, and the menu I quoted three weeks ago is now in the dim and distant past. We live quite sparingly, and are hungry most of the time. The chief comforts of our mess now are the Selzogene bottles that Mrs. Squiers brought with us from our Legation, in which we daily make enough soda-water to last throughout the day.

Last night I was walking round the compound with M. Knobel, a Minister Plenipotentiary, who has not seemed as yet to develop any special attributes during the siege beyond the very common one of being intensely hungry—so very hungry, in fact, that as we passed the bungalow given to the Russians, which boasts a few trees, Knobel’s hungry eyes descried in the gloom six or more fat hens, belonging to some woman in the Legation, roosting high up on the branches. There was no sniping going on, and we took advantage of the quiet to walk once again round the compound, and noticed that, though it was early, everyone seemed to have turned in to get what rest they could before being awakened by the usual nightly attack.

The night was also getting blacker, and by the time we got round to the Russian bungalow again Knobel’s fell purpose had seized him in a determined grip. He whispered to me, “If you will watch, I will get a chicken. There will be no noise, and to-morrow we will have a real dinner and eat that chicken.” It flashed through my mind that at home, if clever darkies could not steal chickens without making a racket, I did not see how Knobel, who has probably never in his life come nearer to one than to pay his steward’s bills, could expect to be successful. However, there was no time to argue. Knobel had left me standing in the road, watching his figure disappear in the darkness. A rustle, a slight squawk, and my Minister friend was by me again, with a squirming bundle under his coat. We ran, as if the Boxers were after us, straight to the Chinese courtyard, where we found our fat cook. Fortunately he had done his daily duty on the “gang,” and was obviously delighted to receive our stolen booty—“All lighty. Me flixy good dinner to-mollow,” and winked comprehendingly as he saw that Knobel had been holding Miss Chicken’s neck so tightly she could not utter a sound. With a sigh of relief, Knobel turned her over to the cook, and with another but deeper sigh of anticipation of to-morrow’s dinner, he stealthily started by a roundabout way to return to his quarters.

Colonel Shiba, the Japanese commander, who has won the sincerest admiration from everyone, states to-day that he confidently expects the troops by July 28.

_July 28._

This day, which was to have been so auspicious, brings us the worst news of the siege. It is to the effect that as late as July 22 no troops had yet left Tien-tsin for our relief.

A little Chinese boy, of the Presbyterian mission, aged fifteen, small but clever, was sent out by us, on the night of July 5, for Tien-tsin, with a letter to the British Consul, Mr. Carles, telling him of our very terrible plight, and how we must have relief soon, and writing him in the strongest terms of our danger. This boy, after being let down over the Tartar Wall by a rope, made his way to Tien-tsin without many adventures, beyond being seized at one place and made to do coolie work for eight days. He then escaped, but, once arrived at Tien-tsin, he had great difficulty in getting through the outposts of the foreign troops who are apparently carefully guarding that part of Tien-tsin, which is in their lines. It is insisted here that the British Consul must be lacking in intelligence. He neither questioned the boy, who could have told him a great deal about our condition, nor did he give the boy any letters from the other Consuls, simply sending his own.

It took the boy a long time to walk back to Peking, and, finding the Water Gate too dangerous to enter by daylight, he waited until dark, and it was this letter that spread such a gloom over everything this morning. This communication of Mr. Carles was most unsatisfactory in every way, and the only excuse for this letter was that he was afraid it would fall into the hands of the Chinese. He wrote: “The rest of the British contingent, under General Gaselee, coming from Singapore, are expected on the 24th. Most of the Japanese troops are in Tien-tsin, and mobilized. The Russians are only landing at Taku. There are many Chinese troops between Tien-tsin and the coast. If you have plenty of food, and can hold out for a long time, the troops will save you. All foreign women and children have left Tien-tsin, and plenty of soldiers are on their way to your succour.” This was all very disheartening; but we realize more than ever before how long we still may be besieged, and the consequent economy of stores which should be practised, and there is talk of commandeering all private food-supplies.

The last sentence of his letter was hopelessly confusing. We did not know whether the troops had already started, or whether he was speaking of the Singapore contingent. Most people now feel that no reasonable Foreign Office should take two months to get a military relief party ready.

_August 1._

This is a piping hot day, 108° in the shade. Our principal conversation now is asking each other, “Is Colonel Shiba’s messenger reliable?” This man brings in almost daily to the Japanese camp the most cheerful and apparently accurate news that the troops are not far from Tungchou. If he is reliable, we may expect them very soon, but we can hardly believe his statements, owing to Mr. Carles’ letter. This is simply another variation to our old song of the siege.

The day before yesterday a letter came to Sir R. Hart from the Yamen, asking him to be so kind as to send a telegram to London telling the people there of our safety, because the different Governments were clamouring for news of their Ministers, and if he (Sir Robert) would send this telegram, it would be received as truth by the world, but they could not allow the Ministers to use their own codes.

Sir Robert answered immediately that the Ministers were quite right to decline to telegraph without cipher, and that he distinctly refused to send any telegram of such a nature as to reassure the world, because if he telegraphed the truth, the world would be so horrified that they would not believe his telegram. Well answered, Mr. Inspector-General.

I had the good luck to-day of being allowed to go over our defences on the Wall, and saw all of our protective barricades while getting there. Baron von Rahden and Mr. Squiers took me, and, needless to say, it was most interesting and thrilling. The conditions I had heard discussed for nearly two months I can now understand by seeing them all. I could also now understand the all-pervading charnel-house smells which at times during the siege have almost caused us to faint.

On each defended barricade loopholes have been made so that we can see, to some degree at least, the enemy. In many instances the loopholes are arranged with small mirrors, as the Chinese snipers often hit even these peepholes when a sentry’s eye is seen, so that this further protection has been deemed necessary.

I looked through one from a barricade in the Hanlin, and what I saw was what I might see in looking through the wicket-gate of a horror chamber at the Eden Musée in New York. A group of gorgeously-apparelled Boxers with their insignia were pitilessly caught by death in a mad dash at this barricade, and there they were, stiff and stark, nearly all in the furious attitudes of assault! Even the standard-bearer was stiffly and conscientiously gripping his gay-coloured pennant. A couple were shot in the back as they had started to run, and were lying flat on the ground, but a dozen or so, making up the body of the attacking party, held these horrible life-like positions with the most incredible rigidity. The sentry tells us that this hideous, almost theatrically posed, death-group has been thus for a couple of days. The Chinese would not come for their bodies, we could not, and there they were to remain until the carrion-dogs finished them, or until they eventually decomposed.

The combinations of barricades here, there, and everywhere are glorious, especially on the Wall, and well they might be, as they are made out of the huge rocks that were used hundreds of years ago to pave this wonderful piece of masonry. To stand and look down from the Wall into the British compound makes one realize more than ever how delightfully easy it would be for the Chinese, if they ever manned this part of the Wall, to point their guns downward and annihilate us.

Forgetting this possible picture, let me look down and tell you what I see on this beautiful, sunshiny August morning. Before me lies what we could naturally call the _terre du siège_, and comprises the Japanese, German, French, Russian, American, and British compounds, all of which have their flags flying somewhere, although in most cases the original Legation flag-poles have been shot down. Then comes as a pretty piece of colouring, in contrast to the sacked, burnt, and charred Chinese houses, all that remains of the Hôtel de Pékin, with its collection of flags of all nations flying in seeming defiance from the upper windows.

Further up Legation Street one sees a dirty, tired-looking, slimy green canal, running parallel to the British Legation, with a strong and high barricade on the bridge that spans it, so that we still have communication with those Legations on the other side—namely, the Japanese, German, and French. Then between and around these oases of compounds one sees an occasional big tree which has escaped burning, and which makes the scene of desolation seem even more lonely and desolate. Hundreds of houses, half burnt, half broken up, and wholly uninhabitable, tell the story of how in those first horrible attacks at the beginning of the siege they were used by the Chinese as cover, and then looted and burnt. A stray dog of the large wolfish, mongrel type that is so common in Peking can be seen picking his way about from place to place with the queer look and walk that seem to mark carrion animals.

Standing in the same place, but looking westward, one sees such a picture of beauty as one could never imagine even in one’s most exquisite dreams—a song of green and gold, the fairyland palaces of the wicked old ogress, the Empress-Dowager, these ideal gold-topped pavilions, palaces, and pagodas rising out of a veritable sea of green, which quivers and shimmers in the warm summer sunlight. In the old days we were frankly told that it was dangerous to wander too near enchanted palaces, and if this warning had been remembered, Kings and Queens would not have sent their knights of diplomacy to live on the other side of the Wall of this mysterious “Forbidden Purple City.” It was always a hazardous thing to do, even in fairy stories, and it seems as if the tale of what happened to these misguided knights may finish in the regular good old way, “And they were eaten up and never seen any more.”

_August 2._

To-day there is posted on the Bell Tower—a sort of summer-house in the centre of the British compound, where all notices are posted, and around which people congregate at all times to hear the news—the translation of the cipher letter that came yesterday to Sir R. Hart, which came from the Customs in London, through the Yamen: “Keep up heart. Chinese finally routed at Tien-tsin on July 15. Troops having great difficulty in getting enough transports, but expect to leave for Peking after July 28. Is Chinese Government protecting you, and do you get food from them?” They then refer to Mr. Conger’s telegram of the 18th.

Another choice bit of news comes to-day that two members of the Yamen have just been beheaded because they are suspected of being pro-foreign—Hsu Ching Cheng, Director of the Imperial University and President of the Manchurian Railway, at one time Minister to Germany and Russia; the other an ex-Taotai, a member of the Tsung-li Yamen, and an ex-Minister to Russia. Such is the price one pays in China for having assimilated broad ideas while enjoying diplomatic posts in Europe.

As I write, over in Mrs. Squiers’s house in the American Legation, where since this half-armistice we have been allowed to come occasionally and take a bath or read, I can see them taking away one of Mr. Squiers’s favourite ponies to be slaughtered to-morrow. The supply of horses is getting very low, and it will certainly be hard for the fighting men when the rations are reduced from horse and rice simply to rice, but it is really not pleasant to see one’s pet pony being taken off to help the supply.

_August 3._