CHAPTER IX

ON COLUMN IN SOUTHERN CHINA

A shallow, muddy river running between steep banks. On the grassy slopes of a conical hill the white tents of a camp. Before the quarter‐guard stands a Bombay Infantry sentry in khaki uniform and pugri, the butt of his Lee‐Metford rifle resting on the ground, his eyes turned across the river to where the paddy‐fields of Southern China stretch away to a blue range of distant hills. Figures in khaki or white undress move about the encampment or gather round the mud cooking‐places, where their frugal meal of _chupatties_ and curry is being prepared. A smart, well‐set‐up British officer passes down through the lines of tents and lounging sepoys spring swiftly to attention as he goes by. On the hilltop above a signaller waves his flag rapidly; and down below in the camp a Madrassi havildar spells out his message to a man beside him, who writes it down in a note‐book. Coolies loaded with supplies trudge wearily up the steep path. Before the tents four wicked‐looking little mountain guns turn their ugly muzzles longingly towards a walled town two thousand yards away across the stream, where spots of red and blue resolve themselves through a field‐glass into Chinese soldiers. All around on this side of the river the country lies in never‐ending hills and narrow valleys, with banked paddy‐fields in chess‐board pattern. And on these hills small horseshoe‐shaped masonry tombs or glazed, brown earthen‐ware pots containing the bones of deceased Chinamen fleck the grassy slopes. Across the stream the cultivation is interspersed with low, tree‐crowned eminences or dotted with villages. There on the boundary line, between China and the English territory of the Kowloon Hinterland, a small column guards our possessions against rebel and Imperial soldier, both possible enemies and restrained from violating British soil by the bayonets of the sepoys from our distant Eastern Empire. Twenty miles away Hong Kong lies ringed in by sapphire sea. From the land it has no danger to dread while a man of this small but resolute force guarding its frontier remains alive.

The outburst of fanaticism in North China, the attacks on the foreign settlements in Tientsin and Pekin, the treachery of the Court, had their echo in the far‐off southern provinces. Canton, turbulent and hostile, has ever been a plague‐spot. Before now English and French troops have had to chasten its pride and teach its people that the outer barbarian claims a right to exist even on the sacred soil of China. In the troublous summer of 1900 10,000 Black Flags, the unruly banditti who long waged a harassing war against the French in Tonkin, were encamped near this populous city. Fears were rife in Hong Kong that, fired by exaggerated accounts of successes against the hated foreigners in the North and swelled by the fanatical population of the provinces of the two Kwangs, they might swarm down to the coast and attack our possessions on the mainland, or even endeavour to assail the island itself. Li Hung Chang, the Viceroy of Canton, had sounded a note of warning. Purporting to seek the better arming of his soldiery to enable him to cope with popular discontent, he induced the colonial authorities to allow him to import 40,000 new magazine rifles through Hong Kong; but there was no security that these weapons might not be turned against ourselves. As it was well known that the Imperial troops in the North had made common cause with the Boxers, the wisdom of permitting this free passage of modern arms may be questioned. Rumours of a rising among the Chinese in Victoria itself, of threatened invasion from the mainland, were rife; and the inhabitants of our colony in the Far East were badly scared. The first Indian brigade under General Gaselee passed up to the more certain danger in the North; but representations made to the home authorities caused the stopping of his two line‐of‐communication regiments, the 3rd Madras Light Infantry and 22nd Bombay Infantry, to strengthen the denuded garrison of Hong Kong. This and the subsequent detention of his 2nd Brigade to safeguard Shanghai left his command in the Allied Armies on the march to Pekin numerically weak and forced him into a subordinate position in the councils of the Generals. Hong Kong was by no means in such imminent peril; and the troops thus diverted would have made his force second only to the Japanese in strength, and enabled him to assert his authority more emphatically among the Allies.

Pekin fell on August 14th, 1900. But long after that date this was not credited in Canton; and the wildest rumours were rife as to the splendid successes of the Chinese, who were represented as everywhere victorious. This large southern city is situated well under a hundred miles from Hong Kong, either by river or by land. It has constant intercourse with our colony; and large, flat‐bottomed steamers with passengers and cargo pass between the two places every day. Yet it was confidently stated in the vernacular newspapers, and everywhere believed, that two regiments from India arriving in Hong Kong Harbour had heard such appalling tales of the prowess of the Chinese braves that the terrified soldiers had jumped overboard from the transports and drowned themselves to a man. They had preferred an easy death to the awful tortures that they knew awaited them at the hands of the invincible Chinese. Long after the Court had fled in haste from Pekin and the capital had been in the hands of the Allies for months, their columns pushing out everywhere into the interior, it was asserted that all this apparent success was but a deep‐laid plan of the glorious Empress‐Dowager. She had thus enticed them into the heart of the land in order to cut them off from the sea. She now held them in the hollow of her hand. The luckless foreigners had abjectly appealed for mercy. Her tender heart had relented, and she had graciously promised to spare them in return for the restoration of all the territory hitherto wrested from China. Tientsin, Port Arthur, Kiao‐Chau, Shanghai, Tonkin, even Hong Kong, were being hastily surrendered. And such preposterous tales were readily believed.

But another confusing element was introduced into the already sufficiently complicated situation. Canton and the South contains, besides the anti‐foreign party, a number of reformers who realise that China must stand in line with modern civilisation. Only thus will she become strong enough to resist the perpetual foreign aggression which deprives her of her best ports and slices off her most valuable seaboard territory. The energetic inhabitants of Canton freely emigrate to Hong Kong, Singapore, Penang, Australia, and America. There they learn to take a wider view of things than is possible in their own conservative country. When they return they spread their ideas, and are the nucleus of the already fairly numerous party of reform, who justly blame the misfortunes of China on the effete and narrow‐minded Government in Pekin and work to secure the downfall of the present Manchu dynasty. In the southern provinces they have their following; and rumours of a great uprising there against the corrupt officialdom, and even the throne itself, were rife in the autumn of 1900. The much‐talked‐of but little‐known Triad Society—who claimed to advocate reform, but who were regarded with suspicion, their tenets forbidden, and their followers imprisoned in Hong Kong—started a rebellion in the Kwang‐tung province. They were supposed to be led, or at least abetted, by Sun Yat Sen, an enlightened reformer. As the revolt began close to the Kowloon frontier, fears were expressed lest, despite their advertised views, the rebels should prove unfriendly to foreigners and invade our territory. Little was known of the progress of the movement. The Chinese Imperial Government, through the Viceroy of Canton, sent Admiral Ho with 4,000 troops to Samchun to suppress the rising. The rebels, hearing of his coming, moved farther inland. The soldiers, having no great stomach for bloodshed, generously forebore to follow, and settled themselves comfortably in and around the town. Lest either party should be tempted to infringe the neutrality of our territory, the Hong Kong newspapers urged the Governor to take immediate measures to safeguard our frontier. After some delay a small, compact column was despatched to the boundary under the command of Major E. A. Kettlewell, an officer of marked ability and energy, who had seen much service in Burma and in the Tirah, and who had had long and intimate connection with the Imperial Service troops in India. The composition of the force, known as the Frontier Field Force, was as under:—

_Commanding Officer._ Major E. A. Kettlewell, 22nd Bombay Infantry.

_Staff Officer._ Lieutenant Casserly, 22nd Bombay Infantry.

_Troops._

Three Companies, 22nd Bombay Infantry, under Captain Hatherell and Lieutenants Melville and Burke.

Four mountain guns and 50 men, Hong Kong and Singapore Battalion Royal Artillery, under Lieutenants Saunders and Ogilvie.

Detachment Royal Engineers (British and Chinese sappers), under Lieutenant Rundle, R.E.

Maxim Gun Detachment, 22nd Bombay Infantry, under Jemadar Lalla Rawat.

Signallers, 3rd Madras Light Infantry, under Captain Sharpe.

Section of Indian Field Hospital, under Captain Woolley, I.M.S.

With the mobility of Indian troops the column embarked within a few hours after the receipt of orders on a flotilla of steam launches, which were to convey us along the coast to Deep Bay, and thence up the Samchun River to the threatened point on the frontier. Stores, tents, and a few mules to carry the Maxim and ammunition, as well as to supplement coolie transport, were towed in junks.

Our tiny vessels loaded down with their living freight, the sepoys excited at the prospect of a fight, we steam away from Kowloon and out through the crowded harbour. We pass a number of torpedo‐boat destroyers and a small fleet of obsolete gunboats rusting in inglorious ease. To our right, with its huge cylindrical oil‐tanks standing up like giant drums and its docks containing an American man‐o’‐war, lies the crowded Chinese quarter of Yaumati. Above it towers the long chain of hills, their dark sides marked with the white streak of the new road that crosses their summit into the Hinterland. On the left is Hong Kong, the Peak with the windows of its houses flashing in the sun, the city at its feet in shadow. We pass the long, straggling Stonecutter’s Island, with the solid granite walls of its abandoned prison, the tree‐clad hills and the sharp outlines of forts. In among an archipelago of islands, large and small, we steam; and ahead of us lies the narrow channel of the Cap‐sui‐moon Pass between Lantau and the lesser islet of Mah Wan. On the latter are the buildings of the Customs station—the Imperial Maritime Customs of China. High hills on islands and mainland tower above us on every side. The lofty peak of Tai‐mo‐shan stands up in the brilliant sunlight. The coast is grim with rugged cliffs or gay with the grassy slopes of hills running down to the white fringe of beach. Bluff headlands, black, glistening rocks on which the foam‐flecked waves break incessantly, dark caverns, and tiny bays line the shore. A lumbering junk, with high, square stern and rounded bows—on which are painted large eyes, that the ship may see her way—bears down upon us with huge mat sails and its lolling crew gazing over the side in wonderment at the fierce, dark soldiers. A small sampan dances over the waves, two muscular women pushing at the long oars and the inevitable children seated on its narrow deck.

Along the coast we steam, gazing at its interminable masses of green hills, until it suddenly recedes into a wide bay surrounded on every side by high land. This is Deep Bay, an expanse twenty‐five miles in extent which, though now covered by the sea, becomes at low tide one vast mud flat, with a small stream winding through the noisome ooze. Towards the land on the right we head. Far out from shore lies a trim, white gunboat. From the stern floats the yellow Imperial standard of China with its sprawling dragon; for the vessel belongs to the Maritime Customs Service. On the decks brass machine‐guns glitter. A European in white clothing watches us through binoculars from the poop. The Chinese crew in blue uniforms, with pigtails coiled up under their straw hats, are spreading an awning.

At length we reach the mouth of the Samchun River, a small tidal stream, which, when the sea is low, is scarcely eighteen inches deep. Up between its winding banks we steam. High hills rise up on each side. We pray that neither rebel nor hostile Imperial soldier is waiting here to stop our coming; for a machine‐gun or a few rifles would play havoc with our men crowded together on the little launches. Up the river we go in single file, playing “follow my leader” as the first launch swings sharply round the frequent curves. By virtue of my position “on the Staff,” I am aboard it and am consequently resentful when a bump and a prolonged scraping under the keel tell us that we have gone aground. The next launch avoids the shoal and passes us, its occupants flinging sarcastic remarks and unkind jibes at us as they go by. But “pride cometh before a fall,” and a little farther on their Chinese steersman runs them high and dry. Then the others leave us behind until by dint of poling we float again and follow in their wake. Round a bend in the river we swing; and ahead of us we see a number of weird‐looking Chinese war‐junks. From their masts stream huge pennants and gaudy flags of many colours; on their decks stand old muzzle‐loading, smooth‐bore cannon. Their high, square sterns tower above the banks. The motley‐garbed crews are squatting about, engaged with chop‐sticks and bowls of rice. The sudden appearance of our flotilla crowded with armed men startles them. They drop their food and spring up to stare at us, uncertain whether to bolt ashore or continue their interrupted meal. Seeing no signs of hostility on our part, they grin placatingly and shout remarks to us, the tenor of which it is perhaps as well that we do not understand. These are Government war‐junks and, like the Customs steamer outside, are stationed here to prevent assistance reaching the rebels from the sea; but anyone who had successfully forced their way past the gunboat would have little to fear from these ill‐armed Noah’s Arks. Close by stand a few substantial buildings—a Customs station. From the verandah of a bungalow two white men in charge of it watch us as we go by.

As evening was closing in we reached the spot selected for our first camping‐ground and disembarked. On our side of the river a few hundred yards of level ground ran back to the steep, bare slopes of a straggling hill which rose to a conical peak five hundred feet above our heads. All around lay similar eminences, their grassy sides devoid of trees. Behind us the Hinterland stretched away to the south in range after range of barren mountains divided by narrow, cultivated valleys. Beyond the river lay a plain patched with paddy‐fields or broken by an occasional low hill. In it, little more than a mile away, stood the walled town of Samchun. The British and Indian police in the new territory had been instructed to give us intelligence of any hostile movements in the neighbourhood; and from them we learned that no immediate danger was to be apprehended. Nevertheless all precautionary measures to guard against a possible surprise were taken; for Admiral Ho’s troops still lingered in Samchun, and considerable doubt existed as to their attitude towards the British. Piquets having been posted and a strong guard placed over the ammunition and supplies, the men cooked their evening meal and bivouacked for the night. But sleep was almost impossible. The heat was intense. We had evidently intruded upon a favourite haunt of the mosquitoes who attacked us with malignant persistence until dawn.

The following day was employed in strengthening our position, reconnoitring our surroundings and laying out our camp. Our arrival had evidently taken the Chinese army across the river completely by surprise. From the hill, on which our tents stood, Samchun was plainly visible about 2,000 yards away; and our field‐glasses showed a great commotion in the town. Soldiers poured out of the gates or crowded on to the walls and gazed in consternation—apparent even at that distance—at the British force that had so suddenly put in an appearance on the scene. They were evidently extremely dubious as to our intentions; and we watched the troops falling in hurriedly and being marshalled under an imposing array of banners. When the Hinterland had been ceded to us, Samchun had at first been included, and was for a short time occupied by us; but the boundary was afterwards fixed at the river as being a natural frontier, and the town was restored to the Chinese. They apparently feared that we had changed our minds and contemplated appropriating it again. As our column made no move—for our orders had been not to enter Chinese territory or take any hostile action unless attacked—they soon disappeared into the town again. Later on, on a hill that rose close to the river on their side of the boundary‐line, a regiment appeared and observed us narrowly all day, endeavouring to keep out of sight themselves as much as possible. It was very tantalising to see the materials for a pretty little fight ready to hand being wasted, and we longed for the smallest hostile act on their part to give us an excuse for one. But none came; and we sighed discontentedly at the loss of such a golden opportunity. Although the Chinese force numbered 4,000, armed with guns, Mausers and Winchesters, and our column counted barely 400 all told, we felt little doubt as to the result of a fight between us.

By the following morning Admiral Ho and his mandarins had evidently come to the conclusion that we were more dangerous neighbours than the rebels; so he proceeded to move off from our vicinity. All that day and the next we watched bodies of troops, clad in long red or blue coats, with enormous straw hats slung like shields on their backs or covering their heads like giant mushrooms, marching out of the town and stringing out into single file along the narrow paths between the paddy‐fields as they moved off into the mountains beyond Samchun. Above their heads waved innumerable banners—green, red, blue, parti‐coloured, or striped in many lines horizontally or vertically. By the following evening all had disappeared, with the exception of about 400, as we afterwards ascertained, left behind to garrison the town. This forlorn hope, I doubt not, were none too well pleased at remaining in such unpleasant proximity to us.

Our arrival at the frontier was undoubtedly responsible for the retirement of Admiral Ho’s army. For he had been for some time comfortably settled in Samchun without evincing the least anxiety to follow up the rebels, who were reported to be laying waste the country farther on, pillaging the villages, torturing the officials, and levying taxes on the inhabitants. His departure removed a constant source of danger; for his undisciplined troops might have been tempted to cross the boundary into our territory and harass the villagers under our protection.

We now employed ourselves in patrolling the frontier, exercising the troops and making sketches to supplement the very inadequate information as to the surrounding country in our possession. Although the Hinterland had been ceded to the British two years before, and although it lies in such close proximity to Hong Kong, no accurate survey of it had ever been made. The only map which could be found to provide the expedition with was one done by a Jesuit missionary in 1840. It was fairly correct as regards outlines, but contained absolutely no details except a number of names, which might refer to villages or to features of the ground. For instance, at the spot on the map where our camp stood, we read the word “Lo‐u.” This, before we arrived there, we concluded referred to a village. But there was not a house in the vicinity, and we found that it was the name of the hill on which our tents were pitched. Our energetic commander employed himself in surveying and filling in the details of the surrounding country, marking the positions of the hamlets and paths—for roads there were none—and ascertaining the ranges and heights of the various prominent features around us.

About a mile away down the river lay the Chinese Customs station that we had passed on our way up. I strolled there one afternoon and made the acquaintance of the officers in charge. They were both Britishers. One of them, Mr. Percy Affleck‐Scott, told me that our arrival had been a great relief to them. When the rebels had been in the vicinity they had received several messages from the leaders who threatened to march down upon their station, burn it, and cut their heads off. In view of the repeated declarations of the Triads, that no hostility is felt by them to foreigners, these threats are significant. As they had little reliance on the prowess of the Chinese soldiers if attacked by the rebels, these two Britishers had been considerably relieved at the arrival of our force, in whose neighbourhood they knew that they would be safe.

The position of the European Custom House officials in the Outdoor Branch, stationed as they generally are in out‐of‐the‐way places in Chinese territory with no society of their own kind, is scarcely enviable. Their work, which consists in levying duty on imports into the country, frequently brings them into unpleasant contact with Chinese officials, who regard the existence of their service with intense dislike, as it robs them of chances of extortion. Those employed in the Indoor Branch are generally stationed in cities like Hong Kong, Shanghai, Pekin, or other large centres where life is enjoyable.

When visiting the Samchun Custom House on another occasion, at a later period, I saw a number of small, two‐pounder rifled breechloading guns belonging to Admiral Ho’s force being embarked on a war‐junk. I examined them with interest. They were mounted on small‐wheeled carriages and bore the stamp of the Chinese arsenal where they had been made. The breech ends were square, with a falling block worked by a lever at the side. They were well finished; for the work turned out at these arsenals by native workmen, often under European supervision, is generally very good.

Early one morning, a few days after Admiral Ho’s departure, the camp was roused by a sudden alarm. About four a.m., when it was still pitch dark, we were awakened by the sound of heavy firing in the Chinese territory. The continuous rattle of small arms and the deeper booming of field‐guns were distinctly audible. We rushed out of our tents and the troops got ready to fall in. The firing seemed to come from the immediate neighbourhood of Samchun; and it appeared that a desperate fight was in full swing. Our impression was that the rebels, learning of Ho’s departure, had eluded his force and doubled back to attack the town, which, being wealthy, would have proved a tempting prize. We gazed from the hillside in the direction from which the sound came; but a thick mist lay over the fields beyond the river and prevented the flashes from being visible. We waited impatiently for daylight. The rattle of rifle‐firing now broke out suddenly from around the Customs station; and we trembled for the safety of Affleck‐Scott and his companion. As the sound came no nearer in our direction, it became evident that no hostile movement against us was intended. We cursed the tardy daylight. At last day broke; but still the low‐lying mists obscured our view of the town and the plain beyond the river. Then the sun rose. The fog slowly cleared away. We looked eagerly towards Samchun, expecting, as the firing still continued, to see the contending forces engaged in deadly battle. But to our surprise, though every house in the town, every field and bank around it, stood out distinct in the clear light, scarcely a human being was visible. Before the gates a few soldiers lounged about unconcernedly. But the firing still continued. We could see nothing to account for it and began to wonder if it was a battle of phantoms. Gradually it died away and left us still bewildered. Later on in the day came the explanation. In view of our imaginary combat it was simple and ludicrous. The day was one of the innumerable Chinese festivals; and the inhabitants of Samchun and the neighbouring villages had been ushering it in in the usual Celestial fashion with much burning of crackers and exploding of bombs. To anyone who has heard the extraordinary noise of Chinese fireworks, which accurately reproduces the rattle of musketry and the booming of guns, our mistake is excusable. At the attack on the Peiyang Arsenal outside Tientsin, on June 27th, 1900, by the British, Americans, and Russians, the Chinese defenders, before evacuating it when hard pressed, laid strings of crackers along the walls. As our marines and bluejackets, with the Americans, advanced to the final assault these were set fire to. The explosions sounded like a very heavy fusillade and the assailants took cover. The Chinese meanwhile bolted out of the arsenal and got safely away before the attackers discovered the trick and stormed the place.

A week or two after this false alarm, I obtained permission to cross into Chinese territory and visit Samchun. The town looked very interesting at a distance, with its high walls and two square stone towers, which were in reality pawn‐shops. For these establishments in China are looked upon as safe deposit offices. A rich man about to leave home for any length of time removes his valuables to the nearest pawn‐shop and there stores them. They are the first places attacked when a band of robbers seizes some small town, as frequently happens. So they are built in the form of strong towers with the entrance generally several feet from the ground, in order that the proprietor and his friends may retire within and defend them.

Accompanied by Captain Woolley, I.M.S., I set out to visit the town, having received many injunctions to be careful not to embroil ourselves with the inhabitants or the soldiery, who were not likely to prove over friendly. We were provided with interpreters in the persons of a Chinese policeman in British employ and a Sikh constable who had learned to converse very well in the language of the country. As we intended to make a formal call on the mandarin in command of Samchun and had heard that in China a man’s importance is gauged by the size of his visiting‐card, we wrote our names on sheets of foolscap—the largest pieces of paper we could find. Red, however, is the proper colour. In mufti and taking no weapons, we left the camp and crossed the river in a small, flat‐bottomed ferry‐boat. Landed on the far side, we set off along the tops of the mud banks between the paddy‐fields, the only roads available. Those which are used as general paths are laid with flat stones, which, not being fastened in any way, occasionally tilt up and slide about in a disconcerting manner. As we neared the town we were observed with interest by a number of Chinese soldiers lounging about in front of the principal gateway. We felt a little nervous as to our reception but putting a bold face on the matter directed our way towards them. We were stopped, however, by our Chinese policeman, who told us that we should not approach this entrance as it faced the mandarin’s Yamen and was reserved for important individuals. We being _merely_ foreigners—this although he was in British employment!—must seek admittance through the back gate into the town. Irritated at his insolent tone, the Sikh constable shoved him aside, and we approached the guard. The soldiers, though not openly hostile—for the white tents of our camp, plainly visible across the river, had a sobering effect—treated us with scarcely‐veiled contempt. On our Sikh interpreter informing them that we were English officers who had come to visit their mandarin, they airily replied that that dignitary was asleep and could not see us. Annoyed at their impertinent manner, we ordered them to go and wake him. Rather impressed by our audacity, they held a consultation. Then one went into the Yamen. He returned in a few minutes with a message to the effect that the mandarin regretted that he could not see us as he was not dressed. Seeing the effect of our previous curtness, we haughtily bade the soldier tell the mandarin to put on his clothes at once; see him we must. Visibly impressed this time, he hastened inside again and promptly returned with an invitation to enter the Yamen. We passed through the gate with as important an air as we could assume. It had been a game of bluff on both sides and we had won; for on the verandah of the house inside the entrance we were received by the mandarin, correctly attired. With hands folded over each other, he bowed low and led the way into the interior. The room was small and plainly furnished. High‐backed, uncomfortable chairs stood round a square blackwood table. On the walls hung crude pictures or tablets painted with Chinese characters. Our host, who was really a most courteous old gentleman, bowed again and, pointing to the chairs, begged us—as we judged from his manner—to be seated. We politely refused until he had taken a chair himself. He then addressed us in sing‐song Chinese words, which our Sikh interpreter assured us were an expression of the honour he felt at our condescending to visit such an unworthy individual. We framed our reply in equally humble terms. He then inquired the reason of the coming of our force to the frontier. We informed him that it was merely to guard our territory from invasion and assured him that we had no evil designs on Samchun. He pretended to feel satisfied at this, but doubt evidently still lingered in his mind. The conversation then dragged on spasmodically until we asked his permission to visit the town. He seemed to hail our request with relief as a chance of politely ridding himself of us and ordered four soldiers to get ready to accompany us as an escort. One of the attendants, at a sign from him, then left the room and returned with three little cups covered with brass saucers.

“Now we shall taste really high‐class Chinese tea,” said Woolley to me in an undertone.

We removed the saucers. The cups were filled with boiling water. At the bottom lay a few black twigs and leaves. Imitating the mandarin’s actions, we raised our cups in both hands and tried to drink the hot and tasteless contents. The Chinese tea was a distinct failure.

A few black, formidable‐looking cigars were now placed upon the table. Mindful of the vile odours that inevitably possess the filthy streets of the native towns in China, we took some. Then as our escort appeared in the courtyard in front of the house, we rose. Expressing profuse thanks to our courteous host through the interpreter, we folded our hands and bowed ourselves out in the politest Chinese fashion.

Following our military guides, we entered the town. They led us first to the house of a lesser mandarin, whom we visited. He was as surly as his superior was amiable. He very speedily ordered tea for us as a sign of dismissal. However, as a mark of attention, he sent two lantern‐bearers to accompany us. Quitting him with little hesitation, we followed our escort and plunged again into the town. The streets were narrow and indescribably filthy. Deep, open drains bordered them, filled with refuse. Extending our arms, we could nearly touch the houses on each side. On either hand were shops, some with glass‐windowed fronts, others open to the street. Some were fairly extensive, filled with garments or rolls of cloth. Others exhibited for sale clocks, cheap embroidery, tinsel jewellery, or common pottery. Every third one at least sold food, raw or cooked. Dried fish or ducks split open, the heads and necks of the latter attached to the bodies; pork, meat, and sucking‐pigs; rice, flour, or vegetables. Near one shop stood a grinning Chinaman who spoke to us in pidgin‐English. Beside him was an open barrel filled with what looked like dried prunes. I pointed to them and asked what they were.

“That?” he said, popping one into his mouth and munching it with evident relish. “That belong cocky‐loachee. Velly good!”

They were dried cockroaches!

Farther on another pig‐tailed individual spoke to us in fluent English with a Yankee twang.

“Do you live in Samchun?” I asked him, in surprise.

“Not much, you bet!” he replied. “I don’t belong to this darned country any more. I live in ’Frisco.”

He explained that he had come to Hong Kong as a sailor on an American vessel, and had wandered out to Samchun to see a relative. With a “So long, boss!” from him we passed on.

Every fifth or sixth house was a gambling‐den. Around the tables were seated Chinamen of all ages engaged in playing _fan‐tan_, that slowest and most exasperating of all methods of “plunging.” The interiors of these establishments were gay with much elaborate gilt carving.

It was now growing dark, and our lantern‐bearers lighted the paper lamps swinging at the end of long sticks they carried. We directed our escort to lead us out of the town. We wished to dismiss them at the gate; but they assured the interpreter that their orders were strict—not to quit us until they had seen us safely out of Chinese territory. So we made our way to the river. Arrived there, my companion and I discussed the question as to whether we should reward our escort with a tip or whether they would be insulted, being soldiers, at the offer. Finally we resolved to give them a dollar. If they did not look satisfied, we would increase the amount. So a bright English dollar was handed to the Sikh to be given to them. Satisfied! They seemed as if they had never seen such wealth before. They crowded round us with voluble thanks; and with quite an affecting farewell we went down to the water’s edge. To our surprise we found our commanding officer with a party of armed sepoys crossing over to us in the ferry‐boat. Alarmed at our long absence, he had feared that something untoward had happened to us and was coming in search of us. When we arrived at the camp we found the others rather uneasy about us; though some cheerfully assured us that they had been hoping that the Chinese had at least captured us to give them an excuse for attacking and looting Samchun.

Shortly afterwards, interested at our description of our adventures, our commanding officer determined to visit Samchun. A letter in Chinese was sent to the mandarin to acquaint him with our chief’s intention. Next morning we were surprised by the sight of eight Chinese soldiers, armed with carbines and accompanied by the Sikh interpreter, crossing the river and ascending the path to the camp. As they approached the tents our sepoys, anxious to see the redoubtable warriors at close range, rushed out and flocked round them. Terrified at the sight of these strange black men, the Chinese soldiers dropped on their knees, flung their carbines on the ground, and held up their hands in abject supplication, entreating the interpreter to beg the fierce‐looking foreign devils not to beat them. The sepoys roared with laughter, patted them on the backs, and bore them off to their tents to soothe them with tea and cigarettes. The Sikh constable was the bearer of a message from the mandarin, expressing his pleasure at the intended visit of our commandant and informing him that an escort had been sent as a mark of honour. Accompanied by twenty of our tallest sepoys we crossed the river and set out for Samchun.

As we approached the town we found that the whole garrison of 400 men had been turned out to welcome us and were formed up to line the road near the gate of the Yamen. Fourteen huge banners of many colours waved above the ranks. In front of the entrance stood the mandarin and his suite in their gala dress, waiting to receive us. Our commanding officer had ridden up on his Arab charger, which must have seemed an immense horse to the Chinamen present, accustomed only to the diminutive ponies of their own country. The mandarin came forward to welcome our chief and apologised for not receiving him with a salute of cannon, as, he said, he had been afraid of startling his steed!

While compliments were being exchanged, I walked down the ranks of the Chinese troops and inspected them closely. They were nearly all small and miserable‐looking men, clad in long red or blue coats, with huge straw hats. They were armed with single‐loading Mausers or Winchester repeating carbines. I looked at a few of these. The outside of the barrels were bright and had evidently been cleaned with emery paper; but inside they were completely choked with rust and the weapons were absolutely useless. The men were evidently merely coolies, hurriedly impressed by the mandarins when called upon by the Viceroy of Canton to produce the troops for whom they regularly drew pay. This is a favourite device of the corrupt Chinese officials, who receive an allowance to keep up a certain number of soldiers. They buy and store a corresponding number of uniforms and rifles. When warned of an approaching inspection by some higher authority, they gather in coolies and clothe and arm them for the duration of his visit. The superior official—his own palm having been well greased—forbears to inspect them too closely, and departs to report to the Viceroy of the province that the troops are of excellent quality. Then the uniforms and rifles are returned to store, and the coolies dismissed with—or more probably without—a few cents to recompense them for their trouble.

Latterly in the North this does not always occur; and some of the troops, trained by foreigners and armed with the latest quick‐firing guns and magazine rifles, are very good. The Imperial forces which opposed Admiral Seymour’s advance and attacked Tientsin were of very different calibre to those employed in the suppression of the Triad rebellion. The shooting of their gunners and riflemen was excellent. The army of Yuan‐Shi‐Kai, who was Governor of the province of Shantung during the troubles in the North, is a good example of what Chinese soldiers can be when well trained.

The interview between the mandarin of Samchun and our commanding officer was an elaborate repetition of my own experience. The visit over, we entered the town, inspected some of the temples, and bought some curiosities in the shops. Then, escorted by our original party of Chinese soldiers, we returned to the river.

At the end of November we were roused one night by urgent messages from the British police in the Hinterland to the effect that parties of rebels were hovering on the frontier and it was feared that they intended to raid across into our territory. In response to their request, a strong party was sent out at once to reinforce them. About four a.m. a European police sergeant arrived in breathless haste with the information that the rebels had crossed the boundary and seized two villages lying inside our border. They had fired on the police patrols. Two companies of the 22nd Bombay Infantry, under Captain Hatherell and Lieutenant Burke, fell in promptly and marched off under the guidance of two Sikh policemen sent for the purpose. Preceded by scouts and a strong advanced guard, under a Pathan native officer, Subhedar Khitab Gul, they bore down at daybreak on the villages reported captured. But the rebels had apparently received information of their coming and had fled back across the border. The troops, bitterly disappointed at being deprived of a fight, returned about nine a.m. to camp, where the remainder of the force had been ready to support them if necessary.

No further attempts were ever made against our territory, and shortly afterwards the Frontier Field Force returned to headquarters.