The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure (69 page)

One by one the others joined in. They took some comfort in the hymns and prayers, which Septimus intoned till the early hours of the morning. Standing over them like a stern Old Testament prophet raising his staff against the forces of chaos, Septimus seemed to have come into his own. It was a reflection of their appalling predicament that, for the first time in anyone's experience, he did not appear crazed to the other foreigners in this dwindling community.

Outside, the heads of Ah Lee and Ah Sun, mounted on poles by the gateposts, appeared attentive, as if they were straining to listen to the impromptu service in the house. But, in fact, it was only a trick of the air currents being sucked into the fire that still raged in the wreck of the hospital below.

Fourteen

Many of our men appeared to die, but Master Zhang says it is not so for bullets cannot hurt us. Why then has Little Brother not returned?

 

Christian Mission and Hospital

Shishan, Manchuria, China

 

Sunday 16 June 1900

My dear James,

It is now four days since the burning of our hospital by the Boxers, and our forced incarceration in our quarters. I have not written earlier because the terrible slaughter of the patients and the servants in my care weighed heavily on me. Yet we have cause for hope.

Every day we see signs that Providence has not abandoned us. Two days ago our enemies were surrounding our house, beating on their drums and taunting us, day and night, with their shouts and chants, performing their hideous dances and rituals on our lawn. They gestured obscenely at us with their weapons, knowing our defencelessness, calling on their gods to bring violence on our heads, and accusing us of diabolical crimes while threatening bloodcurdling retribution. You can imagine the terror of our children who trembled between their sheets while the nightmarish screams tore the night outside. What comfort could we give them, brave little creatures that they are? Only Major Lin's pickets stood between us and murder, and weak reeds we considered those undisciplined soldiers to be. Yet somehow the crisis passed. Septimus Millward believes that in addition to the pickets from Lin's cavalry there were also angels with burning swords standing at our door, protecting us. Well, figuratively I suppose there might have been. The Lord saw to it that we came to no harm.

Then yesterday we woke to a strange silence. For the first time in days we could hear the delightful sound of birdsong. For a moment I imagined myself back in our dear little cottage in Dumfries, lying in my old cot listening to the chattering of a summer morning, with sunshine outside and the prospect ahead of a day's fishing on the burn. Lifting the shutters we saw that the Boxers had indeed gone. The only movement was that of the soldiers yawning as they sat round their breakfast fires.

No explanation was given—the soldiers are under instructions not to speak to us—but in my heart I felt a surge of confidence and thanks. I am convinced that my letter to the Mandarin has now reached him and that he has given the instructions that caused our persecutors to be removed. I do not understand the present politics of Shishan but I assume that the Mandarin is dealing with his problems one at a time, cutting his coat to circumstance. When he has restored peace and order in the city then he will come for us. For the moment he is protecting us as best he can.

My strong good helpmate, Nellie, sends you her love, as do the children, who are now living through their own adventure as exciting as the ones you send them in your book parcels at Christmas. Pray that this one will also have the sort of happy ending that one looks for in such tales! Tell dearest Edmund and Mary, when you visit them at their school, that their parents miss them as ever, and assure them that we are ALL RIGHT!

 

Tuesday 18 June 1900

 

The Boxers have not returned. We have been blessed by a third night of calm.

Major Lin has been true to his word at least, as far as provisions of food are concerned. Today we received sacks of rice and vegetables, and three large sides of fresh pork. This will make a welcome change from the monotony of canned bully beef on which we have been subsisting. Fortunately our own larder was only recently stocked, and we have tins of preserved food which, if sparingly used, will last us for more than a month. Nellie is a strict quartermaster, and our meals are of necessity Spartan affairs—but each day she manages to surprise us with some treasure out of her trove. Last night we enjoyed a plum pudding from Fortnum's, a gift at Christmas from the Gillespies. Herr Fischer poured a drop of brandy over the steaming dessert, and the children made great play of blowing out the lamps so we could enjoy the delicious blue flames when Nellie brought the burning dish ceremoniously to the table.

You can see from this that we remain in good heart. We keep ourselves busy. There is nothing like work to drive away disconsolate thoughts. Nellie has been ingenious in inventing household chores. She has recruited Mr Bowers to be her helper in the kitchen where he supervises the stores. He has labelled and numbered every can of beans! And every measure of cooking oil is marked in his ledger! Sister Caterina, Mrs Millward and two of her daughters are our washerwomen. We have clean sheets every day, not to mention a fresh set of clothing. The house sometimes smells like a laundry! Meanwhile Herr Fischer, with Mr Fielding as his lieutenant, has been placed in charge of polishing and dusting. Fischer approaches the work with Germanic efficiency, holding his feather duster under his arm like a field marshal's baton. There is not a speck of dust left in the house and the surface of the piano gleams like a mirror. So do the floorboards! Even Tom, who still has difficulty walking, keeps himself occupied polishing the silver. I imagine that no ship-of-the-line could be in such glistening condition as our humble dwelling. There cannot be many other places of enforced confinement in the world that could qualify for entry in the
Woman's World
magazine as an Ideal Home!

Septimus Millward and I are the only ones who are excused from these chores. Ever since the extraordinary service he conducted on the night of the Boxers' arrival Mr Millward has been our pastor. You may find this strange, considering what I have told you about him in the past. Neither has he changed. He is still the deranged fanatic believing in his visions. He is uncompromising, and his sermons—of the old hellfire and fury type, which ordinarily the likes of you and I would go lengths to avoid—do not even border on the lunatic: they go well beyond! Yet there is no questioning the absolute certainty of his faith, and there is something in our present circumstances that makes such certainty comforting. I find it difficult to explain. Anyway, we tolerate him and, as Dr Fielding said, what else are we to do with him? His preparations for his evening service at least keep him locked in his bedroom out of harm's way, and also away from his children who, in Nellie's view, have suffered under his tyranny for far too long.

I am still occupied, of course, with my medical duties, which as you can imagine in our enlarged community keep me as busy as if I were a general practitioner. Besides my two chief patients, Helen Frances and Tom, I have to deal with any number of small ailments from burns to headaches, and one of the gentlemen (I will not mention which) has a nasty case of piles! It is fortunate that my medical bag was with me in the house when we became besieged and that there was a whole box of stores that I had not sent down to the hospital, including—of paramount importance—a supply of morphine. Not that I need so much as I did. Up to now there has been no need to restart Helen Frances on the drug. The poor creature is now almost cured of her addiction. She has suffered terribly and there were days when I despaired of her recovery and of being able to save her child. You remember when you once visited me in the hospital in Edinburgh? I showed you patients fighting addiction, so you know the bestial state to which they succumb at the peak of their withdrawal. There are still weals on the girl's wrists and ankles from her struggles when I had to tie her to the bed. It is no fault of hers. She has been the victim of a terrible invasion of her body and mind. The perpetrator was Mr Manners, who seduced her, then introduced her to opium. A terrible crime, yet I should not speak ill of the dead. He is now beyond worldly punishment. And his end was a cruel one.

Thank goodness that Helen Frances is young and strong. I am glad to say she is now recovered to the point that she is eating normally and putting on weight. There is even something of a return of her former beauty—though I doubt whether the sadness that now lines her face will ever entirely leave her. Strangely, it gives her an ethereal look, a sort of haunted languor, which is not unattractive and reminds me of a Pre-Raphaelite painting,
Mariana at the Moated Grange,
perhaps. The parallel is not inappropriate.

At least she is beginning to take an interest in life again. Coward as I am, I gave Nellie the awful task of telling her everything that has happened while she has been ‘out of this world'. The murder of her father. The death of her lover. Boxers and so on. We had the morphine ready to hand in case the anguish overwhelmed her—but there was no need for it. She took the news with surprising calm and resolve, only asking to be led to the window and for the shutters to be opened wide enough for her to see the grave of her father. Then she cried awhile. The strength of the girl, especially after what she has been through, is truly amazing. That night Sister Caterina remained in the room with her but she slept soundly. She tossed and turned, and once or twice she cried out, but altogether she passed a peaceful night, much like any other.

I do not know why I am writing to you at such length about this. I suppose it is because I cannot unburden my worries to anyone here. As far as our little community is concerned I must be the strong, all-knowing physician and the head of the household, brimming with confidence and authority. I never thought of myself as being a leader yet such is the role I have to play now—but I am concerned, James. Not so much about the Boxers—I believe the danger from that quarter is receding. I am very worried about Helen Frances and Tom. I do not know what to do about them.

You see, Helen Frances won't see him. Her calm when Nellie told her about Henry Manners's death was rather frightening. Unnatural, even. She hardly seemed interested to hear about it. Yet she gets into a hysterical state when I suggest that Tom should visit her. She shakes her head on the pillow. She closes her eyes and clenches her teeth. It is not as if Tom has been showing much desire to see her either. He asks about her politely, but perfunctorily, and appears relieved when I change the subject or leave him to get on with his polishing of the silver. These poor children, each of them so wounded by the cruelties of life. I have been a physician long enough to know that, ultimately, healing of the body can only take place when the mind is also made whole; it does not require a mountebank in Vienna to state that obvious fact. Yet what can I do if they refuse to confront each other?

This is where the physician reaches the boundaries of his healing powers. And I have no answer. Yet I suspect I will have to do something to make a reconciliation even if it is not their desire. Helen Frances cannot remain bedridden much longer and she will have to find a role in this household, at least while the emergency persists. What will happen to our fragile sense of morale if two of our number will not talk to each other?

My dear James, I had intended this letter to be reassuring and I fear that instead I have been burdening you with my doubts and fears. This is wrong of me and the circumstances do not even merit it for, as I told you before, I am convinced that the worst is over, and that even now the Mandarin is working for our release. Of course I was disappointed that there was no letter or message from the Mandarin when Major Lin brought the food supplies today. Indeed, Major Lin was his usual cold self and remarkably uncommunicative about anything. He brought the supplies, then he left. But I am not disheartened. Not at all. Adversity teaches patience.

Oh, she had tried. How she had tried.

She could remember little of what had happened to her in the days, weeks, months, eternities that she had been incarcerated in this little room. She had an image of herself lying on the bed, a wild trussed animal, struggling, slavering, snarling, straining against the ropes. It was as if she had been separated from her own body and could see herself from above. She saw her own bared teeth and rolling eyes, her own back arching and her legs kicking violently against their bonds. She saw the doctor in his baggy black coat with his little leather bag sitting on a chair by the bed; his eyes were closed but his hands covered his ears and tears ran down his cheeks. She saw her own mouth twisting out hideous words and her eyes burning with hate. And this other floating part of her had felt a sudden rush of sympathy for the poor man, who was only trying to help her. And she had determined that she would help him, and fight this thing on the bed with him.

And one day she had woken and known that she was herself again, and when the doctor had come in with his tray and his bottles and the syringe, she had weakly brushed it away, and fallen asleep again, and this time there had been no dreams.

That had been a blessed week. There had been noises outside her little room, drums and shouts, but they had seemed far away and nothing to do with her. She was only aware of her own body, the blood flowing in her arms and legs, the thump of her heart, the rhythm of her breathing, the warmth in her womb where she knew that another life was growing. Sleep, food, sleep, and a feeling of returning strength. No thoughts, but for the returning sensations in her body, and this other life, which she could not yet feel but which was nevertheless there inside her. And sleep without dreams.

Then Nellie had come in and told her about the deaths of her father and Henry. And with the news of their deaths her own life had begun again. She had not understood the full import at first, not until Nellie had helped her from the bed to the window, and lifted the shutters and shown her the wooden cross in the fenced garden off the lawn where her father lay. And she had wept, silently, and Nellie had probably thought that these were the tears of a dutiful daughter, but really she was crying for herself, because now she could no longer hide from what she had done and what she had become, nor escape the self-hatred for the damage she had caused. Her father and Henry were dead. Seeping up from deep within her, like water bubbling from a poisoned well, came the knowledge, and the guilt, that somehow she herself was to blame.