The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure (90 page)

There was another thunderous roar of firing, but it was not followed by the familiar silence. They could hear shouts and barked orders, and a new sound, the horrific clatter of steel on steel. Dr Airton was pressing his knuckles on the sill, his eyes staring. His words were shrill and incoherent in his excitement. ‘Oh, Lord, they've broken through … Yes, yes, the bayonets. Come on! Come on!… Oh, Lord, oh, Lord … There, man, there! Ah, got him … Oh, no, oh … Yes. Yes. They're holding. They're holding. Thank God. Thank God, the devils are running now, they're…' His words were lost in rifle fire, a volley followed by desultory shots. The women stared at him in fear and alarm. He wiped a hand across his forehead. ‘That was close,' he breathed. ‘Much too close. What discipline those soldiers have. They pushed them back with brute steel, Nellie. Brute steel. My God, I thought we…'

‘Shaa-aa—aaa!'
came another yell. The rifles fired, and fired again.

That was the last frontal assault for some time. They waited, hardly daring to breathe. After five minutes had passed they heard Major Lin barking orders. Shortly after, there was a knock on their carriage door. A sergeant stood respectfully outside with three wounded men. They were bleeding from cuts and slashes to the shoulders and head. Another, lying on a stretcher, was writhing with pain from a sword-thrust to his guts. They carried him into the carriage and laid him on the table. The doctor began his work, helped by Nellie who passed him his instruments and salves. He only looked up in surprise when he saw that Helen Frances was also standing in front of him. She was reaching for a roll of bandages and a bottle of disinfectant.

‘What are you doing, girl?' he asked quietly. ‘You should be resting.'

‘You forget, Doctor, you trained me,' she answered, with only a small quiver in her voice. ‘There are the other wounded men.'

‘Thank you. Thank you, my dear,' he muttered, returning to the stomach wound.

They all started momentarily when the drums began to beat. It was the same monotonous, threatening rumble to which they had become accustomed during their weeks of incarceration in the mission. The children, who were sitting on the floor with Fan Yimei and Mary, shook a little as their well-remembered nightmare returned, but their parents and Helen Frances went back to their work after exchanging only worried glances.

The drumming muffled the firing that had begun again outside. The Boxers had thought better of their suicidal attacks and had sent snipers to climb the walls of the station-yard. A sharpshooters' duel began in which the advantage rested with the more experienced marksmanship of Lin's men, but a steady trickle of casualties arrived at the doctor's carriage. One soldier had an arrow through his arm. George and Jenny stared in fascination at the feathers and barb as the man sat placidly on a stool waiting his turn to be treated.

‘What is Mr Manners doing?' whispered Nellie to the doctor, after they had put the final stitch in a patient's temple and were supporting him to the door of the carriage. ‘It's been more than an hour since he went to the engine. Are we leaving here today or not?'

‘The Lord only knows,' said the doctor. ‘You know my view by now. I think we have only survived so far despite that man and his machinations.'

‘Hush, Edward, Helen Frances will hear you,' warned Nellie. ‘But why doesn't he start the train?'

*   *   *

At that moment Henry was lying on his back under the wheels with a rag and a spanner tightening the bolts on one of the connecting rods. He had already removed a crowbar that had been forced between the wheel and the rod in a clumsy attempt by a railway worker to damage the train. The connecting rod had been bent and he had spent some time hammering it back into shape. He had had to assign two soldiers to pound with sledgehammers the twisted metal back into true on a makeshift anvil formed by a smaller rod. He was now bolting the straightened rod back into position. The two soldiers had gone back to their lines. The repair was not pretty, but he thought it would function. Lao Zhao was leaning on the wheel smoking a pipe and watching him curiously. Henry recognised that expression on his friend's face from of old and knew that the muleteer had something to say to him, but he was not inclined to press him. He was too damned busy.

He had been busy ever since the battle started. He had watched Lin's men competently fight off the first attack, and after that he had given all his attention to the engine. Very quickly he had realised that the men appointed to drive the train were worse than useless, but at least the gauge glasses had shown him that they had filled the boiler with enough water to cover the firebox. The pathetic fire they had going would do nothing to start the engine but at least it would not crack the flues that contained the water around it. A blowout would be unrepairable. Patiently, he had instructed them to remove all the logs and cut some kindling. He himself had rebedded the coal, and, with a paraffin rag and some gun cotton, had relit the fire, feeding in the kindling until he was happy there was an even flame. Then, carefully, he had added coal as necessary to secure the right heat. It would be at least half an hour before enough steam would be generated to give him the thirty pounds per square inch pressure required for him to start the blower. The draught created would then speed the burning process but it would still take another hour or more to get up enough steam for the locomotive to move.

Meanwhile there was enough to do. He had told the soldiers filling the tender to cease their efforts with the hose. They were spilling more water on to the coal than into the hole. The gauge showed him that the tank was three-quarters full, enough to be getting on with. With the train idle for six weeks, after having been attacked by a mob armed with stones, slabs and goodness knows what else, he thought it would probably be wise to inspect it thoroughly, especially the wheels on both engine and carriages. He had ordered the two soldiers and Lao Zhao back onto the platform, and had shown them what signs to look out for, and how to fill the oiling points on all the rod lugs and axles. He had also told them to check the bolt couplings between the carriages. Then he had sent them off with their tin cans. He had inspected the front of the engine, and that was when he had discovered the attempt at sabotage. It had been a heavy hour's work to get the connecting rod to rights again, pausing from time to time to climb back on to the footplate to check the firebox and the pressure gauges. He had turned on the blower, and when he had enough steam up, tested the injector. Now the boiler was merrily heating away, and he was satisfied—almost satisfied—that the damaged connecting rod would function.

He tightened the last bolt, and scrambled to his feet, wiping the grease off his hands with the rag. ‘Come on, then. Out with it, Lao Zhao. What is on your mind?'

Lao Zhao spat, and puffed twice on his pipe. ‘Xiansheng, would there happen to be any gold on this train?' he asked casually.

Henry started with surprise. ‘There might be,' he answered cautiously. ‘What of it?'

Lao Zhao made a big pretence of lighting his long pipe. ‘I imagine that the gold would belong to the Mandarin?' he asked, his intelligent eyes contemplating Henry's face.

‘So?'

‘So, would it be appropriate for others to take an interest in this gold?'

Henry's expression was grim. ‘Come on, Lao Zhao, what are you trying to tell me?'

‘It is, of course, ill-bred for a man to eavesdrop on other people's conversations,' said Lao Zhao, ‘but you did just now order me to crawl under the belly of this iron creature to feed oil into its many mouths, and I was underneath the carriage belonging to the Mandarin, just by the steps leading into it, when I saw Major Lin step down on to the platform.'

‘He'd probably gone to report to the Mandarin on the state of the battle. So?'

‘He was not alone, Xiansheng. An old man followed him out of the carriage and they talked on the platform above me, although they did not see me. This man is also a high official, I think.'

‘Jin Lao,' said Henry.

‘Yes, Xiansheng, I believe you are right. It was Chamberlain Jin. And this is what Major Lin was saying to him. They were speaking in low voices but my old ears still function and I could hear them quite well. The major said, “So you're telling me that he really does mean to give the barbarian the gold?” And the old man answered, “Yes, for the guns.” And the major said, “But we need the guns and the gold.” And the old man said, “You need the guns. I would be happy with the gold.” And the major said, “The da ren is a fool. He's past his usefulness.” And the old man said, “These are dangerous times and it is remarkable how easily accidents can happen on a perilous journey.” And the major said, “You mean, we should make our move on the train?” And the old man said, “The soldiers are loyal only to you.” And after that there was a lot of gunfire so I did not hear their final words. Anyway, Major Lin ran off very quickly to join his men, and the old man scurried back on board. I think he was a little frightened, Ma Na Si Xiansheng. But wasn't that an interesting conversation?'

‘It was extremely interesting,' said Henry, abstractedly wiping his forehead with the rag.

Lao Zhao leaned back, cackling with pleasure. ‘You've made your face all black with the grease, Ma Na Si Xiansheng!'

Henry smiled, his teeth flashing. ‘I'm in your debt, Lao Zhao. I won't be ungrateful. Come on, we'd better stoke the fire.'

‘Ah, yes, what a hungry beast it is,' said Lao Zhao, following him.

They had to step aside as a company of soldiers ran down the platform heading to the western perimeter where the Boxers were trying to climb over the wall.

Henry looked at the pressure gauge, which was reading only 82 pounds per square inch. Even with the blower on it would take another forty-five minutes to an hour for the pressure to reach the minimum 120 pounds with which he could attempt to move the train. And the Boxers now looked as if they were about to break into the perimeter. He leaned out of the cab to see down the line to the western wall near the gate where Lin's company was engaging the Boxers who had encroached over the wall. The soldiers had fired a volley and were now bayoneting the survivors. Sharpshooters were clearing the top of the wall. It had been efficient work, but he knew that there were not enough of Lin's men available to guard against all the possible points by which the Boxers might enter. He felt in his pocket for his revolver, which after Fan Yimei's execution of Ren Ren and Monkey had only four bullets left in the chambers.

‘Lao Zhao,' he said, ‘let me teach you what the railwayman does when there's nothing else to do but wait.' He pointed at the kettle on top of the firebox and the two enamel mugs. ‘He makes himself a cup of tea.'

*   *   *

The Mandarin was standing by his desk, brush in hand, contemplating the two characters he had written in bold, almost savage strokes on the paper sheet.
wu wei
. Literally, it meant ‘the negation of existence' but in this Taoist axiom there was a deeper connotation: that true wisdom can only be gained through the absence of conscious thought, that right actions can only be determined by a surrender to the events taking place around one, that the insignificant occurrences of one's own life are linked to a greater design, a harmony and pattern in which all plays its part, and which one can only understand if one does not seek to explain it; simply, that by non-doing, one achieves all. He smiled, listening to the firecrackers of shots outside the carriage, the shouts and screams, the running feet on the platform as one company or another was moved from one position of defence to another, and the crisis of battle took its course. Through the window he saw Major Lin waving his sword and shouting orders. He imagined Ma Na Si pulling levers and pumping fires at the front of the train—so much frantic activity all around him, yet here he stood, admiring the flower vase on his desk and the two characters of his own calligraphy, which spoke to him from the page. Inaction at the heart of action. The characters seemed appropriate in the circumstances.

He turned to look scornfully at Chamberlain Jin and his wives; their scared faces peered up at him from a gap between the settee and the table, which they had pulled around themselves as a barricade. For some time now the Boxer snipers had the range of the train, and occasional bullets would thud against the wooden walls of the carriage. Once an arrow had penetrated the window, hitting the fruit bowl on the table and knocking it to the floor.

‘Chamberlain,' he said, ‘it is noble of you to protect my women so assiduously from under the table.'

‘The da ren—the da ren is pleased to mock an old man and his fear,' muttered Jin Lao hoarsely.

‘Certainly not,' said the Mandarin. ‘I witnessed an example of your bravery earlier when you left the safety of my carriage to accompany Major Lin outside. It must have been a very pressing matter that you should take such a risk with your life.'

‘I—I merely wished to understand the situation better, Da Ren.'

‘You were present when he described it to me.'

‘Yes, Da Ren.' Jin Lao reached gingerly for a cup of cold tea to wet his dry throat. ‘But there were one or two details I did not fully understand.'

‘Really? I had not thought of you as a man who was interested in military matters.' The Mandarin was suddenly bored with the conversation. He moved to the window and peered outside. The firing had reached new crescendos, recalling the volleys of the earlier attacks. After a moment he turned again to the chamberlain. ‘With your new-found interest in martial matters, you might be interested to know what is happening now. It appears that our Boxer friends have decided to clear our men off the roofs of the buildings. If they are successful I do not think that Major Lin's position on the open ground will be tenable much longer. Indeed, you might be lucky enough to see some fighting close at hand. I fear, however, that in the event of such a mêlée the numbers will be very much against us, and the train will probably be overrun, so your military education will be a short one. Unless, of course, Ma Na Si has found the means to start the engine at last. We are in an interesting predicament, are we not?'