The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure (91 page)

But by then his words could not be heard above the wailing of his wives. He returned to his position by the window. He wondered if now was the time to put on his old armour and take up his heavy sword. He had no intention of being captured and subjected to the indignity of further interviews with Iron Man Wang. He looked out at the figures silhouetted on the roofs—turbaned men with swords and spears, trim, uniformed soldiers seeking to repel them with bayonets. It was the old world fighting the new, the battle cry of Imperial China raised against the new techniques and methods of the West, superstition against progress—and he had long ago thrown in his marker on the side of this progress. Now, standing at the window of the railway carriage, surveying the scene, he had the impression that nothing, in fact, had changed. He was watching Chinese fighting Chinese, much as he had done in his youth; the uniforms and costumes were irrelevant, as indeed were their weapons—Boxers, Taiping rebels, it was all the same, just another version of the perennial struggle for power that had rotted every dynasty in its time. If China was to change, then something more radical than bloodshed and wars was needed. Idly, he thought of his conversations with the foreign doctor, who preached a constitutional kingdom based on virtue. That really was a fine idea, and, who knows?, one day it might come about—but he doubted that he would see it in his lifetime, even if he should survive this battle. He knew that, topple this dynasty or that, Chinese would continue to fight Chinese. Rifles and bayonets would prove more efficient than spears, and heavy guns would give the edge over those who had only rifles. And there would be new Zheng Guofans with new equivalents of the Hunan Braves, and young men and boys, as he once had been, would continue to rally round flags, and their officers would urge them on with attractive-sounding creeds. Only later would they discover, if they became older and wiser, that it was the same creed, the naked struggle for power, garbed in different slogans, different uniforms, different banners.

He watched as one of Lin's sergeants, stabbed by a spear, pushed himself along the haft to bayonet the man who had killed him; both bodies toppled off the roof together in a hideous embrace of death. The soldiers behind him fired a volley, and for a moment the roof was cleared of Boxers, but more screaming, slashing figures came.

So they always would, thought the Mandarin. And no war would ever be ultimately decisive. That was the way it was. So it always had been. So it would continue. If he survived this, then he himself would buy Japanese guns, which would be the means for new wars, and the killing of more Chinese by other Chinese.

He sighed. What choice did he have?

Wu wei. Wu wei.

*   *   *

With mugs of tea in their hands, Henry and his team on the footplates watched the battle of the rooftops. It was certainly a desperate struggle, but Major Lin seemed equal to the task. Reluctantly, because he hated the man, Henry admitted to himself that Lin was a bloody good soldier. Two of the rooftops were now secure, with Lin's men lying flat against the ridge tiles firing into what he imagined must be the mass on the other side. On the third roof the bayonet struggle was still going on. Major Lin had kept his companies facing the gaps in the buildings, only taking out every fourth man to reinforce the soldiers on the roofs, and their rifle power was still strong enough to keep the occasional rushes and attacks through the alleys at bay. The attacks were less furious now, partly because it was difficult for the Boxers to step over the bodies of their comrades who had died in earlier attacks, and partly because by now they had a healthy respect for Lin's firepower. Henry wondered how long the ammunition would hold. Up to now there had been a steady relay of runners back and forth from the arsenal on the train, handing out spare magazines in the intervals between the volleys, but the supply could not be inexhaustible.

The battle on the third roof was not going Major Lin's way. An axe-wielding contingent of Boxers had pushed Lin's men back from the ridge, and it looked as if their snipers and archers would have a free hand to fire down below. Major Lin shouted an order, and the soldiers on the next building fired across. The confusion gave Lin's remaining men on the roof, with reinforcements scrambling quickly up the ladders, the opportunity to make a rush, and soon the third roof was as secure as the other two.

So they were holding on. But for how long?

He looked at the pressure gauge: 117 pounds per square inch. The boiler was heating nicely and there was a thick white smoke coming out of the stack. It would not be long now before they could get away. He had determined that he would start the engine when the pressure reached 135. The train might just crawl at 120 pounds per square inch steam pressure, but he thought that with the weight of the carriages—two loaded with horses—the engine would barely have the pull to move the wagons at walking speed, and the Boxers would be able to climb on with impunity. Ideally he should wait until the gauge reached 150—that would be safer—but time was not on his side. A hundred and thirty-five pounds per square inch was his compromise. It might just be adequate to get a head of speed. Maybe. The gauge read 119 now. It could be worse: at least it was heating quickly. At this rate … At this rate …

He calculated and made a decision. Turning to one of the soldiers he gave him his orders. ‘Run to Major Lin. Tell him we're pulling out in thirty minutes. We leave in half an hour, do you understand? Tell him that and run back here again as fast as you can. And be careful.'

The soldier, a boy of eighteen with a blackened, girlish face, grinned and snapped a salute. ‘Yessir!' he shouted in English. Henry wondered where he could possibly have learned to say that. He watched him anxiously as he ran across the open ground to where Lin was marshalling his men. The boy almost reached him—Lin had turned at his shout—when he stumbled, and fell forward on his face. Bullets were puffing up the dust. ‘Damn,' said Henry. Lin was already shouting orders for a detachment to deal with this new burst of sniping from the walls. Henry turned to the other soldier on the footplate and registered the fear on his face. ‘Dammit,' he said. ‘I'll go and tell him myself.'

‘No, Ma Na Si Xiansheng, I'll go,' said Lao Zhao. ‘My belly's swirling with your tea and I need some exercise.'

‘Dash it, be careful, then,' snapped Henry, angry because he knew it was wiser for the only person who could drive the train to try to stay out of harm's way. He did not relax until Lao Zhao, who had loped cautiously over the open ground like a hunter following a spoor, had returned, breathless but triumphant, to the footplate. Now he was happily pissing over the side.

‘Major Lin says he will begin to evacuate in twenty minutes,' he said, over his shoulder.

‘All right,' said Henry. ‘We'd better be ready, then.'

He looked at the gauges. Water levels three-quarters full, that would do, 123 pounds per square inch steam pressure. Fine. He opened the firebox. Flames were dancing over the red bed of coals. He quickly shovelled in three spadefuls leaving the firebox door slightly open to enhance the draught over the fire. That would also do for now. What else did he have to think about? The gate. The gate, four hundred yards away, was still chained. It would be suicidal to open it now. The Boxers would rush through. Could he just steam through it? No, it was made of solid ironwork and tightly secured. The chains would have to be unfastened or he would be risking derailment. Damn. He would have to send Lao Zhao back again to Lin to instruct him to position some soldiers by the gate to open it when the train was ready to leave. They would probably have to fight off the Boxers as they did so. Damn.

He turned to survey the battle scene. Lin had not yet made his move. The soldiers were still standing in formation. He was puzzled for a second to see a puff of white smoke appear on the hillside just below the tree line. Then he heard a sharp crack, and a whining sound growing louder, passing overhead. With a boom, the coal stack in the southern yard exploded into red flame. He ducked as projectiles of scattered coal clattered against the side of the engine. He could hear a rising roar of cheers from the Boxers on the other side of the buildings. Guns! How could they have guns? Then he remembered the antiquated field guns Major Lin had kept on the city walls. He remembered the doctor telling him that they had been dragged to the mission. Iron Man Wang must have ordered them to be brought on here. There was another puff of smoke, but this time the explosion fell short among the tent lines. At least their marksmanship was not up to much, and the Boxers were in probably as much danger from stray shots as they were, but this completely altered the situation. A lucky hit on the train would strand them here. They would have to leave now, adequate steam pressure or no.

‘Lao Zhao, you've got to go back again. Tell the Major we have to leave immediately. Tell him to get his men on the train. Hurry.'

Lao Zhao did not even pause to spit, but leaped off the engine and sprinted towards the soldiers.

‘Dammit,' cried Henry. ‘I didn't tell him about the gate.' Sod it, he thought. He would ram the gate, and hope for the best. ‘You,' he shouted at the remaining soldier, ‘be ready to shovel coal as if your life depended on it. Wait till I tell you—' 125 pounds per square inch. ‘Come on. Come on,' he whispered, though clenched teeth.

He heard a volley of rifle fire. Encouraged by the arrival of their artillery pieces the Boxers had made another rush through the alleys. Henry peered anxiously through the drifting smoke. Yes, the retreat had begun. The soldiers on the roof were climbing down. They were joining the ranks of their comrades and kneeling to fire at the Boxers.

Henry ran through a last mental checklist of what he had to do. Couple the engine. Done. Release the handbrake of the tender. Done. Oh, God, he realised, with horror. He had forgotten the handbrake in the guard's car. That would also have to be released before they could move. There was no way round it. ‘Listen,' he said to the soldier, ‘look at this gauge here. When that needle points to 128, start shovelling in coal. Understand? Five full spadeloads. Don't close the box. Leave it as it is. Half open. Remember: when the dial reads 128 you shovel. Got it?'

He jumped on to the platform and began to run. The whole train shook as an explosion burst in the yard. He saw the orange black coils of smoke rising behind the carriages. They were getting the range. He glanced to his left and saw that Major Lin was attempting a fighting retreat—the men in square, firing, retreating a few steps at a time, and firing again. He passed the Mandarin's carriage and saw the sardonic face observing him from the window. He did not stop. He bounded up the guard's van steps and threw himself at the heavy red-painted wheel, turning until he felt that the pressure on the brakes was fully eased. He turned to leave, and his heart momentarily stopped. A Boxer was in the van.

It was a wiry, middle-aged man with a thin moustache. He wore a red tunic and carried a small axe and shield. The eyes in the wrinkled face were wary as he approached the foreign devil. Henry stepped backwards. The Boxer rushed at him, swiping with his axe. Henry managed to twist away. He kicked, and missed. The Boxer advanced again, and Henry retreated slowly. He could go no further because his back was against the brake wheel. His hands scrabbled against the wooden side of the van, and yes, there was the handspike on its rack. The axe came down again and clanged against the spike, which Henry had held up with his two hands, just in time. Henry kicked again and this time his foot contacted the man's groin. The Boxer moved back in surprise. Henry brought the handspike down on his head. Two more Boxers were pushing through the door from the guards' van balcony, and were staring at him, half startled, half afraid, their swords wavering hesitantly in their hands. Henry yelled and ran like a berserker towards them, slashing left and right with the handspike. He only stopped battering when he realised that he was beating air. Stepping over the bodies, he cautiously approached the door to the platform. He heard running feet and shots. Some of Lin's men had spotted the incursion and were dealing with it. Quickly opening the door, he leaped on to the platform and ran, ignoring the sound of steel on steel behind him.

As he ran, he noticed that Major Lin's fighting retreat had almost reached the platform. Bodies of Boxers lay in clumps over the ground that the troopers had so ably defended, yet more screaming battalions were massing in the gaps between the buildings. These were now in the hands of the enemy. He could see turbaned figures scrambling on to the vacated roofs. Soon they would be firing down at them. He heard Lin scream the command, ‘Fire!' and a crash of shots went off just by his ear. He ran on. He was passing the doctor's carriage, and ahead could see Lao Zhao leaning from the engine cab waving him forward. As he looked, he heard the whine of a shell. The watertower exploded and the engine disappeared under a white wall of water and hissing steam. ‘Bugger me!' he cried, stumbling to a halt. He was aware of Nellie Airton standing on the steps of her carriage looking down at him. There was an expression of alarm on her face. ‘I beg your pardon, ma'am,' he muttered. ‘Disgraceful language.'

‘Never mind that,' said Nellie. ‘What's happened to your arm?' It was only then that he noticed that his left forearm had been slashed by one of the Boxers' swords.

He looked up, confused, and saw over Nellie's shoulder Helen Frances's white, anxious face also looking down at him, her mouth open, her eyes shining with concern. ‘Come on, you'd better get up here and have that bandaged,' said Nellie.

‘I'm sorry,' he muttered, gazing at Helen Frances. ‘I'm sorry. I haven't time.' And he ran on.

The engine and the footplates had been drenched, but thankfully the fire in the box was still burning and clouds of grey smoke were still issuing from the stack. The pressure gauge read 129 pounds per square inch. ‘Right,' he shouted. ‘Are we ready?' He pressed the pedal to eject any excess water in the pistons. With a whoosh, steam billowed out through the cylinder cocks on either side of the engine. He leaned out of the cab. Major Lin's men were now fighting on the platform, firing volley after volley to keep the Boxers at bay. The Boxers were now massed in a dense line in front of the buildings. They were ranked in impossible numbers. Banners waved over their heads. If they charged together no amount of bullets could keep them back. ‘Come on, come on,' he breathed, pulling the cord to let out a long whistle, as if that signal could somehow miraculously hurry Lin's beleaguered soldiers on board. He remembered the wires leading to the buildings that he had seen earlier. Why didn't Lin blow the charges?