OUR STRONGHOLD IN THE FAR EAST
HONG KONG AND THE KOWLOON HINTERLAND
HONG KONG
Geographically, of course, Hong Kong is very far from North China. But
it was the base of our expeditionary force in the recent campaign. From
it went the first troops that helped to save Tientsin; and one brigade
of Indian regiments was diverted from General Gaselee’s command to
strengthen its garrison. For in the event of disturbances in Canton, or
a successful rebellion in the southern provinces, it would have been in
great danger. As our base for all future operations in the Far East,
it is of vast military as well as naval and commercial importance and
well merits description. In complications or wars with other Powers,
Hong Kong would be the first point in the East threatened or assailed.
Lying as it does on what would be our trans‐Pacific route to India,
it is almost of as much importance to our Empire as Capetown or the
Suez Canal. Its magnificent dockyards, which are capable of taking our
largest battleships on the China station, are the only ones we possess
east of Bombay; and so it is of equal value to our fleet, besides being
the naval base for coal, ammunition, and supplies, without which the
finest ship that floats would be helpless.
Looked at from other than a military point of view, Hong Kong is an
object‐lesson of our Empire that should fill the hearts of Imperialists
with pardonable pride. A little more than half a century ago it was
but a bleak and barren island, tenanted only by a few fisherfolk. It
produced nothing, and animal life could scarce be supported on it. But
now, touched by the magic wand of British trade, how wonderful is the
transformation! A magnificent city, with stately buildings climbing in
tier after tier from the sea. The most European town between Calcutta
and San Francisco. The third, some say the second, largest shipping
port in the world. The harbour to which turn the countless prows of
British, American, German, French, Austrian, and Japanese vessels;
where the vast current of the trade of the world with the Far East
flows in, to issue forth again in an infinitude of smaller streams to
every part of China and the Philippines.
Yet, though the barren hillsides are covered with houses, though a
large population of white men and yellow inhabit it, and its harbour is
crowded with shipping, the island itself is still as unproductive as
ever. Not merely is mineral wealth unknown and manufactures practically
_nil_, but Hong Kong cannot provide enough of foodstuffs to support
its inhabitants for half a day. From Canton, almost a hundred miles
away up the Pearl River, comes everything required to feed both
Europeans and Chinese. Each morning the large, flat‐bottomed steamers
that ply between the two cities carry down meat or cattle, fish, rice,
vegetables of all kinds, fruit, even flowers; and were communications
interrupted by storm or war for a few days, Hong Kong would starve. For
neither the island nor the couple of hundred square miles of adjacent
mainland, the Kowloon Hinterland, which we took over in 1898, could
produce enough to feed one regiment; and although two months’ supply of
provisions for the whole population, white and yellow, is supposed to
be stored, it is never done. Therein lies Hong Kong’s great danger. Let
Canton refuse or be prevented from feeding her, and she must starve.
The secret of her rapid rise and present greatness lies in the fact
that she is the great mart, the distributing centre, whence European or
American goods, arriving in large bottoms, are sent out again in small
coasting steamers or junks to reach the smallest markets for Western
commerce. And her prosperity will continue and be vastly increased
if the long‐projected railway to Canton, to meet another tapping the
great inland resources of China, is ever built; although the Americans
fondly hope that Manilla under their energetic rule will one day rival
and even excel her.
Hong Kong is an island of irregular shape, about nine miles in length
and six miles broad in its widest portion, and consists of one long
chain of hills, that rise almost perpendicularly from the sea. Scarcely
the smallest spot of naturally level ground is to be found. Around are
countless other islands, large and small, all equally mountainous. It
lies close to the Chinese mainland, the Kau‐lung, or Kowloon Peninsula;
and the portion of sea enclosed between them forms the harbour. At one
extremity of the island this is a mile across; and at the other it
narrows down to a strait known as the Lyeemoon Pass, only a quarter
of a mile broad. In the centre the harbour is about two miles in
width. The high hills of island and mainland—for the latter is but
a series of broken, mountainous masses rising two or three thousand
feet—shelter it from the awful typhoons that ravage the coast.
Approaching Hong Kong by steamer there lies before us a confused jumble
of hills, which gradually resolve themselves into islands fronting
the mountainous background of the mainland. All, without exception,
spring up from the water’s edge in steep slopes, with never a yard of
level ground save where an occasional tiny bay shows a small stretch
of sparkling sandy beach. Granite cliffs carved into a thousand quaint
designs, or honeycombed with caverns by the white‐fringed waves;
steep grassy slopes, with scarcely a bush upon them, rising up to a
conical peak; here and there a fisher’s hut, the only sign of human
habitation—such are they almost all. At last one larger than the
others. On the long ridge of the lofty summits of its hills the slated
roofs and high walls of European buildings outlined against the sky,
and we know that we are nearing Hong Kong. Swinging round a bluff
shoulder of this island, we enter the land‐locked harbour. On the
right the myriad houses climbing in terraces above each other from the
water’s edge, long lines of stately buildings, the spires of churches
come into view. It is the city of Victoria, or Hong Kong. The harbour,
sheltered by the lofty hills of island and mainland, is crowded with
shipping. The giant bulks of battleships and cruisers, the tall masts
of sailing vessels, the gaily painted funnels of passenger and merchant
steamers, the quaint sails and weird shapes of junks, the countless
little _sampans_ or native boats, a numerous flotilla of steam
launches, rushing hither and thither. Ahead of us the hills of island
and mainland approach each other until they almost touch, and tower up
on either hand above the narrow channel of the Lyeemoon Pass. On the
left a small, bush‐clad, conical isle, with a lighthouse—Green Island;
another, long and straggling—Stonecutters’ Island, with the sharp
outlines of forts and barracks and the ruins of an old convict prison.
Behind them the mainland. A small extent of comparatively level land
covered with houses, the curving line of a pretty bay, low, pine‐clad
hills. This is the very modern suburb of Kowloon, which has been
created to take the overflow of European and Chinese population from
Hong Kong. Here will be the terminus of the railway to Canton—when it
is built. And behind, towering grim and dark to the sky, stands a long
chain of barren mountains that guard the approach from the landward
side. Behind them range upon range of other hills. Such is the Kowloon
Peninsula.
Hong Kong, with the blue water of its harbour, the dark hills towering
precipitously above the town, the walls of whose houses are gaily
painted in bright colours, is one of the loveliest places on earth.
After long days on board ship, where the eye tires of the interminable
monotony of sea and sky, it seems doubly beautiful. And one marvels
to find this English lodgment on the coast of China a city of stately
buildings, of lofty clubs and many‐storied hotels, of magnificent
offices and splendid shops, of well‐built barracks and princely villas.
The town of Victoria—for Hong Kong, though used for it, is really
the name of the island—stretches for miles along the water’s edge,
being for the most part built on reclaimed ground; for the hills
thrust themselves forward to the sea. Up their steep sides the houses
clamber in tier upon tier until they end under the frowning face of a
rocky precipice that reaches up to the summit. And there along its
ridge, which is called the Peak, 1,800 feet above the sea, are more
houses. Large hotels, villas, and barracks—for it is fast becoming
the residential quarter for Europeans—are perched upon its narrow
breadth, seemingly absolutely inaccessible from below. But a thin,
almost perpendicular, line against the face of the hill shows how they
are reached by a cable tramway, which, in ten minutes, brings its
passengers from the steamy atmosphere of Victoria to the cool breezes
of the Peak—another climate altogether.
The city practically consists of one long street, which runs from end
to end of the island and is several miles in length. On the steep
landward side smaller streets run off at right angles and climb the
hills, many of them in flights of steps. On the slopes above the town
are one or two long roads parallel to the main street and consisting
altogether of residential buildings, churches, convents, and schools.
But this main street—Queen’s Road as it is named—is wonderful. At
the western extremity near Belcher’s Fort, the end of the island round
which our steamer passed, it begins in two or three‐storied Chinese
houses, the shops on the ground floor being under colonnades. Then come
store and warehouses, offices, and small Chinese shops where gaudy
garments and quaint forms of food are sold, interspersed with saloons,
bars, and drinking‐shops of all kinds, which cater for merchant
sailors, soldiers, and bluejackets of every nationality, the well‐paid
American tars being most in evidence among their customers. Beyond this
the Queen’s Road is lined with splendid European‐looking shops with
extensive premises and large plate‐glass fronts, finer than many in
Bond Street or Regent Street, though not as expensive. Some of them,
mostly kept by Chinamen, sell Chinese or Japanese curios, silver‐work
or embroideries, pottery or blackwood furniture. Others, generally,
though not always, run by Europeans, are tailoring and millinery
establishments, chemists, book or print shops. The side‐walks run under
colonnades which afford a grateful shade. Here are found a few of the
smaller hotels; and the magnificent caravanserai of the high Hong Kong
hotel stretches from the harbour to the street. Then come some fine
banks, the building of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation
being a splendid piece of architecture. Opposite it a sloping road,
with lovely fern‐clad banks and trees, leads upward to the cathedral
and to Government House. Past the banks, a little back from the
thoroughfare, is the fine City Hall, which contains a museum and a
theatre, as well as large ball and concert rooms, in which most of the
social gaieties of Hong Kong take place.
Here occurs the one break in the long line of the Queen’s Road. On
the seaward side, fenced in by railings, lies the cricket‐ground with
its pretty pavilion. Between it and the harbour stands the splendid
structure of the Hong Kong Club, a magnificent four‐storied building.
Few clubs east of Pall Mall can rival its palatial accommodation.
From the ground‐floor, where billiard‐rooms and a large bowling
alley are found, a splendid staircase, dividing into two wings,
leads to a magnificent central hall on the first floor. Off this is
a large reading‐room, where a great number of British, American, and
Continental journals are kept. Electric fans, revolving from the
ceiling, cool the room in the damp, hot days of the long and unpleasant
summer. On the same floor are the secretary’s offices, a luxurious
public dressing‐room, and a large bar, which opens on to a wide
verandah overlooking the harbour. From it one can gaze over the water,
crowded with shipping, to the rugged hills of the mainland. In front
lie the warships of many nations. Close inshore is a small fleet of
_sampans_ crowded together, their crews, male and female, chattering
volubly or screaming recriminations from boat to boat. From a tiny
pier near the Club the steam pinnace of an American man‐o’‐war shoots
out into the stream, passing a couple of gigs from British warships
conveying officers in mufti ashore.
On the next floor are the dining‐rooms and a splendid library. Above
these again are the members’ bedrooms, bath and dressing rooms.
Altogether, internally and externally, the Club is worthy to rank with
almost any similar institution in the Empire.
On Queen’s Road, facing the cricket‐ground, is a small, square open
space below the cathedral, raised above the level of the street, as
the ground slopes upward. It is known as the Garrison Brigade Parade
Ground. During the recent campaign it was used as the store‐ground
of the Indian Commissariat, where huge mat‐sheds covered enormous
piles of supplies for the troops in China. Here the hard‐worked base
commissariat officer, Major Williams, watched the vast stores arriving
daily from India, and despatched the supplies for the army in the North
and the Indian brigades at Shanghai and Kowloon. Beside the parade
ground a road climbs the hill and passes the station for the cable
tramway, which is but a short distance up.
Beyond this one gap in its continuous fencing of houses the Queen’s
Road runs on past the Naval Dockyard—where Commodore Sir Francis
Powell, K.C.M.G., had such heavy labour all through the
troublous time in China—and the Provost Prison on the seaward side,
and the barracks of the British troops and the arsenal on the other.
Then the military hospital and the ordnance yards, crowded with guns,
from the twelve‐inch naval monsters to the stubby howitzers or long
six‐inch on field‐carriages. Then more barracks. Then it runs on
again into Chinese shops, their upper stories used as boarding‐houses
for Celestials; and, turning down to the harbour and following the
shore line, it is bordered with coal‐yards, godowns, and warehouses.
Near this end are the two open spaces of the island, where the hills,
retreating from the sea, have left valleys which the sport‐loving
Britisher has seized upon for recreation grounds. The first and larger
one, known as the Happy Valley, is a lovely spot. All around the
tree‐clad hills ring it in, rising precipitously from its level stretch
on which is a racecourse, its centre portion being devoted to other
games. A fine grand stand is flanked by a block of red‐brick buildings,
the lower stories of which are used during race meetings as stables for
the horses and ponies running. The upper, with open fronts looking out
on the course, are used as luncheon rooms, where the regimental messes,
the members of the clubs, and large _hongs_ (or merchant firms) and
private residents entertain their friends during the meetings. Surely
no other racecourse in the world is set in such lovely scenery as
this in its arena, surrounded by the mountains that tower above it on
every side. And that a _memento mori_ may not be wanting in the midst
of gaiety, just behind the grand stand lie the cemeteries—Christian,
Mussulman, Hindu, and Parsee. Up the sides of the steep hills the white
crosses and tombstones gleam amongst the dark foliage of the trees; and
the spirits of the dead can look down from their graves upon the scene
of former pleasures.
A little farther on is another and smaller valley used as a polo
ground. Previous to the advent of the Indian troops in 1900 the game
was played here almost exclusively on Chinese ponies. But the Arabs
used by the officers of the 22nd Bombay Infantry, by that excellent
sportsman, H. H. Major, the Maharajah of Bikanir, and other members of
the China expeditionary force, so completely outclassed the diminutive
Chinese ponies that a revolution was caused in the class of animals
required for the game. Small Walers from Australia and Arabs from India
have been freely introduced, much to the benefit of polo in Hong Kong.
At the polo ground the city ends at present; though every day its
limits are extending. From here the road runs along close to the sea,
protected from the waves by a wall, and clinging to the flanks of
the hills. It passes an occasional row of Chinese‐occupied houses,
a lone hotel or two, the site of the immense new docks in process
of construction, large sugar works, with a colony of houses for its
employees, and an overhead wire tramway leading to their sanatorium
on the high peak above, until it reaches the Lyeemoon Pass. Here the
hills narrow in and press down to the sea, thrusting themselves forward
to meet the hills of the mainland on the other side. A strait, only
a quarter of a mile broad, separates them; and here on either hand,
high above the water, stand modern and well‐armed forts, which, with a
Brennan torpedo, effectually close the narrow entrance of the harbour
to any hostile ships that venture to force a passage.
Thus ends the northern and more important side of the island. On
the southern and ocean‐ward shore lie the ill‐fated and practically
deserted towns of Stanley and Aberdeen, where many years ago the
British troops garrisoning them were so decimated by fever and disease
that this side of the island was abandoned, and Victoria has become
practically Hong Kong.
The Peak is altogether another world from the city that lies in the
steamy atmosphere below. Let us ascend in one of the trams that are
dragged up to the summit by the wire cables. Seated in the car, we are
drawn up rapidly at a weird and uncomfortable angle; for the slope of
the line is, in places, 1 in 2. Up the steep sides of the hill we go,
feeling a curious sensation as we are tilted back on the benches and
see the trees and houses on each side all leaning over at an absurd
angle. Even such a respectable structure as a church seems to be lying
back towards the hillside in a tipsy and undignified manner. This
curious optical effect is caused by the inclined position of the roof
and floor, as well as of the passengers, with the horizontal. We pass
over a bridge across a pretty road lined with stone villas, by large
and well‐built houses that grow fewer and fewer as we mount upward.
Here and there we stop at a small platform representing a station,
where passengers come on or leave the tram. The down car passes us
with a rush. The long ridge of the Peak, crowned with houses, comes
into view. Turning round in our slanting seats we look down on the
rapidly diminishing city and the harbour, now a thousand feet below
us. At last we reach the summit and step out on a platform with
waiting‐rooms, the terminus of the line. Now we see how the wire cable
runs on over pulleys into the engine‐house and is wound round the huge
iron drums.
As we stand on the platform there towers above us, on the left, a large
and many‐windowed hotel, the Mount Austin. Along the fronts of its
three stories run verandahs with arched colonnades. This is a favourite
place of resort for visitors; and many residents, unwilling to face the
troubles of house‐keeping, take up their permanent abode here.
Outside the station is a line of waiting coolies, ready to convey
passengers in their open cane sedan chairs with removable hoods. A
Sikh policeman standing close by keeps them in order and cuts short
their frequent squabbles. The road and paths, which are cemented and
provided with well‐made drains running alongside to carry off the
torrential rains of the summer and thus prevent the roadway from being
washed away, are too steep in their ascents and descents to make the
ricksha—Hong Kong’s favourite vehicle—useful up here.
Standing on the narrow ridge of the Peak, we can look down upon the
sea on either hand. A wonderful view unfolds itself to our gaze. On
the northern side the city of Victoria lies almost straight below us,
its streets and roofs forming a chessboard‐pattern. We can easily
trace the long, sinuous line of the Queen’s Road. From this height
the largest battleships and mail steamers in the harbour look no
bigger than walnuts. Beyond, the suburb of Kowloon lies in sharp lines
and tiny squares; and behind it rise up the hills of the mainland,
dwarfed in size. Now we can see plainly the interminable ranges of
mountains—chain after chain—of the Kowloon Peninsula, with the lofty
peaks of Tai‐mo‐shan and Tai‐u‐shan over 3,000 feet high. The coastline
is straggling and indented with numerous bays, the shores rising up in
steep, grassy slopes to the hills or presenting a line of rocky cliffs
to the waves. Here and there pretty cultivated valleys run back from
the sea to the never‐far‐distant mountains.
Turning round, we look down the grass‐clad slopes of the south side
of the island to tiny, sandy bays and out over the broad expanse of
the sea, in which lie many large and small islands. Over a hundred
can be counted from the elevation of the Peak. Close by, to the west,
is the largest of them all—the barren and treeless Lantau, which was
once nearly chosen instead of Hong Kong as the site of the British
settlement. Below us, on the southern shore of our island, lie the
practically abandoned towns of Stanley and Aberdeen.
Along the ridge the road passes by large and well‐built villas,
barracks, the Peak Club, a church, and many boarding‐houses. The
European inhabitants of Hong Kong are rapidly abandoning the lower
levels and taking up their residence here, where the climate, with its
cool and refreshing breezes, is delightful in the long summer when
Victoria swelters in tropical heat. During the rainy season, however,
the Peak is continually shrouded in damp mists; and fires are required
to keep rooms and spare garments dry. The saying in Hong Kong is: “If
you live on the Peak your clothes rot; if in Victoria _you_ do. Choose
which you value more and take up your habitation accordingly.”
The cable tramway is a comparatively recent institution; so that when
the houses on the summit were being built all the materials had to be
carried by coolies up a steep, zigzagging road from below. Even now
most of the supplies for the dwellers on the heights are brought up
in the same primitive and laborious fashion. In the morning the trams
are crowded with European merchants, bankers, solicitors and their
clerks, descending to their offices in the city. In the afternoon they
are filled with the gay butterflies of society going up or down to
pay calls, shop, or play tennis and croquet at the Ladies’ Recreation
Ground, half‐way between the Peak and Victoria. The red coats of
British soldiers are seen in the cars after parade hours or at night,
when they are hurrying back to barracks before tattoo.
The harbour of Hong Kong is remarkable for the large “floating
population” of Chinese, who live in sampans and seldom go ashore
except to purchase provisions. Their boats are small, generally not
twenty feet in length, with a single mast, decked, and provided with
a small well, covered with a hood, where passengers sit. Under the
planking of the deck, in a tiny space without ventilation, with only
room to lie prone, the crew—consisting, perhaps, of a dozen men,
women, and children—sleep. Their cooking is done with a brazier or
wood fire placed on a flat stone in the bows. The children tumble about
the deck unconcernedly in the roughest weather. The smaller ones are
occasionally tied to the mast to prevent them from falling overboard.
The babies are bound in a bundle behind the shoulders of the mothers,
who pull their oars or hoist and lower the sail with their burdens
fastened on to them. Thus they live, thus they die; never sleeping on
land until their corpses are brought ashore to be buried amid much
exploding of crackers and burning of joss‐sticks.
These sampans are freely used to convey passengers to and from ships or
across the harbour. Formerly cases of robbery and murder were frequent
on board them; and even now drunken sailors occasionally disappear
in mysterious fashion. The hood over the passengers’ seats could be
suddenly lowered on the occupants of the well; a few blows of a hatchet
sufficed to end their efforts to free themselves; the bodies were then
robbed and flung overboard, and their fate remained a secret to all
but the murderers. But stringent police regulations now render these
crimes almost impossible. At night all sampans must anchor at least
thirty yards from the shore. If hailed by intending passengers they are
allowed to come only to certain piers where European or Indian police
officers take their numbers as well as the names and destinations of
those about to embark on them. So that the Hong Kong sampan is now
nearly as safe a conveyance as the London hansom.
Communication between Victoria and Kowloon is maintained by a line of
large, two‐decked, double‐ended steam ferries, that cross the mile of
water between them in ten minutes. The suburb on the mainland is of
very recent growth. Ten years ago the Observatory, a signal station,
and a few villas were almost the only buildings; and the pinewoods
ran uninterruptedly down to the sea. Now Kowloon possesses large
warehouses, two hotels, two fine barracks, long streets lined with
shops chiefly for Chinese customers, and terraces of houses occupied by
Europeans. These are generally employees in the dockyards or clerks,
or the families of engineers and mates of the small steamers that have
their headquarters in Hong Kong. New streets are continually springing
up, connecting it with Yaumati, a large Chinese suburb, or spreading
down towards Old Kowloon City, three miles off. Near the ferry pier
long wharves run out into the harbour, alongside which the largest
vessels of the P. and O. or Norddeutscher‐Lloyd can berth and discharge
their cargo. Close by is a naval yard, with a small space of water
enclosed by stone piers for torpedo craft. Beside it are huge stacks
of coal for our warships. Just above rise the grass‐covered ramparts
of a fort. Near this are the fine stone and brick barracks built for
the Hong Kong Regiment—a corps raised and recruited in Northern
India about ten years ago for permanent service in this Colony. It
was recently disbanded when Hong Kong was added to the list of places
over‐seas to be garrisoned by the Indian army. Its material was
excellent; for the high rate of pay—eighteen rupees a month with free
rations as compared with the nine rupees and no rations offered to the
sepoy in India—gave its recruiting officers the pick of Mussulman
Punjaub, for it was a completely Mohammedan regiment. But it suffered
from the disadvantage of being permanently stationed in one cramped‐up
garrison with much guard duty, and of being officered by men coming at
random from various Indian regiments rarely of the Punjaub, or, worse
still, by others from British regiments, who knew absolutely nothing of
the sepoy and were attracted chiefly by the higher pay.
On the Kowloon side two companies have built large and ample docks,
which can take the finest battleships we have in the China seas.
H.M.S. _Goliath_, _Ocean_, _Albion_, _Glory_; U.S.S. _Brooklyn_ and
_Kentucky_ have all been accommodated there. As they are the only docks
in the Far East, with the exception of those at Nagasaki in Japan, they
are used by all foreign as well as British warships and merchantmen;
and the dividends they pay are very large. Small steamers and a yacht
for the King of Siam have been constructed in them. In Yaumati and
Kowloon many Chinese boat‐building yards have sprung up, where numbers
of large junks and sampans are turned out every year.
Past the Kowloon Docks, above which tower a couple of forts, the
open country is reached. The road runs down through patches of
market‐gardens to Old Kowloon City, a quaint walled Chinese town, with
antique iron guns rusting on its bastions. This was the last spot of
territory in the peninsula handed over to the British by the Chinese.
“Handed over” is, perhaps, hardly an accurate description. Although
ordered by their Government to surrender it, the officials refused to
do so. A show of force was necessary; and a body of regular troops,
accompanied by the Hong Kong Volunteers, marched upon the place. The
Chinese, locking the gates and throwing away the keys, disappeared over
the walls and bolted into the country. It was necessary to effect an
entry by burglary. High hills tower above the city; and just beyond it
they close in to the Lyeemoon Pass.
To one unused to the East, Hong Kong is intensely interesting. The
streets, lined with European‐looking shops, are crowded with a strange
medley of races—white, black, or yellow. Daintily garbed English
ladies step from their rickshas and enter millinery establishments,
the windows of which display the latest fashions of Paris and London.
Straight‐limbed British soldiers, clad in the familiar scarlet of the
Line and blue of the Royal Artillery or in the now as well‐known khaki,
stroll along the pavement, bringing their hands to their helmets in a
smart salute to a passing officer. Sturdy bluejackets of our Royal Navy
walk arm‐in‐arm with sailors from the numerous American warships in the
harbour. A group of spectacled Chinese students move by, chattering
volubly. Long, lithe Bengal Lancers, in khaki blouses reaching to
the knee, blue putties, and spurred ankle‐boots, gaudy pugris and
bright shoulder‐chains, stop to chat with sepoys of a Bombay infantry
regiment or tall Sikhs of the Asiatic Artillery. Neat, glazed‐hatted
Parsis, long‐haired Coreans, trousered Chinese women, and wild, unkempt
Punjaubi mule‐drivers go by. German man‐o’‐war’s men, with flat caps
and short jackets covered with gilt or silver buttons, turn to look
back at a couple of small but sturdy Japanese bluejackets. Pig‐tailed
Chinese coolies push their way roughly along the side‐walk, earning
a well‐deserved cut from the swagger‐cane of a soldier against whose
red coat they have rubbed their loads. Even the weird figure of a
half‐naked Hindu fakir, his emaciated body coated with white ashes,
the trident of Vishnu marked in scarlet on his ghastly forehead,
carrying his begging‐bowl and long‐handled tongs, is seen. Europeans,
in white linen coats and trousers or smartly‐cut flannel suits, rush
across the road and plunge hurriedly into offices. These are probably
brokers, busily engaged in floating some of the numerous companies
that spring up daily in Hong Kong like mushrooms. Globe‐trotters, in
weird pith hats, pause before the windows of curio‐shops which display
the artistic efforts of Japan or Canton. The street is crowded with
rickshas bearing ladies, soldiers, civilians, or fat Chinamen in bowler
hats and long, blue silk coats. Carriages are seldom seen, for horses
are of little use in the colony, owing to its hilly character. Queen’s
Road is almost the only thoroughfare where they could be employed. Tall
Sikh and Mussulman policemen in blue or red pugris direct the traffic
or salute a white‐helmeted European inspector as he passes.
Society in Hong Kong is less official than in India, where almost every
male is to be found in either the Army or the Civil Service List. The
Governor and the General are, of course, the leaders, and in a small
way represent Royalty in the colony. The merchant class is supreme,
and their wives rule society; naval and military people being regarded
as mere birds of passage in a city where Europeans practically settle
for life and England seems a very far‐off country indeed. Altogether
life in Hong Kong is of a more provincially English character than
it is in India. The warm‐hearted hospitality of the Anglo‐Indian has
but a faint echo in this very British colony. One is not brought into
such daily contact with friends and acquaintances. In every station,
large and small, throughout the length and breadth of Hindustan there
is always a club which acts as the rallying‐place of European society.
Ladies as well as men assemble there in the afternoons when the sun
is setting, and polo, tennis, and cricket are over for the day. The
fair inhabitants of the station sit on the lawn, dispense tea to their
friends, talk scandal or flirt; while their husbands play whist,
bridge, and billiards, or gather in jovial groups round the bar and
discuss the events of the day.
But in Hong Kong, despite the large European population, there is no
similar institution or gathering‐place. The clubs are sternly reserved
for men. Save at an occasional race meeting or gymkhana, one never
sees all the white inhabitants assembled together. In the summer the
climate is far too hot for indoor social functions. Even tennis parties
are too exhausting. So hospitable hostesses substitute for their “At
Homes” weekly mixed bathing parties; and in the comparative cool of the
afternoons gay groups gather on the piers near the club and embark on
the trim steam launches that lie in shoals alongside. Then out they go
to some sandy bay along the coast, where mat‐sheds have been erected
to serve as bathing‐boxes for the ladies, who go ashore and attire
themselves for the water. The gentlemen of the party don their swimming
costume in the cabin of the launch, and, plunging overboard, make their
way to the beach to join their fair companions. When tired of bathing,
the ladies retire to the mat‐sheds, the men to the launch. Then,
dressed again and reunited, all steam back to Hong Kong, refreshing
themselves with tea and drinks on the way. This is the favourite form
of amusement in Hong Kong society during the summer.
In the cold weather dances at Government House, Headquarter House (the
General’s residence), and in the City Hall are frequent; and theatrical
companies from England and Australia occupy the theatre. Picnics,
walking or by launch, to the many charming spots to be found on the
island or the mainland are given. Polo, racing, cricket, tennis, and
golf are in full swing; and, as the climate during winter is cold and
bracing, life is very pleasant in the colony then.
To the newly arrived naval or military officer society in Hong Kong is
full of pitfalls and surprises. The English merchant or lawyer over
seas is usually a very good fellow, though occasionally puffed up by
the thought of his bloated money‐bags; but his wife is often a sad
example of British snobbery, the spirit of which has entered into her
soul in the small country town or London suburb from which she came.
Society in the boarding‐houses of West Kensington is a bad preparation
for the rôle of _grande dame_ in the hospitable East. And so the naval
or military officer, accustomed to broader lines of social demarcation
in England, is puzzled and amused at the minute shades of difference in
Hong Kong society. He fails to see why Mrs. A., whose spouse exports
tea, is to be considered quite of the _haut ton_ of the colony; while
Mrs. B., whose husband imports cigars, and who is by birth and breeding
a better man than A., is not to be called on.
“Big fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite ’em,
And little fleas have lesser fleas, and so, _ad infinitum_.”
And Hong Kong looks down on Kowloon with all the well‐bred contempt of
Belgravia for Brixton. And even in the despised suburb on the mainland
these social differences are not wanting. The wives of the superior
dock employees are the leaders of Kowloon society; and the better half
of a ship captain or marine engineer is only admitted on sufferance
to their exclusive circle. When the first Indian troops to strengthen
the garrison of Hong Kong in 1900 arrived, they were quartered in
Kowloon; where the presence of a number of strange young officers, who
dashed about their quiet suburb on fiery Arabs and completely eclipsed
the local dandies, caused a flutter in the hearts of anxious mothers
and indignant husbands. The fires of civilian prejudice against
the military burned fiercely; and I verily believe that many of the
inhabitants of Kowloon would have preferred an invasion of ferocious
Chinese.
THE KOWLOON HINTERLAND.
The island of Hong Kong was ceded to England in 1841. Later on a strip
of the adjacent mainland, from two to three miles deep, running back to
a line of steep hills from 1,300 to 2,000 feet high, was added. Then
for many years the colony rested content under the frowning shadow of
these dangerous neighbours; until it dawned at last upon our statesmen
that the Power who possessed this range of hills had Hong Kong at its
mercy. For heavy guns planted on their summits could lay the city of
Victoria in ruins at the easy range of two or three miles; and no
answering fire from the island forts so far below them could save it.
So in 1898, by a master‐stroke of diplomacy, China was induced to lease
to England the Kowloon Peninsula, about 200 miles square; and our
frontier was removed farther back to the safer distance of about twenty
miles from Hong Kong.
The peninsula is an irregularly shaped tongue of land with rugged and
indented coast‐line jutting out from the province of Kwang‐tung. It is
of little value except to safeguard the possession of Hong Kong. It
consists of range after range of rugged, barren hills, grass‐clad,
with here and there tangled vegetation but with scarcely a tree upon
them, separated by narrow valleys thinly occupied by Chinese. It could
only support a small population; for arable land is scarce, and the
few inhabitants are forced to add to their scanty crops by terracing
small fields on the steep sides of the hills. Villages are few and
far between. Those that exist are well and substantially built; for,
as in Hong Kong, granite is everywhere present on the mainland, the
soil being composed of disintegrated granite. Cattle‐breeding and even
sheep‐raising seem difficult; for the rank grass of the hills will
scarcely support animal life. Experiments made on the islands near Hong
Kong, which are of similar nature to the mainland, seem to bear this
out.
Winding inlets and long, narrow bays run far into the land on both
sides and considerably diminish the space at the disposal of the
cultivator. Occasionally narrow creeks are dammed by the villagers, and
the ground is roughly reclaimed. The supply of fresh water is limited
to the rainfall and the small streams that run down the hillsides. The
presence of mineral wealth is unsuspected and unlikely. Altogether the
Hinterland is poor and unproductive. Efforts are being made to develop
its scanty resources; and if cattle, wheat, and vegetables could be
raised, a ready market would be found for them in Hong Kong.
The present frontier line is exceedingly short—about ten miles if I
remember aright—as at the boundary the sea runs far into the land on
each side of the peninsula in two bays—Deep Bay on the west, Mirs Bay
on the east. The latter is being used as the winter training‐ground
of the ships of our China squadron. The former is very shallow, being
almost dry at low tide, and earns its name from the depth of its
penetration into the land.
One strongly defined portion of the boundary is the shallow, tidal
Samchun River which runs into Deep Bay. Across it the Chinese territory
begins in a fertile and cultivated valley surrounding an important and
comparatively wealthy market‐town, Samchun. Beyond that again rises
another line of rugged hills. I have never penetrated into the interior
here farther than Samchun, so cannot speak with accuracy of what the
country is like at the other side of these hills; but I have been
told that it is flat and fertile nearly all the way on to Canton. The
English firm in Hong Kong who projected the railway to Canton employed
a Royal Engineer officer to survey the route for the proposed line.
He told me, as well as I can remember, that he had estimated the cost
from Kowloon to about ten miles north of Samchun at about £27,000 a
mile, and from there on to Canton at £7,000 a mile. That seems to show
that the country beyond these hills is flat and easy. The cutting,
tunneling, and embanking required for the passage of a railway line
through the continuous hills of the Kowloon Hinterland would be a very
laborious undertaking. There is no long level stretch from Hong Kong
harbour to the frontier; and the hills are mainly granite.
Since the Hinterland has come into their possession the colonial
authorities have made an excellent road from Kowloon into their new
territory. It is carried up the steep hills and down again to the
valleys in easy gradients. It is of more importance for military than
for commercial purposes; as the peninsula produces so little and
wheeled transport is unknown.
The cession of the Hinterland in 1898 was very strongly resented by
its few inhabitants. Owing to their poverty and inaccessibility, they
were probably seldom plagued with visits from Chinese officials;
and they objected to their sudden transfer to the care of the more
energetic “foreign devils.” So when the Governor of Hong Kong arranged
a dramatic scene to take place at the hoisting of the British flag on
the frontier, and invitations were freely issued to the officials and
their wives and the society in general of the island to be present
on this historic occasion, the evil‐minded inhabitants prepared a
surprise for them. The police and the guard of honour went out on the
previous day to encamp on the ground on which the ceremony was to take
place. To their consternation they found that the new subjects of the
British Empire had dug a trench on the side of a hill close by, not
800 yards from the spot on which the flagstaff was to be erected,
and had occupied it in force, armed with jingals, matchlocks, Brown
Besses, and old rifles—antique weapons certainly, but good enough to
kill all the ladies and officials to be present next day. Information
was immediately sent back to Hong Kong; and quite a little campaign
was inaugurated. Companies of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, the Hong Kong
Regiment, and the Hong Kong and Singapore Battalion Royal Artillery,
with detachments of bluejackets, chased their new fellow‐subjects over
the hills, exchanged shots with them, and captured enough ancient
weapons to stock an armoury. Lieutenant Barrett, Hong Kong Regiment,
while bathing in a pond in a Chinese village, discovered a number of
old smooth‐bore cannons, which had been hurriedly thrown in there.
Little resistance was made; but the picnic arrangements for the
dramatic hoisting of the flag did not come off.
The inhabitants of the peninsula were speedily reconciled to British
rule and have since given no further trouble. A few European and Indian
police constables, armed with carbines and revolvers, are stationed
in it and patrol the country in pairs, frequently armed with no more
lethal weapon than an umbrella.
The possession of the Hinterland has strengthened enormously the
defence of Hong Kong from the landward side. Three passes, about 1,500
feet high, cross the last range of hills above Kowloon; and these can
be easily guarded. The situation of a hostile army which had landed
on the coast some distance away and endeavoured to march through the
difficult and mountainous country of the mainland, would be hopeless
in the presence of a strong defending force. Entangled in the narrow
valleys, forced to cross a series of roadless passes over which even
field‐guns must be carried bodily, fired at incessantly from the
never‐ending hilltops, it would be unable to proceed far. A couple of
regiments of Gurkhas or Pathans would be invaluable in such a country.
Moving rapidly from hill to hill they could decimate the invaders
almost with impunity to themselves.
The garrison of Hong Kong previous to 1900 consisted of a few batteries
R.A. to man the forts, some companies of the Asiatic Artillery or Hong
Kong and Singapore Battalion Royal Artillery (a corps of Sikhs and
Punjaubis raised in India for the defence of these two coast ports),
one British infantry regiment, the Hong Kong Regiment (ten companies
strong), and the Hong Kong Volunteers, Europeans, and Portuguese
half‐castes. The Asiatic Artillery were armed with muzzle‐loading
mountain guns. Such a force was absurdly small for such a large and
important place. General Sir William Gascoigne, K.C.M.G.,
was forced to still further denude it of troops in order to send
men hurriedly to North China to defend Tientsin. He was left with
his garrison companies of Royal Artillery, half of the Royal Welch
Fusiliers and Asiatic Artillery, and four‐fifths of the Hong Kong
Regiment. The situation would have been one of extreme danger had a
rising occurred in Canton and the southern provinces; and two regiments
of General Gaselee’s original force were stopped on their way to
the North. The 3rd Madras Light Infantry, under Lieutenant‐Colonel
Teversham, was composed of men of that now unwarlike presidency. But
the 22nd Bombay Infantry, under the command of Lieutenant‐Colonel R.
Baillie, was formed from the fighting races of Rajputana and Central
India and won many encomiums for their smartness in manœuvres over
the steep hills and their satisfactory work altogether.
A story is told of a War Office official who, ignorant of the
mountainous character of Hong Kong, wished to add a regiment of British
cavalry to its garrison. The general in command at the time, being
possessed of a keen sense of humour, gravely requested that the men
should be mounted on goats, pointing out that no other animal would
prove useful on the Hong Kong hills. But even in the mountainous
country of the mainland mounted infantry would be of great use to
enable commanding points to be speedily gained. When stationed in
Kowloon I organised mounted infantry on mules captured in North
China—splendid animals most of them, one standing fifteen hands high.
Even in that broken and rugged country I found that the men could move
swiftly around the bases of the hills, across the narrow valleys, and
up the easier slopes at a speed that defied all pursuit from their
comrades on foot. In an advance overland to Canton, mounted infantry
would be invaluable when the flat and cultivated country past Samchun
was reached; for cavalry would be useless in such closely intersected
ground.