absolutely nothing has reached us from the outside world to let us know
that our respective Governments care what becomes of us. My personal
attitude, compared with my co-besieged friends, is one of extraordinary
cheerfulness, simply because, perhaps owing to my youth and health, I
can feel no terrible fear for the future, but, on the contrary, am
distinctly hopeful.
All the hope that has been caused by seeing nightly green lights that
look like search-lights is falling very low, because they have not got
nearer at all, which would not be the case were they signals used by our
approaching troops. Where can the troops be? Are all the Governments so
gullible as to believe the Chinese Ministers in their different
countries, who are probably assuring them of our safety, or can they be
so criminally selfish as to be fighting diplomatically among themselves
as to what each Power shall have in the way of future sharing of China
after our rescue?
The consensus of opinion among the Ministers here is that the different
nations will agree to allow the Japanese or the Russians, who control
large fighting forces within a week’s march of Peking, to send a relief
column to Peking with the sole object of relieving their eleven
Ministers Plenipotentiary, exacting a promise that on this expedition
there should be no _coup d’état_ or punitive measures, but simply relief
of their distressed representatives. Weeks ago we were told to come to
the British compound for a day or two, but as yet there is not a sign of
help. Every day deaths occur of our best fighting men and officers, and
the question is, with men going in this painfully regular way, how long
can we hold out? Soon women and children will constitute the only forces
of the compound. The deaths each day are fortunately small in number,
but a great many are wounded, some very badly, which make them as good
as dead as far as fighting goes. The Russian officer in command says
that we cannot hold out longer than for one week at the most, but more
sanguine people say that, with good luck, three weeks can be tided over.
Captain Myers’s wound of his spear-thrust is not as slight as was
expected, and he has much fever. It was very sad to-day to see the
funeral of another baby. The second funeral of the day was one of the
most popular and attractive of the Customs students. He was shot through
the liver while cutting down a tree near the Hanlin Library, and died
two hours later.
Fifty men are in the hospital, twelve have been killed, and there are a
few convalescents walking about the compound. We did not say so at the
time, but we can say now, thank Heaven! the Chinese have tried to fire
us on all sides, so that in this way there are very few places or houses
where the Chinese, who are sniping at near range, can secure cover. By
means of terrific efforts, in which everybody joined, to extinguish the
fires, serious harm was averted, although our enormous wall, giving on
to the Mongolian Market Place, had a breach in it that took a great deal
of hard work on the part of the men to rebuild, or, I should say, to
mend, with rocks and sandbags, in such a way as to make it safe.
These rocks were moved with great difficulty; they had been in place so
long forming the pavements in this compound. How fortunate, from a
defensive standpoint, that when we came here we were allowed some
servants, our coolies included! Most of these are Christians, because
the Buddha men as a rule deserted when they saw how things were going;
and now these servants are put in gangs, all of them having to work for
the common need in building barricades, filling the thousands of
sandbags to strengthen the defences, and doing necessary sanitary work,
also at times working shoulder to shoulder with our soldiers when a
barricade caves in from the enemy’s heavy fire. One barricade, for
instance, was destroyed by the Chinese. The coolies, working with the
soldiers, rebuilt it, though exposed to a galling fire from Tu
Fu-hsiang’s men all the time. One afternoon six coolies were killed.
These men, whom we call by the general term of “coolie,” classing them
thus for convenience, are often scholars, being teachers of Chinese to
the missionaries or interpreters, and yet they work without complaint in
the gangs, though they are in every way unaccustomed to manual labour.
At four o’clock we had another funeral, for Oliphant, who was shot. I
was present, and the English chaplain, Mr. Norris, gave us a short
service. It was very sad to see his body, wrapped only in a piece of
sacking, let down into the ground. The grey sky, occasional bullets
flying over our heads, and a few claps of thunder, with flashes of
lightning, made a fitting background for the burial of this lovable
young man. His brother, a great tall, gaunt fellow, looked his part in
the most pitiful way as chief mourner. Before we leave Peking many will
be the Chinamen who will be killed without quarter by the Customs
students in revenge for the untimely death of their comrade. All the
Ministers Plenipotentiary were there, and poor Sir Robert Hart looked
weak and haggard from deep grief at the loss of his favourite
subordinate. Oliphant was buried only three hours after his death. We
have no way of keeping the dead for a greater length of time.
Horse is the principal article of diet. Several days after we arrived
here the beef was eaten up, and there remained but a small flock of
sheep, which fortunately was brought here while there was time. There
are 1,293 Europeans to feed daily in this compound, and rice is the dish
_par excellence_ for everyone. Mutton, however, is distributed to the
sick, women and children, to the extent of a quarter of a pound apiece
every third day. There are a lot of horses, ponies, and mules in the
compound which we have kept alive by feeding with straw, and every day
two animals have been slaughtered and distributed among the messes. Then
the coolies have a kitchen, where they can come whenever their work
makes it possible, and they get rice and horse-meat. It is queer to see
how many people acknowledge that they like it, having eaten it now for
two weeks. Of course, a great deal depends upon the animal, but they
agree that mule and pony are better than horse. Some people even who
have among their stores plenty of canned or tinned beef prefer the fresh
horse-meat. At our mess, however, we have a prejudice against it, and as
long as we continue to have the tinned beef we will not send for our
share of the animal.
The May races having come off before the siege, most of the diplomats
had not disposed of their horses and polo ponies, and the all-important
question now is not if “Cochon” will win more cups in future, but if his
steaks will be tender. Things are so queer now. The one cow which still
gives a small amount of milk, needless to say, has not been killed for
her beef, but is carefully tended for her baby-saving fluid. The
president of the largest and most influential bank in Peking, besieged
here with us, has received a wound which absolutely incapacitates him
for active work. He can only hobble around on a crutch. He has
volunteered to tend “Miss Cow” and assist her to find the few blades of
grass which are still to be had.
I went with an officer to the Hanlin Library, where the sniping is still
constant, but not quite as severe as it was, owing to the good
barricades with which we have strengthened the position. The Chinese
fired this wonderful library of Peking so ruthlessly that nothing is
left there but thousands of charred and burnt books, and some evidences
of the charming courtyard and grass plot where the old Chinese savants
used to go and read the ancient manuscripts in Sanskrit and other dead
languages. Here I found the bank president, a great power in China in
ordinary times, quietly tending the cow, watching her from an antique
stone bench. Surely the shade of some ancient philosopher must be
shocked into asking himself, “And what have we here?”
The Customs mess at Sir Robert Hart’s has an invariable menu. At
breakfast, rice, tea, and jam; at tiffin, rice and horse; at dinner,
rice, horse, and jam. We have splendid stores—better than any in the
compound—so we live better than any mess here. We have quite a supply of
Bishop’s wonderful preserved California fruits, not very sweet, which
are most delicious during this hot weather, because they do not make one
thirsty; then we have macaroni and tinned tomatoes. We make our corned
beef into croquettes sometimes, but generally have it put into a curry
with rice. Yesterday we had a great treat for dinner. Our cook, who is
an enterprising and daring soul, went outside of our lines into the
Mongol markets at great risk to his life from snipers or being waylaid
by the enemy, and procured one dozen tiny chickens. Sir Robert Hart came
to our party.
_Menu._
Remarks.
Celery bouillon Liebig extract, celery.
Anchovy on toast Anchovy paste.
Broiled chicken Procured at risk of cook’s
life.
Green peas, fried Tinned peas and two potatoes.
potatoes
Bean salad Tinned beans.
Black coffee Plenty of coffee.
The chickens remaining from the cook’s raid are being kept in a basket
and fed as if they were babies, and will be used entirely for the
children. We count eight at our mess as regular members, but our guests
are constant and numerous. Its personnel consists of Dr. Velde (who does
such glorious surgical work), Dr. Morrison, Mr. Cheshire, Mr. Pethick,
Mr. Squiers, Fargo Squiers (who is Captain Strouts’ orderly), Mrs.
Squiers (who, because of the great generosity in freely supplying from
her limited stores those who are in need, has been called by many in
this compound the “Lady Bountiful”), the three children and two
governesses, and myself. We usually have missionaries in to tiffin, and
our more intimate friends, many of whom are sadly in need of food, to
breakfast and dinner.
The Russian Legation is so situated that at one point their defence is
very weak, and they have almost nightly attacks at such close quarters
with the Chinese, that the fighting is sometimes hand to hand. The men
of the Russian guard were undrilled sailors, who had been forcibly
enlisted from inland villages in Russia, and Von Rahden, their
commander, and his under-officer, to keep them from running away when
these close-range fights begin, get behind them and stick them with the
ends of bayonets, so that they in turn will advance on the Chinese with
fury. He claims that this is the only way to teach undisciplined troops
to advance at close quarters, as they always become seized with
terror—and I don’t wonder a bit, for the Chinese in attacking blow on
shrill horns, shriek, howl, dance with the wildness of dervishes, and
advance with the cruelty and cunning of Indians.
[Illustration:
MRS. SQUIERS
]
Von Rahden is frequently up all night, and when he is, he usually comes
to us for breakfast, which we have at any time between 6.30 and 8
o’clock. I have especial charge of the coffee-pot, and when the members
of our mess have been up all night on duty, they look as if they could
drink it all, instead of the one cup I have to limit them to. What a
difference, instead of having your maid bring your breakfast-tray in the
morning when you ring for it, to be waked up from a heavy morning nap at
six o’clock by knocking on the door, to find two or three
powder-begrimed members of your mess humbly inquiring: “How soon will
breakfast be ready?” They have probably been up all night on the
firing-line, and are dog-tired and faint.
We tell them to come back in half an hour, and then our skirmish begins.
The sleepy cook is routed out of the Chinese-filled courtyard under our
windows, and told it is time to cook the wheatena, the coffee and
soda-raised biscuits, for which purpose he repairs to the broken stove
in the box-like kitchen. We take a hasty sponge-bath, and our
rough-dried shirt-waists and golf-skirts are donned, and we are ready
for the day. Next we roll up our straw mattress, place it in a corner,
and put the small eight-sided Chinese table in the middle of the room.
We boast four chairs, and as our mess ranges from eight to twelve
people, the ones who come late sit on the silver trunks or on the floor.
A fresh table-napkin we have procured from somewhere, and on the table
we place some green leaves for decoration, and breakfast is announced.
Besides Von Rahden, another breakfast guest we have almost daily is the
Rev. Mr. Gamewell, a missionary who appears the mildest of men, but who
is developing into one of the strongest in Peking. He is the brains of
the Defence and Fortification Committee. Before entering the ministry he
was a star student at Cornell, in the engineering department; and now
this entire compound and the outer lines are included in his hands, and
his recommendation for barricades, countermining to protect against the
Chinese undermining, of which we are constantly aware, are all carried
out as near as possible from his orders. Before dawn he is at work to
take advantage of these hours of comparative quiet, to see just where
the weak spots are, and how he can best provide for their strengthening
during the coming day. He is a stooping figure, very quiet, and rarely
speaks to us, and, when he does speak, never about what he is doing. He
told me his working hours are so continuous, and everybody calling for
him from every quarter, that he did not believe he could keep on if it
were not for the hour’s rest and good hot breakfast that he gets daily
in Mrs. Squiers’s rooms.
Another member of the mess is Dr. Velde, the German surgeon, who is
doing such wonderful and constant work at the hospital day and night. He
performs unheard-of operations one after another, and on the same old
kitchen table that we found for him. The antique rifles used so
frequently by the Chinese inflict the most heart-rending wounds, the
treatment of which, to be successful, surely calls for surgical genius,
and, thank Heaven! Velde has that. He is short, thick-set, and blond,
with stumpy little hands and a keen blue eye, and is wonderfully
practical and matter-of-fact. The various messes near the hospital asked
him to join them, but without affectation—he knows he is the only
surgeon in Peking, and he must guard his health—he answered: “No, I go
only where I get the best and the most food;” and having been asked by
Mr. Squiers to come to us, he gladly accepted, while reiterating the
same reason for joining us that he had given for refusing the others.
His duties are so constant that he usually is only able to get in to
breakfast and dinner.
Another feature of this siege is one which shows what marvellous
executive ability some people have. The proprietor of the Peking Hotel
is Chamot, a Swiss who has played a wonderful part in the drama of our
imprisonment. There have naturally been numbers of people without stores
of any kind, and people who, if they had stores, would have no place to
cook them; so Chamot stepped forward and undertook to feed daily I don’t
know how many people. When we were first assembled in the British
compound the confusion was something terrific, and he gave food to all
those who had nothing, and later he made a permanent business
arrangement to provide food for those who had no means of messing
themselves. Among these are many Roman Catholic priests and twenty-five
Roman Catholic Sisters, saved by himself and his wife from the Nan-t’ang
just before it was burned, besides numerous families and detached
individuals having no stores, who would have had a most serious time
without his assistance.
These Sisters were fed by Mrs. Squiers for many days before Chamot
volunteered their care. Of course, the variety that he supplies is not
wonderful, but he gives them horse-meat, rice, occasionally some tinned
vegetables, and a kind of coarse brown bread, made from an inferior
flour, which he bakes himself. For so many people it is quite marvellous
how he feeds them so regularly. He has a few coolies to help him at his
hotel, which is near the French Legation, and there he personally
superintends the cooking of the two messes, one at twelve and one at six
o’clock, and brings it up in a Chinese cart to the British compound,
always at the risk of his own life from snipers. One cannot but wonder
how long he will be able to continue his good work. Chamot’s Hotel in
Peking is known in the siege vernacular as the Swiss Legation.
_Monday, July 9._
A day or two ago an old-fashioned cannon was found in a shop near
Legation Street, where they made Chinese stoves—a kind of foundry. It is
undoubtedly one of the guns brought up to Peking by the English and
French in 1860. Mr. Squiers promptly took a great interest in this
ancient piece of ordnance, hoping that we might make some use of it. He,
with Mitchell, a gunner’s mate from the _Newark_, have worked
assiduously in their efforts to clean off the rust of forty years and
get it ready for use. During the cleaning process they made projectiles
of bags of nails. They took the “International,” as the gun was
christened, over to the Fu and fired the bags of nails at a Chinese
barricade, thus serving the double purpose of cleaning the gun and
causing some damage and immense fright to the enemy. The noise of the
explosion was so much greater than anything the Chinese had heard coming
from our lines that five sentries incautiously put their heads above the
Imperial Wall to ascertain what was going on, and were promptly shot
down by our guards. Some Russian ammunition is here, intended for a gun
which should have been forwarded from Tien-tsin at the same time as the
ammunition, but which, most unfortunately, Colonel Wogack failed to have
put on the last, train, and we find it can be fired from the
“International.”
[Illustration:
LOADING THE “INTERNATIONAL”
]
[Illustration:
_Copyright, M. S. Woodward_
AMERICAN AND RUSSIAN MARINES AT WORK ON THE BARRICADE.
BARON VON RAHDEN ON THE RIGHT
]
To-day a European boy died of dysentery. Last night the “International”
was taken over to the Hanlin, where it was used to great advantage in
breaking up a barricade that the Chinese had made, and which they have
been strengthening daily for their convenience and protection while
engaged in the pleasant occupation of sniping our men. The day before
yesterday Von Rostand, Austrian Chargé d’Affaires, was shot at the
French Legation—where, I understand, the rifle-firing and shelling is
terrific—somewhere near the eye, and they fear he may lose it. His wife
is nursing him there. M. Merghelynckem, the First Secretary of the
Belgian Legation, killed two Chinese yesterday, and in killing one he
undoubtedly saved the life of the French commanding officer. He does
good work, and is a fine shot, but is erratic to a degree, and I don’t
believe he loves his English colleagues as much as he might. He left
yesterday for the French Legation to take up his abode there, where he
surely will be treated with great consideration, having saved the life
of their officer, although there he is given eight hours of sentry duty,
while here he had but six hours.
The other day he brought me five long Chinamen’s queues, which he had
cut off the heads of Boxers he had killed, as a souvenir of a day’s
work. It means to some Chinese—the cutting-off of the queue—a great and
unholy mutilation, and these trophies hanging up in our living-room for
a few days were obviously things of terror to our Chinese servants,
although they had been cut from the heads of their dread enemies, and we
soon disposed of them. Yesterday the Austrian commanding officer was
killed, shot through the heart. At first we kept a record of the dead or
badly wounded men as they would be brought into the hospital, but now
they come in so often that we cease to note the exact number.
People—the sanguine ones—say that it is quite likely and reasonable that
help will not come for a week or two, and in this way, if the troops do
not come, they can say, with childish satisfaction, “Oh, I never
expected them before.” When we first got here all the Ministers and
everyone said: “Certainly by the first of July at the latest.” Now they
are actually saying: “Certainly by the first of August”!
Yesterday—Sunday—there was a lot of good work done. Nevertheless, Mr.
Norris, the chaplain, who is one of the hard-working members of the
Committee on Fortifications, gave us half an hour for the service held
in Lady Macdonald’s dining-room—the regular chapel of the compound being
occupied by the American Protestant missionaries—and I must say that it
was comforting. This room is something of a wreck, denuded of all
draperies for sandbags, walls riddled with large and small bullet-holes,
a life-sized painting of Queen Victoria occupying the entire wall at one
end of the room, hung quite crooked and peppered with shot. A great beam
from the ceiling protruded some 4 or 5 feet down into the room, where it
had been forced by a spent cannonball crashing into the side of the
house, and over all this ruin was the unmistakable atmosphere which
clings to a room where many people eat three times a day, and where the
staff of servants is not equal to the work. It was but six weeks ago
that I was a guest at a most charming dinner given in this very room,
surrounded by what then seemed to be the unutterable and interminable
calm that comes from the possession of the best things to make life
pleasant in the Far East. The other denominations had their services as
well some time during the day.
The hot weather began last week, and the thermometer is 109° in the
shade. I wear shirt-waists and short skirts; the men wear filthy clothes
that they work in and most of them sleep in. They never wear collars—no
washing of linen for three weeks, and, from the looks of them, most of
them only shave every fourth or fifth day. Life is now settling down to
a routine, and one would think that the people of this compound had
never done anything else all their lives but get up during each night
when a general attack begins. Each man goes to his appointed post, or if
for a change we have no general attack, the men quietly get up at all
hours and go to their sentry work.
[Illustration:
_Photo, Elliott & Fry_
SIR CLAUDE MACDONALD
]
The Marquis Salvago sits chatting with his wife, a very beautiful
woman, in a _chaise longue_ most of his time. M. Pichon, the French
Minister, nervously and ceaselessly walks about, telling every one who
chats with him: “La situation est excessivement grave; nous allons
tous mourir ce soir.” M. de Giers, the Russian Minister, walks
eternally between his Legation and the British compound, and looks
every inch a Minister. Poor Señor Cologan, the Spanish Minister, and
doyen of the corps, is very ill. M. Knobel, the Dutch Minister,
offered his services as a sentry to the Committee on Defences, but
stated at the same time that he did not know how to shoot, and was
very short-sighted. Needless to say, his offer was not accepted. Mr.
Conger, the American Minister, walks about. Sir Claude Macdonald, the
British Minister, is now the Commander-in-Chief, unanimously elected
to that position by his colleagues, and he tries sincerely to do his
duty as such. I believe he is fully competent, as he used to be a
captain in the British army before entering the diplomatic service.
His path is a thorny one, however; most of the Legations are so
jealous of this compound being the centre and last stronghold _par
excellence_, that they are outrageously inconsiderate of all orders
issued, and, notwithstanding the great gravity of the situation, they
put everything in Sir Claude’s way to keep his plans from reaching
successful maturity. A small incident may be cited to show this horrid
and prevalent spirit.