Fortifications for picks and shovels to be sent to their Legation for
important night barricade work. The missionary in charge of them at the
British Legation failed to send them; either they were all in use on
equally important work, or there was an oversight on his part. Having
failed to receive them, Herr Von Rostand, the Austrian Chargé, who has
joined the French in their compound, at twelve o’clock last night
returned to the British Legation, where he and his wife were accepting
Lady Macdonald’s hospitality, and took it upon himself to wake Sir
Claude up, and insultingly shouted that Sir Claude was responsible, and
he alone responsible; that the French Legation was not being properly
defended, etc. (especially the etc.). Sir Claude said that he would
discuss anything relative to the safety of the Legations at any time in
the proper manner, but the way that Von Rostand spoke made it impossible
for him to talk to him at all. The Von Rostands then took up their abode
at the French Legation, which was natural more or less, as the Austrian
soldiers are helping them.
A question going round the compound is: When the French and German
Legations must be given up, where will the Von Rostands go? The fact
that one is a Minister or Chargé does not help to find one new quarters,
as every room, hall-way, and closet, was long ago appropriated. The
charming doyen of the Corps Diplomatique, the Spanish Minister, Señor
Cologan, sleeps on a mattress in the tiny hall of the house that was
given to the French Minister for himself and official family. He has to
go to bed late and get up early because people have to walk over him. He
has a tiny shelf on which to put his few toilet possessions, but he
sleeps in all his clothes, as everyone sees him. The Dutch Minister
sleeps in a tiny storeroom of the very small Second Secretary’s house,
that we now call the Russian Legation, where the fifty-one people
composing M. de Giers’s official personnel are housed. As this room is a
storeroom, his nights are a constant fight with cockroaches. Such is the
way rank is treated when it is a fight for life.
_July 16._
A steady rain has begun that promises to last for several days, a sure
but not very heavy downpour, and with it comes a greater number of
mosquitoes and fleas than would otherwise be the case. The sticky black
flies seem to be of a different family from those one is accustomed to
elsewhere. It is awful to see them feasting themselves on these filthy
and ill-smelling Chinese people, half of whose bodies are usually
covered with a hundred of these pests; but the Chinese are so accustomed
to them that when they prepare their food they do not object if some, or
I should say a great many, get into it. The “slaughter-house,” of
course, is a great centre for these disgusting flies, and as we are only
a few doors from it, the feeling of having these beasts swarming over
everything in one’s room, oneself included, is distinctly unpleasant. To
an imaginative person, who may have been so unfortunate as to study “The
Life of the Microbe,” these scavenger flies would certainly cause him to
lose his mind.
The room at the back of Dr. Poole’s house, which we occupy, is damp, and
all night the fleas and cockroaches that appear would horrify anyone. We
sent our mosquito-nets and hair-mattresses to the hospital, so that
every night we lie on our straw-stuffed bag, doing duty as a mattress,
on the floor, and unless one lies in a pool of bug-powder there is no
such thing as sound sleep. Until quite recently we had no insect-powder,
and the nights were unimaginable. Our bodies were most frightfully
bitten. Lately, however, a steward at the hospital concocted a powder of
materials which he had on hand. It makes one sneeze, it is so powerful;
but under these circumstances sneezing is a joy. One knows our
arch-enemies are dying, although this does not affect the ungetatable
mosquito, who sings on nightly.
Last night young Warren, of the Customs, was carried through the
compound on the way to the hospital, his face almost entirely shot off.
I knew him quite well—had danced with him often; he was a charming
fellow. He died at daybreak this morning. One of our wonderful shots, a
marine named Fisher, who was stationed on the Wall, was shot and
instantly killed this morning, and to-day really seems to be the most
disheartening morning of the siege, for so many men are going, as the
French Canadians would say, “on their last great trail,” or “over the
Great Divide.”
About 8.30 this morning, after our mess had been straightened up, I was
_en route_ for the hospital, carrying a pot of coffee to the doctors and
nurses, when some soldiers passed me, carrying a rough litter bearing
Captain Strouts, mortally wounded. It was especially shocking to me to
see him thus, as he had breakfasted with us at seven o’clock, and had
seemed tired from his constant work, but hopeful and in good spirits.
His arm was hanging limp, the hands and fingers stiff with agony. It
seemed but a moment before that I had passed him at breakfast a cup of
black coffee, to receive which he had held out that strong, slim hand,
with the signet-ring on the little finger, and now it was all so
changed. In less than two hours the hand was again being held out, but
in his death-throes. He had been shot while going over to the Fu with
Colonel Shiba and Dr. Morrison, to decide on some new plan of defence
for that much-fought-over district, where the firing was constant. Dr.
Morrison was hit at the same time, but not seriously, and the little
Colonel had his cap shot off his head by two bullets.
These two wounded men were carried to the hospital, where Captain
Strouts was attended to; but Dr. Morrison, owing to the great press of
work, had to wait for some hours, nursing the exquisite agony of his
wound, until his turn arrived. Poor Captain Strouts, with a cut artery
in the thigh, only lived four hours, and died while asleep. He was so
very, very tired. His work had been almost continuous night and day
since he arrived from Tien-tsin, and especially hard, since he had to
share the work and responsibility which necessarily fell on him by the
death of so many officers. His death was very much felt by everyone. Dr.
Morrison and Captain Strouts were frequent members of our mess, and in
one day to have two leave thus—one wounded and one killed! Mrs. Squiers
and I asked each other, “Who next?”
Can it surprise us that to-day the whole compound looks dreary and
disheartened? So many deaths in one short twenty-four hours! I could
write a great deal if it were of any use—of this compound, with the shot
and shell and bullets, making it dangerous for us to move about the
small open place in the Legation; of weary waiting for the troops
through heat and rain; of great dread over the weak places in our
defences; of crowded hospital and growing cemetery, and principally of
the nervous strain caused by all this worrying and fearing over the fate
in store for us should we arrive at that point when we could no longer
hold our own. A good sergeant or corporal is missed as much when he is
wounded or killed as an officer; it is especially true of our own
marines, for in many instances they do the work of an officer, and take
as much responsibility. The deaths are coming so frequently now that a
final stand seems not improbable, and if when that is taken we continue
to have the same percentage of deaths, then we can well say our prayers.
It is discussed quietly by men that they will certainly kill their wives
when that time comes. God grant it never may! Apropos of this, I have in
my pocket a small pistol loaded with several cartridges, to use if the
worst happens. A Belgian secretary stole it from the armoury for me—“in
case you need it, mademoiselle.”
Many is the time bullets passing through the tops of the trees have cut
off branches or twigs which fall at our feet when attacks begin. We
often see the flash of the cannon as it sends the shell over the
compound, generally too high to do any damage, but passing before one
knows it. And so it goes, shells and rifle-shots singing all around us.
Late yesterday afternoon the shooting seemed to cease temporarily as I
was sitting with Baroness von Ketteler on one of the benches which bore
witness that this Supply Department had been, before the siege, the
Legation tennis-court, when a bullet whistled with startling clearness
within half an inch of my ear, passing between the Baroness and myself.
Knowing that the sniper who had spied us was taking a moment to re-aim
or reload, I immediately dropped from the bench on to the ground to get
out of his range trying at the same time to pull Baroness von Ketteler
with me. This I could not do, and it was some time before one of the
Customs students who was working quite near us realized that we were the
target for this new sniping, and forcibly led her back to the Legation.
In her agony of mind I am sure a bullet to end her suffering would have
been truly welcomed.
We no longer talk about the troops. If they come in time they will come
in time, and our one aim will be to last as long as we can. The only
subjects of conversation now are the necessary strengthening of this or
that barricade, the digging of trenches at this or that corner, to guard
against the Chinese undermining us, as they are sure to do, mining being
one of their favourite methods of warfare.
We are trying to prepare for all emergencies. People who, before the
siege began, seemed to have reasonable intelligence, and, if one had
thought about such a thing, looked as if they would show up pretty well
if they were put to it, have now gone to pieces entirely, lacking
apparently the desire even to appear courageous. The men often make some
trifling ailment an excuse to shirk all work for the common defence, and
spend their time groaning over the situation, and becoming more hateful
daily to the men and women upon whom the real responsibilities of the
siege are resting; while the women who have collapsed simply spend their
hours, day and night, behind the nearest closed door, and await each
fresh attack to indulge in new hysterical scenes.
I can honestly say there are more men to the bad than women. When anyone
becomes really seized with this terror they lose all sense of
proportion—the slightest provocation brings forth torrents of self-pity,
and they ask only for the impossible. To-day I took the French governess
her dinner, into which, I must admit, the cook had dashed the
curry-powder rather too strongly. With this small _contretemps_ as a
starter, she seized my hands, and with heart-breaking sobs begged me to
save her, as she knew, from the unusual taste of her food, that someone
was trying to poison her. “Mademoiselle, je ne demande que peu,
simplement qu’on me retourne tout de suite en France.” To tell her we
had all eaten the same curry, and that it was as impossible to send her
to France as it was to send her to the moon, were words thrown away; she
was hopelessly unbalanced with terror.
Several people have already lost their minds; among them a dear old
Italian priest, Père Dosio, the Superior of the Nan-t’ang, which was
looted and burnt with the accompanying horrors. I talked with him from
day to day, and from being at first _comblé_ with grief at the ruin of
his life’s work in the destruction of his cathedral and hospital, he
gradually has become full of hallucinations. His loss of mind has been a
gentle affair compared to the violence shown by a Swedish missionary
named Norregarde, who at times has to be confined with armed guards over
him, as he is utterly deranged. He escaped once, and marched out of the
British Legation gate to the canal, and it seems that he went direct to
the Tsung-li Yamen, where he gave them, as far as we can learn by his
own accounts when he returned, all the information they wanted, and
especially urged them not to shoot so high, as few of their shots harmed
us. Since his return he has been hourly guarded, but, unfortunately, we
notice his advice has been taken, and Chinese shooting comes lower. The
Chinese have a great respect for the insane, thinking the spirits who
possess them are sacred. They gave him a good dinner, and he returned
unharmed to the British Legation. The Chinese are working harder to take
the Fu than any other point. It holds nearly three thousand native
Christians, and it is these poor wretches whom the Chinese would first
love to murder. Then, too, if they got the Fu, they could so easily
mount guns on its wall and fire down on us. We _must_ hold the Fu and
the Tartar Wall directly behind the American Legation, but it will cost
us the lives of all our marines to hold the latter.
On the 14th two messengers came to the British compound carrying a
letter signed “Prince Ching and others.” This communication was
interpreted by some as a desire of Jung Lu to incriminate Prince Ching,
as the letter came from the former’s camp, and he is a well-known hater
of both the foreigners and Prince Ching. If we answered it, and sent the
answer to him to Jung Lu’s camp, from whom it came, nothing would be
easier than for Jung Lu to take the communication to the
Empress-Dowager, and thus prove to her Ching’s perfidy in writing to the
Ministers.
Mr. Pethick disagrees entirely with this view, and urges the Ministers
to answer it, as he feels convinced it is a genuine beginning of
parleyings which, if nothing comes of them, would probably at least give
us an armistice and a respite from the horrible attacks. This letter is
fairly threatening, and it reads that we _must_ now leave Peking, or
they will do their _worst_; that they have tried to communicate with us
before, but their advances were never “gracefully received”; that we had
fired first, and they were glad that so far only one Minister
Plenipotentiary had been killed. As for the way of going, we must all
leave Peking in tens, or those who desire to remain temporarily would be
afforded protection and lodging in the Tsung-li Yamen, etc. It was
addressed to Sir Claude and other Ministers, and they threatened in a
postscript that terrible things would happen to us if they received no
letter in answer by twelve o’clock the next day.
Opinions vary about it, but everyone agrees that it is worth while
answering whether it is a ruse or not. So the response was sent
yesterday at noon. The messenger who brought us this letter was the
Chinese Christian who took, or tried to take, Sir Claude’s communication
to Admiral Seymour, and was caught by the Chinese, beaten in the most
horrible way, and robbed of the letter containing information as to our
numbers, strength, etc., which the Chinese must have been very glad to
get. The messenger was then taken to Jung Lu’s camp, where this letter
was given him to deliver to us, as he knew the way that would get him
quickly into our lines. This man was again used to take our answer to
Jung Lu’s camp. Some say the troops are on the way, and the Chinese are
trying to start negotiations before they arrive, either to make us come
out of our lines, so that they can murder us easily, or so that they can
say to the Powers, when they finally arrive, that they kept up
communication with us, and that it was our own fault that we barricaded
ourselves in our Legations; others insist that it is altogether a
_blague_ and a _canard_.
The morning following Captain Strouts’ death the Ministers and
guard-captains unanimously voted Mr. Squiers to be Sir Claude’s Chief of
Staff, the position having been unfilled since Captain Strouts’ death.
The atmosphere of the besieged in Peking is not one of peace, but of
bitterest feeling, especially strong against the British, and for no
other reason than that the other nations begrudge the strategical
superiority of the English position. Everyone hopes, with Mr. Squiers in
this rôle, that things will run smoothly, and that perhaps Sir Claude’s
orders, when delivered to the different “guards” by an American Chief of
Staff, and talked over with them in their own mother-tongues (for Mr.
Squiers is a linguist), may be oil on the troubled waters. Let us hope
so, for, should national feeling ever reach the top notch, this besieged
area will separate—the Continentals on one side and the English and
Americans on the other—and Heaven only knows how soon the end would come
for everybody should this horror of military separation take place.
The strong feelings of friendship, that are perhaps due to the
propinquity of our lines, have made the Russians our good friends and
comrades, leading them to express to us freely their intense dislike of
the British in violent phrases: “Ces chiens d’Anglais! Comment
supportez-vous leurs arrogances et leurs manières de cochons?” And later
on an Englishman would drop into our mess for a moment and admonish us
with the words: “You Americans are the devil. You are on good terms with
every d——d dago in the place; and as for the Russians, you love them as
though they were your long-lost brothers!” It is unique, this feeling of
ours of amity and good-will towards almost everybody here, and I am
confident it is greatly due to the strong personality of Mr. Squiers
that, as a Legation, we hold this extraordinary balance of things in
Peking, which places the Americans in the lead on this diplomatic
chess-board.
_July 31._
In the afternoon of the 16th, the day of Captain Strouts’ death, and
while we were all attending his funeral, Mr. Conger, Mr. Squiers, and M.
de Giers were told to come and interview a messenger who had arrived
with a white flag, bringing a letter from “Prince Ching and others” in
answer to our letter of the 14th. The messenger apparently came from the
Yamen, and had a cipher telegram for the American Minister from the
State Department in Washington, reading simply, “Give tidings bearer,”
then saying that we could send an answer to the Secretary of State
through them; but, knowing it must be an open telegram, which they could
easily change, no steps were taken to answer it. The following day came
another letter from the Yamen to Mr. Conger that Minister Wu in
Washington had written thus, “China is sent greetings and aid by the
United States, and desires to know how is the health of Mr. Conger,” and
this message stated that the American Minister would be allowed to send
one cablegram in cipher. Realizing the great responsibility devolving
upon us to send a clear and strong telegram to the outside world, our
Legation consulted with Sir Claude and other Ministers about the
wording. The gist of what they sent was that, “We are holding our last
position under shot and shell in the British Legation, and we will be
massacred shortly if help does not come.”
[Illustration:
EDWIN H. CONGER
(UNITED STATES MINISTER)
REPRODUCED BY PERMISSION FROM “THE SPHERE”
]
The following day, when the Yamen messenger came for the telegram, the
other Ministers sent cipher messages also, hoping they might be sent.
They were returned, however, with no apology. Since then there has been
a message of some sort on every other day from the Yamen, signed “Prince
Ching.” The attacks are so irregular now that one cannot count on them,
except that they are apt to occur at the most inopportune time during
the day, and when least expected. Once, even two or three of the clerks
or under-secretaries of the Tsung-li Yamen “called.” They were evidently
frightened and nervous at what they considered actually coming into the
lion’s den, but amenities only were discussed. We very naturally
considered them of too inferior rank to treat officially. In one of the
many letters in answer to Prince Ching’s, Sir Claude wrote that we could
hold out indefinitely with food, soldiers, and ammunition, but that the
ladies and children felt the need of ice, eggs, and fresh fruit; so
yesterday, the 20th, came three carts full of melons, six bags of flour,
egg-plants, and an uneatable Chinese vegetable—no eggs, no ice, or
fruit, except the unripe melons.
We have been trying to make a kind of market with the Chinese soldiers
doing duty on the Chinese sentry lines, but although they would be very
glad to pocket the big commission which they could get out of the
transaction, they have not been allowed to do so by their officers, but
they smuggle in eggs for us every morning at high prices (_bien
entendu_), just enough for a very small supply for the hospital.
An interesting rumour that comes to us by a captured Chinese, and is
generally credited to be true, is that Tung Fu-hsiang’s army has retired
south from Peking to meet the foreign troops. Another rumour, however,
says that Tung Fu-hsiang has departed westward, and as he was only a
Mohammedan brigand before the Empress-Dowager elevated him to the head
of her army, the Chinese think he has gone, not to meet our troops, but
to continue the good work and merry life as a bandit in Mongolia. A
letter comes to-day to Sir Robert Hart from the Yamen which is most
polite and gushing. They regret most sincerely that his house and
compound have been burned, and state at the same time that the Customs
affairs have been turned almost upside down in consequence of lack of
orders during the past six weeks from the Inspector-General. It is
probable that they will come to Sir Robert for help as soon as things
become more quiet.
The other day, when they sent us fruit and vegetables, they said they
regretted they could not send us ice, because, if they attempted to do
so, the Boxers, who like ice, would be sure to capture it. Apropos of
ice, another baby’s life could undoubtedly to-day have been saved had
there been any in the compound. These “might-have-beens” are so
agonizing.
M. Pichon, the French Minister, to-day had a very nice telegram sent him
from France, saying: “You are unanimously voted to have the Legion of
Honour. Your mother sends her love and greeting, and 15,000 Frenchmen
are on their way to your support.”
On the 18th a messenger got through from the Japanese Consul in
Tien-tsin to Narahara, saying that he hoped the large foreign contingent
of soldiers would get started by the 20th for the relief of Peking; he
hoped there would be 24,000 Japanese, 6,000 Russians, 3,000 British, and
1,500 Americans; and that the Chinese city of Tien-tsin had been burnt,
but not the foreign settlement.
The Russians seemed horribly worried about so many Japanese soldiers
coming, but there are rumours that the Russians have been keeping away
from Tien-tsin so as not to join the allied Powers, and perhaps be
forced to make some promises which they might regret later, and that
they are doing some seizing of territory at the present on their own
account on the plea of defending their railways. An Englishman here,
being, of course, anti-Russian, insists that this nation is absolutely
careless about its Minister or the other Russian people trapped here,
whether they live or not. If it is a question of making some coup for
the aggrandizement of their country, they would not hesitate to
sacrifice their people in Peking. One of the men in the Russian Legation
is named Pompoff, and has a very pretty wife with a gorgeous voice, and
as Russia is known to want Manchuria, he put it quite aptly in speaking
of probable orders from St. Petersburg: “They will say, _Mon Dieu_, what
is Madame Pompoff to Manchuria?”
A day or two ago, when news came to the Japanese that the allied troops
were mobilizing in Tien-tsin, a letter came to M. Joostens, the Belgian
Minister, from Kettles, the Belgian Consul, telling him in an excited
way a little of the news we are all thirsting to hear—that Seymour’s
relief party had got near Peking about the end of June, but had been
driven back toward Tien-tsin, owing to great numbers of Chinese soldiers
opposed to them, and lack of supplies and water. They were then cut off
from Tien-tsin by the Chinese under General Neih, and their whole column
would have been massacred there had not 3,000 troops from Tien-tsin gone
out to their rescue. Neih was defeated, and, in consequence, committed
suicide.
The foreigners and soldiers then in Tien-tsin proceeded to take and burn
the native city, over 700 being killed and wounded. Towards the end of
this interesting letter Mr. Kettles naïvely remarked that he doubted if
the Belgian Minister would ever get this letter, but if he did it might
please him to learn that his home Government had wired to M. de Cartier
to remain in Shanghai and await orders, for he undoubtedly would be sent
to Peking as Chargé d’Affaires, “the Minister, M. Joostens, having been
massacred.” No matter what queer things happen in this world, humour is
always left if one looks for it.