arrived in Shanghai, and that he would soon begin peace negotiations by
telegraph with the Ministers in Peking. Not a word was mentioned about
our leaving for Tien-tsin, nor an apology for the continued sniping at
night, and the occasional attacks which make us realize the lie that we
are being “tenderly cared for and watched over by the Empress.” Apropos
of this clever old statesman, Li Hung Chang, the story is told of him
that when, after some months of hard work and successful diplomacy, he
had completed the terms of the treaty of Shimonoseki with the Japanese
after the China-Japan War of 1894, although the Chinese had been
whipped, Li had procured a most advantageous treaty for his Empress, and
while the ink was hardly dry on the document he procured an audience
with T’si An, and after kowtowing the entire length of the audience-hall
in great abasement, he finally reached her august presence and told her
of the successful termination of the work she had entrusted to him.
All high Chinese officials are supposed to get plenty of legitimate
“squeeze” out of their political sinecures, and expect no monetary
remuneration from the Government or throne. At the end of the interview
the Empress made a sign to him to indicate that he would receive a
personal present for his services, which would be given him in the
anteroom. Li Hung Chang had always been a great collector of Chinese
ceramics, and his collections were promptly sold by him to the highest
bidder at Christie’s in London for many pounds sterling. He was, in
fact, notorious for this weakness, and it was well known that he would
sell anything he owned, provided the amount offered was large enough,
from the Russian sable coat in his own wardrobe to the fine latest
antique, delicate-tinted rose vase he had procured. On leaving the
audience-chamber, his eyes sparkled when a large cloth-of-gold bag,
containing some heavy article, was handed to him by a eunuch. He flew to
his own palace, hardly able to wait for his secretary, Mr. Pethick, who
is one of the greatest connoisseurs on ancient Chinese art, to arrive
and examine this new acquisition, which had come straight from the
Empress-Dowager’s treasure store. Some time was spent in a careful
examination to determine the dynasty during which this treasure was
produced, but the date of this especial paste was lost, with its other
technical classifications. After a long time Mr. Pethick lifted it
gingerly, placed it on a table, put himself in front of it, drawing a
wrap around his shoulders, and slowly, very slowly, held his hands up to
it, turning them in the attitude of warming them at a fire.
Chinese need few words. Li understood, and was heart-broken. This was a
clever reproduction made in Paris, and the secretary warming his hands
before it meant it was so fresh from the pottery furnace that he could
still notice the warmth. Naughty old Empress, fooling her most faithful
of servitors!
Last night there was a very severe attack, coming from all sides at
once, and the firing continued for many hours. It is outrageous,
considering the letters we get every day from the Yamen, declaring to us
that they give orders to their soldiers daily that there must be no more
shooting.
It seems as though this “Chinese diplomacy” may be successful, and they
may succeed in starving us out first. By negotiating indefinitely with
our Governments and Li Hung Chang in Shanghai, and having assured the
Powers we are quite safe, with plenty of food, they may be able to keep
us here starving. What a refinement of cruel Chinese diplomacy that
would be!
In one of our letters to the Yamen we stated that we insisted on their
opening a market for our use, but the letter in reply ignored the
subject absolutely, simply saying that they enclosed some telegrams from
our Consuls in Chefoo and Shanghai, etc.
These telegrams, again, I must add, were most tantalizing. They gave us
no news at all, simply congratulating us on being still alive. It is
stated that from the Tartar Wall enormous numbers of troops have been
seen leaving Peking, and from messengers and coolies we learn that these
troops are advancing to give battle to our foreign troops, and that only
a few companies of Jung Lu’s troops are left here to continue to make
things lively for us.
_Friday, August 10._
Notwithstanding the day, we have just received the best news that we
have yet had. A messenger arrived from the troops, bringing two short
notes, one from General Gaselee, the commander of the British forces,
and one from General Fukushima, the Japanese commander, both stating
that they have arrived half-way between Peking and Tien-tsin; that they
have met enormous forces of Chinese at two places, and that by hard
fighting they had completely routed them; that if they had no further
opposition they hoped to arrive between the 13th and 15th of this month,
but owing to the size of their army, they could not move as quickly as
they wished.
The messenger who brought the letter says that our long-distance
artillery is what is terrifying the Chinese; their guns, though
perfectly modern, are comparatively useless, except at moderate range.
We are all wondering what our position will be until our troops arrive.
Will the Tsung-li Yamen try and “save their faces” by continuing
diplomatic relations, or will they feel that, with the foreign troops
practically at their doors, they will receive no mercy from the
advancing armies, and that they might as well try and kill us before it
is too late to do so? Perhaps by violently attacking us at the last
moment they feel they may succeed. Certainly, if several regiments of
the defeated Chinese hurried on to Peking before our troops could
arrive, they might make it a very near thing as to whether the next day
we would hear our troops’ buglers or the trumpets of the judgment-day.
For two nights the fighting has been constant, and the attacks general
and fierce. The Chinese continue building their barricades higher and
stronger; we have done the same, but we cannot understand how the Yamen
can have the impertinence to speak of the present time as a time of
truce and peace, with these attacks and fighting going on nightly, and
making so much noise that the officers say it must be heard many miles
out of Peking.
The Yamen claims that these shots are fired by people the Government
cannot control, and that it is only sniping, which fact is absolutely
ridiculous, as the Empress-Dowager, by cutting off the head of General
Ma, for instance, could easily put a stop to it all. Such horrible
dreams as one has now on going to sleep after a violent attack, and with
the awful sounds accompanying such attacks still ringing our ears! The
shrill cries of “Sha! sha! sha!” (Kill! kill! kill!) and the constant
blowing of trumpets, is enough to account for our continued nightmares.
While awake the brain can be somewhat controlled, but the real horror of
our situation follows us even in our sleep. On awaking, one wishes one
were asleep again, as the heat is something awful. The very worst
weather of the year is upon us: the rain is almost incessant, and
everything is sticky and muggy. Of course, this continual downpour is
very hard on the soldiers, making everything a mass of mud, and the
long, nightly attacks keep them out in the wet for hours. The flies,
mosquitoes, and fleas are pests that still continue.
_August 13._
An assurance came from the Yamen saying that we could have as much food
as we wanted, and inviting us to send to them a list of what we desired,
which we did, and they were to have sent the things yesterday by nine
o’clock. Needless to say, they never appeared.
In the afternoon an official communication came from the Yamen saying in
the most polite and abject Chinese that they would like a personal
interview with the Ministers, to be held in the German Legation, as it
was near their lines. This letter came late in the afternoon of
yesterday, and the corps was to sleep all night on it, and decide this
morning what to reply. In the compound feeling ran very high; everyone
is against it. People felt that to receive these lying tricksters, who
are offering peace and compliment with one hand, and with the other
writing orders to their army to exterminate us, would be most
undignified.
Early this morning the Ministers decided to bid them come at eleven
o’clock to-day, the 13th. So they wrote to that effect, and the answer
came back saying they regretted, but that other affairs and engagements
of importance kept them busy to-day, so they would not be able to come,
but hoped to give themselves that pleasure later. They also said that
the terrible firing we kept up prevented them sending us the market
supplies we desired. On the face of the awful attack of last night,
continuing as it did from 8 o’clock until 6.30 this morning, the Yamen
may have realized the absurdity of amicable chats, or perhaps they were
afraid we would seize them, a measure seriously talked of by some of the
officers. By seizing them all we could then let one depart with the
cheering news that if the attacks continued the rest of the Yamen would
be shot, but these clever old diplomats are not to be caught by any such
old Chinese tricks.
_August 14._
Such an attack as we have just had: incessant throughout last night, the
entire night, by its continuousness and fierceness did much damage
everywhere, but we answered back their volleys, and were for the first
time during the siege spendthrifts with our ammunition.
_August 15._
About midnight it appeared as though the Chinese were making a final
effort to frighten and demoralize us by a terrific fire from all sides,
and about one o’clock the pom, pom, pom, of machine-guns became
apparent. To whom did they belong? Mr. Pethick had told Mr. Squiers that
Li Hung Chang had bought fifty quick-firing guns just before the siege.
In whose hands were they now? Did the Chinese still have them, or had
they fallen into the hands of our relief?[1]
Footnote 1:
We found out later that the Russians had captured these guns, and were
using them against the Chinese on the south-eastern corner of the
Wall.
When these guns started their hammering there was a perceptible pause in
the attack for four or five minutes, when the Chinese fire recommenced
with redoubled effort, if such were possible, making a veritable ring of
flame on all sides of our defence.
Through the racket that was around us all night we could faintly hear
the unmistakable sound of the foreign guns of our troops. The dull boom
of distant artillery—artillery coming to our rescue! We no longer asked
each other, “When will the troops arrive?” We simply stood still,
listening to this wonderful music, and goose-flesh ran up and down us.
Early this morning the noise of battle gradually increased, and from the
Tartar Wall we can see the advancing lines with their artillery,[2]
which is answered by the Chinese on the Wall. The allies seem to be
approaching Peking in every direction, for the Chinese are answering
with cannon from every city gate.
Footnote 2:
Afterwards ascertained to be the Japanese trying to drive the Chinese
from the Eastern Gate in order to enter the city.
We have all become like deaf people, and to make people hear we have to
seize them by the shoulders and bellow into their ears. We don’t quite
know whether the Chinese will occupy themselves entirely with the
advancing troops, or whether our fortified lines will be swept away by
them in a last attempt on us before the allies thunder in to our rescue.
Opinions vary; every barricade is doubly manned, as they have been, in
fact, for the last two nights.
The Russians, English, and Americans finally succeeded in their attack
on the south-eastern Wall, and entered the Chinese city almost
simultaneously, marching along the southern Wall of the Imperial City
towards the Water Gate, the Ch’ien Men Gate, and the Ha Ta Men Gate. The
commanders received a cipher despatch from Sir Claude Macdonald advising
them to enter the Imperial City by the Water Gate, as we held that
portion of the Wall, and would be able to assist them in entering at
that place.
At about half-past three I was debating with my maid whether I should or
should not go over to the American Legation and take the cheerful bath
which I had been indulging in each day lately. Owing to the
half-armistice existing, the early afternoon hours were fairly safe ones
in which to move about the lines, and I was about to start with bathing
paraphernalia and the little maid, when my inner consciousness was
struck by something unusual happening out in the compound. I tingled all
over, for my instinct had told me the troops had come.
Running to the old tennis-court, the only open space, I found everybody
flying in the same direction. There were about two hundred Sikhs. They
had entered Peking by the Water Gate, or what one should really call a
drain, which allows the now dried-up water in the canal egress under the
Tartar Wall. It is by this that our messengers have gone out and come
in, and it is the route Mr. Squiers urged in his letter on both M^cCalla
and Chaffee as being the only way by which troops could penetrate right
into the heart of our lines without having to take any big gate of the
Tartar city. These Sikhs came in this way, and they were the first to
warm our hearts with the knowledge that this horrible siege is over.
It was queer to see these great, fine-looking Indians, in khaki uniforms
and huge picturesque red turbans, strutting around the compound, and as
they entered right into our midst they all whooped a good English whoop.
A little blond Englishwoman was so overcome at the relief really being
here that she seized the first one she could get to and threw her arms
around him and embraced him. The Sikh was dumbfounded at a _mem-sahib_
apparently so far forgetting all caste. It seemed odd that the word
“relief” should have been personified in these Eastern and
heathen-looking Sikhs, but it was all the more in keeping with this
extraordinary siege in Peking that they should be the first on the scene
to rescue us.
At this wonderful moment the Chevalier de Melotte, Mrs. Squiers, and
myself, without a word spoken, flew with common consent to the point in
our lines down Legation Street where we knew we could see the entering
columns. Cannons were booming in all directions, caused by the Powers
trying to enter by the different gates, shells exploding and sniping
everywhere. We took our stand at the bridge crossing the canal, from
where we saw large quantities of soldiers, sometimes even cavalry, come
through the Water Gate. We had scarcely caught from this rather exposed
point a bird’s-eye view of it all, when a squad of Sikhs passed us with
an officer of high rank, who turned out to be General Gaselee, riding in
the midst of them. He jumped off his horse on seeing us, and showing on
every inch of him the wear and tear of an eighty-mile midsummer relief
march, he took our hands, and with tears in his eyes said, “Thank God,
men, here are two women alive,” and he most reverently kissed Mrs.
Squiers on the forehead.
[Illustration:
_Photo, Elliott & Fry_
GENERAL SIR ALFRED GASELEE
]
It was so good to see him and meet him in this way. As soon as the
despatch had arrived saying that General Gaselee was to be in command of
the British forces, a smart-looking photograph of him that someone had
cut from a magazine had been pinned on the Bell Tower, and it was so
smart-looking, and his appearance so correct, that one of necessity lost
interest in his personality; and now to see him thus—the military
martinet all lost in this big-hearted, kindly man, who was almost crying
because we were alive! A short time before meeting us, on his line of
march, he saw poor Père Dosio’s head stuck on the end of a pole, where
the Chinese had placed it, and General Gaselee feared that this head
might be but the beginning of a series of Europeans similarly treated.
We had considered the Italian priest so quiet and docile that he was not
restrained at all, and yesterday he quietly wandered out into the
Chinese lines, and undoubtedly he was killed before they knew his mind
was gone, although at this stage the Chinese, I expect, were all too
ferocious to have spared him even had they known of his dementia.
Coming to the “front” this way had to be paid for in a mild way, and a
ricochetting bullet grazed my ankle, and one tipped the top of my ear.
Chevalier de Melotte, our escort, had his cap shot off; but the battle
lust had got into our blood, and it seemed that all this storm of
bullets and dropping shells was but a new and exciting kind of
hailstorm, and that to keep moving from one point to another was the one
necessary thing to do.
The red-turbaned Sikhs and General Gaselee had come and gone, and now
came long lines of yellow, khaki-uniformed Americans of the 9th
Infantry, belonging to us, and General Chaffee, well set-up marines
under Colonel Waller—they came on and on, stumbling through the hot
August sunlight, line after line, without end, and we were nonplussed
when they told us they were but a small detachment of the United States
troops; and the tremendous storming of the Ch’ien Men Gate that was
deafening us was being done by the Americans, who were having no easy
time of it, as the Chinese were firing right down on them from their
protected height.
Now this Water Gate entrance is no longer a drain, as it used to be, but
is rapidly shooting forth a veritable military kaleidoscope. The yellow
lines have changed into a stream of plodding, heavily-laden, tiny
Japanese soldiers; then the picturesque uniforms of the French Zouaves,
from Saigon, with their loose, baggy, cumbersome red trousers, come into
view. We stood transfixed. It seemed to us as if the whole world had
come to our rescue. Now the passing lines have changed again, and this
time Cossacks, with their black, high leather boots and soiled white
tunics, tramp past us, but we could not wait for more. We returned to
the British compound, where we found that the galling fire from the
Ch’ien Men Gate, which had done such damage amongst our attacking
troops, had been stopped by a sortie of our marines down the Tartar Wall
to the gate, where they silenced the Chinese and the Chinese guns, and
helped our incoming soldiers to mount theirs in the erstwhile Chinese
position, from which splendid vantage they fired directly into the
Imperial City, and by this fire opened two more of the big gates of the
Forbidden City.
This charge down the Tartar Wall to clear it of Chinese soldiers and
Chinese guns by our marines was a brilliant bit of action. The guard,
one and all, were anxious to help in some way our relief, which was so
hard pressed at the Ch’ien Men Gate, and they welcomed with shouts of
joy the orders from Sir Claude which enabled them to have a hand in this
last great fight. They were joined by twenty Russians, the siege friends
and almost the dear “bunkies” of our men, one Russian officer, and Mr.
Squiers, of our diplomatic service (the Chief of Staff to Sir Claude
during the siege), who led the charge.
The other nationalities have done about the same sort of thing on
entering Peking; they have each taken some one gate, and are stationed
now at different parts of the city, and, by a hasty conference of the
generals and Ministers, they have each been given areas to be
responsible for and to police. To police—which means that in these
districts they will turn their men out to loot.
The Americans, after taking the Ch’ien Men Gate and the continuing inner
gate directly up to the Purple City, left them manned, and then retired
to the south-east portion of the Chinese city, which is contiguous to
this district. In all Peking, but principally in our lines, confusion is
rampant. This modern “Tower of Babel” will, I suppose, eventually settle
itself or spread itself, as the case may require. One of the
difficulties of late arriving columns trying to find their headquarters
and marching round and round is the fact that their headquarters are
also on the move, and until they bump into each other by accident they
are at a loss to know what to do. To-day, at least, no one can direct
anyone else.
Out of this wonderful military kaleidoscope, how glad I was to see old
friends and acquaintances emerge! First to come to me was Colonel
Churchill, the British Military Attaché to Japan, who got permission in
Tokyo to come up with the Japanese troops to Peking. On finding me alive
and well, he returned to the Japanese headquarters in time to send word
with the first official telegram of General Fukushima to the War Office
in Tokyo (announcing that the Japanese troops had arrived in Peking), to
my brother-in-law, Lieutenant Key, who is the American Naval Attaché to
Japan, that I was safe and well. How wonderful to think that, as the
troops were marching up to Peking, the engineers were steadily placing
the telegraph-wires, so that six hours after we were relieved a message
went flying down to the coast with the tidings! To know that my dear
sister in Japan and my family at home have been relieved from the
uncertainty of my condition, already causes my heartstrings to loosen up
a bit, and the tension is not quite so painful. A year before, I lunched
with General and Mrs. Chaffee in Havana, and it was very nice to see him
again here in this wicked old Peking.
He told me that no hours in his life had ever been so full of dreadful
anxiety as the hours before the dawn of this morning at Tungchou, just
before the starting of the columns for Peking. They could hear the
continuous Chinese fire, and also the weak but steady spitting of our
little Colt automatic gun, which he knew the marine guard had with them,
and he said that all the sounds he heard spelled but one sentence,
“Shall we be too late? Shall we be too late?”
It seems that the greater part of the allied armies had spent the night
at Tungchou, and it had been absolutely settled by the commanders that
the following night and morning hours were to be spent there, which
would give time for scouts to go out and make reasonable
reconnaissances; and that by early noon the main body of the allies
should march on to Peking, each having a different city gate to take
simultaneously. This plan was very nice and correct and military, but
the Japanese and Russians, who had been eyeing each other distrustfully,
could not stand it any longer, and throwing to the winds the pledge that
they had given that day in conference, they both started their columns
off double-quick before dawn for the capital. This breaking of their
promise to the allies at the last moment, so to speak, rather mixed
things up, but perhaps, after all, it was a relief to the others,
because it then meant they were relieved, too, from any long concerted
action, and they all could begin to march straight for Peking, which
they did.
The night of the 14th was the last night that our siege mess dined
together on our little eight-sided Chinese table, which was generously
stocked with the remaining tins which we had been hoarding for such a
long time. Somebody has said, “There is a sadness about the last time of
everything,” and truly it was so with us. I felt exactly as children
feel when they have been having a wild game of make-believe all day,
when the grown-ups break in and say, “Come, children, there has been
enough of this.” And so it was with us: these terrible times are over,
and there is nothing for us to do but remain passive, and try and get
some sort of equilibrium into our lives again; and as we dined together
last night there was a strong feeling, although we did not speak of it,
that nobody but ourselves, who went through this incredible eight weeks
of horror, were ever going to know really what the siege in Peking has
been, and that we might all talk until doomsday, but the world will
never understand. Perhaps it is too busy to try. So, as the kiddies say
after a game, “Well, we know who’s who, and who has done what, and that
is as near as we ever will get to teaching the grown-ups, who know it
all, about it.”
_August 16._