MONDAY, October 15.
I left Tien-Tsin by railway at eight o'clock in the morning. An hour
on the road, across the same old plain, the same desolation, the same
cutting wind, the same dust. Then the ruins of Yang-Soon, where the
train stops because there is no road left; from this point on, the
Boxers have destroyed everything, the bridges are cut, the stations
burned, and the rails scattered over the country.
My junk is there awaiting me by the river's side. For the present, for
three days at least, I must arrange for a life on the water, in the
little sarcophagus which is the cabin of this queer boat, under the
roof of matting which gives a view of the sky through a thousand holes,
and which to-night will permit the white frost to disturb our slumbers.
But this room in which I am to live, eat and sleep in complete
promiscuity with my French companions is so small, so very small that
I dismiss one of the soldiers. We could never manage there with four.
The Chinese of my train, ragged and sordid, receive me with profound
bows. One takes the rudder, the others jump onto the bank, where they
harness themselves to the end of a long line attached to the mast
of the junk--and we are off, being towed against the current of the
Pei-Ho, a heavy poisonous stream in which, here and there amongst the
reeds on the banks, parts of human bodies appear.
The soldier I have kept is named Renaud, and he tells me he comes from
Calvados. He and my servant Osman, both happy to be going to Pekin,
vie with one another in gaiety and good-will and in comical ingenious
inventions to make our lodging more convenient. The trip, in spite of
unpleasant surroundings, begins to the sound of their merry childlike
laughter. We depart in the full morning light, under the rays of a
deceptive sunshine which pretends it is summer although an icy wind is
blowing.
The seven allied nations have established military posts from point to
point along the Pei-Ho, to insure communication by way of the river
between Pekin and the gulf of Petchili, where their ships come in.
Toward eleven o'clock I stop the junk near a large Chinese fort from
which floats the French flag.
It is one of our posts occupied by Zouaves; we get out to get our
rations, enough bread, wine, preserves, sugar, and tea for two days. We
shall receive no more now until Tong-Tchow (City of Celestial Purity),
which we shall reach day after to-morrow in the evening, if nothing
untoward prevents. Then the towing of our junk begins again; slowly and
monotonously we move between gloomy devastated banks.
The country around us remains unchanged. On both sides as far as the
eye can reach are fields of "sorghos"--which is a kind of giant millet
much taller than our maize. The war prevented its being harvested in
season, and so it stands reddened by the frost. The monotonous little
tow-path, a narrow strip on the grayish soil, is on a level with the
cold fetid water, at the foot of the eternal dried sorghos, which forms
an endless curtain all along the river. Sometimes a phantom village
appears on the horizon; as one approaches it, it proves to be only
ruins and the bodies of the dead.
I have a mandarin's arm-chair in my junk on which to enthrone myself
when the sun shines and the wind is not too cutting. More frequently
I prefer to walk along the shore doing my miles in company with our
towers, who plod along bending over like beasts of burden, with
the rope passed over the shoulders. Osman and Renaud peer out of a
port-hole after me as we walk along the track of gray earth shut in
by the uninterrupted border of sorghos and by the river, the wind
blowing sharply all the while. We are often obliged to step aside
suddenly because of a dead man--with one leg stretched out across the
path--looking slyly up at us.
The events of the day are the meeting of junks going down the river and
passing ours. They go in long lines fastened together, flying the flag
of some one of the allied nations, and carrying the sick, the wounded,
and the spoils of war.
In the twilight we pass the remains of a village in which the Russians,
on their way to Manchuria, are encamped for the night. They are taking
carved furniture out of an abandoned house, breaking it up and making a
fire of it. As we go on we see the flames mounting in great jets, and
reaching out to the sorghos near by; for a long time its incendiary
light is visible behind us, in the mournful empty grayness of the
distance. This first nightfall on our junk is full of gloom in the
strange solitude into which hour by hour we penetrate still further.
The shadows are deep about us and there are many dead along the ground.
In the confused and infinite darkness, all about us seems hostile or
gloomy, and the cold increases with the silence and obscurity.
The impression of melancholy disappears at supper when our Chinese
lantern is lighted, illuminating the sarcophagus, which we have closed
as tightly as possible to shut out the wind. I have invited my two
companions to my table--my comical little table, which they themselves
have made from a broken oar and an old plank. The bread seems exquisite
to us after our long walk on the bank; to warm us we have the hot tea
which young Toum has prepared for us over a fire of sorghos, and when
hunger is assuaged and Turkish cigarettes give forth their soothing
clouds of smoke, we have almost a feeling of home and comfort in our
poor shelter enveloped in outside darkness.
Then comes bedtime--although the junk moves on, our towers continuing
their march by feeling their way along the sorghos of the dark path, so
full of surprises. Toum, although he is an elegant young Chinaman, goes
to roost with the others of his race in the straw in the hold. The rest
of us, still dressed of course, with our boots on and firearms at hand,
stretch out on the narrow camp-bed of our cabin, looking at the stars,
which, as soon as the lantern is out, appear between the meshes of our
matting-roof, shining brightly in the frosty sky.
Distant shots reach us from far off, indicating nocturnal dramas with
which we have no concern, and just before midnight two guards, one
Japanese and the other German, try to stop our junk; we are obliged
to get up to discuss the matter, and by means of a hastily lighted
lantern, show the French flag and the stripes that I wear on my sleeve.
At midnight the Chinese make fast our boat, at a spot they say is safe,
so that they too may rest. We all fall into a profound slumber in the
icy night.