China by Edward Rutherfurd (latest novels to read TXT) 📗

MacDonald, which were more loosely attached with twine. “Those are the wicketkeeper’s gloves, you see,” he explained to Tom, “waiting to receive the ball. So when you’re fielding, your object is always to return the ball into his hands, either directly or after a single bounce. You’ll see the gloves move if you hit them.”

This was a great success. Tom had a natural throwing arm, and his grandfather taught him technique, so that he wouldn’t damage his elbow; and before long, throwing from five yards to over fifty yards, Tom was hitting the gloves over ninety percent of the time and getting better every day. MacDonald himself came to take a look at him and remarked that at this rate, they’d be needing another pair of gloves before long.

“Can you spare them?” asked Trader.

“I thought we might use a pair of my wife’s,” MacDonald replied with a smile.

Trader also organized a cricket game for all the boys and girls on the tennis court, using a tennis ball—though young Tom didn’t think much of this.

In the evenings, after eating, he usually had a drink and a cigar with Henry, telling him stories about the Opium War and India in the old days, to take his mind off the present for a little and help him unwind.

And if it seemed to Trader that the legations’ leading men were being awfully slow to organize their defenses, he kept his thoughts to himself.

—

On the tenth of June, as Trader and Tom were doing a little net practice, MacDonald came out of the residence and hailed him. “Good news. I’ve just had a telegraph message from Admiral Seymour, the British commander down at the coast. A large relief force will shortly be on the way.”

They were just finishing their cricket practice when MacDonald came by again. This time he was frowning.

“Everything all right?” Trader quietly asked him.

“Not entirely. The telegraph line’s been cut. I’m afraid we may be without news for a bit.”

Two days later, John Trader had a good idea. The nearest boy in age to Tom was the fifteen-year-old son of one of the American missionaries, a bright, rambunctious young fellow who rejoiced in the name of Fargo. Being so far his junior, Tom had been a little shy of him, and Fargo, though civil enough, wasn’t much interested in Tom. But when Trader approached Fargo and said, “You know, I haven’t got the energy to toss a cricket ball to Tom for as long as he wants; is there a chance you could give me a helping hand?” the young American grinned and replied, “If I can throw a baseball, I guess I could throw a cricket ball.”

And he came and joined them within the hour. And came again several times in the days ahead.

—

The shouting began after dark. The people in the legations heard the Boxers shouting as they burst into the Inner City through the eastern gate. They came with torches, many torches, that cast red glows and leaping shadows on the high buildings. It was hard to know how many there were. Hundreds, certainly.

From the garden of the residence, Trader and Henry watched the glow from the torches moving northward and westward. “They’re going towards our mission, I think,” said Henry. “They won’t find anyone there, thank God. They may be heading for the Catholic cathedral as well.”

“How many Catholic converts have the French got up there?” Trader asked.

“More than three thousand, I believe. Mind you, it’s built like a fortress.”

Then the screams began. They heard someone frantically ringing a bell. They could see bigger flames and billowing smoke in the darkness.

The flames did not begin to subside until nearly dawn, when the two men went in to sleep.

It was well into the morning when Trader was awoken by Emily.

“They attacked all the missions,” she told him. “A lot of people were killed. We’ve had converts straggling into the Legation Quarter all morning. We’re putting them in the Fu. Some of the men were tortured. As for the women…what you’d expect.” She looked at him sadly. “Father, would you do something for me?”

“If I can.”

“I want a pistol. Not too heavy. Something I can handle easily. And some ammunition. Just to defend myself, if I have to. Can you get one from somewhere?”

He looked at her searchingly. “If you’re sure that’s what you want.”

“Don’t tell Henry. There’s no need.”

During that day, the Boxers were out in the streets, looking for anyone who might be a convert. The day after, they went into the western quarter of the outer city and burned down the houses of rich Chinese merchants who’d done business with the Christians.

—

MacDonald called a council. Both Henry and Trader went.

“The court has just ordered every foreign mission to leave Peking at once,” MacDonald announced. “I suspect that, knowing the relief force is on its way, Cixi’s making a last attempt to get us to leave. Whether we should is another matter. Does anyone have any thoughts?”

“Backhouse came to see me an hour ago,” said Morrison. “His eunuch friend at the palace told him that the British admiral down at the coast has declared war on the entire Chinese empire, and Cixi’s so enraged that she’s vowed to throw all the foreign diplomats out for good.”

“Admiral Seymour declared war?” MacDonald cried. “I don’t believe it.”

“You’re right. It isn’t true. The eunuch told Backhouse that the report was concocted by some of the nobles and eunuchs who want to see us gone. But Cixi believes it.”

“God help us. Where’s Backhouse now?”

“Disappeared again. But the story makes sense.” He paused a moment. “There’s one other thing. He says the relief force may be delayed. Quite a lot of Boxers down at the port. Got to get through them first. I don’t suppose it’ll take long.”

MacDonald went around to the other heads of legation. Most of them suggested playing for time. Finally he turned to Trader. “You were in the siege of Canton,” he said with a smile. “Any