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

from the outside world and tell the relief force: “You’ve no one to rescue anymore.”

Trader wished he could make out what was going on. Sometimes the Chinese war chant sounded louder; sometimes it died down a little. He wished he could leave his post to go and see.

Then, to his surprise, Henry appeared. He was drenched but unhurt. “What news?” he asked.

“We’re holding them,” said Henry, and disappeared inside. Five minutes later, he came out again.

“What did you tell Emily and Tom?” Trader asked.

“The same as I told you. We’re holding them.” Henry paused, then gave his father-in-law a sad look. “Between you and me, I’m not sure we can hold them much longer.” He shook Trader’s hand with emotion before going on his way.

Trader understood: Henry had come for a last look at his wife and son and to bid him goodbye.

Glancing in through the door, he could just see the hem of Emily’s skirt. Tom he couldn’t see. He would have liked to go in there himself, but he stayed at his post, and the minutes passed.

He lost track of time. He felt as if he had entered a nightmare world where time and space were shaped by rain, cries, screams, and the bangs of countless bullets and shells all around. Sometimes the screams sounded close and getting nearer; at other times they were quieter, though whether that meant that they were farther away he could not tell. The only time the night offered him any solid, static forms was when a flash of lightning would suddenly illumine the scene, and he’d see the sharply curved tile roofs of nearby buildings glistening in the rain like swords and knives.

It couldn’t go on for many hours now, he thought. And when the Chinese broke through, he knew what he would do. He’d keep firing, where he was, until they cut him down.

He didn’t want to see his daughter’s end, nor Tom’s. Was that selfish? Not really. Not if there was no hope. Emily would have to do whatever she thought best, and despite her trying to unload the business onto him, he believed he knew what that would be, whatever she said.

As for himself, he’d just as soon a bullet took him out any time now, rather than prolong the agony of waiting.

They were starting to shell the garden in front of him with a Krupp gun. Explosive shells. Did they know where the shells were falling? Would they adjust their aim and hit the residence instead? Despite the rain, he began to move forward onto the lawn, into the line of fire. He wasn’t even conscious he was doing so. An explosive shell hit a tree only twenty feet away.

It was a moment later that he noticed that someone else was hastening to the residence door. He stared and frowned. “What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded.

It was Backhouse.

“I thought I’d come by.”

“Go and fight on the barricades like everyone else.”

“I was. Then MacDonald arrived. He may have thought I was getting in the way. I really don’t know. But he sent me here to help you.”

“Don’t go inside. You’ll disturb people. You can stand in the rain.”

“If we stand in the porch, we’ll be outside, but we won’t be in the rain.”

Trader said nothing.

“If you stay where you are at this moment, you will be in the line of fire,” Backhouse observed.

Still Trader said nothing, but he reluctantly moved back to the porch. The two men stood in silence for a couple of minutes. A shell from the Krupp gun exploded on the lawn, in the place where Trader had been standing.

“There you are,” said Backhouse. “MacDonald was right to send me here. I just saved your life.”

“Damn your eyes.”

After a little while, Backhouse spoke again. “I think you have a death wish, Mr. Trader. Do you have a death wish?”

“No.”

“If the Chinese break in—and they very well may—we’re the first line of defense for the residence.”

“Obviously. I assume you have a gun.”

“Oh yes. In fact, I’m quite a good shot. We may be able to keep them at bay for a while. But we can’t really stop them getting into the residence. Who’s in there?”

“Lady MacDonald and her daughters. My daughter, Mrs. Whiteparish, and her son.”

“Has Lady MacDonald got a gun?”

“Don’t know. My daughter’s got a pistol.”

“If the Chinese do get through, your daughter should use the pistol on herself. And her son, of course.”

“Mind your own business.”

“Are you going to do it, then—assuming you get the chance?”

“None of your affair.”

“I can do it, if you want.”

“You?” Trader looked at Backhouse in horror. This loathsome creature shoot Emily and Tom? Trader pulled out his Webley and pointed it at Backhouse’s chest. “Get out of here!” he shouted. “Get out of here, or I swear by God I’ll kill you.”

And Backhouse, seeing the older man really meant it, gracefully but speedily retired.

So Trader stayed there, half in and half out of the rain, while the thunder and the barrage of shots and shells continued, standing like a tall old rock on a Scottish hillside, bleak and dour and without any hope of salvation.

Then, in the darkest time of the night before the dawn, he heard another deep rumble of thunder in the east, and soon after that, he heard cheering. Supposing that the Chinese must have broken through, he took out his gun and prepared to shoot the first Boxer or bannerman who approached.

And sure enough, a figure did come running in, but he cried out as he came, “It’s me, Henry.” And Trader felt a surge of joy that the two of them could go down fighting side by side. “Did you hear the big guns in the east?” Henry cried as he reached him.

“Guns? I thought it was thunder.”

“No. Our guns. The relief’s arrived. We’re saved!”

—

Emily had many memories of the months that followed. The arrival of the relief force had been a joy indeed: British troops, American, Russian, French, German, Japanese;