Chapter III: Part 3

The British Legation Library is a complete one, and occasionally some inquisitive soul will go to it and try to find, compared with other sieges and massacres, what place this one will have in history. The nearest similar harrowing siege seems to be that of Lucknow, where a heterogeneous multitude, closed up in the Residency, were holding out against fearful odds in expectation of relief by Havelock’s Highlanders, resolved to die of starvation rather than surrender, for in surrendering the fate of Cawnpore awaited them; and in thinking of these things we recollect that the Tartar rulers of China are of the same tribal family as the Great Mogul, who was the head of the Indian Sepoy Mutiny. But the King of Delhi was trying to regain his throne, whereas the Empress Dowager has no such excuse in making war on practically all the nations of the civilized world.

The Tartars and Manchus are an alien race, although the rulers of China for many centuries, and have always been inimical to everything which tends to increase the power of foreigners; whereas the Chinese are cleverer, from being so constantly in contact with Europeans on the sea-coast, or anywhere where they can find gain or advantage in trading with them, and have become, compared, at least, to the ruling Manchus in Peking, progressive and modern. The Emperor and his party for progress were completely snowed under in 1898 by the Empress-Dowager and her old Manchu Conservatives, who, lacking the desire to accept anything modern—even diplomatic relations of the most simple kind—decided, in a childlike and unreasoning rage, that everything foreign must be swept down into the sea, and it really looks now as if the first steps of her policy may be realized.

Lady Macdonald has forty Europeans in all to feed three times a day including servants, and at table they sit down thirty-three. She is very sensible, and has only one dish. Nobody thinks of dressing for dinner, except the Marquis Salvago, and I think it shows things are truly far gone when English people dine, but do not dress.

Our little mess is very attractive, and as our stores are much more numerous and of a greater variety than those of almost any mess here, we manage to have, up to the present at least, a most satisfactory one. We have tinned beef as our _pièce de résistance_, and rice is our mainstay—of a necessity, as it is that of which we have most. Tomato catsup tastes very good in this hot weather. Oatmeal is another staple that we have, and as luxuries we have a good stock of jams, tinned fruits, tinned vegetables, sardines, tinned mackerel, Liebig’s extract, a big box of Stilton cheese, coffee, tinned butter, and white flour. Mr. Squiers has a large supply of champagne, and every night we have one or two quarts with our siege dinner. The men work so hard, and the women’s nerves are so much on edge, that a small amount of stimulants is surely a blessed help.

Our mess being comparatively small, these delicacies are lasting nicely, as we use them with discretion, for we remember in the old days before the siege a dollar was a dollar, and would buy a tin, but in these days a tin has no market value—they cannot be bought. When one’s tins are gone one can eat horse-meat and rice. We brought a small lead-lined ice-box with us from our Legation, which seemed foolish at the time, but which is a great comfort to us now. We keep our wine and drinking-water in it, and also well-water, which is very cool, so that our drink is somewhat cooled, and is not the same temperature as the air. No other mess can attempt to have things cool, and this is one of the features of our room—that we are as comfortable as we can be under these extraordinary circumstances. During this sizzling weather cool water is a great comfort. It is so hot that a tin of meat, if left open all night, spoils by morning.

There is an English newspaper-man, who, when he can spare a few moments from the siege-work, gets his camera and takes a few photographs of things as they are. He is fond of chaffing, and to-day the Committee on Fortifications are of opinion that the house used by the French Minister, M. Pichon, is being undermined by the Chinese from outside, though indistinct noises, etc., are as yet the only proof of it. The Minister was more than usually perturbed about this new personal danger, and was not pleased, or at all amused, at the remarks addressed him. “I am making photographs for the Paris _Figaro_ of this siege. Very soon your quarters will be blown up by dynamite. My camera is ready to take the photographs, and as you will be the principal person in it, how would you prefer me to take you—as your Excellency is going up wholesale, or as you are coming down retail?”

At this time people are not well-balanced, it seems to me. Some take the daily horrors as a matter of course, are more callous than they should be, and the others are so miserably pessimistic and mournful that one shuns them, fearing to catch this infection. There is a young man here who has been known to indulge in temporary aberrations, usually at night, following long, hard days of work in the broiling sun. On one occasion he was on his sentry beat, and on being relieved by his chief, the sight of whom was too much for him after having walked some hours on his dangerous sentry route (which seemed doubly dangerous in the pitch-black night) he, doubtless brooding over his probable approaching death, pointed the muzzle of his gun straight at his relief. “C’est à cause de vous, misérable, que je suis venu à Pékin et encore c’est à cause de vous que ces belles années de ma jeunesse seront salement terminées ici!” By not moving an inch the man thus threatened undoubtedly saved his life, and most intelligently agreed with his attacker, “Probably so; let’s talk it over.” In a few minutes the crisis had passed, but the following day the man who had been in such danger requested the General Committee to change his night sentry duty to a different part of the compound, so that his young secretary should not again be tempted to hold him responsible.

_Sunday, July 1._

I have been quite under the weather, to use a civilized expression, and I assure you that things have got (not are getting) to such a state that to live and act and talk as one would do at home is quite out of place. How soon people get accustomed to an idea! Now that we have prepared our minds for a possible massacre we seem to be getting back, to some degree at least, our old spirits. Now that I am well, how much nearer seem the soldiers who are coming to relieve us!

What a place this compound would be for an epidemic! There are barely enough mattresses for the wounded and dying at the hospital, so that, should we have one, and take a house for those taken sick, I am sure that there would be no ordinary comforts of any kind for them; they could only be isolated. Let us pray that we will have no such horror to add to the already long list.

The hospital is already full, men lying on straw bags in halls—crowded in every conceivable corner. They are brought in dying and wounded every day. Dysentery has its grip on almost everybody here. The treatment is almost to stop eating and to drink rice-water in large quantities. Our four-times-divided cook—the other three messes in the United States bungalow have a lien on him too—is off for some hours daily on work which all personal servants have to give to the General Committee. When the kitchen is comparatively free, Mrs. Squiers, my maid, and I make gallons of rice-water, thick, nutritious but tasteless, which we bottle in quart-bottles and place to cool in our zinc-lined, cold-water-filled box. It is placed in a corner of our two-roomed quarters, and the constant stream of men coming and going to that box would lead an uninitiated observer to believe that at least a Hoffman House bar was hidden there and doing a steady business.

The rainy season and the bad time of the year _par excellence_ has begun, and the temperature is like a Turkish bath without the clean smell. Apropos of smell, a whole story-book could be written about the Peking smell. The dry heat was nothing compared with this damp temperature, that seems to soak out of Mother Earth the most incredibly disgusting odours. There are so many dead dogs, horses, and Chinese lying in heaps all around the defended lines, but too far for us to bury or burn them. The contamination of the air is something almost overpowering. All men who smoke have a cigar in their mouths from morning until night as a protection from this unseen horror, and even the women, principally Italians and Russians, find relief in the constant smoking of cigarettes.

On the 29th Dr. Lippitt, who came up from Taku with our marines, was sitting in front of the Minister’s house smoking a cigarette, when a bullet struck a limb of a tree nearby, and, glancing down, struck him in the thigh, fracturing the bone. He is most dangerously ill, and we shall not know for several days whether he will have to have his leg amputated or not. He is an attractive man and a thorough Virginian. We used to play tennis with him and Captain Myers before the times got so terribly out of joint.

To-day the Germans were driven off the Tartar Wall close to their Legation, which caused a great deal of excitement. They were driven off by Chinese soldiers, some of whom were Tung Fu-hsiang’s men, and others were Prince Ching’s especial troops, which seems queer, as we have supposed all along that Prince Ching was friendly.

The Germans could see from the Wall that the Ha Ta Men Gate is being strengthened, and people who know say that the troops who are closing the gates in such a warlike way are doing it as much against the violent and uncontrolled soldiers of Tu Fu-hsiang, who are notorious for the manner in which they loot and murder, as against the allied Powers. They say that all Chinese families in Peking who have anything to lose have left the capital, as they realize that if the foreign troops come there will be great looting, and if the Chinese troops are successful there will be looting and worse. Mr. Pethick tells me that during the Japan-China War, when it was considered highly probable that the Japanese would march on to the capital, thousands of Mandarins and people of wealth left Peking with their families and with as much treasure as they could carry. It is natural to suppose that the same fright exists to-day.

This morning our men, the Germans following, retired in a panic from their barricades on the Wall to the United States Legation, momentarily expecting to see Chinese hordes occupy the German position and theirs. After an hour’s wait they retook the Wall. This example, however, was not followed by the Germans. During this hour the excitement was intense in the British compound. The report that the Wall had been evacuated caused a panic, for this abandonment of the Wall would enable the Chinese to mount their guns on this portion of it, directly commanding the British Legation, and to fire down on us, and no one can say how long we could hold out against such an attack. In such an event we will put women and children into deep bomb-proofs that have been made for that purpose, which are covered with logs, sandbags, and dirt, and are shell-proof. These trenches we have made as near as possible like those used in the siege of Ladysmith.

As the Germans have been unable to regain their positions on the Wall, the difficulty for Uncle Sam’s men has been increased fifty per cent., as they must now be prepared at all times, either during the day or night, for an attack by Chinese from both directions. This sentence, “to give up the Wall,” could be, translated into siege language, “the beginning of the end,” and this news was most terrifying to us. I think that there are few who in their heart of hearts have given up hope of the troops coming soon. Nevertheless, the facts remain that if we cannot hold the place it would not take very long for us to be annihilated, and if the troops come a day after we are finished, a miss is as good as a mile, and we don’t care then when they come. If we had not had the greatest luck in the world we could never have held out like this to the present date, and what the Powers can be thinking about not to send a column to our immediate relief, knowing, as they must, that we could never hold out against artillery, is beyond the reasoning power of the people in this Legation. Are the allied Powers fighting each other, or are they fighting their way up here?

Yesterday an unsuccessful sortie was made by Colonel Shiba from the Fu to capture a gun, and six men were killed. These offensive measures seem to gain us nothing, and we always lose men.

Apropos of Colonel Shiba, he is a splendid, small person. He has taken his position here by the strength of his intelligence and good right arm, solely because the Ministers and the guard captains were not especially inclined at the first morning conference to listen to him—in fact, I don’t know that he tried to talk, but it is all changed now. He has done so splendidly in his active and continuous fighting in the Fu, and has proved himself such a general, that his opinion and help are asked by all the commanders. His men are all so patient and untiring in their long, long hours behind the barricades, and are so game, in great contrast to the Italians who are with him defending the Fu. One can only hope for Italy’s sake that her soldiers in Peking are the worst she has.

Now that we have got down to the primitive _motif_ of all nationalities fighting for their lives, the racial friendships and animosities are very obvious. The British and American are almost one people here; although the expressions, “D—— Yankees!” and “D—— lime-juicers!” are interchanged, they are used in a spirit of affection. The dislike of the Russians for the British is so cordial that it is only equalled by the feeling the British entertain toward them. The frankness of this avowed enmity is delightful. Our compound joins the Russians, and they love us and we love them in as strong a fashion as they hate their English neighbours on their other side. Baron Von Rahden orders his men to work and fight as much as possible side by side with our marines, as in this way he hopes to increase the efficiency of his untrained guard. These men can’t speak the others’ language, but are the best of friends. The Russians are all called “Rouskies” by our guard.

The Germans are somewhat by themselves, and fraternize with no one. Their Legation is at one end of the defended lines, and opposite the French. They are full of sullen rage at the unavenged death of their Minister, and when they are fighting or defending barricades in conjunction with other nationalities, and perhaps under command of an American or British officer, they have become notorious for their utter disregard of ordinary military precaution and unnecessary daredevil recklessness. The French are also far from the base of the defended area, and come in for attacks. They are assisted by the Austrian guard, some Belgians, some Customs students and unattached Continentals who are able to use a gun. The Customs students constitute a splendid force of young men, but as they are of all nationalities, they are apt, in taking their active fighting positions, to gravitate to the guards of their respective countries, although in many instances they simply join the weakest spot. The Japanese are defending the Fu with the greatest valour, and, needless to say, are tremendously pro-English and anti-Russian.

We now feel that our tactics must be entirely defensive. Although to-day is Sunday, most of the women in the compound, missionary women included, are working hard at sewing sandbags, the non-fighting men filling them. Beautiful material of all kinds is being used for these bags. Liberty satin curtains from London and linen monogrammed sheets from Paris are cut up ruthlessly to be used. One hundred thousand bags, as near as they can be counted, have been made already. It was principally in the Fu, defended by gallant Colonel Shiba, that the materials procured were so gorgeous. Bags were made from the bolts and rolls of brocades and satins that constituted part of the treasure left by Prince Su in his palace when he so kindly turned it over to his persecuted fellow-citizens. This is the one bright, wonderful bit of colouring in the compound: it is the barricades of thousands of big sandbags made entirely of these gorgeous-coloured satin brocades—sky-blues, blood-red, Imperial yellows—thousands and thousands piled one upon the other. It has been built from the ground up to the second story of the Chancery building—a rather high house for Peking. It was made at this building, as the firing has been very heavy here—a most extraordinary, butterfly-coloured barricade; and if it were anywhere in the world except in this siege in Peking, there would be seen lines of artists, with sketch-book and easel, trying to put this unusual effect on canvas.

_Tuesday, July 3._

For several days past the Chinese on the Tartar Wall have been bolder and bolder, and yesterday they built their last barricade so near ours that they could, and did, throw big rocks over into our lines, which, by a lucky chance, hurt no one. The moral effect of this dangerous propinquity was terrible on our men. They felt that there was only one almost ineffective barricade between them and hordes of Tu Fu-hsiang’s soldiers—the notoriously cruel Mohammedan chief and his bandits. Mr. Squiers was the first to appreciate this great danger, and certainly the first to think of the cure, and, what was more to the point, he put it through. The pros and cons were discussed with Sir Claude in conference, and it was decided that a charge down the Wall must be made, and soon, or else we must leave it entirely, and that none of the Americans were willing to do, as we had been there from the beginning, and although the Germans gave up their position on the Wall, we were not content to do the same.

Captain Myers was more than ready to lead the charge, and he was given twenty British marines, fifteen Russians, and thirty of our own men. At dawn this morning, about three o’clock, he charged the Wall. No one in the compound had gone to bed; the excitement was very great. We sent sixty of our fighting men on this sortie, and if they failed we should have lost what we could ill afford to lose. We felt that the odds were about even, and _that_ waiting at the hour of dawn was frightful. The charge was successful, and two Chinese regimental flags were captured. Sixty-five dead Chinese soldiers were afterwards found between the two barricades, but the actual number killed and wounded is unknown. Our men came back at five o’clock carrying their dead and wounded. This has been the only effectual offensive measure accomplished during the siege. Captain Myers led it most gallantly—an inspiration to his men—and was wounded by a spear-thrust in the leg.

CAPTAIN JOHN T. MYERS
]

_Thursday, July 5._

The Glorious Fourth came in during the last twenty-four hours, and the Chinese kindly announced the fact about 3 o’clock a.m. by a violent firing from all sides, which terrified everybody, but like most of the similar attempts recently made, only resulted in giving everyone a bad fright, and materially weakening some one or two points of our defence. Von Below, of the German Legation, notwithstanding his military physique, seems to be developing into a man of moods instead of a man of action, and the story comes over from his quarters that during this last terrifying attack he was seized with the premonition that this was the end. He preferred to meet his doom by making his piano interpret his last feeling. The music from the “Valkyrie” that he drew from that instrument was marvellous. He played, regardless of time and place, in a soul agony, but was rudely awakened some hours later to be told that the attack was all over, and that for this time at least he was not to be massacred in a storm of music.

To-day the moral atmosphere seems worse. I think that it is because absolutely nothing has reached us from the outside world to let us know that our respective Governments care what becomes of us. My personal attitude, compared with my co-besieged friends, is one of extraordinary cheerfulness, simply because, perhaps owing to my youth and health, I can feel no terrible fear for the future, but, on the contrary, am distinctly hopeful.

All the hope that has been caused by seeing nightly green lights that look like search-lights is falling very low, because they have not got nearer at all, which would not be the case were they signals used by our approaching troops. Where can the troops be? Are all the Governments so gullible as to believe the Chinese Ministers in their different countries, who are probably assuring them of our safety, or can they be so criminally selfish as to be fighting diplomatically among themselves as to what each Power shall have in the way of future sharing of China after our rescue?

The consensus of opinion among the Ministers here is that the different nations will agree to allow the Japanese or the Russians, who control large fighting forces within a week’s march of Peking, to send a relief column to Peking with the sole object of relieving their eleven Ministers Plenipotentiary, exacting a promise that on this expedition there should be no _coup d’état_ or punitive measures, but simply relief of their distressed representatives. Weeks ago we were told to come to the British compound for a day or two, but as yet there is not a sign of help. Every day deaths occur of our best fighting men and officers, and the question is, with men going in this painfully regular way, how long can we hold out? Soon women and children will constitute the only forces of the compound. The deaths each day are fortunately small in number, but a great many are wounded, some very badly, which make them as good as dead as far as fighting goes. The Russian officer in command says that we cannot hold out longer than for one week at the most, but more sanguine people say that, with good luck, three weeks can be tided over.

Captain Myers’s wound of his spear-thrust is not as slight as was expected, and he has much fever. It was very sad to-day to see the funeral of another baby. The second funeral of the day was one of the most popular and attractive of the Customs students. He was shot through the liver while cutting down a tree near the Hanlin Library, and died two hours later.

Fifty men are in the hospital, twelve have been killed, and there are a few convalescents walking about the compound. We did not say so at the time, but we can say now, thank Heaven! the Chinese have tried to fire us on all sides, so that in this way there are very few places or houses where the Chinese, who are sniping at near range, can secure cover. By means of terrific efforts, in which everybody joined, to extinguish the fires, serious harm was averted, although our enormous wall, giving on to the Mongolian Market Place, had a breach in it that took a great deal of hard work on the part of the men to rebuild, or, I should say, to mend, with rocks and sandbags, in such a way as to make it safe.

These rocks were moved with great difficulty; they had been in place so long forming the pavements in this compound. How fortunate, from a defensive standpoint, that when we came here we were allowed some servants, our coolies included! Most of these are Christians, because the Buddha men as a rule deserted when they saw how things were going; and now these servants are put in gangs, all of them having to work for the common need in building barricades, filling the thousands of sandbags to strengthen the defences, and doing necessary sanitary work, also at times working shoulder to shoulder with our soldiers when a barricade caves in from the enemy’s heavy fire. One barricade, for instance, was destroyed by the Chinese. The coolies, working with the soldiers, rebuilt it, though exposed to a galling fire from Tu Fu-hsiang’s men all the time. One afternoon six coolies were killed.

These men, whom we call by the general term of “coolie,” classing them thus for convenience, are often scholars, being teachers of Chinese to the missionaries or interpreters, and yet they work without complaint in the gangs, though they are in every way unaccustomed to manual labour.

At four o’clock we had another funeral, for Oliphant, who was shot. I was present, and the English chaplain, Mr. Norris, gave us a short service. It was very sad to see his body, wrapped only in a piece of sacking, let down into the ground. The grey sky, occasional bullets flying over our heads, and a few claps of thunder, with flashes of lightning, made a fitting background for the burial of this lovable young man. His brother, a great tall, gaunt fellow, looked his part in the most pitiful way as chief mourner. Before we leave Peking many will be the Chinamen who will be killed without quarter by the Customs students in revenge for the untimely death of their comrade. All the Ministers Plenipotentiary were there, and poor Sir Robert Hart looked weak and haggard from deep grief at the loss of his favourite subordinate. Oliphant was buried only three hours after his death. We have no way of keeping the dead for a greater length of time.

Horse is the principal article of diet. Several days after we arrived here the beef was eaten up, and there remained but a small flock of sheep, which fortunately was brought here while there was time. There are 1,293 Europeans to feed daily in this compound, and rice is the dish _par excellence_ for everyone. Mutton, however, is distributed to the sick, women and children, to the extent of a quarter of a pound apiece every third day. There are a lot of horses, ponies, and mules in the compound which we have kept alive by feeding with straw, and every day two animals have been slaughtered and distributed among the messes. Then the coolies have a kitchen, where they can come whenever their work makes it possible, and they get rice and horse-meat. It is queer to see how many people acknowledge that they like it, having eaten it now for two weeks. Of course, a great deal depends upon the animal, but they agree that mule and pony are better than horse. Some people even who have among their stores plenty of canned or tinned beef prefer the fresh horse-meat. At our mess, however, we have a prejudice against it, and as long as we continue to have the tinned beef we will not send for our share of the animal.

The May races having come off before the siege, most of the diplomats had not disposed of their horses and polo ponies, and the all-important question now is not if “Cochon” will win more cups in future, but if his steaks will be tender. Things are so queer now. The one cow which still gives a small amount of milk, needless to say, has not been killed for her beef, but is carefully tended for her baby-saving fluid. The president of the largest and most influential bank in Peking, besieged here with us, has received a wound which absolutely incapacitates him for active work. He can only hobble around on a crutch. He has volunteered to tend “Miss Cow” and assist her to find the few blades of grass which are still to be had.

I went with an officer to the Hanlin Library, where the sniping is still constant, but not quite as severe as it was, owing to the good barricades with which we have strengthened the position. The Chinese fired this wonderful library of Peking so ruthlessly that nothing is left there but thousands of charred and burnt books, and some evidences of the charming courtyard and grass plot where the old Chinese savants used to go and read the ancient manuscripts in Sanskrit and other dead languages. Here I found the bank president, a great power in China in ordinary times, quietly tending the cow, watching her from an antique stone bench. Surely the shade of some ancient philosopher must be shocked into asking himself, “And what have we here?”

The Customs mess at Sir Robert Hart’s has an invariable menu. At breakfast, rice, tea, and jam; at tiffin, rice and horse; at dinner, rice, horse, and jam. We have splendid stores—better than any in the compound—so we live better than any mess here. We have quite a supply of Bishop’s wonderful preserved California fruits, not very sweet, which are most delicious during this hot weather, because they do not make one thirsty; then we have macaroni and tinned tomatoes. We make our corned beef into croquettes sometimes, but generally have it put into a curry with rice. Yesterday we had a great treat for dinner. Our cook, who is an enterprising and daring soul, went outside of our lines into the Mongol markets at great risk to his life from snipers or being waylaid by the enemy, and procured one dozen tiny chickens. Sir Robert Hart came to our party.

_Menu._

Remarks.

Celery bouillon Liebig extract, celery.

Anchovy on toast Anchovy paste.

Broiled chicken Procured at risk of cook’s
life.

Green peas, fried Tinned peas and two potatoes.
potatoes

Bean salad Tinned beans.

Black coffee Plenty of coffee.

The chickens remaining from the cook’s raid are being kept in a basket and fed as if they were babies, and will be used entirely for the children. We count eight at our mess as regular members, but our guests are constant and numerous. Its personnel consists of Dr. Velde (who does such glorious surgical work), Dr. Morrison, Mr. Cheshire, Mr. Pethick, Mr. Squiers, Fargo Squiers (who is Captain Strouts’ orderly), Mrs. Squiers (who, because of the great generosity in freely supplying from her limited stores those who are in need, has been called by many in this compound the “Lady Bountiful”), the three children and two governesses, and myself. We usually have missionaries in to tiffin, and our more intimate friends, many of whom are sadly in need of food, to breakfast and dinner.

The Russian Legation is so situated that at one point their defence is very weak, and they have almost nightly attacks at such close quarters with the Chinese, that the fighting is sometimes hand to hand. The men of the Russian guard were undrilled sailors, who had been forcibly enlisted from inland villages in Russia, and Von Rahden, their commander, and his under-officer, to keep them from running away when these close-range fights begin, get behind them and stick them with the ends of bayonets, so that they in turn will advance on the Chinese with fury. He claims that this is the only way to teach undisciplined troops to advance at close quarters, as they always become seized with terror—and I don’t wonder a bit, for the Chinese in attacking blow on shrill horns, shriek, howl, dance with the wildness of dervishes, and advance with the cruelty and cunning of Indians.

MRS. SQUIERS
]

Von Rahden is frequently up all night, and when he is, he usually comes to us for breakfast, which we have at any time between 6.30 and 8 o’clock. I have especial charge of the coffee-pot, and when the members of our mess have been up all night on duty, they look as if they could drink it all, instead of the one cup I have to limit them to. What a difference, instead of having your maid bring your breakfast-tray in the morning when you ring for it, to be waked up from a heavy morning nap at six o’clock by knocking on the door, to find two or three powder-begrimed members of your mess humbly inquiring: “How soon will breakfast be ready?” They have probably been up all night on the firing-line, and are dog-tired and faint.

We tell them to come back in half an hour, and then our skirmish begins. The sleepy cook is routed out of the Chinese-filled courtyard under our windows, and told it is time to cook the wheatena, the coffee and soda-raised biscuits, for which purpose he repairs to the broken stove in the box-like kitchen. We take a hasty sponge-bath, and our rough-dried shirt-waists and golf-skirts are donned, and we are ready for the day. Next we roll up our straw mattress, place it in a corner, and put the small eight-sided Chinese table in the middle of the room. We boast four chairs, and as our mess ranges from eight to twelve people, the ones who come late sit on the silver trunks or on the floor.

A fresh table-napkin we have procured from somewhere, and on the table we place some green leaves for decoration, and breakfast is announced. Besides Von Rahden, another breakfast guest we have almost daily is the Rev. Mr. Gamewell, a missionary who appears the mildest of men, but who is developing into one of the strongest in Peking. He is the brains of the Defence and Fortification Committee. Before entering the ministry he was a star student at Cornell, in the engineering department; and now this entire compound and the outer lines are included in his hands, and his recommendation for barricades, countermining to protect against the Chinese undermining, of which we are constantly aware, are all carried out as near as possible from his orders. Before dawn he is at work to take advantage of these hours of comparative quiet, to see just where the weak spots are, and how he can best provide for their strengthening during the coming day. He is a stooping figure, very quiet, and rarely speaks to us, and, when he does speak, never about what he is doing. He told me his working hours are so continuous, and everybody calling for him from every quarter, that he did not believe he could keep on if it were not for the hour’s rest and good hot breakfast that he gets daily in Mrs. Squiers’s rooms.

Another member of the mess is Dr. Velde, the German surgeon, who is doing such wonderful and constant work at the hospital day and night. He performs unheard-of operations one after another, and on the same old kitchen table that we found for him. The antique rifles used so frequently by the Chinese inflict the most heart-rending wounds, the treatment of which, to be successful, surely calls for surgical genius, and, thank Heaven! Velde has that. He is short, thick-set, and blond, with stumpy little hands and a keen blue eye, and is wonderfully practical and matter-of-fact. The various messes near the hospital asked him to join them, but without affectation—he knows he is the only surgeon in Peking, and he must guard his health—he answered: “No, I go only where I get the best and the most food;” and having been asked by Mr. Squiers to come to us, he gladly accepted, while reiterating the same reason for joining us that he had given for refusing the others. His duties are so constant that he usually is only able to get in to breakfast and dinner.

Another feature of this siege is one which shows what marvellous executive ability some people have. The proprietor of the Peking Hotel is Chamot, a Swiss who has played a wonderful part in the drama of our imprisonment. There have naturally been numbers of people without stores of any kind, and people who, if they had stores, would have no place to cook them; so Chamot stepped forward and undertook to feed daily I don’t know how many people. When we were first assembled in the British compound the confusion was something terrific, and he gave food to all those who had nothing, and later he made a permanent business arrangement to provide food for those who had no means of messing themselves. Among these are many Roman Catholic priests and twenty-five Roman Catholic Sisters, saved by himself and his wife from the Nan-t’ang just before it was burned, besides numerous families and detached individuals having no stores, who would have had a most serious time without his assistance.

These Sisters were fed by Mrs. Squiers for many days before Chamot volunteered their care. Of course, the variety that he supplies is not wonderful, but he gives them horse-meat, rice, occasionally some tinned vegetables, and a kind of coarse brown bread, made from an inferior flour, which he bakes himself. For so many people it is quite marvellous how he feeds them so regularly. He has a few coolies to help him at his hotel, which is near the French Legation, and there he personally superintends the cooking of the two messes, one at twelve and one at six o’clock, and brings it up in a Chinese cart to the British compound, always at the risk of his own life from snipers. One cannot but wonder how long he will be able to continue his good work. Chamot’s Hotel in Peking is known in the siege vernacular as the Swiss Legation.

_Monday, July 9._

A day or two ago an old-fashioned cannon was found in a shop near Legation Street, where they made Chinese stoves—a kind of foundry. It is undoubtedly one of the guns brought up to Peking by the English and French in 1860. Mr. Squiers promptly took a great interest in this ancient piece of ordnance, hoping that we might make some use of it. He, with Mitchell, a gunner’s mate from the _Newark_, have worked assiduously in their efforts to clean off the rust of forty years and get it ready for use. During the cleaning process they made projectiles of bags of nails. They took the “International,” as the gun was christened, over to the Fu and fired the bags of nails at a Chinese barricade, thus serving the double purpose of cleaning the gun and causing some damage and immense fright to the enemy. The noise of the explosion was so much greater than anything the Chinese had heard coming from our lines that five sentries incautiously put their heads above the Imperial Wall to ascertain what was going on, and were promptly shot down by our guards. Some Russian ammunition is here, intended for a gun which should have been forwarded from Tien-tsin at the same time as the ammunition, but which, most unfortunately, Colonel Wogack failed to have put on the last, train, and we find it can be fired from the “International.”

LOADING THE “INTERNATIONAL”
]

_Copyright, M. S. Woodward_

AMERICAN AND RUSSIAN MARINES AT WORK ON THE BARRICADE.

BARON VON RAHDEN ON THE RIGHT
]

To-day a European boy died of dysentery. Last night the “International” was taken over to the Hanlin, where it was used to great advantage in breaking up a barricade that the Chinese had made, and which they have been strengthening daily for their convenience and protection while engaged in the pleasant occupation of sniping our men. The day before yesterday Von Rostand, Austrian Chargé d’Affaires, was shot at the French Legation—where, I understand, the rifle-firing and shelling is terrific—somewhere near the eye, and they fear he may lose it. His wife is nursing him there. M. Merghelynckem, the First Secretary of the Belgian Legation, killed two Chinese yesterday, and in killing one he undoubtedly saved the life of the French commanding officer. He does good work, and is a fine shot, but is erratic to a degree, and I don’t believe he loves his English colleagues as much as he might. He left yesterday for the French Legation to take up his abode there, where he surely will be treated with great consideration, having saved the life of their officer, although there he is given eight hours of sentry duty, while here he had but six hours.

The other day he brought me five long Chinamen’s queues, which he had cut off the heads of Boxers he had killed, as a souvenir of a day’s work. It means to some Chinese—the cutting-off of the queue—a great and unholy mutilation, and these trophies hanging up in our living-room for a few days were obviously things of terror to our Chinese servants, although they had been cut from the heads of their dread enemies, and we soon disposed of them. Yesterday the Austrian commanding officer was killed, shot through the heart. At first we kept a record of the dead or badly wounded men as they would be brought into the hospital, but now they come in so often that we cease to note the exact number.

People—the sanguine ones—say that it is quite likely and reasonable that help will not come for a week or two, and in this way, if the troops do not come, they can say, with childish satisfaction, “Oh, I never expected them before.” When we first got here all the Ministers and everyone said: “Certainly by the first of July at the latest.” Now they are actually saying: “Certainly by the first of August”!

Yesterday—Sunday—there was a lot of good work done. Nevertheless, Mr. Norris, the chaplain, who is one of the hard-working members of the Committee on Fortifications, gave us half an hour for the service held in Lady Macdonald’s dining-room—the regular chapel of the compound being occupied by the American Protestant missionaries—and I must say that it was comforting. This room is something of a wreck, denuded of all draperies for sandbags, walls riddled with large and small bullet-holes, a life-sized painting of Queen Victoria occupying the entire wall at one end of the room, hung quite crooked and peppered with shot. A great beam from the ceiling protruded some 4 or 5 feet down into the room, where it had been forced by a spent cannonball crashing into the side of the house, and over all this ruin was the unmistakable atmosphere which clings to a room where many people eat three times a day, and where the staff of servants is not equal to the work. It was but six weeks ago that I was a guest at a most charming dinner given in this very room, surrounded by what then seemed to be the unutterable and interminable calm that comes from the possession of the best things to make life pleasant in the Far East. The other denominations had their services as well some time during the day.

The hot weather began last week, and the thermometer is 109° in the shade. I wear shirt-waists and short skirts; the men wear filthy clothes that they work in and most of them sleep in. They never wear collars—no washing of linen for three weeks, and, from the looks of them, most of them only shave every fourth or fifth day. Life is now settling down to a routine, and one would think that the people of this compound had never done anything else all their lives but get up during each night when a general attack begins. Each man goes to his appointed post, or if for a change we have no general attack, the men quietly get up at all hours and go to their sentry work.

_Photo, Elliott & Fry_

SIR CLAUDE MACDONALD
]

The Marquis Salvago sits chatting with his wife, a very beautiful woman, in a _chaise longue_ most of his time. M. Pichon, the French Minister, nervously and ceaselessly walks about, telling every one who chats with him: “La situation est excessivement grave; nous allons tous mourir ce soir.” M. de Giers, the Russian Minister, walks eternally between his Legation and the British compound, and looks every inch a Minister. Poor Señor Cologan, the Spanish Minister, and doyen of the corps, is very ill. M. Knobel, the Dutch Minister, offered his services as a sentry to the Committee on Defences, but stated at the same time that he did not know how to shoot, and was very short-sighted. Needless to say, his offer was not accepted. Mr. Conger, the American Minister, walks about. Sir Claude Macdonald, the British Minister, is now the Commander-in-Chief, unanimously elected to that position by his colleagues, and he tries sincerely to do his duty as such. I believe he is fully competent, as he used to be a captain in the British army before entering the diplomatic service. His path is a thorny one, however; most of the Legations are so jealous of this compound being the centre and last stronghold _par excellence_, that they are outrageously inconsiderate of all orders issued, and, notwithstanding the great gravity of the situation, they put everything in Sir Claude’s way to keep his plans from reaching successful maturity. A small incident may be cited to show this horrid and prevalent spirit.

The French had put in an application with the Committee on 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?”