Chapter IV: Part 4

Can it surprise us that to-day the whole compound looks dreary and disheartened? So many deaths in one short twenty-four hours! I could write a great deal if it were of any use—of this compound, with the shot and shell and bullets, making it dangerous for us to move about the small open place in the Legation; of weary waiting for the troops through heat and rain; of great dread over the weak places in our defences; of crowded hospital and growing cemetery, and principally of the nervous strain caused by all this worrying and fearing over the fate in store for us should we arrive at that point when we could no longer hold our own. A good sergeant or corporal is missed as much when he is wounded or killed as an officer; it is especially true of our own marines, for in many instances they do the work of an officer, and take as much responsibility. The deaths are coming so frequently now that a final stand seems not improbable, and if when that is taken we continue to have the same percentage of deaths, then we can well say our prayers. It is discussed quietly by men that they will certainly kill their wives when that time comes. God grant it never may! Apropos of this, I have in my pocket a small pistol loaded with several cartridges, to use if the worst happens. A Belgian secretary stole it from the armoury for me—“in case you need it, mademoiselle.”

Many is the time bullets passing through the tops of the trees have cut off branches or twigs which fall at our feet when attacks begin. We often see the flash of the cannon as it sends the shell over the compound, generally too high to do any damage, but passing before one knows it. And so it goes, shells and rifle-shots singing all around us. Late yesterday afternoon the shooting seemed to cease temporarily as I was sitting with Baroness von Ketteler on one of the benches which bore witness that this Supply Department had been, before the siege, the Legation tennis-court, when a bullet whistled with startling clearness within half an inch of my ear, passing between the Baroness and myself. Knowing that the sniper who had spied us was taking a moment to re-aim or reload, I immediately dropped from the bench on to the ground to get out of his range trying at the same time to pull Baroness von Ketteler with me. This I could not do, and it was some time before one of the Customs students who was working quite near us realized that we were the target for this new sniping, and forcibly led her back to the Legation. In her agony of mind I am sure a bullet to end her suffering would have been truly welcomed.

We no longer talk about the troops. If they come in time they will come in time, and our one aim will be to last as long as we can. The only subjects of conversation now are the necessary strengthening of this or that barricade, the digging of trenches at this or that corner, to guard against the Chinese undermining us, as they are sure to do, mining being one of their favourite methods of warfare.

We are trying to prepare for all emergencies. People who, before the siege began, seemed to have reasonable intelligence, and, if one had thought about such a thing, looked as if they would show up pretty well if they were put to it, have now gone to pieces entirely, lacking apparently the desire even to appear courageous. The men often make some trifling ailment an excuse to shirk all work for the common defence, and spend their time groaning over the situation, and becoming more hateful daily to the men and women upon whom the real responsibilities of the siege are resting; while the women who have collapsed simply spend their hours, day and night, behind the nearest closed door, and await each fresh attack to indulge in new hysterical scenes.

I can honestly say there are more men to the bad than women. When anyone becomes really seized with this terror they lose all sense of proportion—the slightest provocation brings forth torrents of self-pity, and they ask only for the impossible. To-day I took the French governess her dinner, into which, I must admit, the cook had dashed the curry-powder rather too strongly. With this small _contretemps_ as a starter, she seized my hands, and with heart-breaking sobs begged me to save her, as she knew, from the unusual taste of her food, that someone was trying to poison her. “Mademoiselle, je ne demande que peu, simplement qu’on me retourne tout de suite en France.” To tell her we had all eaten the same curry, and that it was as impossible to send her to France as it was to send her to the moon, were words thrown away; she was hopelessly unbalanced with terror.

Several people have already lost their minds; among them a dear old Italian priest, Père Dosio, the Superior of the Nan-t’ang, which was looted and burnt with the accompanying horrors. I talked with him from day to day, and from being at first _comblé_ with grief at the ruin of his life’s work in the destruction of his cathedral and hospital, he gradually has become full of hallucinations. His loss of mind has been a gentle affair compared to the violence shown by a Swedish missionary named Norregarde, who at times has to be confined with armed guards over him, as he is utterly deranged. He escaped once, and marched out of the British Legation gate to the canal, and it seems that he went direct to the Tsung-li Yamen, where he gave them, as far as we can learn by his own accounts when he returned, all the information they wanted, and especially urged them not to shoot so high, as few of their shots harmed us. Since his return he has been hourly guarded, but, unfortunately, we notice his advice has been taken, and Chinese shooting comes lower. The Chinese have a great respect for the insane, thinking the spirits who possess them are sacred. They gave him a good dinner, and he returned unharmed to the British Legation. The Chinese are working harder to take the Fu than any other point. It holds nearly three thousand native Christians, and it is these poor wretches whom the Chinese would first love to murder. Then, too, if they got the Fu, they could so easily mount guns on its wall and fire down on us. We _must_ hold the Fu and the Tartar Wall directly behind the American Legation, but it will cost us the lives of all our marines to hold the latter.

On the 14th two messengers came to the British compound carrying a letter signed “Prince Ching and others.” This communication was interpreted by some as a desire of Jung Lu to incriminate Prince Ching, as the letter came from the former’s camp, and he is a well-known hater of both the foreigners and Prince Ching. If we answered it, and sent the answer to him to Jung Lu’s camp, from whom it came, nothing would be easier than for Jung Lu to take the communication to the Empress-Dowager, and thus prove to her Ching’s perfidy in writing to the Ministers.

Mr. Pethick disagrees entirely with this view, and urges the Ministers to answer it, as he feels convinced it is a genuine beginning of parleyings which, if nothing comes of them, would probably at least give us an armistice and a respite from the horrible attacks. This letter is fairly threatening, and it reads that we _must_ now leave Peking, or they will do their _worst_; that they have tried to communicate with us before, but their advances were never “gracefully received”; that we had fired first, and they were glad that so far only one Minister Plenipotentiary had been killed. As for the way of going, we must all leave Peking in tens, or those who desire to remain temporarily would be afforded protection and lodging in the Tsung-li Yamen, etc. It was addressed to Sir Claude and other Ministers, and they threatened in a postscript that terrible things would happen to us if they received no letter in answer by twelve o’clock the next day.

Opinions vary about it, but everyone agrees that it is worth while answering whether it is a ruse or not. So the response was sent yesterday at noon. The messenger who brought us this letter was the Chinese Christian who took, or tried to take, Sir Claude’s communication to Admiral Seymour, and was caught by the Chinese, beaten in the most horrible way, and robbed of the letter containing information as to our numbers, strength, etc., which the Chinese must have been very glad to get. The messenger was then taken to Jung Lu’s camp, where this letter was given him to deliver to us, as he knew the way that would get him quickly into our lines. This man was again used to take our answer to Jung Lu’s camp. Some say the troops are on the way, and the Chinese are trying to start negotiations before they arrive, either to make us come out of our lines, so that they can murder us easily, or so that they can say to the Powers, when they finally arrive, that they kept up communication with us, and that it was our own fault that we barricaded ourselves in our Legations; others insist that it is altogether a _blague_ and a _canard_.

The morning following Captain Strouts’ death the Ministers and guard-captains unanimously voted Mr. Squiers to be Sir Claude’s Chief of Staff, the position having been unfilled since Captain Strouts’ death. The atmosphere of the besieged in Peking is not one of peace, but of bitterest feeling, especially strong against the British, and for no other reason than that the other nations begrudge the strategical superiority of the English position. Everyone hopes, with Mr. Squiers in this rôle, that things will run smoothly, and that perhaps Sir Claude’s orders, when delivered to the different “guards” by an American Chief of Staff, and talked over with them in their own mother-tongues (for Mr. Squiers is a linguist), may be oil on the troubled waters. Let us hope so, for, should national feeling ever reach the top notch, this besieged area will separate—the Continentals on one side and the English and Americans on the other—and Heaven only knows how soon the end would come for everybody should this horror of military separation take place.

The strong feelings of friendship, that are perhaps due to the propinquity of our lines, have made the Russians our good friends and comrades, leading them to express to us freely their intense dislike of the British in violent phrases: “Ces chiens d’Anglais! Comment supportez-vous leurs arrogances et leurs manières de cochons?” And later on an Englishman would drop into our mess for a moment and admonish us with the words: “You Americans are the devil. You are on good terms with every d——d dago in the place; and as for the Russians, you love them as though they were your long-lost brothers!” It is unique, this feeling of ours of amity and good-will towards almost everybody here, and I am confident it is greatly due to the strong personality of Mr. Squiers that, as a Legation, we hold this extraordinary balance of things in Peking, which places the Americans in the lead on this diplomatic chess-board.

_July 31._

In the afternoon of the 16th, the day of Captain Strouts’ death, and while we were all attending his funeral, Mr. Conger, Mr. Squiers, and M. de Giers were told to come and interview a messenger who had arrived with a white flag, bringing a letter from “Prince Ching and others” in answer to our letter of the 14th. The messenger apparently came from the Yamen, and had a cipher telegram for the American Minister from the State Department in Washington, reading simply, “Give tidings bearer,” then saying that we could send an answer to the Secretary of State through them; but, knowing it must be an open telegram, which they could easily change, no steps were taken to answer it. The following day came another letter from the Yamen to Mr. Conger that Minister Wu in Washington had written thus, “China is sent greetings and aid by the United States, and desires to know how is the health of Mr. Conger,” and this message stated that the American Minister would be allowed to send one cablegram in cipher. Realizing the great responsibility devolving upon us to send a clear and strong telegram to the outside world, our Legation consulted with Sir Claude and other Ministers about the wording. The gist of what they sent was that, “We are holding our last position under shot and shell in the British Legation, and we will be massacred shortly if help does not come.”

EDWIN H. CONGER

(UNITED STATES MINISTER)

REPRODUCED BY PERMISSION FROM “THE SPHERE”
]

The following day, when the Yamen messenger came for the telegram, the other Ministers sent cipher messages also, hoping they might be sent. They were returned, however, with no apology. Since then there has been a message of some sort on every other day from the Yamen, signed “Prince Ching.” The attacks are so irregular now that one cannot count on them, except that they are apt to occur at the most inopportune time during the day, and when least expected. Once, even two or three of the clerks or under-secretaries of the Tsung-li Yamen “called.” They were evidently frightened and nervous at what they considered actually coming into the lion’s den, but amenities only were discussed. We very naturally considered them of too inferior rank to treat officially. In one of the many letters in answer to Prince Ching’s, Sir Claude wrote that we could hold out indefinitely with food, soldiers, and ammunition, but that the ladies and children felt the need of ice, eggs, and fresh fruit; so yesterday, the 20th, came three carts full of melons, six bags of flour, egg-plants, and an uneatable Chinese vegetable—no eggs, no ice, or fruit, except the unripe melons.

We have been trying to make a kind of market with the Chinese soldiers doing duty on the Chinese sentry lines, but although they would be very glad to pocket the big commission which they could get out of the transaction, they have not been allowed to do so by their officers, but they smuggle in eggs for us every morning at high prices (_bien entendu_), just enough for a very small supply for the hospital.

An interesting rumour that comes to us by a captured Chinese, and is generally credited to be true, is that Tung Fu-hsiang’s army has retired south from Peking to meet the foreign troops. Another rumour, however, says that Tung Fu-hsiang has departed westward, and as he was only a Mohammedan brigand before the Empress-Dowager elevated him to the head of her army, the Chinese think he has gone, not to meet our troops, but to continue the good work and merry life as a bandit in Mongolia. A letter comes to-day to Sir Robert Hart from the Yamen which is most polite and gushing. They regret most sincerely that his house and compound have been burned, and state at the same time that the Customs affairs have been turned almost upside down in consequence of lack of orders during the past six weeks from the Inspector-General. It is probable that they will come to Sir Robert for help as soon as things become more quiet.

The other day, when they sent us fruit and vegetables, they said they regretted they could not send us ice, because, if they attempted to do so, the Boxers, who like ice, would be sure to capture it. Apropos of ice, another baby’s life could undoubtedly to-day have been saved had there been any in the compound. These “might-have-beens” are so agonizing.

M. Pichon, the French Minister, to-day had a very nice telegram sent him from France, saying: “You are unanimously voted to have the Legion of Honour. Your mother sends her love and greeting, and 15,000 Frenchmen are on their way to your support.”

On the 18th a messenger got through from the Japanese Consul in Tien-tsin to Narahara, saying that he hoped the large foreign contingent of soldiers would get started by the 20th for the relief of Peking; he hoped there would be 24,000 Japanese, 6,000 Russians, 3,000 British, and 1,500 Americans; and that the Chinese city of Tien-tsin had been burnt, but not the foreign settlement.

The Russians seemed horribly worried about so many Japanese soldiers coming, but there are rumours that the Russians have been keeping away from Tien-tsin so as not to join the allied Powers, and perhaps be forced to make some promises which they might regret later, and that they are doing some seizing of territory at the present on their own account on the plea of defending their railways. An Englishman here, being, of course, anti-Russian, insists that this nation is absolutely careless about its Minister or the other Russian people trapped here, whether they live or not. If it is a question of making some coup for the aggrandizement of their country, they would not hesitate to sacrifice their people in Peking. One of the men in the Russian Legation is named Pompoff, and has a very pretty wife with a gorgeous voice, and as Russia is known to want Manchuria, he put it quite aptly in speaking of probable orders from St. Petersburg: “They will say, _Mon Dieu_, what is Madame Pompoff to Manchuria?”

A day or two ago, when news came to the Japanese that the allied troops were mobilizing in Tien-tsin, a letter came to M. Joostens, the Belgian Minister, from Kettles, the Belgian Consul, telling him in an excited way a little of the news we are all thirsting to hear—that Seymour’s relief party had got near Peking about the end of June, but had been driven back toward Tien-tsin, owing to great numbers of Chinese soldiers opposed to them, and lack of supplies and water. They were then cut off from Tien-tsin by the Chinese under General Neih, and their whole column would have been massacred there had not 3,000 troops from Tien-tsin gone out to their rescue. Neih was defeated, and, in consequence, committed suicide.

The foreigners and soldiers then in Tien-tsin proceeded to take and burn the native city, over 700 being killed and wounded. Towards the end of this interesting letter Mr. Kettles naïvely remarked that he doubted if the Belgian Minister would ever get this letter, but if he did it might please him to learn that his home Government had wired to M. de Cartier to remain in Shanghai and await orders, for he undoubtedly would be sent to Peking as Chargé d’Affaires, “the Minister, M. Joostens, having been massacred.” No matter what queer things happen in this world, humour is always left if one looks for it.

At the hospital an apparatus for applying X rays would have saved the lives of many. Poor Narahara, a Japanese officer, died this morning from lock-jaw produced by a bullet which pierced his thigh. He has suffered horribly for three weeks. Dr. Lippitt, after waiting four weeks for his leg to be in a condition for the surgeons to make another search for the bullet, had the pleasant news told him, after an agonizing examination, that it could not be found. We are hoping that if the troops arrive soon their medical corps will have X-ray machines, and that Lippitt’s leg may be saved. He has suffered and is suffering much physical pain, but more mental, I think, from the close proximity to the bed on which so many men have died, all the details of which he has seen, and the climax was reached during the night by the death of Narahara, whose wound was almost similar to his, although lately Narahara’s wound has been complicated by lock-jaw, whereas in the doctor’s case there have been no complications. If we get out of Peking, Dr. Velde deserves from every nation that is represented here a grateful acknowledgment of his services during the siege.

The wife of the Russian Minister, Madame de Giers, a handsome woman with a great charm of manner, has been a veritable angel of mercy in the hospital. She has personally nursed most of the Russian patients, for while all Russians of education speak either French or German, and the hospital nurses understand their wants, to the poor sailors, who can express themselves only in their own language, her nursing is a Godsend, and she is on duty with her suffering compatriots an incredible number of hours out of the twenty-four. A graduate trained nurse, working to make a record, could do no more than she is doing, and her physical strength, patience, and gentleness are a joy to witness.

No Minister’s wife in Peking can approach in any way to having helped with the burdens of the siege as Madame de Giers. The old saw of “Scratch a Slav and you find a Tartar” could be changed by those who see them here in Peking in so many instances “making good” to, “Scratch a Slav and you find a hero.” The past week while these negotiations, communications, and messengers have been arriving the calm has been very noticeable, only I must admit that it seems almost as if one would prefer to say, “If it is war, then let it be war,” for under these circumstances one would not, or, I should say, could not, have time to appreciate to the full extent this fiendish weather, this war and siege regimen, and the eternal and without end discussions about the troops. As long as the continual attacks were going on we knew it was a matter of life and death, and every man did his allotted work without a murmur, but now, owing to the half-armistice that exists, the five-week strain during this terrible weather is beginning to tell; everyone is seedy, and most of the work is done by dragging one leg after the other, while dysentery has a terrible hold on most of the people here. To me the most pitiful of all scenes in this compound is the collection of perambulators, huddled together in the shadiest part, with limp, languid babies in them, some looking so ill that their parents must feel that each day more of the siege brings their little ones nearer death.

Yesterday, July 25, another communication came from the Yamen, saying that they again asked us to leave Peking, under, of course, their solicitous care; that they feel that they can no longer protect us, although in any circumstances they will continue to do all in their power, and that they would like all the Ministers to send open telegrams to their respective Governments that they are all quite well.

We suppose that the pressure of the world is being brought to bear on such high Chinese officials as can be reached to find out how we are, and they in turn are trying to force us to reassure our Governments by these covert threats. At ten o’clock this morning the Ministers had a meeting, and sent a unanimous statement, saying that Legations never send telegrams unless in cipher, so they could not comply with the Yamen’s request, and that, as for wanting us all to leave for Tien-tsin immediately, we might consider the proposition if the Yamen would be kind enough to give us complete and accurate information as to what kind of a convoy they would give us, and what comforts would be furnished for the women and children. Of course, we have no idea of going _anywhere_ with them as protectors; but it is well to keep up communication, as it gives us time.

Surely it will be a surprise to the world to find us not dead, and to hear how we held our own. Last night the hospital statement was as follows: 165 men killed and wounded—12 per cent. killed, and 20 per cent. wounded.

People’s larders are getting terribly empty, and the menu I quoted three weeks ago is now in the dim and distant past. We live quite sparingly, and are hungry most of the time. The chief comforts of our mess now are the Selzogene bottles that Mrs. Squiers brought with us from our Legation, in which we daily make enough soda-water to last throughout the day.

Last night I was walking round the compound with M. Knobel, a Minister Plenipotentiary, who has not seemed as yet to develop any special attributes during the siege beyond the very common one of being intensely hungry—so very hungry, in fact, that as we passed the bungalow given to the Russians, which boasts a few trees, Knobel’s hungry eyes descried in the gloom six or more fat hens, belonging to some woman in the Legation, roosting high up on the branches. There was no sniping going on, and we took advantage of the quiet to walk once again round the compound, and noticed that, though it was early, everyone seemed to have turned in to get what rest they could before being awakened by the usual nightly attack.

The night was also getting blacker, and by the time we got round to the Russian bungalow again Knobel’s fell purpose had seized him in a determined grip. He whispered to me, “If you will watch, I will get a chicken. There will be no noise, and to-morrow we will have a real dinner and eat that chicken.” It flashed through my mind that at home, if clever darkies could not steal chickens without making a racket, I did not see how Knobel, who has probably never in his life come nearer to one than to pay his steward’s bills, could expect to be successful. However, there was no time to argue. Knobel had left me standing in the road, watching his figure disappear in the darkness. A rustle, a slight squawk, and my Minister friend was by me again, with a squirming bundle under his coat. We ran, as if the Boxers were after us, straight to the Chinese courtyard, where we found our fat cook. Fortunately he had done his daily duty on the “gang,” and was obviously delighted to receive our stolen booty—“All lighty. Me flixy good dinner to-mollow,” and winked comprehendingly as he saw that Knobel had been holding Miss Chicken’s neck so tightly she could not utter a sound. With a sigh of relief, Knobel turned her over to the cook, and with another but deeper sigh of anticipation of to-morrow’s dinner, he stealthily started by a roundabout way to return to his quarters.

Colonel Shiba, the Japanese commander, who has won the sincerest admiration from everyone, states to-day that he confidently expects the troops by July 28.

_July 28._

This day, which was to have been so auspicious, brings us the worst news of the siege. It is to the effect that as late as July 22 no troops had yet left Tien-tsin for our relief.

A little Chinese boy, of the Presbyterian mission, aged fifteen, small but clever, was sent out by us, on the night of July 5, for Tien-tsin, with a letter to the British Consul, Mr. Carles, telling him of our very terrible plight, and how we must have relief soon, and writing him in the strongest terms of our danger. This boy, after being let down over the Tartar Wall by a rope, made his way to Tien-tsin without many adventures, beyond being seized at one place and made to do coolie work for eight days. He then escaped, but, once arrived at Tien-tsin, he had great difficulty in getting through the outposts of the foreign troops who are apparently carefully guarding that part of Tien-tsin, which is in their lines. It is insisted here that the British Consul must be lacking in intelligence. He neither questioned the boy, who could have told him a great deal about our condition, nor did he give the boy any letters from the other Consuls, simply sending his own.

It took the boy a long time to walk back to Peking, and, finding the Water Gate too dangerous to enter by daylight, he waited until dark, and it was this letter that spread such a gloom over everything this morning. This communication of Mr. Carles was most unsatisfactory in every way, and the only excuse for this letter was that he was afraid it would fall into the hands of the Chinese. He wrote: “The rest of the British contingent, under General Gaselee, coming from Singapore, are expected on the 24th. Most of the Japanese troops are in Tien-tsin, and mobilized. The Russians are only landing at Taku. There are many Chinese troops between Tien-tsin and the coast. If you have plenty of food, and can hold out for a long time, the troops will save you. All foreign women and children have left Tien-tsin, and plenty of soldiers are on their way to your succour.” This was all very disheartening; but we realize more than ever before how long we still may be besieged, and the consequent economy of stores which should be practised, and there is talk of commandeering all private food-supplies.

The last sentence of his letter was hopelessly confusing. We did not know whether the troops had already started, or whether he was speaking of the Singapore contingent. Most people now feel that no reasonable Foreign Office should take two months to get a military relief party ready.

_August 1._

This is a piping hot day, 108° in the shade. Our principal conversation now is asking each other, “Is Colonel Shiba’s messenger reliable?” This man brings in almost daily to the Japanese camp the most cheerful and apparently accurate news that the troops are not far from Tungchou. If he is reliable, we may expect them very soon, but we can hardly believe his statements, owing to Mr. Carles’ letter. This is simply another variation to our old song of the siege.

The day before yesterday a letter came to Sir R. Hart from the Yamen, asking him to be so kind as to send a telegram to London telling the people there of our safety, because the different Governments were clamouring for news of their Ministers, and if he (Sir Robert) would send this telegram, it would be received as truth by the world, but they could not allow the Ministers to use their own codes.

Sir Robert answered immediately that the Ministers were quite right to decline to telegraph without cipher, and that he distinctly refused to send any telegram of such a nature as to reassure the world, because if he telegraphed the truth, the world would be so horrified that they would not believe his telegram. Well answered, Mr. Inspector-General.

I had the good luck to-day of being allowed to go over our defences on the Wall, and saw all of our protective barricades while getting there. Baron von Rahden and Mr. Squiers took me, and, needless to say, it was most interesting and thrilling. The conditions I had heard discussed for nearly two months I can now understand by seeing them all. I could also now understand the all-pervading charnel-house smells which at times during the siege have almost caused us to faint.

On each defended barricade loopholes have been made so that we can see, to some degree at least, the enemy. In many instances the loopholes are arranged with small mirrors, as the Chinese snipers often hit even these peepholes when a sentry’s eye is seen, so that this further protection has been deemed necessary.

I looked through one from a barricade in the Hanlin, and what I saw was what I might see in looking through the wicket-gate of a horror chamber at the Eden Musée in New York. A group of gorgeously-apparelled Boxers with their insignia were pitilessly caught by death in a mad dash at this barricade, and there they were, stiff and stark, nearly all in the furious attitudes of assault! Even the standard-bearer was stiffly and conscientiously gripping his gay-coloured pennant. A couple were shot in the back as they had started to run, and were lying flat on the ground, but a dozen or so, making up the body of the attacking party, held these horrible life-like positions with the most incredible rigidity. The sentry tells us that this hideous, almost theatrically posed, death-group has been thus for a couple of days. The Chinese would not come for their bodies, we could not, and there they were to remain until the carrion-dogs finished them, or until they eventually decomposed.

The combinations of barricades here, there, and everywhere are glorious, especially on the Wall, and well they might be, as they are made out of the huge rocks that were used hundreds of years ago to pave this wonderful piece of masonry. To stand and look down from the Wall into the British compound makes one realize more than ever how delightfully easy it would be for the Chinese, if they ever manned this part of the Wall, to point their guns downward and annihilate us.

Forgetting this possible picture, let me look down and tell you what I see on this beautiful, sunshiny August morning. Before me lies what we could naturally call the _terre du siège_, and comprises the Japanese, German, French, Russian, American, and British compounds, all of which have their flags flying somewhere, although in most cases the original Legation flag-poles have been shot down. Then comes as a pretty piece of colouring, in contrast to the sacked, burnt, and charred Chinese houses, all that remains of the Hôtel de Pékin, with its collection of flags of all nations flying in seeming defiance from the upper windows.

Further up Legation Street one sees a dirty, tired-looking, slimy green canal, running parallel to the British Legation, with a strong and high barricade on the bridge that spans it, so that we still have communication with those Legations on the other side—namely, the Japanese, German, and French. Then between and around these oases of compounds one sees an occasional big tree which has escaped burning, and which makes the scene of desolation seem even more lonely and desolate. Hundreds of houses, half burnt, half broken up, and wholly uninhabitable, tell the story of how in those first horrible attacks at the beginning of the siege they were used by the Chinese as cover, and then looted and burnt. A stray dog of the large wolfish, mongrel type that is so common in Peking can be seen picking his way about from place to place with the queer look and walk that seem to mark carrion animals.

A GATE INTO THE IMPERIAL CITY
]

Standing in the same place, but looking westward, one sees such a picture of beauty as one could never imagine even in one’s most exquisite dreams—a song of green and gold, the fairyland palaces of the wicked old ogress, the Empress-Dowager, these ideal gold-topped pavilions, palaces, and pagodas rising out of a veritable sea of green, which quivers and shimmers in the warm summer sunlight. In the old days we were frankly told that it was dangerous to wander too near enchanted palaces, and if this warning had been remembered, Kings and Queens would not have sent their knights of diplomacy to live on the other side of the Wall of this mysterious “Forbidden Purple City.” It was always a hazardous thing to do, even in fairy stories, and it seems as if the tale of what happened to these misguided knights may finish in the regular good old way, “And they were eaten up and never seen any more.”

_August 2._

To-day there is posted on the Bell Tower—a sort of summer-house in the centre of the British compound, where all notices are posted, and around which people congregate at all times to hear the news—the translation of the cipher letter that came yesterday to Sir R. Hart, which came from the Customs in London, through the Yamen: “Keep up heart. Chinese finally routed at Tien-tsin on July 15. Troops having great difficulty in getting enough transports, but expect to leave for Peking after July 28. Is Chinese Government protecting you, and do you get food from them?” They then refer to Mr. Conger’s telegram of the 18th.

Another choice bit of news comes to-day that two members of the Yamen have just been beheaded because they are suspected of being pro-foreign—Hsu Ching Cheng, Director of the Imperial University and President of the Manchurian Railway, at one time Minister to Germany and Russia; the other an ex-Taotai, a member of the Tsung-li Yamen, and an ex-Minister to Russia. Such is the price one pays in China for having assimilated broad ideas while enjoying diplomatic posts in Europe.

As I write, over in Mrs. Squiers’s house in the American Legation, where since this half-armistice we have been allowed to come occasionally and take a bath or read, I can see them taking away one of Mr. Squiers’s favourite ponies to be slaughtered to-morrow. The supply of horses is getting very low, and it will certainly be hard for the fighting men when the rations are reduced from horse and rice simply to rice, but it is really not pleasant to see one’s pet pony being taken off to help the supply.

_August 3._

Good news came yesterday, late in the afternoon, by a messenger who was clever enough to get through the Chinese lines. He brought in five letters, mostly from the Consuls in Tien-tsin—from Consul Ragsdale to Mr. Conger; from the German Consul to Von Below, the German Chargé d’Affaires; from Mr. Lowry to his wife; from Captain Mallory to Captain Myers; and one for Sir R. Hart. These letters are most cheering, because they all prove that our troops must arrive soon, but they are stupid, in that they give us none of the facts we are thirsting for; they don’t even tell us approximately when we may expect relief.

They all take the attitude that the writers are pleased that we are not dead, then give us some trifling details about themselves in Tien-tsin and long, rambling accounts of what wonders they have gone through. Nine days besieged! and the carpenters are at work on the consulate porch, as a shell hit it; and Mr. Carles, the British Consul, even told us in the intricate consular cipher that he had had bad dreams about us the night before. The only letter that was to the point was from Colonel Mallory, an American, who sent us some good details and dates: the taking of Tien-tsin, July 15, etc.; the magnificent work of our marines; and last, but not least, his definite assurance that the Americans at least in the contingent would do all they could to start the advance-guard of 10,000 by July 28. General Chaffee’s note to the American Minister seemed to promise good things from its very military brevity: “I arrived this morning.—CHAFFEE.”

All the Consuls seemed overcome by the gravity of their own situation, for all the ladies have left or are leaving Tien-tsin. The night these letters came Von Below was sharing such dinner as we had with us. After it was over we all sat on the floor and discussed the comparative merits of the remaining stores, and he truly remarked that in these siege days, instead of looking at and discussing _bibelots_ after dinner, one is glad to examine, exchange, and count tins.

_August 7._

The day before yesterday an announcement was made in the _Peking Gazette_, the Imperial newspaper organ of the capital (these occasional bits of information we get by bribing heavily some fairly detached Chinese sentry) to the effect that Jung Lu was appointed by the Empress to devise means of carrying out the order that all the Legations were to be escorted to Tien-tsin, and that he was to see that they were tenderly cared for, and that any annoyance given to them on their way to the coast should call forth an immediate punishment.

Then a letter came to us, stating that they (the Yamen) had had letters from all their Ministers in the different countries saying that the Governments wished their representatives to retire to the coast, and that Jung Lu had been appointed to escort us. We replied, as usual, that we desired first to communicate with our Governments on the subject, and we also enclosed cipher telegrams. Yesterday came an answer, saying that they had been sent, but, of course, with lack of telegraphic facilities from Peking, it will probably be a week before our home Governments get them. To-day Baroness von Ketteler took a simple tiffin with Mrs. Squiers. Her condition has been such that she has not had one night of natural sleep in the seven weeks since her husband’s murder.

I am sure everyone is sorry for Lady Macdonald, with that enormous mess to keep going. The complaints that people actually have the impertinence to make at her table, loud enough for her to hear, got so bad that one day she rose from her chair and said: “I give you the best I have; I can do nothing better; and, what is more, let me remind you that what is good enough for the British Minister to eat is more than good enough for anybody here.”

_Copyright, Pirie MacDonald, New York_

GENERAL A. R. CHAFFEE
]

_August 8._

It is just seven weeks to-day since we came here for a few days until the troops should arrive, and food is running very short. There is, moreover scarcely any condensed milk in the compound Another European baby died yesterday, simply from lack of food. It lay in its little coffin looking so white and tired. Out of pity for the mothers the hospital steward makes little rough coffin-boxes for their babies. All mothers who have children and infants who are ill or weak seem fascinated by these pitiful funerals, and they all go to them.

There is a good, busy old hen who lays an egg every day. She is given an entire deserted courtyard in the American Legation, a part of which is not in use, and I have fed her personally, or seen that she has been fed, ever since I placed her there at the beginning of the siege. There are three babies here, ranging in age from twelve to eighteen months, who are slowly dying from lack of digestible food, I give an egg to each mother every third day. The eggs are beautifully fresh, and the horror of it all is that these agonized mothers know, and I know, that, could I give the egg to them each day, instead of every third day, their babies could probably live; but as I can’t, I have to divide them, and I cry with the pity of it.

Unless the troops come soon it is dreadful to think of the fate of the Chinese Christians in the Fu. Until now we have been able to give them a certain amount of food daily, but we can only spare this supply a few more days. These poor people will be forced to choose between leaving the Fu, with an almost certain chance of massacre, probably of torture, and staying where they are and dying of starvation.

No description of this place can give an idea of it as it exists to-day. To turn to Doré’s engravings in Dante’s “Inferno” would help. Every tree in the Fu, and there are many, has been stripped of leaves by these starving people; the smaller branches pulled and the bark chewed off. Diseased or not, these wretched people have been forced to remain here all together, as there is no other place for them. Carrion crows and dogs are killed and dragged to the Fu by sentries whenever possible, and these ravenous creatures pull the flesh from their bones and eat it without a pretence of cooking. Every morning when the two horses are shot at the slaughter-house, for distribution to the messes, half of the inedible parts are eaten with relish by these starving people.

The heat is intense, the ground in the Fu is brown and hard, the children are naked, and the adults wear little, but one and all are enveloped with the agony of relentless, hideous starvation. The white rice which we have used in the compound has been finished, and we now use the yellow or uncleaned rice, which is very sandy and gritty, and which even the coolies in ordinary times would never think of using. It is made into curries or eaten plain, but one has to swallow it in spoonfuls without closing one’s teeth on it, or it would be too much like chewing sand.

To-day a letter came from the Yamen saying that Li Hung Chang had 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.