The spacious yard of the Anglican mission was dusty. The mission building ran along one side; there were dormitories on two of the other sides. The fourth side was a high wall with a gateway onto the street.
There were usually a few Chinese converts—men, women, children—squatting or walking about in the yard. But during the last three days there had been a constant trickle of families coming to find shelter there. Before long, the dormitories would be full. What had they seen to frighten them?
She knew of one thing, of course: the red balloons.
They’d appeared about ten days ago: first clusters, then great clouds of them, floating up into the sky over Peking. They were a signal from the Boxers, to let the people of the capital know that they’d arrived there. The balloons were an invitation to all good Chinese to join the Boxers; perhaps a warning of trouble if you didn’t. But to the foreigners and those Chinese foolish and disloyal enough to have converted to the barbarians’ religion, the balloons were clearly a threat.
To be taken seriously? All that most of the converts arriving at the mission would say was: “Better here.”
The Anglican mission was safely tucked in behind the huge walls of the protected Inner City—the Tartar City, as the foreigners called it—and only a five-minute walk from the Tiananmen Gate.
Emily saw some new arrivals, a young family who’d turned up with a little handcart piled with their few possessions. But they hadn’t come from the outer Chinese city. She knew they lodged only half a mile away, inside the Tartar quarter. Why were they coming here for sanctuary?
Then she noticed they were looking towards the gateway of the mission. She followed their gaze and saw a young woman—hardly more than a girl, really—in the street outside. She was wearing a red sash, with a red scarf tied around her head, and she was attaching a poster to the open gate.
Emily hastened towards the girl in red. “What do you want?” she cried. But the girl took no notice of her at all. Emily reached her and stared at the poster. The message, scrawled in big Chinese characters, was easy enough to understand.
BARBARIANS OUT. TRAITORS DIE.
Traitors. That meant the converts. The girl must be a member of one of the brigades of women the Boxers were using now. The Red Lanterns, they were called. She’d heard of them, but this was the first time she’d seen one.
“Go away!” Emily cried. But the girl in red just stared at her with contempt. Then, taking her time, she walked to the end of the mission wall and calmly pasted another, identical poster there before turning the corner and walking away. Furiously, Emily tore the poster off the gate. The one at the corner proved harder to remove, but she managed to shred it using her fingernails. The Red Lantern girl had vanished—for the time being, at least.
Having returned to the yard and said a few words to the newly arrived family, Emily went back indoors.
The night before, Henry had told her there was a rumor that the Boxers had attacked a mission out in the back country and killed all the Chinese converts. Was it true? Were the Boxers planning to do the same thing even here, in the middle of the capital? Surely it couldn’t come to that.
She thought of her son Tom. Most families like theirs sent their boys back to England to boarding school by the age of seven or eight. But Tom was their last. They’d kept him with them as long as they felt they could. He was nearly eleven now, and they’d been preparing to part with him at the end of the year. Should Tom go straightaway? Was it right to keep him here if there was so much danger?
She’d been turning the problem over in her mind for a quarter of an hour when she heard a sound at the front door. “Tom?” she called out. “Henry?”
She got up and went into the hall, to find the tall, only slightly bent figure of her father, smiling down at her.
—
Trader was in rather a good mood. He stooped to kiss her. “I stopped at the British legation to get directions,” he said. “You’re not far away.”
“Quite near,” said Emily. “You look very well, Papa.”
“They told me there’s a party this evening. Queen’s birthday. Hope we’re going.”
“If you’re not feeling too tired.”
“Why should I be tired? I’ve only been sitting on a ship for the last three months. Wouldn’t miss the party for worlds. Catch up on news, and so forth.”
“Talking of news,” said Emily, “did you see any signs of trouble on your way up from the coast?”
“I suppose you mean these Boxer fellows. Didn’t see any of them. We saw a lot of troops as we got near Peking, but I was told they were Kansu.”
“Really?” Emily smiled. “That’s good news. Those troops are part of the regular imperial army. They don’t like the Boxers much.”
And Trader might have questioned her about the Boxers more if a slim, handsome boy with dark, tousled hair hadn’t suddenly appeared.
“Here’s Tom,” said Emily. “Your grandson.” And she smiled as her father stared in surprise. “He looks exactly like you.”
“So he does,” said Trader. “Is he moody?”
“Not at all.”
“I don’t seem to have passed that on to anyone, then.” Trader smiled and shook the boy’s hand. “Glad to have met you at last.”
Young Tom looked at him appraisingly. “Grandfather?” he asked hopefully. “Do you play cricket?”
—
The British legation party obeyed the traditional protocol: a formal dinner for the great and good, followed by a reception with dancing for a larger company.
“I’m afraid Henry
