“The Chinese have been firing into the Fu with a Krupp cannon, sir. Now they’re advancing and the Japanese commander can’t hold them back. He has a second line of defense, sir, but if he can’t hold them there…”
“I must go to the Fu,” said Henry.
“Don’t go,” said Emily. “It’s too late. Stay with us.”
Henry shook his head. Emily looked beseechingly at MacDonald.
“You can’t do any good there, Whiteparish,” MacDonald said firmly. “Not at the moment. The Japanese commander knows his business. You’re to stay here. That’s an order,” he added.
“But my converts…”
“Later. Not now. Stay with your family, as I’m doing.”
MacDonald glanced at Trader. If the Japanese held their second line, then Henry could comfort the converts later. If the Chinese overran it, there would be nobody left to comfort.
MacDonald turned back to the young officer. “What about the west side?” he demanded.
“The Chinese are in the Mongol market, sir,” the young officer replied. “They haven’t broken into the legation yet.”
“And the city wall?”
“They’re trying to get up there. Our barricades are holding so far.”
“Keep me informed.” MacDonald nodded to the young man, who left. Then he went back into the drawing room.
So the Whiteparish family stood together in the hall, Tom between Henry and Emily, who each had an arm around him, and Trader beside Emily.
Trader wasn’t sure how much Tom understood. But his parents did. If any one of the three lines of defense fell—the Mongol market, the Fu, or the high wall overlooking the legations—then it was all over.
He glanced at Emily. Was she carrying the small revolver he’d procured for her? He felt sure she was. He had a Webley service revolver himself. He could see, by the bulge in his pocket, that Tom had his cricket ball. Trader wasn’t sure if Henry was carrying a weapon.
Now the noise of firing outside was growing louder than ever. He tried to count the speed of fire. About five rounds a second, he thought. Three hundred or more a minute. That would be twenty thousand bullets an hour. And it wasn’t letting up. Surely nothing could withstand an assault like that. They must be about to break in, he thought, any moment. As if to counter the terrible din, the German pianist was playing the Wagnerian tune louder and louder, in a sort of delirium.
Suddenly MacDonald appeared and rushed down the passage to the storeroom door. They heard him shouting furiously, “Shut up! Shut up!” then slam the door. A moment later he strode back through the hall to the drawing room, throwing up his hands as he went.
And the piano still continued, more wildly and louder than ever.
Trader felt something touching the back of his wrist and glanced down. Emily spoke in a little voice. “Hold my hand.” So he did, and squeezed it once or twice when the angry roar outside became so deafening that not even “Ride of the Valkyries” could be heard.
It was after one of these huge outbursts that they noticed the piano had stopped. A minute passed; then MacDonald reappeared, looking a little calmer now.
“Did one of you shoot the pianist, by any chance?” he inquired. They shook their heads. He went down the passage and soon returned. “He must have gone out the back.” He paused and gazed at Henry, then at Trader. “Well,” he said slowly, “as a military man, I can tell you this, for what it’s worth: Our friends outside are shooting too high.”
—
During all the turmoil since his arrival, Trader had failed to realize one thing about his son-in-law. There was no reason, he thought afterwards, why he should have guessed. There had been no sign.
During the terrible night of the storm and the day that followed, the legation compound survived, but only just. Up on the wall, the Chinese had managed to take one of the defenders’ positions, but not the other; and having got it, they were pinned against their own barricade and couldn’t do much. In the Fu, they had made a big advance. The legation’s line of defense was now a barrier stretching diagonally across the open space and enclosing only two-thirds of the total. But it was solidly constructed and expertly manned by the Japanese troops. Moreover, to reach this barricade, the Chinese now had to come across open ground, where they would be subject to withering fire.
It was a few days after the storm that Trader accompanied Henry and Emily on one of their daily visits into the Fu.
It was a shock. He’d realized that the converts must be having a bad time. But he hadn’t imagined it was as terrible as this. The place looked and smelled like a shantytown that had been flooded or a camp that had been bombarded. That wasn’t surprising. But as they began to move among the occupants, Trader blanched visibly. He couldn’t help it.
“I shouldn’t have let you come, Father,” Emily said apologetically.
Half the converts seemed to have dysentery. Trader had expected that. More frightening were the cases of smallpox. “It started a little while ago,” said Henry. “People are going down with it every day, mostly the children.” But worst of all was the fact that the converts were close to starving.
“What can we do? We’ve got to feed the people in the legations enough to keep their strength up, especially the troops,” explained Emily. “That just leaves a few eggs and scraps and musty rice for the converts.” She shook her head. “The troops expect the converts to repair the defenses, but they’re so weak. I try to feed them more, if I can find the food. But when I do, they just take it and give it to their families. That’s why they all look like skeletons, and I feel so guilty.”
They spent nearly half an hour in the Fu. Trader saw all kinds of good people, Catholic priests and nuns, Presbyterian ministers and Anglicans, each attending patiently
