And for half an hour he watched as Tom threw the ball—which he did with remarkable accuracy—went and picked it up, then threw it again and again, which was good exercise for the boy, and stopped him from asking any more questions.
—
As July merged into August, the days passed slowly. For Trader, it was a strange, almost unreal time.
The truce held, but it seemed uneasy. Everybody repaired their defenses. He noticed, however, that on the eastern side of the legation, beyond the Fu, the Chinese soldiers patched up their barricades without much conviction; whereas on the western side, beyond the Mongol market, the imperial soldiers were busy strengthening their redoubts as though they expected fighting to break out any day, and their surly looks suggested that they’d be glad if it did.
Did this reflect the two different factions within the Forbidden City? Perhaps.
They had definite news of the relief force now. It was making its way up the canal towards the city. But the soldiers brought cannon, and they were short of boats, so the going was slow. All the same, they’d be there in a week, ten days at most.
The main problem was food. The Tsungli Yamen might send baskets of fruit, small traders came across the open ground with eggs and chickens; but supplies of basic food inside the legations were beginning to dwindle.
“We’ve just got to keep body and soul together until they arrive,” Emily remarked.
Because they were bored, people were starting to take a few potshots across the barriers. Nothing too much, Trader thought.
—
It was a sunny morning in August when he and Tom decided to go for a walk together. “We’ll make an inspection of the defenses,” he told Emily with a smile.
“Be careful,” she warned.
“Of course we will,” he answered.
Trader was feeling rather pleased with himself that day. Though he was still walking with the ebony cane, his leg seemed to be better. He could almost put his full weight on it. As they set off, he noticed with amusement that, as usual, his grandson had his cricket ball in his pocket. “We won’t be playing any cricket, you know,” he remarked. But when this failed to elicit any response, he smiled indulgently, told himself it really didn’t matter anyway, and led the way towards their first objective.
He took care as he mounted the stone steps up to the broad parapet of the city wall. He didn’t want to trip and fall as he had so recently before. But he made it easily enough; and if he winced once or twice, Tom didn’t see.
They admired the views for a few minutes. After that, they made their way back into the British legation and walked through the grounds until they reached the northern end. The wall between the legation and the burned-out Chinese library had been thickly reinforced from the legation side since the truce began. “They’ll have a job to get through that,” Trader remarked, “if they try again.”
Indeed, the space they were standing in had almost become like a peaceful walled garden, he thought, and they were just about to move on when Tom pulled at his sleeve. “Grandfather,” he whispered, “did you hear that?”
“What?” For a man of his age Trader had good hearing, but he had to confess: “I didn’t hear a thing.”
Tom stood still, concentrating, while his grandfather waited. “It’s very faint. It’s underground. Like scraping.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Tom nodded.
“Damn,” said Trader. “They must be mining. So much for the truce.”
“Should we report it, Grandfather?”
“Absolutely. I’ll tell MacDonald as soon as we get back.”
And they might have gone straight to the residence except that, as they returned along the western wall of the legation, they met a soldier carrying a small chicken.
“Where did you get that?” Trader inquired.
“The Mongol market. There’s a few stalls open today.”
“Oh, Grandfather, let’s get something for Mother,” cried Tom.
“I don’t know,” Trader replied. “We’re not supposed to do that. The food committee’s asked everyone to pool their food until the siege is over.”
“Maybe just some eggs?” suggested Tom.
Trader said nothing. But they went to the little alley that gave access to the Mongol market and looked in.
There were only half a dozen stalls clustered in the middle of the little square. The broad, weather-beaten faces of the Mongol traders looked strangely incurious, as if to say: “We belong to the steppe. Your quarrels have nothing to do with us.” They appeared to be selling eggs, chickens, sweetmeats of some kind, nothing very appetizing. But it was food.
Trader’s eyes searched the low buildings on the far side of the market. Could there be snipers hidden there? The man with the chicken hadn’t mentioned any trouble. Trader just wished there were some other people in the place.
An old Mongol woman caught sight of them. Picking up a basket, she came across, tilting the basket to show them the eggs it contained. She stopped a few feet away and indicated that, if they would follow her, she could show them other, better things. Back at the stall a middle-aged man, her son perhaps, held up a scrawny chicken by its neck, while it feebly flapped its wings. He beckoned, and the old woman motioned to them to walk beside her, as though she could provide a safe conduct to the stall.
Tom looked up eagerly. “Can’t we go, Grandfather?” he begged.
“I suppose so,” Trader muttered.
So they made their way across the empty marketplace and reached the stall. They looked at the scrawny chickens and the other goods on offer.
The Mongol was inspecting Trader with interest. It seemed he had correctly concluded that this tall figure with his ebony cane and black eye patch must be a rich man. For suddenly he seized the basket of eggs, stuffed three live chickens into an open wooden box, and presented them to Trader with a simple word: “Yuan.”
“Yuan? You want a yuan for this?” Trader exclaimed in astonishment. Then he laughed. In its most recent efforts to strengthen its economy, the
