The Land of the Boxers: China Under the Allies
9781465684059
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
OUR transport steamed over a glassy sea along the bold and rugged coast of Shan‐tung in Northern China. Ahead of us, a confused jumble of hills dark against the setting sun, lay Wei‐hai‐wei. A German steamer homeward bound from Chifu dipped her flag to the blue ensign with crossed swords flying at our peak. Close inshore an occasional junk, with weird outlines and quaint sail, lay becalmed. On our deck, lying in easy‐chairs, were a dozen officers of various branches of the Service, all bound for Pekin. Some were fresh from South African battlefields, others were there whose soldiering had been done in India or in Burma. Among our number was a well‐known and popular military chaplain, the Reverend Mr. Hardy, author of the famous How to be Happy though Married. A living testimony to the success of his own theory, he was the most genial and delightful shipmate I have ever met. Dowered with all an Irishman’s wit and humour, he had been the life and soul of everyone on board. He had recently arrived in Hong Kong from Europe, having travelled across America, where his studied carelessness of dress and wild, untrimmed beard had been a constant source of wonderment to the smart citizens of the United States. “In Salt Lake City,” he told us, “a stranger addressed me one day in my hotel. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, ‘would you oblige me and my friends at this table by deciding a small bet we have made?’ ‘I fear I shall be of little use,’ replied Mr. Hardy; ‘I have only just reached your city.’ ‘Not at all. The bet is about yourself. We can’t make out which of three things you are—a Mormon elder, a Boer General, or a Scotchman.’ And, faith,” added our Irish padré when he told us the tale, “I think I felt most insulted at their last guess.” The sun went down slowly behind a chain of rugged hills. But soon before us, set in a silver sea, the island of Wei‐hai‐wei rose dark and sombre under a glorious moon. In the glistening water lay the dim shapes of several warships, their black hulls pierced with gleaming portholes. On their decks, bright with electric lamps, bands were playing, their strains swelling louder and louder as we drew near. Far off the hills of the mainland stood out sharply against the sky, with here and there below a twinkling light from the villages or the barracks of the Chinese Regiment. As our steamer rounded a long, low point, on which lay a deserted fort, every line distinct in the brilliant moonlight, the town came into view. The houses nestled down close to the water’s edge, while above them the island rose in gentle slope to a conical peak. Our anchor plunged sullenly into the sea, and we lay at rest in England’s most Eastern harbour. Considerations of quarantine prevented us from going ashore, and we were forced to wait for daylight to see what the place was like.
