dear.’
‘You will know that I have a nephew here, Gerald Griffith, the son of Mrs Griffith?’
‘Yes. I believe I have met him.’
‘Have you, by any chance, commissioned him to slip outside the Quarter since the siege began, to, perhaps, gather information for you?’
‘Good gracious no. That would be putting him in some particular danger, I would have thought.’
Fonthill intervened. ‘What are you getting at, Alice?’
She turned a wrinkled and blackened brow towards him. ‘I didn’t like to tell you, Simon, but Gerald has been absenting himself fromthe Legation almost every day since well before the siege began. At first, I thought he was helping to stand guard at the perimeter walls, as is Chang, but my aunt tells me that is not so and that he has been slipping out of the Quarter for most of the days. She has no idea where he goes and I cannot help wondering what he is doing. Then it occurred to me that, given his fluency with the language and his contacts with the court here, he might be on some mission for Sir Claude. But clearly not.’
The three exchanged glances. ‘Nothing suspicious at all, I would think,’ said MacDonald, ‘given his parentage.’
‘Hmm.’ Simon shook his head slowly. ‘I’m not sure. I think I had better have a word with that young man. Come on, Alice,’ he shook his wife’s hand in his, ‘you had better go and clean up. You look like a coal-black Mammy.’
She laughed. ‘A literal case of the pot calling the kettle black. Good day, Sir Claude.’
‘Good day, Mrs Fonthill.’
As they walked back, hand in hand, they passed a small man in a large white hat and elegantly suited. He was talking vehemently to one of MacDonald’s aides.
‘Who is that?’ enquired Simon.
‘That, my dear, is Monsieur Pichon, the French minister. He is universally loathed, because he is continually pessimistic, saying that we shall all be overwhelmed and beheaded. What’s more, he is a coward. All of the ministers have now withdrawn to the British Legation, but most of them spend much of their days with their guards on the perimeter.’ Her lip curled. ‘This one is always here, usually with the women, or he takes a walk pretending to visit what’sleft of his legation, where his troops are. But he never arrives there.’
‘What a cad!’
‘Quite.’ She nodded towards the Frenchman. ‘Now, he’ll be complaining about something, mark my words.’
Fonthill had no opportunity to talk with Gerald, for the young man did not return that night and the next day saw the fiercest fighting since the siege had begun. Early that morning Simon received an urgent message from Sir Claude: ‘Americans on the Tartar Wall are under strong attack. Please reinforce immediately.’
His marines paraded at the double and, led by Simon and Jenkins, ran to the southernmost part of the Quarter, where the great Tartar Wall loomed over everything and everyone.
The road that ran along the top of the wall was forty feet wide, providing enough room for four carriages to ride along it side by side. On the western end of their sector, the Americans had piled upturned carts, splintered bunks, rubble and sandbags to cut off the road from that end, and the Germans had erected a similar barricade some two hundred yards to the east. This had prevented the Chinese from occupying all of the wall, and so from firing down on everyone in the southern end of the Quarter, and also from commanding the southern bridge over the canal. But, as Simon had predicted, it was one of the weak points in the defences and it was vital that it should be held.
Fonthill and his marines, the latter wearing their wide-brimmed straw hats so redolent of the seaside, arrived just as the Americans were involved in fierce hand-to-hand fighting on the barricade itself.
‘Fix bayonets,’ he yelled. ‘Climb the barricade and pitch in. Come on!’
The barricade, however, although only breast-high, was not easy to climb, not least
‘You will know that I have a nephew here, Gerald Griffith, the son of Mrs Griffith?’
‘Yes. I believe I have met him.’
‘Have you, by any chance, commissioned him to slip outside the Quarter since the siege began, to, perhaps, gather information for you?’
‘Good gracious no. That would be putting him in some particular danger, I would have thought.’
Fonthill intervened. ‘What are you getting at, Alice?’
She turned a wrinkled and blackened brow towards him. ‘I didn’t like to tell you, Simon, but Gerald has been absenting himself fromthe Legation almost every day since well before the siege began. At first, I thought he was helping to stand guard at the perimeter walls, as is Chang, but my aunt tells me that is not so and that he has been slipping out of the Quarter for most of the days. She has no idea where he goes and I cannot help wondering what he is doing. Then it occurred to me that, given his fluency with the language and his contacts with the court here, he might be on some mission for Sir Claude. But clearly not.’
The three exchanged glances. ‘Nothing suspicious at all, I would think,’ said MacDonald, ‘given his parentage.’
‘Hmm.’ Simon shook his head slowly. ‘I’m not sure. I think I had better have a word with that young man. Come on, Alice,’ he shook his wife’s hand in his, ‘you had better go and clean up. You look like a coal-black Mammy.’
She laughed. ‘A literal case of the pot calling the kettle black. Good day, Sir Claude.’
‘Good day, Mrs Fonthill.’
As they walked back, hand in hand, they passed a small man in a large white hat and elegantly suited. He was talking vehemently to one of MacDonald’s aides.
‘Who is that?’ enquired Simon.
‘That, my dear, is Monsieur Pichon, the French minister. He is universally loathed, because he is continually pessimistic, saying that we shall all be overwhelmed and beheaded. What’s more, he is a coward. All of the ministers have now withdrawn to the British Legation, but most of them spend much of their days with their guards on the perimeter.’ Her lip curled. ‘This one is always here, usually with the women, or he takes a walk pretending to visit what’sleft of his legation, where his troops are. But he never arrives there.’
‘What a cad!’
‘Quite.’ She nodded towards the Frenchman. ‘Now, he’ll be complaining about something, mark my words.’
Fonthill had no opportunity to talk with Gerald, for the young man did not return that night and the next day saw the fiercest fighting since the siege had begun. Early that morning Simon received an urgent message from Sir Claude: ‘Americans on the Tartar Wall are under strong attack. Please reinforce immediately.’
His marines paraded at the double and, led by Simon and Jenkins, ran to the southernmost part of the Quarter, where the great Tartar Wall loomed over everything and everyone.
The road that ran along the top of the wall was forty feet wide, providing enough room for four carriages to ride along it side by side. On the western end of their sector, the Americans had piled upturned carts, splintered bunks, rubble and sandbags to cut off the road from that end, and the Germans had erected a similar barricade some two hundred yards to the east. This had prevented the Chinese from occupying all of the wall, and so from firing down on everyone in the southern end of the Quarter, and also from commanding the southern bridge over the canal. But, as Simon had predicted, it was one of the weak points in the defences and it was vital that it should be held.
Fonthill and his marines, the latter wearing their wide-brimmed straw hats so redolent of the seaside, arrived just as the Americans were involved in fierce hand-to-hand fighting on the barricade itself.
‘Fix bayonets,’ he yelled. ‘Climb the barricade and pitch in. Come on!’
The barricade, however, although only breast-high, was not easy to climb, not least
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