To me the most fascinating spectacle in Pekin was the ever‐changing life of the streets. The endless procession of strange vehicles, from the ricksha to the curious wheelbarrow that is a universal form of conveyance for passengers or goods on the narrow roads of North China. The motley crowds—Manchu, Tartar, white man, black, and yellow, dainty, painted lady of high rank and humble coolie woman, shaven‐crowned monk and long‐queued layman, all formed a moving picture unequalled in any city in the world. And above their heads floated the flags of the conquering nations that had banded together from the ends of the earth to humble the pride of China.

CHAPTER VI
THE SUMMER PALACE

EIGHT or ten miles from Pekin lies the loveliest spot in all North China, the Summer Palace, the property of the Empress‐Dowager. When burning heat and scorching winds render life in the capital unbearable, when dust‐storms sweep through the unpaved streets and a pitiless sun blazes on the crowded city, the virtual ruler of China betakes her to her summer residence among the hills, and there weaves the web of plots that convulse the world. When the feeble monarch of that vast Empire ventured to dream of reforms that would eventually bring his realm into line with modern civilisation, the imperious old lady seized her nominal sovereign and imprisoned him there in the heart of her rambling country abode. Twice, now, in its history has the Summer Palace fallen into the hands of European armies. English and French have lorded it in the paved courts before ever its painted pavilions had seen the white blouses of Cossacks or the fluttering plumes of the Bersagliere; when Japan was but a name, and none dreamt that the little islands of the Far East would one day send their gallant soldiers to stand shoulder to shoulder with the veterans of Europe in a common cause.

Passed from the charge of one foreign contingent to another in this last campaign, the Summer Palace was at length entrusted to the care of the British and Italians. Desirous of visiting a spot renowned for its natural beauty as for its historical interest, a party of us sought and obtained permission to inspect it. And so one morning we stood in the principal courtyard of Chong Wong Foo and watched a procession of sturdy Chinese ponies being led up for us. The refractory little brutes protested vehemently against the indignity of being bestridden by foreigners; and all the subtlety of their grooms was required to induce them to stand still long enough for us to spring into the saddles. And then the real struggle began. One gave a spirited imitation of an Australian buckjumper. Another endeavoured to remove his rider by the simpler process of scraping his leg against the nearest wall. A third, deaf to all threats or entreaties, refused to move a step in any direction, until repeated applications of whip and spurs at length resulted in his bolting out of the gate and down the road. After a preliminary circus performance, our steeds finally determined to make the best of a bad job; and, headed by a guide, we set out for the palace.

Our way lay at first through a very unsavoury part of the capital. Evil‐smelling alleys, bordered by open drains choked with the refuse of the neighbouring houses; narrow lanes deep in mire; squalid streets of tumbledown hovels—the worst slums of Pekin. Gaunt and haggard men scowled at us from the low doorways; naked and dirty babies sprawled on the footpaths and lisped an infantine abuse of the foreign devils; slatternly women stared at us with lack‐lustre eyes; and loathsome cripples shouted for charity. Splashing through pools of filthy water, dodging between carts in the narrow thoroughfares, we could proceed but slowly. The heat and stench in these close and fetid lanes were overpowering, and it was an intense relief to emerge at last on one of the broad streets that pierce the city and which led us to a gateway in the wall. One leaf of the wooden doors lay on the ground, the other was hanging half off its hinges. Both were splintered and torn, for they had been burst open by the explosion of a mine at the taking of Pekin. The many‐windowed tower above was roofless and shattered. On either hand, on the outer face of the wall, deep dints and scars showed where the Japanese shells had rained upon them in the early hours of that August morning, when the gallant soldiers of Dai Nippon[6] had come to the rescue of the hard‐pressed Muscovites.

When the Allied Armies arrived at Tung‐Chow, thirteen miles from Pekin, a council of war was held by the generals on the 13th August, at which it was decided that the troops should halt there on the following day, to rest and prepare for the attack on the capital which was settled for the 15th. For the stoutest hearts may well have quailed at the task before them. A cavalry reconnaissance from each army was to be made on the 13th, with orders to halt three miles from Pekin and wait there for their main bodies to reach them on the 14th.

But the Russian reconnoitring party, eager to be the first into the city and establish their claim to be its real captors, pushed on right up to the walls and attacked the Tung Pien gate. They thus upset the plans for a concerted attack, and precipitated a disjointed and indiscriminate assault. For they stumbled on a far more difficult task than they had anticipated, and it was indeed fortunate for the wily Muscovites that the Japanese, probably suspicious of their intentions, were not far off. For the Chinese flocked to the threatened spot and from the comparative safety of the wall poured a devastating fire upon the Russians. The fiercest efforts of their stormers were unavailing. General Vasilievski fell wounded. In vain the bravest officers of the Czar led their men forward in desperate assaults. Baffled and beaten, they recoiled in impotent fury. Retreat or annihilation seemed the only alternatives; when the Japanese troops attacked the Tong Chih gate. There, too, a terrible task awaited the assailants. Again and again heroic volunteers rushed forward to lay a mine against the ponderous doors, only to fall lifeless under the murderous fire of the defenders. But the soldiers of the Land of the Rising Sun admit no defeat. As men dropped dead, others stepped forward and took the fuses from the nerveless fingers. The gate was at length blown open. Fierce as panthers, the gallant Japanese poured into the doomed city. The pressure relieved, the Russians again advanced to the assault. An entry was effected at last; and, furious at their losses, they raged through the streets, dealing death with a merciless hand, heedless of age or sex.

Meanwhile the other Allies, roused by the sound of heavy firing, were lost in amazement as to its meaning; and dawn came before the truth was known. The British and Americans then attacked the Chinese city and met with a less stubborn resistance. An entry effected, the Indian troops wandered through the maze of streets until met by a messenger sent out from the Legations to guide them. He led them through the water‐gate, the tunnel in the wall between the Tartar and the Chinese city, which serves as an exit for the drain or nullah passing between the English and the Japanese Legations, and so right into the arms of the besieged Europeans. Thus they arrived first to the relief, while the Japanese and Russians were still fighting in the streets. But every nation whose army was represented in the Allied Forces claims the credit of being foremost of all into the Legations. I have read the diary of the commander of the Russian marines in the siege, in which he speaks of the arrival of the Czar’s troops to the relief and completely ignores the presence of the other Allies. And in pictures that I have seen in Japan of the entry of the relievers, the besieged are shown rushing out to throw themselves on the necks of the victorious Japanese, whose uniform is the only one represented. But, while the brunt of the fighting fell on them and the Russians, the Indian troops were actually the first to reach the Legations.