Early one morning, a few days after Admiral Ho’s departure, the camp was roused by a sudden alarm. About four a.m., when it was still pitch dark, we were awakened by the sound of heavy firing in the Chinese territory. The continuous rattle of small arms and the deeper booming of field‐guns were distinctly audible. We rushed out of our tents and the troops got ready to fall in. The firing seemed to come from the immediate neighbourhood of Samchun; and it appeared that a desperate fight was in full swing. Our impression was that the rebels, learning of Ho’s departure, had eluded his force and doubled back to attack the town, which, being wealthy, would have proved a tempting prize. We gazed from the hillside in the direction from which the sound came; but a thick mist lay over the fields beyond the river and prevented the flashes from being visible. We waited impatiently for daylight. The rattle of rifle‐firing now broke out suddenly from around the Customs station; and we trembled for the safety of Affleck‐Scott and his companion. As the sound came no nearer in our direction, it became evident that no hostile movement against us was intended. We cursed the tardy daylight. At last day broke; but still the low‐lying mists obscured our view of the town and the plain beyond the river. Then the sun rose. The fog slowly cleared away. We looked eagerly towards Samchun, expecting, as the firing still continued, to see the contending forces engaged in deadly battle. But to our surprise, though every house in the town, every field and bank around it, stood out distinct in the clear light, scarcely a human being was visible. Before the gates a few soldiers lounged about unconcernedly. But the firing still continued. We could see nothing to account for it and began to wonder if it was a battle of phantoms. Gradually it died away and left us still bewildered. Later on in the day came the explanation. In view of our imaginary combat it was simple and ludicrous. The day was one of the innumerable Chinese festivals; and the inhabitants of Samchun and the neighbouring villages had been ushering it in in the usual Celestial fashion with much burning of crackers and exploding of bombs. To anyone who has heard the extraordinary noise of Chinese fireworks, which accurately reproduces the rattle of musketry and the booming of guns, our mistake is excusable. At the attack on the Peiyang Arsenal outside Tientsin, on June 27th, 1900, by the British, Americans, and Russians, the Chinese defenders, before evacuating it when hard pressed, laid strings of crackers along the walls. As our marines and bluejackets, with the Americans, advanced to the final assault these were set fire to. The explosions sounded like a very heavy fusillade and the assailants took cover. The Chinese meanwhile bolted out of the arsenal and got safely away before the attackers discovered the trick and stormed the place.
A week or two after this false alarm, I obtained permission to cross into Chinese territory and visit Samchun. The town looked very interesting at a distance, with its high walls and two square stone towers, which were in reality pawn‐shops. For these establishments in China are looked upon as safe deposit offices. A rich man about to leave home for any length of time removes his valuables to the nearest pawn‐shop and there stores them. They are the first places attacked when a band of robbers seizes some small town, as frequently happens. So they are built in the form of strong towers with the entrance generally several feet from the ground, in order that the proprietor and his friends may retire within and defend them.
Accompanied by Captain Woolley, I.M.S., I set out to visit the town, having received many injunctions to be careful not to embroil ourselves with the inhabitants or the soldiery, who were not likely to prove over friendly. We were provided with interpreters in the persons of a Chinese policeman in British employ and a Sikh constable who had learned to converse very well in the language of the country. As we intended to make a formal call on the mandarin in command of Samchun and had heard that in China a man’s importance is gauged by the size of his visiting‐card, we wrote our names on sheets of foolscap—the largest pieces of paper we could find. Red, however, is the proper colour. In mufti and taking no weapons, we left the camp and crossed the river in a small, flat‐bottomed ferry‐boat. Landed on the far side, we set off along the tops of the mud banks between the paddy‐fields, the only roads available. Those which are used as general paths are laid with flat stones, which, not being fastened in any way, occasionally tilt up and slide about in a disconcerting manner. As we neared the town we were observed with interest by a number of Chinese soldiers lounging about in front of the principal gateway. We felt a little nervous as to our reception but putting a bold face on the matter directed our way towards them. We were stopped, however, by our Chinese policeman, who told us that we should not approach this entrance as it faced the mandarin’s Yamen and was reserved for important individuals. We being merely foreigners—this although he was in British employment!—must seek admittance through the back gate into the town. Irritated at his insolent tone, the Sikh constable shoved him aside, and we approached the guard. The soldiers, though not openly hostile—for the white tents of our camp, plainly visible across the river, had a sobering effect—treated us with scarcely‐veiled contempt. On our Sikh interpreter informing them that we were English officers who had come to visit their mandarin, they airily replied that that dignitary was asleep and could not see us. Annoyed at their impertinent manner, we ordered them to go and wake him. Rather impressed by our audacity, they held a consultation. Then one went into the Yamen. He returned in a few minutes with a message to the effect that the mandarin regretted that he could not see us as he was not dressed. Seeing the effect of our previous curtness, we haughtily bade the soldier tell the mandarin to put on his clothes at once; see him we must. Visibly impressed this time, he hastened inside again and promptly returned with an invitation to enter the Yamen. We passed through the gate with as important an air as we could assume. It had been a game of bluff on both sides and we had won; for on the verandah of the house inside the entrance we were received by the mandarin, correctly attired. With hands folded over each other, he bowed low and led the way into the interior. The room was small and plainly furnished. High‐backed, uncomfortable chairs stood round a square blackwood table. On the walls hung crude pictures or tablets painted with Chinese characters. Our host, who was really a most courteous old gentleman, bowed again and, pointing to the chairs, begged us—as we judged from his manner—to be seated. We politely refused until he had taken a chair himself. He then addressed us in sing‐song Chinese words, which our Sikh interpreter assured us were an expression of the honour he felt at our condescending to visit such an unworthy individual. We framed our reply in equally humble terms. He then inquired the reason of the coming of our force to the frontier. We informed him that it was merely to guard our territory from invasion and assured him that we had no evil designs on Samchun. He pretended to feel satisfied at this, but doubt evidently still lingered in his mind. The conversation then dragged on spasmodically until we asked his permission to visit the town. He seemed to hail our request with relief as a chance of politely ridding himself of us and ordered four soldiers to get ready to accompany us as an escort. One of the attendants, at a sign from him, then left the room and returned with three little cups covered with brass saucers.
“Now we shall taste really high‐class Chinese tea,” said Woolley to me in an undertone.
We removed the saucers. The cups were filled with boiling water. At the bottom lay a few black twigs and leaves. Imitating the mandarin’s actions, we raised our cups in both hands and tried to drink the hot and tasteless contents. The Chinese tea was a distinct failure.
A few black, formidable‐looking cigars were now placed upon the table. Mindful of the vile odours that inevitably possess the filthy streets of the native towns in China, we took some. Then as our escort appeared in the courtyard in front of the house, we rose. Expressing profuse thanks to our courteous host through the interpreter, we folded our hands and bowed ourselves out in the politest Chinese fashion.
Following our military guides, we entered the town. They led us first to the house of a lesser mandarin, whom we visited. He was as surly as his superior was amiable. He very speedily ordered tea for us as a sign of dismissal. However, as a mark of attention, he sent two lantern‐bearers to accompany us. Quitting him with little hesitation, we followed our escort and plunged again into the town. The streets were narrow and indescribably filthy. Deep, open drains bordered them, filled with refuse. Extending our arms, we could nearly touch the houses on each side. On either hand were shops, some with glass‐windowed fronts, others open to the street. Some were fairly extensive, filled with garments or rolls of cloth. Others exhibited for sale clocks, cheap embroidery, tinsel jewellery, or common pottery. Every third one at least sold food, raw or cooked. Dried fish or ducks split open, the heads and necks of the latter attached to the bodies; pork, meat, and sucking‐pigs; rice, flour, or vegetables. Near one shop stood a grinning Chinaman who spoke to us in pidgin‐English. Beside him was an open barrel filled with what looked like dried prunes. I pointed to them and asked what they were.
“That?” he said, popping one into his mouth and munching it with evident relish. “That belong cocky‐loachee. Velly good!”