While compliments were being exchanged, I walked down the ranks of the Chinese troops and inspected them closely. They were nearly all small and miserable‐looking men, clad in long red or blue coats, with huge straw hats. They were armed with single‐loading Mausers or Winchester repeating carbines. I looked at a few of these. The outside of the barrels were bright and had evidently been cleaned with emery paper; but inside they were completely choked with rust and the weapons were absolutely useless. The men were evidently merely coolies, hurriedly impressed by the mandarins when called upon by the Viceroy of Canton to produce the troops for whom they regularly drew pay. This is a favourite device of the corrupt Chinese officials, who receive an allowance to keep up a certain number of soldiers. They buy and store a corresponding number of uniforms and rifles. When warned of an approaching inspection by some higher authority, they gather in coolies and clothe and arm them for the duration of his visit. The superior official—his own palm having been well greased—forbears to inspect them too closely, and departs to report to the Viceroy of the province that the troops are of excellent quality. Then the uniforms and rifles are returned to store, and the coolies dismissed with—or more probably without—a few cents to recompense them for their trouble.
Latterly in the North this does not always occur; and some of the troops, trained by foreigners and armed with the latest quick‐firing guns and magazine rifles, are very good. The Imperial forces which opposed Admiral Seymour’s advance and attacked Tientsin were of very different calibre to those employed in the suppression of the Triad rebellion. The shooting of their gunners and riflemen was excellent. The army of Yuan‐Shi‐Kai, who was Governor of the province of Shantung during the troubles in the North, is a good example of what Chinese soldiers can be when well trained.
The interview between the mandarin of Samchun and our commanding officer was an elaborate repetition of my own experience. The visit over, we entered the town, inspected some of the temples, and bought some curiosities in the shops. Then, escorted by our original party of Chinese soldiers, we returned to the river.
At the end of November we were roused one night by urgent messages from the British police in the Hinterland to the effect that parties of rebels were hovering on the frontier and it was feared that they intended to raid across into our territory. In response to their request, a strong party was sent out at once to reinforce them. About four a.m. a European police sergeant arrived in breathless haste with the information that the rebels had crossed the boundary and seized two villages lying inside our border. They had fired on the police patrols. Two companies of the 22nd Bombay Infantry, under Captain Hatherell and Lieutenant Burke, fell in promptly and marched off under the guidance of two Sikh policemen sent for the purpose. Preceded by scouts and a strong advanced guard, under a Pathan native officer, Subhedar Khitab Gul, they bore down at daybreak on the villages reported captured. But the rebels had apparently received information of their coming and had fled back across the border. The troops, bitterly disappointed at being deprived of a fight, returned about nine a.m. to camp, where the remainder of the force had been ready to support them if necessary.
No further attempts were ever made against our territory, and shortly afterwards the Frontier Field Force returned to headquarters.
CHAPTER X
IN THE PORTUGUESE COLONY OF MACAO
FORTY miles from Hong Kong, hidden away among the countless islands that fringe the entrance to the estuary of the Chukiang or Pearl River, lies the Portuguese settlement of Macao. Once flourishing and prosperous, the centre of European trade with Southern China, it is now decaying and almost unknown—killed by the competition of its young and successful rival. Long before Elizabeth ascended the throne of England the venturesome Portuguese sailors and merchants had reached the Far East. There they carried their country’s flag over seas where now it never flies. An occasional gunboat represents in Chinese waters their once powerful and far‐roaming navy.
In the island of Lampacao, off the south‐eastern coast, their traders were settled, pushing their commerce with the mainland. In 1557 the neighbouring peninsula of Macao was ceded to them in token of the Chinese Emperor’s gratitude for their aid in destroying the power of a pirate chief who had long held sway in the seas around. The Dutch, the envious rivals of the Portuguese in the East, turned covetous eyes on the little colony which speedily began to flourish. In 1622 the troops in Macao were despatched to assist the Chinese against the Tartars. Taking advantage of their absence, the Governor of the Dutch East Indies fitted out a fleet to capture their city. In the June of that year the hostile ships appeared off Macao and landed a force to storm the fort. The valiant citizens fell upon and defeated the invaders; and the Dutch sailed away baffled. Until the early part of the nineteenth century the Portuguese paid an annual tribute of five hundred taels to the Chinese Government in acknowledgment of their nominal suzerainty. In 1848, the then Governor, Ferreira Amaral, refused to continue this payment and expelled the Chinese officials from the colony. In 1887, the independence of Macao was formally admitted by the Emperor in a treaty to that effect.