Rice Papers

by Hugh Leigh Norris

At last the opening day arrived. A Ping Tu race-meeting is worthy of a short description.

The racecourse is situated some two miles from the town, and is approached by a good road. The track is laid round a hollow, oval in shape, nearly seven furlongs in length, bounded on one side by the river and on the other by low scrubby hills. The centre is cultivated by market-gardeners to the “n”^th term.

On the outer side, when turning the corner to come down the straight to the winning-post, is a thick clump of screw-pines, but more of that clump anon. Opposite the winning-post is the grand-stand, built of brick, with stalls beneath for the stabling of the ponies. Every lady in Ping Tu goes to the races because she has a new dress from England for the occasion, and every man goes because he has a pony entered or, at least, a share of a pony. There is a paddock of hard bamboo grass, a bar, and a fenced-in promenade for ladies and members, outside which the Chinese swarm in every degree of blue cotton garment, from the newest and most stiff of the well-to-do to the washed-out and carefully-patched garments of the impecunious.

You can depend on fine weather in the month of February in Ping Tu; so every lady feels happy knowing she can wear her best clothes.

There is a general air of holiday in the community when the races begin, business is at a standstill, the men repair to the Club and split their pints of “the boy,” while the ladies put the finishing touches to their toilets. And now everyone is arriving on the course, the English, French, Russian, German, and other Consuls with their wives. The members of all the “hongs,” or business firms, with their belongings, and lastly Cretes, Jews, Arabians, etc., as it says in the Book of Common Prayer.

The British Consul had brought his consular guard of twelve Sikh police, and the Military Governor of Whang Chai had just returned in time to witness the races, and arrived that morning with two hundred Chinese troops to keep the course clear. All was bustle and excitement, the popping of champagne corks mingled with the pleasant hum of innumerable voices, and the Chinese Military Governor, with his Cambridge education, moved everywhere among the assembled crowd talking in perfect English.

Foh, the military official of Whang Chai, had only arrived at his headquarters the day before, and although deeply concerned at finding the mission gutted and at the outrageous treatment Shelford had received, his sporting instincts had led him to attend the races before executing summary justice upon the perpetrators of the outrage. So far Foh had had no opportunity of speaking to Shelford.

And then approached the great event of the day, the Derby. The Pari Mutuel was besieged by the Europeans and wealthier Chinese, and excitement was great as the numbers went up for the race. There were seven starters—Kwa Niu, pink with black cap; Stone Broke, blue and white check; Fuji San, green, white cap; Try Again, cerise; Greyfoot, yellow jacket, blue cap; Dai Nippon, blue and white hoops, yellow cap; and The Dodger, scarlet and old gold quartered.

The race is a mile and a half, and every occupant of the grand-stand was eagerly waiting with glasses fixed on the starting-point to see the ponies off. So keen was their attention that the clamour rising from the swarming hordes of Chinese outside the enclosure was unheard. At last they were off to a good start, and Kwa Niu, acting up to his usual reputation, appears to be left. At once a hail of good-natured chaff fell on Shelford, when all at once the eyes of all in the stand were directed to the railings round the enclosure. A fight of more than usual violence appeared to be going on there: the Sikh police were being assaulted, railings were torn up and used by the Chinese against the Indians, the latter being crushed down by weight of superior numbers. The mob surged across the course, several of the men ran and shut the wooden doors by which the grand-stand was entered. Shelford was the first to grasp the situation. He had recognised Ching urging on the mob. Foh also had seen how grave matters looked and rushed to the edge of the balcony, shouting orders to his soldiers. These, however, were busily tearing off their uniform jackets and mingling with the surging mob. Cries of “Kill! Kill!” resounded on all sides, and a fierce fight proceeded round the doors to the grand-stand between the few remaining Sikhs and the mob. The men tore off the iron rails round the balcony, and, headed by Shelford and Foh, ran to the gates and engaged with the mob, dealing deadly blows right and left on the shaven heads round them. What a position! Here were unarmed Europeans about to be destroyed by a mob of equally unarmed Chinese, and the women above in a frail structure of bricks and wood. Foh was nearly insane with rage. He felt himself more or less responsible for the good behaviour of the people, and here he was, powerless and deserted by his soldiers. The others had to restrain him from rushing into the mob alone to certain death. Now came a diversion. A horseman dashed through the mob at a furious gallop, scattering the people right and left, his steed savagely biting and snapping at everyone within reach. The unknown rider was gone like a flash, and the Chinese returned to the attack. Lustily the white people rained blows on their yellow brethren, and many a blood-stained European proved that the Chinese were getting some home themselves. The fight was desperate as far as the white men were concerned, for were not their women-folk above in the grand-stand. Once again the Chinese drew off with loud cries, and once more this desperate rider appeared; he threw himself from the saddle and joined the small band of defenders, and then a most extraordinary scene was enacted. A small pony, apparently all hoofs and teeth, took on the fight. Savaging, kicking, biting, he rushed among the frightened Chinese, while the exhausted white defenders marvelled at the supernatural animal and regained their breath for a fresh onslaught. The pony was Kwa Niu and his rider Gubbins. Kwa Niu played the very devil with his own compatriots, not because he owed any allegiance to his English owner, but because he was a devil from start to finish.

Suddenly a bugle rang out above the noise of the yelling mob, some horsemen in gaudy silk jackets dashed among the disordered Chinese, and deliverance arrived in the shape of a small party of American marines, headed by a young ensign with drawn sword.