“They dawdled about in that action,” he said, “unless it came to them planting a flag on some bastion or another. Then our own men went all out to see that we got there first. The French…” he shook his head. “Not one of them could tell you what they have come here to fight for. The result is that they have done nothing but hamper and delay us. Their commander grandstands, and his men do the same—full of pride it seems, but this is really nothing more than a lack of proper military restraint. Mark my words, if we take them inland with us, we’ll have more of the same.”
When the Chinese emissaries finally arrived, Parkes was immediately suspicious. Having a keen understanding of the Mandarins, it did not seem to him that the ministers were sufficiently empowered to conduct any agreement. In fact, he began to suspect that they were only sent to delay, buy time for the enemy to gather another army, or for the Emperor himself to leave his palaces in Peking and flee to other quarters.
Lord Elgin therefore resumed his advance on Peking, and reaching Tongzhou, 12 miles southeast of the Capitol, new Chinese ministers appeared and pleaded for talks to be held there in that city. Parkes was in the delegation sent to see to the preliminaries, with 25 other British men, and 13 French. The talks became a squabble over protocols, and the Chinese claimed the manner and deportment of the English was insulting. As the Allied delegation withdrew, it was set upon by Chinese soldiers, and all were taken prisoner. Word soon came to Lord Elgin that they would only be released if the Europeans withdrew, and the following day, an army of 30,000 Chinese soldiers suddenly appeared. Parkes’ suspicions had been completely correct.
Over the next week, it was war again, with two large battles fought. Once again, the Armstrong Guns and the martial prowess of the British and French prevailed over the Mongol infantry and horsemen, and by the 21st of September, the road to Peking lay open and undefended, and Lord Elgin advanced. Emperor Xianfeng fled to the north, beyond the Great Wall to palaces at Chengde. The Chinese had only one chip left on the table—the hostages they had seized, among them a correspondent for the London Times, and a personal friend of Lord Elgin, Thomas Bowlby.
The prisoners were tortured, an all too common occurrence where Westerners fell into the hands of “Barbarians.” Lord Elgin’s reaction was pure template—revenge, particularly since the methods of torture used were quite cruel. The bodies of many were found so badly mutilated that they were unrecognizable. Parkes had been one of the very few that were released unharmed, and ever resentful of the Chinese authorities, he urged Lord Elgin to make reprisal.
Indeed, Lord Elgin would pen his report on the matter to the British government, writing that he was about to “mark by a solemn act of retribution, the horror and indignation with which we were inspired by the perpetration of a great crime.” He would take his indignation to the famous Yuanmingyuan, the sprawling garden estates of the Emperor in Peking. The Europeans thought they were the Emperor’s “Summer Palaces,” but that was not true. The palaces in Peking were his primary residence, and the center of his government, and those in Chengde where he had fled were his real summer retreat.
Yuanmingyuan was rumored to be a place of legendary splendor, miles of gardens, where pathways meandered along the shores of serene, tree shaded lakes, through flowerbeds, past splendid fountains and sculpture. Then there were gilded halls, ornate reception rooms, elegant residences, opulent museums, libraries, amazing galleries adorned with paintings, and fine examples of artwork in the tens of thousands. There was gold, silver, precious stones of every sort, and delicate porcelain. It was the collective artistry of an entire people and culture, all concentrated in that one place. Lord Elgin knew that he had to make some demonstration here, an act so audacious that it would forever intimidate and humble the Chinese, and shock them so deeply that they would never again give challenge to the mighty British Empire.
There was the Yuanmingyuan, and he had a secret interest in the place. So it was with some misgiving that he learned what had happened when the French troops scaled the 15 foot walls and entered the palaces. Looting had long been a common practice for victorious armies, and if ever there could be found anything that so completely defined the essence of available “loot,” the Yuanmingyuan was the epitome of that. There were hundreds of enchanted places there, with exotic names like the Pavilion of Blessed Shade, Pavilion of Forgotten Desires, the Halls of Virtue, Longevity, Serenity, Magnanimity, and the Pagoda of a Thousand Treasures. That one word described it all to the European soldiers when they first looked upon it—treasures. They would soon become other words—loot, swag, plunder, booty.
It began as a simple way of rewarding a few chosen officers. The French General Montauban was properly awed by the palaces, and he placed guards at key buildings to prevent what was now about to happen. Yet he made one mistake, allowing his senior officers to find and take one object as a reward and memento of their campaign, and that was the match that lit the fire. When the rank and file saw what these officers had, they passed a sleepless night outside the walls, and then many began to slip away to find treasures of their own.
This treasure hunt soon escalated to wholesale looting, where even the guards posted to protect the artwork began to take part. The soldiers rampaged through the galleries, some finding and donning the silk robes of the Emperor himself. They paraded about in mad dances, tore down tapestries, curtains, silkscreens and paintings. They took the precious Ming porcelain vases and simply threw them to the ground, smashing sculptured jade ornaments and other art to pieces. It was an insane orgy of destruction; a madness, a furious rampage, utter mayhem that went on for three days. Even the Emperor’s Pekinese dog was seized, later presented to Queen Victoria and appropriately named “Looty.”
When Lord Elgin finally arrived to see what they had done on the afternoon of October 7th, 1860, he was aghast, immediately giving orders that the remaining artwork should be rounded up and collected in a secure place.
It’s here, he thought, somewhere, but how in the world will I ever find the place now after all this pillaging? Father was quite specific. I must get to the area near the European styled palaces. Having failed in Egypt, I simply cannot let this moment pass without finding it. But the place is a disaster! This is criminal! No wonder the Chinese think of us as barbarians.
There before him, was “everything in the way of sculpture, medals and curious marbles” that he could possibly imagine. And none of it had to be found by first suffering the labors of “assiduous and indefatigable excavation.”
What in the world was he thinking? What had his father, the fabled 7th Earl of Elgin and procurer of the “curious marbles” of the Acropolis confided to him? Indeed, before he arrived at Hong Kong, the 8th Earl of Elgin had made a particular point to stop off in Cairo, where he insisted on touring the Great Pyramids. Then, at night, he made a secret visit to the Sphinx, standing between its massive paws, where a stele had once been erected—the “Dream Stele” of the ancient Pharaoh, Thutmose IV.
He stood there, not knowing what those hieroglyphs meant, for they would not be translated for another 20 years. It was, in part, an appeal by the father for his son to restore the sad condition of that monument, as if the original writer had hoped to make his son the caretaker of that ancient stone sculpture.