"Go and see with your own eyes!" I became enraged. "Pay His Majesty a visit at Ying-t'ai!"
"The foreign journalists have requested face-to-face interviews…"
"We will not allow foreign journalists inside the Forbidden City," Yung Lu put in. "They will pick the bones out of an egg no matter what we do."
"It's getting personal," I-kuang said, handing me a copy of the London Daily Mail.
"The legations stood together as the sun rose fully," one "eyewitness" told a reporter. "The little remaining band, all Europeans, met death stubbornly, and finally, overcome by overwhelming odds, every one of the Europeans remaining was put to the sword in the most atrocious manner."
Later, the London Times would publish a special report on a memorial service held at St. Paul's Cathedral for the British legation's "victims." Pages of death notices would be printed. Sir Claude MacDonald -the husband of Lady MacDonald-Sir Robert Hart and the Times's own devoted correspondent George Morrison all lived to read their own obituaries.
On June 23, General Tung's troops surrounded the three-acre compound of the British legation. His Moslem force tried to break through the north wall, where stood China's elite Hanlin Academy. When all other efforts failed, Tung ordered his soldiers to toss lighted firebrands into the academy, intending to smoke the foreigners out. A strong wind whipped up the flames, which consumed the oldest library in the world.
Yung Lu watched the Boxers hurl themselves futilely against the legation barricades. No one was aware that Yung Lu, at the age of sixty-five, had fallen ill. He had been hiding his condition from me, and I was too preoccupied to notice. I treated him as if he were made of iron. I did not know that he had only three more years to live.
Convinced that a massacre at the legations would bring retribution from the Western powers, Yung Lu refused General Tung's demand for more powerful weapons. Yung Lu controlled the only battery of heavy artillery.
I wondered how Western journalists and their "eyewitnesses" could miss the fact that since the siege began, fewer assaults were made from those sectors held by Yung Lu's troops. It was a known fact that not long before, China had purchased advanced weapons through its diplomatic connections-Robert Hart among others. If those weapons had been used against the legations, their so-called defense, which involved around a hundred men, would have been reduced to rubble within hours.
On behalf of the Emperor of China, I-kuang held a conference to declare a cease-fire. To the throne's shame, it meant nothing to the legations or the Boxers. The fighting continued.
General Tung and his Moslem troops changed their strategy: they moved to cut off the legations' supply line. From the Chinese servants who had run away from the legations, we learned that all were short of water and food. The shortage grew critical as the fighting intensified. And besides the wounded, the legations had their share of sick women and children.
Yung Lu asked for permission to send the legations supplies of water, medicine, food, and other supplies. It was difficult to give my assent, for I knew I would be committing an act of betrayal. The number of casualties among the Boxers and our own troops far exceeded that of the foreigners. Revenge had been the only thought on my people's minds.
"Do what is necessary," I said to Yung Lu. "I don't want to know the details. In the meantime, I want my people to hear the sound of your cannons firing at the legations."
Yung Lu understood. By late evening his cannon fire lit up the sky like New Year's fireworks. The shells flew over the roofs and exploded in the back gardens of the legations. While the citizens of Peking cheered my action, Yung Lu's relief squad pushed their cartloads of supplies through the no man's land and into the legation compounds.
Yet my gesture of good faith didn't work. Our requests for the foreigners to vacate the legations were repeatedly ignored.
The foreigners knew that help had arrived-an international relief force had broken through China's last line of defense at the Taku forts.
My messengers described the colossal dust clouds wafting up around the mouth of the Taku River. The latest news was that the governor of Chihli had committed suicide. (To add to my stunned surprise, on August 11 his replacement also committed suicide.)
I lit several candles and sat down before them, my mind clogged with dead thoughts.
"I have retreated from Ma'to to Chanchiawan," the governor's last report read. "I have seen tens of thousands of troops jamming all the roads. The Boxers fled. As they passed the villages and towns, they plundered, so much so that there was nothing for the armies under my command to purchase, with the result that men and horses were hungry and exhausted. From youth to old age I have experienced many wars, but never saw things like these… I am doing my best to collect the fleeing troops and I shall fight to my last breath…"
In a memorandum Yung Lu included a desperate message from Li Hung-chang. It suggested that I send a telegram to the English Queen to "petition that as two old women we should understand each other's difficulties." He also suggested that I send a plea to Tsar Nicholas of Russia and the Emperor of Japan "for help in settling the crisis peacefully."
I had to give myself credit for having the nerve to follow Li's advice. I outlined the necessity for each country to remain on good terms with China. To Britain the reason was trade; to Japan it was the "Eastern alliance against the West"; to Russia it was "the ancient border dependency and friendship of the two countries."
What a fool I made of myself.
42
At dawn on August 14, 1900, the cat-like cries I heard turned out to be the sound of bullets flying. Fourteen thousand troops, including British, French, Japanese, Russian, German, Italian, Dutch, Austrian, Hungarian, Belgian and American, had invaded. They arrived in Peking by the Tientsin train. General Nieh, who had been sent by Yung Lu to guard the railway from the Boxers, was killed by the Allies.
I was dressing my hair when the cat cries came. I wondered how there could be so many cats. Then something hit the tip of my wing-shaped roof and broken ornaments crashed into my yard. Moments later a bullet flew through my window. It hit the floor, bounced and rolled. I went to examine it.
Li Lien-ying rushed in, visibly shaken. "The foreign soldiers have entered, my lady!"
How is this possible? I thought. Li Hung-chang has supposedly begun negotiations with the Western powers.
It wasn't until my son came with his wife and concubines that I realized it was the Opium War all over again.
After I had dressed, I went to see Guang-hsu. He looked frightened. With frantic haste he pulled the pearls off his robe and threw away his red-tasseled hat. Although he had changed from his golden robe into a blue one, the embroidered dragon symbols would make him recognizable. I asked Li Lien-ying to quickly find the Emperor a servant's clothes. Lan, Pearl and Lustrous helped their husband into a long, plain gray coat.
The sound of bullets over our heads grew louder. I opened my drawers, wardrobes and closets trying to decide what to take and what to leave. I picked out dresses and coats, only to be told by Li Lien-ying that my travel cases were full. It was difficult to part with the carved wooden maiden-case left to me by my mother and Tung Chih's calligraphy practice book.
Holding my jewelry box, Li Lien-ying directed the work of the eunuchs, who packed whatever they could into carts.
I took off my jewelry and my jade nail protectors and ordered Li Lien-ying to cut off my long nails.
When I ordered him to cut my knee-length hair, he wept along with my daughters-in-law.
After my shortened hair was tied in a bun, he helped me into a peasant's dark blue tunic. I put on a pair of worn shoes.