Indiscreet Letters From Peking: Being the Notes of an Eye-Witness, Which Set Forth in Some Detail, from Day to Day, the Real Story of the Siege and Sack of a Distressed Capital in 1900—The Year of Great Tribulation
History
Indiscreet Letters From Peking: Being the Notes of an Eye-Witness, Which Set Forth in Some Detail, from Day to Day, the Real Story of the Siege and Sack of a Distressed Capital in 1900—The Year of Great Tribulation
Beijing (China) -- History -- Siege, 1900 -- Personal narratives; Putnam Weale, B. L. (Bertram Lenox), 1877-1930 -- Correspondence
In the early morning, the very early morning, is the time for this
work--say, roughly, between the hours of four and six, when the
soldier Chinaman beyond our lines is yawningly arousing himself from
his slumbers and squats blinking and inattentive before his morning
tea. Then if you are a natural hunter, are inclined to risk a good
deal, and something of a quick shot, you may have splendid chances
which teach you more than you could ever learn by months in front of
targets. Baron von R----, the cynical commander of the Russian
detachment, is the crack sniper of us all, because he has not a great
deal to do in the daytime, and, also, because beyond his lines of the
Russian Legation all is generally quiet with a curious and suggestive
quietness. At four in the morning R----, with his sailor's habits,
generally rises, shakes himself like a dog, lights his eternal Russian
cigarette, takes a few whiffs, and then sallies forth with a
Mannlicher carbine and a clip of five cartridges. His sailors are duly
warned to cover him if he has to retire in disorder, but so far he has
met with no mishap. Cautiously pushing out beyond his barricades, he
climbs a ruined wall, reaches the top and buries himself in the dust
in pleasant anticipation of what will follow.
Presently he is rewarded. A Chinese brave comes out into the open,
selects a corner, and sits down to smoke under cover of a barricade.
The Baron pushes his clip of cartridges deliberately into the
magazine, shoots one into the rifle barrel through the feed, and then
very cautiously and very slowly draws a steady bead on the man. I have
seen him at work. Five seconds may go by, perhaps even ten, for the
Baron allows himself only one shot in each case, and then bang! the
bullet speeds on its way, and the Chinaman rolls over bored through
and through. On a good day the bag may be two or three; on a bad day
the Russian commander returns with his five cartridges intact and a
persistent Russian shrug, for he never fires in vain, and there are
certain canons in this sport which he does not care to violate
lightly.
Myself, enamoured with this game, after I had watched the Russian
commander two mornings, I, too, determined that I would embark on it,
although I have no such leisure in the early hours. Eleven or twelve
o'clock in the bright sunlight has become my hour, when the sun beats
down hotly on our heads, and everyone is drowsy with the noon-heat.
Then you may also catch the Chinaman smoking and drinking his tea once
again, and if you are quick a dead man is your reward. Every dead man
puts another drop of caution into the attackers. It is therefore good
and useful.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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