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
We sped swiftly along, only twice seeing men of any sort in several
miles of streets. Once they were fellows who, on our approach,
scuttled so quickly away to hide their identity that we could not be
sure whether they were white or yellow. But once, without concealment,
a band of mixed European soldiery, in terrible disorder, who first
wished to fire on us, and then when they saw me set up a colourless
sort of cheer, appeared suddenly, only to disappear. We never paused
an instant; we kept straight on.
As we made our way farther and farther to the east and came across
rich districts of barricaded shops, signs were clear that pillaging
had gone on here already with insane violence, but by whom or at what
time it was impossible to say. Sometimes there were battered-in doors
and windows, with ugly, swollen corpses stretched near by; sometimes
the contents of a rich emporium had been swept, as if by some strange
whirlwind, out on the street to litter the whole driving road many
inches deep with the most heterogeneous things. On the ground, too,
were dozens of the rude imitation flags which had been so frantically
made by the terror-striken populace in order to disclaim all
association with Boxerism and the mad Imperialism being now so
summarily swept away. Jeering looters had torn these things down and
cast them in the dirt to show, as a reply, that there was to be no
quarter if they could help it. These grim notes limned speakingly on
everything, made it plain that a movement was in the air which could
hardly be arrested. It made one feel a little insane and intoxicated
to see it all; and as one's blood rushed through one's veins, after
that long captivity, one had, too, the desire to add a little more
destruction, to break down places and to shoot for the amusement of
the thing. You could not help it; it was in the air, I say. It was a
subtle poison which could not be analysed, but which kept on coursing
through one's veins and heating the blood to fever-pitch. The vast
open streets needed filling up with noise and rapid movements, one
thought; the inhabitants must be galvanised to life again, one
felt....
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