Pillage

The fleet progressed northward, following the Chinese coast. The days succeeded each other in growing tension. The soldiers checked their weapons, sharpened their bayonets, perhaps wrote their last letter. The atmosphere was electric, charged with that waiting that precedes major events.

On August 1, 1860, the coasts of Peh-Tang appeared on the horizon. A deserted beach, bordered by dunes and marshes. No visible fortification, no sign of Chinese military presence. Montauban's plan seemed to be working.

The landing began at dawn. Launches went back and forth between the ships and the beach, transporting men, horses, cannons, ammunition, provisions. A complex ballet, orchestrated with precision by naval officers. The French landed to the north, the British to the south, each contingent marking its territory.

Montauban was among the first to set foot on land. His boots sank into the wet sand, and for the first time in months, he felt beneath his feet the solidity of earth that didn't move. This forgotten sensation reminded him that he had become a land soldier again, that his natural element was commanding men on a battlefield, not living in the confined space of a ship.

"Establish a security perimeter. Send scouts toward the interior. I want to know if the Chinese are waiting for us somewhere."

The following hours were a whirlwind of activity. The troops deployed, established a camp, dug trenches. Cannons were set up in battery, pointed toward the interior. A defensive line took shape, transforming this deserted beach into a fortified position.

Evening was falling when the first scouts returned. Their report confirmed what Montauban hoped: the Chinese had not anticipated a landing at this location. The Dagu forts, about twenty kilometers to the south, concentrated all their forces.

"We've won our first advantage. Tomorrow, we'll begin our march toward the forts. We'll take them from behind and take our first step toward victory."

The dawn of August 2 rose in a thick mist that enveloped the encampment. The soldiers emerged from their tents, numb from an agitated night. The heat was already overwhelming despite the early hour, and humidity stuck to uniforms like a second skin.

The general inspected the troops with a critical eye. Features were tense, but determined. These men who had crossed half the world were ready to fight.

Grant arrived on horseback, surrounded by his officers. His meeting with Montauban was cordial, but cold. The two men greeted each other stiffly, exchanged a few words about the weather and logistics, then separated to rejoin their respective troops.

"He still doesn't like us," remarked Delmas who had witnessed the scene.

"It doesn't matter whether he likes me or not. What matters is that he does his job."

The column set out around nine o'clock. Ten thousand French to the north, twelve thousand British to the south, progressing in parallel through a landscape of rice paddies and deserted villages. Chinese peasants had fled at the approach of the foreign army, abandoning their houses, their crops, sometimes even their livestock.

The desertion of the countryside created a troubling, ghostly atmosphere. The soldiers marched in relative calm, disturbed only by the pounding of boots, the clinking of weapons, the orders shouted by officers. In the sky, crows wheeled, black sentinels perhaps announcing the carnage to come.

Sergeant Beaumont marched at the head of his section, scanning the horizon with vigilance. His years of campaigning in Algeria had taught him to read the signs of danger: a movement in the tall grass, a suspicious reflection, a too-deep silence. For now, nothing indicated an enemy presence, but he remained on guard.

"Sergeant, why are all these villages empty? Where have the people gone?"

"They fled. What civilians do when two armies prepare to confront each other. They know nothing good will come of our presence."

"But we mean them no harm. We're here for their emperor, not for them."

"You think the peasants make that distinction? To them, we're foreign invaders. Round-eyed devils who come from the other end of the world to sow chaos. And you know what? They're not wrong."

The conversation ceased when an officer galloped up the column, shouting orders. The march accelerated. Scouts had spotted Chinese troop movements a few kilometers away. The enemy knew they were there.

The first contact occurred in mid-afternoon. The French column emerged from a copse and found itself facing a plain where a Chinese army was deployed. Thousands of soldiers in colorful uniforms, banners snapping in the wind, drums beating a menacing cadence.

Montauban raised his hand, and the entire column stopped. He examined the enemy disposition with attention. The Chinese were numerous, perhaps fifteen to twenty thousand men, but their formation seemed disorganized. Compact masses of infantry, a few pieces of artillery of ancient design, Tartar cavalry on the flanks.

"They want to prevent us from reaching the forts. Vain attempt. They know they're going to lose."

"Perhaps. But desperate men can be formidable."

Montauban turned toward Favier.

"Deploy the artillery on that ridge. I want you to start showering them as soon as we're in position. The infantry will advance in waves, maintaining cohesion. No unnecessary heroics."

Orders were transmitted. The French army deployed with parade precision. Cannons were set up in battery, infantry battalions formed perfect lines, skirmishers took position in the vanguard.

On their side, the Chinese remained motionless, as if petrified by this demonstration of military discipline. Their drums continued to beat, their banners to flutter, but one could sense a hesitation, an uncertainty in the face of this war machine setting itself up before them.

Baron Gros, who had stayed back with non-combatant elements, joined Montauban.

"Mon général, perhaps we should attempt a negotiation? Avoid useless bloodshed?"

"They chose to bar our way. They know the consequences."

"But think of the diplomatic implications. If we can obtain their surrender without combat, it will facilitate future negotiations."

Montauban hesitated. The suggestion made sense. But he also knew the risks of temporizing. The Chinese might interpret this opening as a sign of weakness, reinforce themselves while negotiating, launch a surprise attack.

"Very well. Send an emissary under a white flag. Tell them we're not seeking combat, but that we will pass, one way or another."

Gros bowed and withdrew to organize this approach. A French officer, accompanied by a Chinese interpreter employed in Hong Kong, advanced toward the enemy lines carrying a white flag. Everyone followed this silhouette.

The dialogue lasted about ten minutes. Then the officer returned at a gallop, his horse foaming.

"Mon général, the Chinese refuse to withdraw. Their commander says he received orders to stop us, and that he prefers to die rather than disobey his emperor."

"He will die. Favier, you may begin."

The artillery chief raised his arm, then lowered it. The French cannons thundered in unison, spitting fire and smoke. The cannonballs crossed the air in a deadly whistle and crashed down on the Chinese ranks.

The result was devastating. The compact formations of the enemy infantry offered perfect targets. The cannonballs carved bloody furrows, mowing down dozens of men with each impact. The cries of the wounded rose in the hot air, mingling with the thunder of artillery.

Beaumont, who was observing from his position with his section, watched. He had seen battles, he knew the horror of war. But in this spectacle, a discomfort inhabited him. These Chinese dying by the hundreds hadn't even had the possibility to fight. An execution, not a battle.

"Sergeant," Dubois murmured, eyes wide, "look what we're doing to them. It's… it's a massacre."

"Modern war. Our cannons against their lances. Our technology against their courage. Welcome to the civilized world."

The French artillery pounded the Chinese positions. After fifteen minutes of this deluge of iron, the enemy army began to disintegrate. Groups of soldiers fled in disorder, abandoning their weapons and their wounded. The Tartar cavalry attempted a charge on the French left flank, but was met by the sustained fire of the light infantry. Men and horses collapsed in an entanglement of bodies and screams.

"Cease fire. Jamin, launch the pursuit, but with moderation. I don't want us to scatter."

The French infantry advanced at a run, bayonets fixed. But there wasn't much left to pursue. The Chinese army had evaporated, leaving behind a field strewn with dead and dying.

Montauban dismounted and walked among the corpses. The features frozen in death looked at him with varied expressions: surprise, pain, resignation. Young men for the most part, peasants torn from their villages and thrown into this battle they probably didn't understand.

The captain found him, pale.

"Our losses are minimal, mon général. Three dead, about ten wounded. The Chinese… there must be more than a thousand."

"Evacuate our wounded. For the Chinese…"

Montauban hesitated.

"Do what you can for the wounded. Those who can be saved. The others…"

One couldn't save everyone.

Night fell on the improvised battlefield. French doctors bustled around the wounded, administering opium for pain, amputating crushed limbs, stitching gaping wounds. Their white aprons were stained with blood, their features marked by fatigue and disgust.

Chief Surgeon Renaud worked with a mechanical efficiency born of habit. He had seen so many wounds, so much suffering that he had forged himself an emotional shell.

"Captain, come see something."

Delmas entered the tent dimly lit by lanterns. A sickly sweet smell of blood and burned flesh caught in his throat. On makeshift stretchers lay about ten wounded Chinese soldiers.

"Look at this one. A crushed leg, the left arm torn off. A few hours of life, at most. But see his face. He's smiling."

The captain noted with stupor that the doctor was telling the truth. The young Chinese, despite his agony, displayed a serene smile. His lips moved, murmuring incomprehensible words.

"What's he saying?"

"The interpreter translated for me. He's reciting a Buddhist prayer. He's preparing to die with dignity."

He felt an oppression in his chest. This young man dying far from home, mutilated by weapons he had never seen, faced his destiny with more courage than many men he had known.

"Can we do something for him?"

"Relieve him. That's all."

Renaud waited a moment.

"You know, Captain, I've spent my life treating soldiers. French, Arabs, and now Chinese. And I sometimes wonder if we're not all mad. If all this violence, all this suffering has any meaning."

"War has always existed. It will always exist."

"Which doesn't mean it's just. Or necessary."

The young man had no answer to that. He left the tent and walked through the encampment, seeking a quiet place to gather his thoughts. He ended up sitting on a rock, away from the fires and conversations. The starry sky extended above him, immense and indifferent to the human tragedies playing out below.

He thought of this dying young Chinese, of Louise de Montauban and her prophetic words, of his own naivety in having believed a war could be clean and honorable. He had seen nothing, he knew. This skirmish was only a prelude. What awaited them further on, in the Dagu forts, in Tientsin, and perhaps in Beijing, would be much worse.

The allied army continued its progression. The Chinese tried several other times to stop them, launching attacks that were all repulsed with heavy losses. The French and British advanced inexorably, their technical superiority sweeping away all resistance.

On August 21, they arrived in sight of the forts. Massive constructions of earth and stone, armed with cannons of all calibers, defended by thousands of soldiers. But the French were taking them from behind, as Montauban had planned, while the British fleet bombarded them from the front.

The battle was short, but violent. French artillery opened breaches in the walls, infantry rushed through them. Hand-to-hand combat was fierce. The Chinese defended themselves with fierce courage, knowing they fought for their honor and that of their emperor.

Sergeant Beaumont found himself in the heart of the melee, his rifle useless, fighting with bayonet and rifle butt. Around him, his men screamed, struck, killed. Civilization and its rules disappeared in the fury of combat. There was nothing left but survival, the primal instinct that drives a man to eliminate the other before being eliminated.

Dubois, the soldier who had suffered so much from seasickness, fought with a rage one would never have suspected in him. His face was smeared with blood, his eyes shone with a savage gleam. He had lost all innocence in a few seconds of combat.

When the forts fell, late in the afternoon, the toll was heavy. On the French side, about fifty dead and more than two hundred wounded. On the Chinese side, several thousand dead. The survivors had fled toward Tientsin, abandoning their positions, their weapons, their honor.

Montauban stood on the conquered ramparts, staring at the battlefield extending below. Corpses littered the ground, smoke rose from burning buildings. A victory with a bitter taste.

General Grant found him, a satisfied smile on his lips.

"Fine victory, Montauban. Your strategy was the right one. I readily admit it."

"Thank you, General."

"Now, we can go up the Pei-Ho to Tientsin. The road to Beijing is open."

The two men shook hands, sealing this common victory. But in Montauban's gaze, Grant could have read something other than satisfaction at duty accomplished. He could have seen a trouble, a questioning, perhaps even the beginning of remorse.

But Grant didn't seek to read in men's eyes. A simple soldier, who saw the world in terms of victories and defeats, enemies and allies. Moral nuances didn't interest him.

While the victorious encampment celebrated the taking of the forts with extra rum rations, Montauban withdrew to his tent and wrote:

"My dear Louise,

We have won our first major victory. The Dagu forts have fallen, the road to the interior is open. The men are proud, the British respect us again.

And yet, I cannot help thinking of all these Chinese who died today. They were fighting for their country, for their emperor. They knew they were going to lose, but they fought anyway.

Each victory weighs on me a little more. Each death reminds me that behind our noble objectives hide realities I would prefer to ignore.

But I am a soldier. My duty is to obey, to conquer, to lead my men to success. Doubts have no place in a military campaign.

Pray for me, my sweet. Pray that I keep my soul intact in all this chaos.

Your husband who loves you and thinks of you every day, Charles"

He sealed the letter, which would not leave for several days, when a ship returned to Hong Kong. By then, many things could happen. Other battles, other deaths, other victories…

The March on Beijing

The next day, the allied fleet began to go up the Pei-Ho. The transports progressed slowly, escorted by gunboats. The banks of the river were deserted, the villages abandoned. A land of desolation extended on both sides, testifying to the violence that had swept through this region.

On August 24, the allied forces entered Tientsin without resistance. The city was empty, its inhabitants having fled at the approach of the foreign barbarians. Only a few old people too weak to leave and stray dogs populated the streets.

Montauban established his headquarters in an abandoned pagoda. The walls were covered with frescoes representing scenes from Chinese mythology, dragons and phoenixes in dazzling colors. He contemplated these images of a world so different from his own, trying to understand the mentality of this people he was fighting.

Baron Gros joined him in the evening, bearing news.

"Mon général, Chinese emissaries have presented themselves. They ask to negotiate. The emperor is ready to discuss the ratification of the treaty."

"Really? After all this resistance, he's giving in?"

"Our victories have convinced him. He knows that if he doesn't negotiate, we'll march on Beijing. And that, he cannot allow. It would be too considerable a humiliation."

Montauban reflected. The official mission was about to be accomplished. The treaty would be ratified, the diplomatic objectives achieved. They could return to France with their heads held high, having forced China to open to Western trade.

But he felt it wouldn't be that simple. The British wanted more. Lord Elgin spoke of "lessons to give," of "exemplary punishments." And Empress Eugénie awaited her Oriental treasures.

"Begin negotiations, Baron. But don't rush too much. We'll see where it leads us."

Gros bowed and left, aware that the real decisions would be made elsewhere, in meetings where he wouldn't be invited, between military men who had other priorities than diplomacy.

The negotiations bogged down. The Chinese emissaries proposed concessions, but not enough according to the British. Lord Elgin demanded astronomical financial reparations, the opening of new ports, extraterritorial privileges. Baron Gros tried to moderate these demands, but his voice was drowned out by the louder one of English diplomacy.

Meanwhile, the soldiers settled in Tientsin. The first inhabitants began to return cautiously, testing the intentions of these invaders. Improvised markets organized themselves, where French and British soldiers bartered their goods for fresh food, souvenirs, sometimes even favors from Chinese prostitutes whom poverty pushed to this trade.

Sergeant Beaumont tried to maintain discipline in his section, but it was a lost battle. After months at sea and weeks of combat, the men wanted to enjoy life. As long as it stayed within acceptable limits, he turned a blind eye.

One evening, while making his rounds in the streets near the encampment, he caught three of his men trying to force the door of an apparently abandoned shop. He approached, threatening.

"What are you doing, you idiots?"

The three soldiers froze, caught in the act. Frachon, Coulaud, and a third, Dambach, who had acquired a solid reputation as troublemakers.

"Sergeant, we were just looking for…"

"You were looking to steal."

Beaumont slapped them in turn, resounding slaps that echoed in the deserted street.

"How many times do I have to tell you we're not pillagers? That we represent the French army?"

"But Sergeant," Dambach protested, "the English do it. We've seen them return to camp with crates full of objects."

"I don't give a damn what the English do. You're under my orders, and my orders are clear: no pillaging. If I catch one of you stealing again, I'll have him flogged in public. Understood?"

They nodded, sheepish. But Beaumont saw in their eyes that the temptation remained strong. Discipline was eroding, little by little. And he was aware he couldn't be everywhere to maintain it.

In early September, negotiations suddenly soured. The Chinese emissaries, pushed by conservative elements of the imperial court, hardened their positions. They refused several British demands and requested the withdrawal of allied troops.

Lord Elgin, furious, ordered the arrest of the emissaries. It was a catastrophic error. In the confusion that followed, Chinese soldiers also captured lower-ranking diplomats, interpreters, even a Times journalist who was accompanying the expedition.

These prisoners were taken by the Chinese to Beijing, where they disappeared into imperial dungeons. For several days, there was no news of them. Then, gradually, rumors began to circulate. Horrifying rumors that spoke of torture, of mutilations.

Montauban learned the news during an emergency meeting convened by Grant. The English officers, their faces closed, spoke in low voices. Elgin paced back and forth like a caged beast.

"These barbarians dared to capture British diplomats!" he thundered. "Violation of all international laws! An intolerable affront!"

"What do you propose?" Montauban asked calmly, contrasting with the ambient hysteria.

Elgin looked at him, eyes bright with rage.

"We're going to march on Beijing. We're going to free our men. And we're going to make these Chinese pay for their treachery."

"A march on Beijing is a risky undertaking. We're far from our bases, our supply lines are stretched…"

"I don't care about the risks!" Elgin cut in. "Our dignity has been trampled. It will be avenged, whatever the cost."

Baron Gros tried to intervene.

"Lord Elgin, perhaps we should first attempt to obtain the release of these men through negotiation…"

"Negotiation? With these traitors who violate their own promises? Never!"

The meeting continued for over two hours, but the decision was made in Elgin's mind. The allied armies would march on Beijing. They would crush all resistance. They would bring back the prisoners, by hook or by crook.

Montauban left this meeting with a presentiment. Things were escaping all control. The diplomatic mission was transforming into a punitive expedition. And he had the intuition that the worst was yet to come.

The march on Beijing began on September 18, 1860. Twenty-two thousand men, French and British, set out toward the imperial capital. An impressive column extending over several kilometers, snaking through the fertile plains of North China.

Delmas rode alongside Montauban, observing the passing landscape. Burned villages, trampled fields, corpses of Chinese soldiers rotting in the sun. War left its mark on this millennial land.

"Mon général, do you think we'll find these prisoners alive?"

Montauban kept his attention fixed on the horizon.

"I hope so, Captain. I sincerely hope so. Because if they're dead, if the Chinese tortured them… nothing will be able to hold back British vengeance. And we'll be swept up in this spiral of violence, whether we want it or not."

"We could refuse. Maintain our distance from English excesses."

"We're allies. Our honor obliges us to remain in solidarity, even when we disapprove of their actions."

"Honor…"

The captain shook his head.

"I have the impression this word is losing its meaning as we advance."

Montauban shared this feeling. Military honor, noble principles, the fine words from Paris… all this was dissolving in the raw reality of this campaign. Nothing remained but the necessity to advance, to conquer, to survive.

And somewhere ahead of them, beyond the horizon, Beijing awaited them with its mysteries and dangers. The Summer Palace the missionaries spoke of so much was drawing nearer. And with it, the temptation, the greed, the possibility of a pillage that would forever mark the history of this expedition.

On the morning of September 21, the allied column resumed its march after an agitated night. The soldiers had slept in the fields, wrapped in their cloaks, lulled by the strange sounds of this Chinese countryside: the croaking of frogs in the rice paddies, the distant howling of wild dogs, sometimes the cry of a nocturnal bird that resembled a human lament.

Beaumont had barely closed his eyes. He had remained awake, smoking his pipe, observing the shining stars. Near him, his men snored, exhausted by the previous day's forced march. Dubois moaned in his sleep, pursued by nightmares Beaumont could easily imagine. The boy had killed for the first time during the taking of the Dagu forts, and this experience had marked him indelibly.

When dawn broke, Beaumont woke his section with abrupt orders. The men emerged from their blankets grumbling, limbs numb, features drawn. They swallowed a meager breakfast composed of hard biscuits and lukewarm coffee, then lined up in ranks, waiting for the departure signal.

Delmas passed before them on horseback, inspecting the troops with a distracted eye. He too had slept poorly, haunted by thoughts that tormented him. The conversation he had had with Montauban on the ship, Louise's prophetic words, all of it mingled in his mind.

"Captain," Beaumont hailed him, "what's our destination today?"