#FridayFlash: The Aftermath of the Boxer Rebellion

The Aftermath of the Boxer Rebellion

by Tony Noland

"I say, Artie? If you're not otherwise occupied, we're almost out of cartridges. Think your dad could spring for some more? Him being Lord Yaxley and all?"

Arthur Wilberforce "Artie" Wooster drew a bead on the last of the rebellious native fleeing across the yard, squeezed the trigger and dispatched the bugger. His friend Harry's sense of humor was more dryly British than most Englishman's; it came from trying too hard.

"I can ask," Artie said, "but the old fellow has always been a bit tight-fisted with his younger sons. Besides," Artie said, as he scanned the yard below the window, "I thought your latest fortune was made with that last cargo ship."

"It was, but since the damned Chinese rose up back in March of last year -"

"April."

"- April, 1899, then. More than a year ago, anyway, since we first got wind of these damned Boxers; this whole damned nuisance has scuppered my import and export business." Gustavus Karl Friedrich "Harry" von Prosser sat, his chair leaned against a wall.

Artie said, "Will you be ready for the dance at the Embassy next week-end?" He nodded at Harry's wounded leg. "That looks like it might sting a bit." Artie withdrew a silver flask from his pocket and passed it over. By such a means did he let his friend know his care and concern.

Harry drank deeply from the flask, then smiled up at Artie, said, "Wouldn't miss it for worlds. Oh, I might just possibly sit out the sprightlier tunes, to give it a bit of a rest, you understand." His expression of gratitude was frozen at the sound of a scream from within the building. Both men stopped and listened intently. Another scream, then moans of a desperate nature filled the hallway beyond. Harry passed the flask back to the suddenly pale Artie, who also drank deeply of it.

"Do you think..." started Artie. He swallowed, then continued, "Do you think that's normal? God take me for a damned sinner, but with that last attack by the Chinese, I'd ... well, not forgotten, but been distracted. Do you think she's... alright?"

"She has her sister Agatha in with her, and you know what a bulldog brick she is. There's an English midwife with her, too. We sent the Chinese midwife away months ago. Can't trust 'em these days. But come, she'll be fine! It's been going on since sundown last night; it can't be much longer now." Another scream tore at the air, a sound like a defenseless woman being killed. Artie turned from the window, made as if to go to her, stopped. The birthing bed was no place for a father. This was woman's work, and they were welcome to it. Another scream, and his hands gripped the stock of his rifle, turning the knuckles white.

"That's a good sign, Artie, now, can't you see that? 'Arbeit härter, Kinder stärker.' - that's what my Gran always used to say, what?" Naturalized citizen as he was, and desperate to be as English as possible, for Harry to make a joke about his own German origin meant that he was thoroughly anxious to distract his friend's mind. Artie knew it, and he held out his hand; Harry shook it, a grin on his pale, sweaty face.

"Well, if your Gran's any judge, my little Kinder is going to be as strong as they come. What's a good name, eh? What shall I name the little bugger?"

"You can't go wrong with a strong English name. When the time comes, I know what I'll name my son: Alexander Charles. That should get him into Eton, what? Especially if I drop the 'von' and build a new wing on the school. Of course, with you being from an old family, you can name him whatever you like."

"Almost, I suppose. The middle name has to be Wilberforce, in accordance with an old family tradition. For the first name? I think perhaps Bartholomew. Or Brian." He stood, thinking and saying different names out loud a few times, to get the feel of them on his tongue. He was about to say another name aloud when he stopped.

The back room had been silent for a long, long time.

Artie swallowed, held his ground. In the hardest thing he had done in all his 37 years, he held his ground and did not move. He did not go in to hold his bride, the beautiful, fragile woman he had dragged halfway around the world. He did not run to her, he did not kick in the door, burning though he was to know if she... if she...

At the end of the hallway, the door opened, and his sister-in-law Agatha came out. He saw her take a deep breath, then walk forward with a strong, steady step.

"She is doing as well as can be expected." Agatha said, answering the question Artie dared not ask. "She's had a very rough time of it, but with some rest and quiet, and perhaps a bit of brandy, she'll be fine."

"And...?"

"Your son is in with her, and is resting peacefully." Artie collapsed into a chair. The sleepless night, the attack at dawn, the long hours on watch... he felt as weary as a man could.

"Artie. You need to know something." Agatha's voice was firm and strong, as always, but there was a note of sadness that chilled Artie to his core. "He was born with the cord wrapped around his neck," she continued, "and the midwife had a devil of a time getting him undone. He was a bit blue for a while. The midwife says she's seen such births before. The boy might grow up perfectly fine and hale, or he might be a bit... slow. It's the luck of the draw, Artie, and there's nothing to be done about it. We can't know the truth until he's older. Regardless, your son is resting comfortably now. What name have you picked?"

"Bertram," Artie said, in shock. "Bertram Wilberforce Wooster."

"Bertram," said Agatha experimentally. "Bertram. Bertie Wooster." She nodded. "Good. A good strong name for a boy who will do us all proud, I'm sure."

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