Round the Fire Stories Chapter 4 - The Pot Of Caviare

**Arthur Conan Doyle** (0:00)
Story Four of Round the Fire Stories by Arthur Conan Doyle. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Story Four. The Pot Of Caviare. It was the fourth day of the siege. Ammunition and provisions were both nearing an end. When the Boxer insurrection had suddenly flamed up and roared like a fire in dry grass across northern China, the few scattered Europeans in the outlying provinces had huddled together at the nearest defensible post, and had held on for dear life until rescue came, or until it did not. In the latter case less said about their fate the better. In the former they came back into the world of men with that upon their faces which told that they had looked very closely upon such an end as would ever haunt their dreams. Heqiao was only fifty miles from the coast, and there was a European squadron in the Gulf of Lantong. Therefore the absurd little garrison, consisting of native Christians and railway men, with a German officer to command them, and five civilian Europeans to support him, held on bravely with the conviction that help must soon come sweeping down to them from the low hills to eastward. The sea was visible from those hills, and on the sea were their armed countrymen. Surely, then, they could not feel deserted. With brave hearts they manned the loopholes in the crumbling brick walls outlining the tiny European quarter, and they fired away briskly, if ineffectively, at the rapidly advancing Sangars of the Boxers. It was certain that in another day or so they would be at the end of their resources, but then it was equally certain that in another day or so they must be relieved. It might be a little sooner or it might be a little later, but there was no one who ever ventured to hint that the relief would not arrive in time to pluck them out of the fire. Up to Tuesday night there was no word of discouragement.
It was true that on the Wednesday their robust faith in what was going forward behind those eastern hills had weakened a little, the gray slopes lay bare and unresponsive, while the deadly Tsangars pushed ever nearer, so near that the dreadful faces which shrieked imprecations at them from time to time over the top could be seen in every hideous feature. There was not so much of that now since young Ainsley of the diplomatic service, with his neat little .30-03 sporting rifle, had settled down in the squat church tower, and had devoted his days to abating the nuisance. But a silent Tsangar is an even more impressive thing than a clamorous one, and steadily, irresistibly, inevitably, the lines of brick and rubble grew closer.
Soon they would be so near that one rush would assuredly carry the frantic swordsman over the frail entrenchment. It all seemed very black upon the Wednesday evening. Colonel Dressler, the German ex-infantry officer, went about with an imperturbable face, but a heart of lead. Ralston, of the railway, was up half the night writing farewell letters. Professor Mercer, the old entomologist, was even more silent and grimly thoughtful than ever. Ainsley had lost some of his flippancy.
On the whole, the ladies, Miss Sinclair, the nurse of the Scotch Mission, Mrs. Patterson and her pretty daughter, Jessie, were the most composed of the party. Father Pierre, of the French Mission, was also unaffected, as was natural to one who regarded modern-dom as a glorious crown. The Boxers, yelling for his blood beyond the walls, disturbed him less than his forced association with the sturdy Scotch Presbyterian presence of Mr. Patterson, with whom for ten years he had wrangled over the souls of the natives. They passed each other now in the corridors as dog passes cat, and each kept a watchful eye upon the other, lest even in the trenches he might filch some sheep from the rival fold, whispering heresy in his ear.
But the Wednesday night passed without a crisis, and on the Thursday all was bright once more. It was Ainsley up in the clock tower who had first heard the distant thud of a gun. Then Dressler heard it, and within half an hour it was audible to all, that strong iron voice calling to them from afar and bidding them to be of good cheer since help was coming. It was clear that the landing party from the squadron was well on its way. It would not arrive an hour too soon. The cartridges were nearly finished. Their half rations of food would soon dwindle to an even more pitiful supply.
But what need to worry about that, now that relief was assured? There would be no attack that day, as most of the Boxers could be seen streaming off in the direction of the distant firing, and the long lines of singers were silent and deserted. They were all able therefore to assemble at the lunch table a merry talkative party, full of that joy of living which sparkles most brightly under the eminent shadow of death. The Pot Of Caviare! cried Ainsley. Come, Professor, out with The Pot Of Caviare! Pots thousand, yes, grunted old Dressler. It is certain time that we had that famous pot. The ladies joined in, and from all parts of the long ill-furnished table there came the demand for caviar.