Stan Lynn: A Boy's Adventures in China

“Yes, I’m quite ready now,” replied Stan firmly.

“That’s right. Then shake hands, my lad.”

“What for?” asked Stan.

“Because,” was the reply, given in a grave, solemn tone, “we may never have the chance again.”

“You think it is as bad as that?”

“Quite,” was the reply as hand pressed hand. “There! we shall be at it soon, and I’m sorry, Lynn. When you first came I thought I should always detest you as a young meddler sent here to be in my way.”

“But you don’t think so now?” said Stan, smiling.

“Quite the contrary, my lad. There! we’ve talked enough. Only one word or so more. Keep cool, load steadily, and fire only when you feel sure of your man. Never hurry. Recollect that one carefully taken shot is worth a score of bad ones, which mean so much waste of ammunition. There! I’m off now to talk to the rest. I’ll come and be with you as much as I can.”

“Thank you; but I can see what you have done. You’ve put me in one of the best-sheltered places, and you are going to expose yourself in the most dangerous.”

“You are only partly right, my lad. I have not put you in one of the best-sheltered places, but I am going to expose myself in one of the worst as much as I can, and that is here – the place where I have stationed you.”

Stan’s next words slipped out unconsciously:

“Why have you put me in the most risky place?”

“Because I saw that you liked shooting since you brought your gun and revolver, and I gathered so, too, from your conversation and the way in which you handled that rifle. Now are you satisfied?”

Stan nodded, and the next minute he was alone, but with men at all the loopholes near.

As soon as he was left to himself a peculiar chill came creeping over him. Blunt’s words seemed to be ringing in his ears about being face to face with death, and in imagination he pictured the aspect of his newly made friend lying stark and stiff gazing up into the skies. He would have given anything in those brief minutes to have seen him come back, not to act as a shield from the firing too soon to begin, but so as to have his companionship; for, near though the others were, the little bastion seemed to be horribly lonely, and the silence about the great warehouse too oppressive to bear.

But as the boy – for he was a mere boy after all – stood at the opening with his hand grasping the barrel of the rifle whose butt rested between his feet, and gazing out at the glittering river, his image-forming thoughts became blurred; the figure of Blunt passed away, and another picture formed itself upon the retina of his eyes. There before him were the smoking ruins of a native village, and, so horribly distinct that he shuddered and turned cold again, there lay in all directions and attitudes the slaughtered victims of the pirates’ attack, and all so ghastly that the lad uttered a peculiar sibilant sound as he sharply drew in his breath between his teeth.

The next instant the chill of horror had been swept away with the imaginary picture – imaginary, but too often real in a country where the teeming population hold human life to be cheap as the dirt beneath their feet – and Stan, with his brows knit, was carefully cocking and uncocking his rifle to see if the mechanism worked accurately, before throwing open the breech to take out and replace the cartridge, when he closed it smartly and looked out at the coming junks, which glided nearer and nearer like fate.

They were so nearly within ken now that Stan could see that they were crowded with men, each a desperate and savage enemy.

“I wonder whether I can hit the first one who takes aim at me. I must or he’ll hit me,” muttered the lad. “But I shall have to be quick or he may hit me first.”

He had hardly dwelt a moment upon this thought before he heard Blunt’s voice in the long, narrow opening between the tea-chest wall and the buildings proper of house, offices, and stores, where the soft, shuffling sounds of feet could be plainly heard – sounds which Stan, who had been long enough in China to recognise them, knew to be caused by the collecting of the coolies.

Proof was afforded the next minute by Blunt’s brisk voice addressing them with —

“Now, my lads, I want you to fight your best for us. How many of you can manage rifles?”

There was a few moments’ silence, and then a deep voice said:

“No wantee lifle. Takee big ilon clowba’, sha’p chip-chop knifee. Kill allee pilate, evely one.”

“That will do. Wait, then, till the wretches rush in, and then use the bars and your knives. I see you mean to fight.”

There was further shuffling of soft feet, and though he could see nothing, Stan knew that the big picked Chinamen, whose muscles were hardened by their tasks of handling and running to and fro over gangways with heavy bales, casks, and chests, were being posted in places of vantage ready to receive the enemy when they landed at the wharf and made their first onslaught.

Stan turned to watch the junks, whose sails were now lowered as unnecessary and stowed lengthwise to be out of the way, while great sweeps had been passed out, not to urge on the vessels, but to keep a little way on and make them answer the steering-gear, the force of the current being enough for the enemy’s purpose, which was to lay them alongside the wharf after – as was proved ere long – a sharp discharge from their clumsy artillery.

“How long they seem in coming!” thought Stan, though in reality the time was very short; and then he started, for Blunt had come close up behind him unperceived.

“Here I am,” he said. “We are all ready, and our people are waiting for you to open the ball.”

“For me?” cried Stan, who felt startled.

“You. You will fire the first shot when I give the word. That will be the signal that I consider the enemy sufficiently close, and the men will begin picking the wretches off. I say, look; clumsy as the great craft seem, they come on very steadily and well. There is no confusion. See what a line they keep of about a couple of hundred yards apart. Their captains are not bad sailors after all.”

“Yes, they come on slowly and surely,” said Stan in a sombre tone. – “I wish I didn’t feel so nervous.”

“It’s quite natural,” said Blunt. “I feel just as bad as you.”

“You do?” cried Stan, staring. “Nonsense!”

“Indeed I do,” said Blunt. “I’m in what schoolboys call a regular stew. Every one in the place feels the same, I’ll venture to say. It’s really quite natural; but as soon as the game begins – ”

“Game!” cried Stan bitterly.

“Oh, very well; drama, if you like. I say as soon as it begins we shall all be too busy to feel fear, and be working away like Britons. Here, it’s going to begin sooner than I expected. By your leave, as the porters say, I want a look through my glass. Yes,” he continued as he carefully scanned the leading junk, “they’ve got a big brass swivel-gun there, and they’re loading it. How’s your rifle sighted now?”

“For two hundred yards.”

“That will do nicely. You shall have a shot soon. But they’re going to let us have it. Keep well in cover. I hope the lads are all doing the same.”

“Yes, they’re going to begin,” said Stan excitedly. “Bravo, good eyes! How do you know?”

“Because I can see a man going along the deck with something smoking.”

“That’s right. Yes: I can see it. It’s the linstock or slow-match. Keep under cover, for we shall have a hail of ragged bullets of all kinds directly. They’ve laid the gun, and the man is waiting to apply the match.”

“Yes: I can see that too. Look out: here it comes. I saw the smoke seem to make a dart downwards.”

“Quite right; and I can see with the glass that the burning end is resting on the touch-hole.”

“But it doesn’t go off,” said Stan excitedly.

“No; the priming must have been knocked off, or be damp or badly made. It’s a failure, certainly. There! I wish you could see with the glass; it’s all as clear as if it was close to us. One of the men close to the breech of the long piece is priming it again.”

“I can’t see that – only that the men are busy,” said Stan as the great leading junk, with its leering eyes, glided onward till it was somewhere about a hundred and fifty yards from the wharf and being swept closer inshore. “Now then,” cried Stan; “look out!”

For he could just distinguish the downward movement of the smoking match, which was followed directly after by a couple of puffs of smoke, one small from the breech, the other large and spreading, followed by a bellowing roar, almost following a strange rattling and crash as of stones about the face and surface of the wharf. There was a dull pattering, too, over the head of the watchers, and dust and scraps of stones ran down the front of the building.

Stan made some remark, but it was drowned by a deafening roar – nothing to do with barbaric artillery, but coming from the throats of hundreds of men, beginning with those in the first junk, right along from those which followed, to the very last; and to make the sounds more ear-stunning, men began belabouring gongs in every junk with all their muscle brought to bear.

“Nice row that, Lynn,” said the manager coolly. “Just shows what fools these barbarians are. Of course, you know why they beat these gongs?”

“To frighten us, I suppose,” said Stan.

“That’s it; and I don’t feel a bit alarmed. Do you?”

“Pooh! No; but I did feel scared when the charge of that big swivel-gun came rattling about us.”

“Yes, and with reason, too,” said Blunt quietly. “Their ragged bits of lead and scraps of iron make horribly painful wounds. I don’t want to get a touch of that sort of thing.”

The moment the booming of the gongs ceased, Blunt drew back and shouted to know if any one had been hurt by the discharge of the great swivel; but though he waited and called again, he had good proof in the silence that no one was injured.

“Do you hear there?” he cried again. “Is any one – ”

His words were drowned by a roar from the enemy’s gun, almost accompanied by the snarl-like noise made by its great charge, which came hurtling against the chests and bales this time, though a good half spattered angrily over the front of the stones.

“We mustn’t let them have it all their own way, Lynn, my lad, or they’ll come on with a rush full of confidence and do too much mischief. Now then, the distance is easy. Look yonder in the front of the junk: what can you see?”

“Two men pulling out the rammer of the long swivel-gun, and another pointing it, as it seems to me, exactly at this loophole.”

“I don’t believe he is, my lad, but it looks like it.”

“Now he’s taking the – linstock – don’t you call it? – from the man who is holding it, and is going to fire.”

“Don’t let him,” said Blunt sharply. “Take aim. Ready? Fire!”

In obedience to his companion’s orders, Stan had dropped on one knee, taken a long and careful aim, and then drew trigger.

For a few moments the soft grey smoke hung before the lad’s eyes and hid what was going on; but he did not waste time. Throwing out the empty cartridge, he began to fit in another, and as with trembling fingers he reclosed the breech he whispered sharply:

“Did I hit?”

“I fancy so; the man sprang up in the air and fell backwards. You’ve no time to look, so take it from me. They are carrying the man away.”

Stan drew in his breath with a hissing sound, but no time was given him to think of what he had done, for Blunt’s voice made him start, as he was bending over him.

“Loaded?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Take aim, then, at that man with the match. He is shifting the gun a little to allow for the distance the junk has floated with the stream.”

“Yes; I see.”

“Let him have it, then. Sharp! He must not fire that piece.”

Stan’s rifle rang out, and the Chinaman dropped behind the high bulwark and was seen no more.

“Load again, stupid!” cried Blunt, for Stan half-knelt behind the opening from which he had aimed, looking stunned and motionless, impressed as he was by his terrible success. But he started into active life again under the spur of his companion’s fierce words.

“Keep on firing slowly and steadily, Lynn,” said Blunt in tones which made the lad feel that he must obey, though the compunction was dying and he knew how necessary it was to render the big piece useless by checking the efforts of the gunners.

He fired again just in the nick of time, and the man who now held the linstock dropped it and stood gesticulating to his companions.

“You’ve missed him, Lynn,” said Blunt angrily. “Look! he has picked it up again.”

Stan needed no telling that he had only startled the gunner by sending a bullet close to his head, and before he could fire again a puff of smoke darted from the mouth of the piece, and Blunt struck him sharply across the back, spoiling his aim so that the bullet from his rifle went anywhere.

“Why did you do that?” he cried sharply, for the blow stirred him into making an angry retort, as he gazed through the smoke at his comrade. “I’ve done the best I could. I’m not used to this sort of – Why – what – Mr Blunt!” he cried, as he saw a peculiar look in the manager’s face, and that he was leaning sideways against the wall of bales. “Oh! you’re hurt!”

The manager tightened his lips and nodded sharply before letting himself subside, gliding down half-resting against the defensive building, and saving himself from falling headlong in his faintness.

“Here,” cried Stan, letting his rifle rest on the top of the bale from which he had fired, “let me bind up the wound. Where are you hurt?”

“Hah!” exclaimed Blunt, as if mastering a spasm of pain. “Never mind me. Go on firing, my lad. Don’t you see how close they are in? Fire away, and shout to the others to keep it up. Stop them from loading if you can; it may scare the next junk from coming on. – Ah, that’s better!”

For the sounds he heard were pleasant to his ears. There was no need for Stan to shout, and he took up his rifle again in obedience to his orders and went on aiming at the men on the junk who seemed to be most prominent. Firing was going on all around, and from the upper windows of the warehouse as well, the consequence being that the men at the sweeps fell one by one; and then the two men handling the huge steering-oar dropped away, with the result that, instead of the great junk being laid alongside of the wharf for the pirates crowding her to leap ashore, they were carried on down-stream, with her captain and officers raging frantically, till the chief man received a bullet through one of his upraised arms and sank back into the arms of a subordinate.

Chapter Twenty Six

“Fire Away!”

The leading junk was soon some distance down the river, the confusion on board from the steady rifle-fire, which caused man after man to drop, checking all efforts to recover the lost ground; but the second junk had taken its place, and those on board were pouring in a hot fire from two clumsy swivel-guns, consisting of showers of rough missiles, bullets, broken iron, and the like.

But little damage was done to the sheltered defenders, who, animated by the example set from the little bastion, kept up a steady, regular fire, with certainly more than half the shots telling among the Chinamen working the guns or giving orders.

In the intervals of his firing, however, Stan kept on imploring Blunt to let him summon help, or cease firing and attend to the injury.

“Go on firing, as I told you,” cried the wounded man in an angry snarl. “Can’t you see that you are helping me by what you are doing.”

“But you must be getting faint.”

“I am,” said Blunt fiercely, “with the hard work to keep you at work. Do you think I want our men to be put out of heart because I am bowled over?”

“No,” said Stan, with his cheek against his rifle-stock, and he pulled the trigger, sending a leaden messenger at one of the enemy who was about to lower his smoking linstock, which produced a savage yell by its effect; for the man with the burning match flung up his hands, the linstock went flying overboard, and Stan’s frown deepened as he felt that he had desperately wounded the gunner, who was being borne away before the lad’s rifle was again charged.

“That was another hit, wasn’t it?” said Blunt anxiously.

“I think so,” was the reply, “but I’m not sure that it was my shot.”

“Never mind so long as it’s one murderer the less. Keep on firing, my lad, while you can get so good a chance. I can’t see what the rest are doing. It seems to me that they are only wasting powder.”

“Oh no,” said Stan; “men on the junk keep on falling. But there are two more junks coming close up.”

“And you haven’t checked them. Fire away! Try and hit the steersmen.”

“It’s hard work to see them so as to pick them out,” said Stan, “but I’ll do my best.”

The lad’s best was to aim carefully at the men holding the steering-oars of the second and fourth junks, but excitement combined with the distance affected the steadiness of his aim, and he uttered an impatient ejaculation as he saw the two great crowded vessels coming steadily onward.

“We shall be having all three close in together,” he muttered. “It’s impossible to keep them off.”

But better fortune had attended his efforts than he had given himself credit for. In each case his carefully aimed shot had taken effect, and they were supplemented by the shattering fire kept up by the defenders at the other loopholes. Certainly the third and fourth junks were coming in fast, but it was in an ungoverned way, and their action soon after produced a savagely furious volley from the captain of the second junk; for its companions came on to crash into it, with the accompaniment of falling masts and sails, and the confusion of top-hamper, a good deal of which came down upon the men, who yelled shrilly and angrily until they were extricated or able to get free.

In spite of the faintness and sinking caused by his wound, Blunt held tightly on by the cord binding the bale against which he had propped himself, and watched everything that took place with swimming eyes, but an intense feeling of satisfaction as he witnessed the disasters of the attacking pirates. And every now and again when the noise grew less overpowering he hurriedly went on giving his companion instructions to take careful aim at this one and that of the enemy’s force, and did not fail to give praise when the shot was successful.

“Bravo! Well done, lieutenant!” he said hoarsely. “That’s a murderer the more put out of action. Don’t shudder; three parts of them will unfortunately get better, but they’re done for this time.” Then: “Keep it up, my lad. You take my place now and lead the fighting. Nobody knows yet that I’m down. You’ll have to give the order soon to withdraw into the warehouse.”

“Not fight it out here?” cried Stan eagerly, for he was fast growing intoxicated with the wild excitement of the fray, and had forgotten all about the danger of his position.

“No; it is impossible. You are only hindering them now and crippling them as much as is possible, but before long they will come like a wave over the sides of the junks, and swarm up to the defence here, and you will not be able to resist them.”

“But we should all have a much better chance to shoot them down then.”

“Of course; and a dozen or two would be struggling on the stones. But if a hundred were shot down it would make no difference; they would come on all the same in their blind, savage fury, for they think nothing of those who fall. Here, leave your rifle where it is for a few moments. That’s right. Now take this whistle. Put it in your vest-pocket, where you can get at it easily, and after they have made their first rush, use it.”

“Yes,” said Stan huskily as he thrust the little instrument into his watch-pocket; “but about you? Hadn’t I better call a couple of the coolies to come and lift you into your room?”

“No!” snapped out Blunt, as if he were maddened by the pain he suffered. “Do you want to turn a brave resistance into a panic?”

“No; of course not, but – ”

“Silence!” cried the poor fellow sternly. “The men are fighting splendidly now, and I want them to go on till such time as it is necessary to get inside and continue the defence from the upper windows. Do you hear?”

“Yes; and I’ll do all you wish, but I must have time to get you safe inside.”

“Leave that to me,” said Blunt slowly and in a more gentle tone. And then, as if warned by his sensations, he continued: “If I faint, use your own common-sense. Don’t hesitate: fight till it seems folly to hold on longer here; then blow the whistle with all your might. Some of them are sure to rush to your help. Then let a couple take me by the hands and drag me – don’t let them stop to carry me – drag me in through the first doorway.”

“I’ll take one hand myself.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” cried Blunt passionately. “I order you to take my place as captain, and as your father’s son save us all from this murderous scum. You’re captain now – do you hear?”

Stan nodded.

“Then act sensibly. Do you want to give up directing and turn yourself into a coolie to save one helpless man, and perhaps sacrifice your own life?”

“But you are – ”

“Only one,” snapped the manager; “and the most useless one here. Now back to your place, and go on firing as the captain should, to bring down more of the miscreants and encourage our brave fellows. If you fail now I’m not able to strike, the rest will be out of heart at once.”

“You are giving me more than I can do,” half-groaned Stan. “I’m only a boy.”

“Forget that, Stan,” said his wounded comrade harshly. “I say you’re acting like a man. Now fire at that giant of a fellow standing in the gangway waving his great broad-bladed sword – ”

There was the sharp crack of Stan’s rifle, and the big, showily dressed Chinaman followed the direction in which he waved the sword – that is, shoreward – and literally dived off the junk into the river, to be seen no more by those in the bastion.

“Well done – for a boy!” cried Blunt mockingly as he passed his left hand over his streaming brow. “I only hope every man at the back and right and left is doing as well. Mind when you retreat that the doors are well barricaded. – Reloaded?”

“Yes,” cried Stan, who felt as if his companion’s words were goading him to act in a way contrary to his nature, and without further urging he fired again and again.

“Good – good!” panted Blunt. “I daren’t turn to look back, because I should expose myself – and I know that if I stirred I should faint – but tell me, how are the fellows behaving?”

“Keeping up a steady fire, just as you told them. I can see the poor wretches falling killed or wounded. There goes another into the river.”

“Hah!” sighed Blunt. “I can’t tell the difference between their firing and ours. It seemed, though, as if our fire was dropping off.”

“It isn’t that,” said Stan, passing his reloaded rifle into his left hand so as in turn to wipe his streaming face with his right, quite unconscious of the fact that he had covered it with the wet, black, exploded powder fresh from the breech of his piece and his used cartridges, and now leaving a broad black smudge across his forehead and down each cheek – “it isn’t that. I’m sure our men are firing splendidly, but the enemy are using their clumsy pieces now from the junks.”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Blunt slowly. “But what are they doing now? I can’t see for this cloud of smoke.”

“Getting the junks closer in with poles. They’re going to leap ashore, I think, and make a rush. – But there is no cloud,” he muttered to himself; “the wind is driving it away.”

“Be ready, then,” said Blunt. “Fire once more right into the thick of them, reload – and – then be ready – to sound retreat – to – sound – ”

Stan took a quick aim, fired, threw open the breech of his piece with his fingers trembling, and then closed it again, using stern resolution to carry out his orders, though all the time he felt sure that Blunt was as he found him when he looked round – that is to say, lying motionless on the floor of the bastion, but with his fingers still crooked in the cord of the bale.

“It must be nearly time,” groaned Stan to himself, as he felt half-stunned for the moment.

But a moment only. The next he was grinding his teeth as he again passed his rifle into his left hand to feel for his knife with the right, take it out, and open the blade.

For he foresaw a terrible difficulty as he glanced first at Blunt’s hand still clinging to the cord, and in dread lest the desperate clutch might prove a hindrance, he bent down and, as quickly as he could, sawed through the tightly strained cord, which quivered and then, as the last strand was severed, sprang apart with a sharp crack, springing out of the wounded man’s fingers and leaving the arm free to fall across his breast.