Stan Lynn: A Boy's Adventures in China

But as fast as one man went down several came on in his place, and in a very short space of time the whole of the narrow alley between wall and store was full of hurrying fighting-men, carrying on the former tactics of battering with their weapons at door and window, some of the storming party holding their ground and keeping on thrusting their spears in savagely wherever there was a loophole to which they could gain access.

“Keep cool,” shouted Stan, though for his own part he seemed on fire. “They’ll get tired of hammering at the place in time.”

“Hadn’t we better try and shoot more of them, sir?” said one of the clerks.

“No; you must only shoot their leaders. If we went on firing at the crowd we should soon have no cartridges left. – What does that shouting mean?”

He raised himself a little to try and see the reason for a fresh burst of shouting below the window where he was watching.

The answer came at once, after a peculiar odour, and in the shape of a blazing earthenware pot of inflammable material which was thrown from the top of the tea-chest wall with such accuracy that it came flaring and fuming right in through the narrow opening, to fall heavily beyond Stan.

One such blazing missile, it was plain to all, would be sufficient to commence the destruction of the place, and in his excitement the young leader forgot his status of chief and director, for he made a dash towards the blazing pot, to stoop, seize it, and hurl it out. But just as he was holding his breath to avoid the smoke and flame, he was sent backward by a sharp concussion, sitting down involuntarily, and then trying to recover himself; but before he could get upon his knees he saw the burning pot travelling back through the window-opening with so good an aim that it fell on the far side of the wall, just where the enemy were thickest.

The man who had thrown it back after upsetting his leader turned upon Stan with hands blackened with the horrible resinous compound, and a deprecating look on his countenance as he murmured something in his native language, before ending up with his version of the English word “sorry.”

“All right,” shouted Stan, smiling, as he clapped the coolie on the shoulder. “Bravo! Capital! Go on.”

The coolie’s face lit up with satisfaction, and he turned sharply to field another blazing pot and return it as sharply as a clever wicket-keeper would a ball to the stumps which it had passed, and with such splendid effect that it struck and broke on one of the enemy, who was standing on the wall in the act of hurling another of the hideous missiles.

The effect was startling. In an instant the pirate’s blue cotton frock was covered with the blazing resin, and uttering frightful yells, he leapt down into the crowd of his comrades in the shelter of the wall beneath, forcing several to share in his misfortune as they were lighting up more of the horrible missiles to hand up to him for throwing.

There was a burst of flame through a cloud of smoke, out of which Stan – fascinated into looking out – saw something alive flaring as it rushed here and there, making for a party of its fellows dashing up with more of the pots.

It was all done in a few seconds, and had any of the assailants been ready and noticed the lad watching, he would have been shot down. But every eye was directed at the blazing figure, and, to his horror, Stan saw the end of the tragedy. For the instinct of self-preservation had made them doubly callous to their comrade’s sufferings. The man rushed on as if seeking help or in a blind effort to reach the river and plunge in; but he did not reach it of his own volition, being received upon the lowered spears of three or four of his comrades, and then he was thrust, shrieking horribly, over the edge of the wharf, a sullen puff of smoke from the surface of the water telling that the tragedy was at an end.

A frightful sensation of sickness made Stan’s head swim as he dropped back to the floor just in time to escape being struck by another of the fiery missiles; but the faintness was driven off by excitement, and it was with perfectly clear brain that the lad saw the burning Asiatic grenade hurled back amongst the yelling assailants. This proved to be with an effect that checked further effort for the moment and sent two of the pirates running to the edge of the wharf, to plunge in and climb out again dripping, but with no worse injury than a few smarting burns.

Stan was awake to the danger that was rapidly increasing, for after seeing that the smoking patches of pitchy resin on the floor were innocuous, he ran on towards where the far end of the great room was full of smoke, dreading greater mischief there; but, to his great relief, he found that, though quite half-a-dozen stink-pots had been hurled in through the windows, the coolies there had dashed them back at once. And here, too, he found that the enemy had suffered so painfully from their own weapons that the throwing had ceased.

Any doubt that might have lingered in the brains of the British defenders respecting the amount of confidence that might be placed in the Chinese labourers was now completely driven away; for though the men had been burned about the hands by the missiles they had returned, they made very light of the pain, laughing and congratulating one another upon the retaliation they had been able to inflict, for Stan soon gathered that here no less than three of the enemy had been seen to rush shrieking to the edge of the wharf and plunge in.

There was a brief cessation now from the attack, and the defenders, whose vision was a good deal obscured by the smoke that hung in the place, made out that the throwers were hanging back from where several stink-pots were burning away in the shelter of the wall, some of the men protesting loudly as one of their leaders furiously urged them on, and ended by trying to set his followers an example by stepping forward, seizing one of the vessels, coming back into sight again with the pot flaming as he held it by its loose handle, and then making a rush to a breach where a portion of the tea-chest wall had been torn down.

The act was one of barbaric bravery, and Stan saw him reach the top, swinging the pot to and fro and making the flames roar as they rushed away from his hands. Then as his arm was reached out backwards to its fullest extent, and he was about to launch the horrible missile at the opening in front, there was the sharp crack of a rifle, and he fell forward, pitching headlong to the ground beneath the window, while the blazing pot struck the stonework close to the foundation of the building, broke up, and went on blazing and sending up a dense cloud of pitchy smoke.

“Dead?” said the man who had fired, for Stan had reached forward to look out, but drew back again coughing.

“It’s impossible to see,” he cried. “The smoke is blinding.”

“And it will be setting something on fire,” said another voice out of the smoke.

“Ah! that’s right,” cried Stan, for the big coolie who had taken his place near them pressed forward with a bucket of water, which he set down while he thrust out his head to see exactly where the danger lay, before picking up the bucket again, reaching out, and dribbling the water down a little at a time, producing a cloud of steam to mingle with the black smoke, and putting an end to all danger of a fire starting at the lower barricaded windows.

As the cloud of steam and smoke passed off, one of the clerks risked thrusting out his head from the next window, but withdrew it sharply, for it resulted in a hasty discharge of jingals from the deck of the nearest junk.

“Hurt?” cried Stan, rushing to where the clerk had staggered back.

“Yes, sir, horribly,” was the reply. “Something – a piece of iron – or – a – a bullet – caught me – here – and – ”

The words came at short intervals, and sounded confused. For the speaker was feeling about his head and neck, and drawing in his breath with pain.

“One moment,” cried Stan, reaching out a hand to take something from where it had lodged just within the poor fellow’s collar.

“Yes, that must have been it,” he said wonderingly. “Bit of stone. Hit me on the side of the head. But that couldn’t have come out of one of their matchlocks.”

“No,” said Stan; “it must have been chipped off the side of the window.”

“And there’s only a lump coming here. Doesn’t bleed, does it, sir?”

“No,” replied Stan. “You had a lucky escape.”

“What a close shave! Never mind; a miss is as good as a mile,” added the young fellow cheerily. “I saw the captain, though, or whatever he is, lying down at the foot of the warehouse quite dead.”

“Are you sure?” asked Stan, with his face contracted.

“Oh yes – quite. He wouldn’t be lying doubled up as he is if he were only wounded. I say, Mr Lynn, that wasn’t a bad shot.”

“No; excellent, and just in the nick of time. Who fired it?”

“Well,” said the young man, hesitating and speaking as if he were not so proud of the effort after further consideration, “I fired straight at him, as I thought, just as he was in the act of flinging that blazing pot; but I can’t say I am sure that I hit him.”

“But you are sure that he is dead?” replied Stan quietly. “Pray be cautious, though. Don’t run such a risk by looking out again.”

“You may take my word for it I won’t, sir,” said the young clerk, patting the side of his head softly as he spoke. “One taste like this will act as a reminder for some time. – Hullo! Look out. They’ve begun again.”

There was proof of a renewal of the attempt to destroy the place by fire in the presence of another of the pirates’ hand-shells, for one came sailing in through the farthest window, to break up with a crash about the middle of the flooring; and the defenders had a fine exemplification of the dangers to which they were exposed in seeing the half-liquid contents of the pot begin to flow, blazing steadily, in all directions.

One of the coolies rushed up at once to spread the contents of a bucket of water all over the burning patch, while another, regardless of the pain, ran here and there catching up the flame-licked fragments of the pot from where they had fallen, and kept on hurling them like little smoke-tailed comets back through the window-opening.

“More water,” shouted Stan, as the burning patch began to add another odour to its own, a fine, pungent smoke beginning to mingle with the dense black fume, indicating that the floor boards were beginning to catch.

“No, no, sir; this will be best,” said one of the warehousemen, and he dragged one of the silk-bales away from the nearest window.

“But that will catch fire,” said Stan.

“Too closely pressed together, sir,” was the reply. – “Here, you two, draw that backwards and forwards over the fire to smother it out.”

The two coolies caught at the suggestion, and seizing the bale together, they began to push it here and there over the burning place, with the effect of rapidly smothering out the flaming pitch, dense black smoke alone rising wherever the bale was passed; but unfortunately a heated gas kept on ascending from the blackened boards, and that caught fire again with a little explosion as the bale glided away.

Perseverance won, however, but none too soon, for all danger had hardly been swept away before another of the pots came hissing and fuming in, but without breaking; and this was jerked out, sending the attacking party flying from the place where it was expected to fall, the painful examples they had seen making the assailants pretty careful now.

This one was followed by several more, and then, to the great relief of the defenders, there was a cessation, and the assailants could be seen gathering together as if to listen to a mandarin-like officer who was risking his life while talking vehemently to his followers, who had now drawn away from the walls and were collected close to the edge of the wharf, many glancing at the junks as if disposed to rush on board.

“They’re beginning to turn tail now,” said Stan to the warehouseman who had spoken out so firmly. “I think we had better give them a volley and start them off with a run.”

“I’m afraid that it would be just as likely to enrage them all the more.”

“Yes, sir,” said Lawrence, Stan’s lieutenant; “perhaps we had better wait; but my fingers are itching to bring down that captain, or chief, or whatever he is.”

“He seems to be urging them on,” said Stan thoughtfully – very thoughtfully, for he had an idea in his head, one that would give the man a chance for his life, which might not be the case if he told his lieutenant to fire.

For now that the attack had ceased and the pirates’ fiery missiles had left off making his nerves quiver at the prospect of the fire gaining the mastery and driving them out of their stronghold, the lad felt anything but bloodthirsty; while he thought that if this leader, who seemed now to be the most prominent of all, were disabled, his followers might set the example of taking to flight.

“Look here,” said the lad suddenly; “I think I could hit that man from here.”

“Of course you could, sir,” cried his lieutenant eagerly. “I saw how you were firing at first and never seemed to miss. Will you have a try?”

Stan made no reply, but stood fingering his rifle for a few moments before, to the great delight of the party of defenders, he sank down on one knee, resting the barrel of his piece upon a bale, and then waited and watched the Chinaman who was haranguing his men wildly as he stood just at the edge of the wharf, now and then raising his arms as he pointed again and again at the great store.

As he finished there was a tremendous shout, and every man of the crowd of listeners began to wave his spear or sword.

Just then the crowd opened out as if to form in two parties for a rush at the warehouse, leaving their leader standing out quite clear, his tall, commanding figure looking huge in the sunshine.

“Here they come! Look out!” arose from within, and the whole body were in motion, when —

Crack!

The sharp report of Stan’s rifle was heard, followed by the floating up of a puff of grey smoke, and the sound seemed to act like magic, for the attacking party stood fast, staring in amazement at their chief, whose legs suddenly doubled up beneath him, and he fell back into the arms of two men who rushed forward to his help.

“Good shot!” cried several of the defenders.

“A dead man,” said Stan’s lieutenant.

“I was afraid I could not do it,” said Stan, smiling; “but he’s not a dead man, for I only fired at his legs. Look! they’re carrying him on board the junk.”

It was as the lad said: several of the men from the crowd went back to help, while the rest stood fast watching and waiting as if, losing their heads, they had suddenly been struck with a feeling of indecision. All the wild, savage desire for destruction had been discharged like so much electricity at the touch of a rod, and a feeling of hopefulness sprang up amongst the defenders as they could see that the whole of the attacking party were now gathered into groups talking eagerly, so that there was a low, buzzing hum instead of the chorus of savage yells and threats.

“Where’s Wing?” said Stan suddenly, as a thought struck him respecting taking advantage of the lull. “I know: he is with Mr Blunt. One of you go and tell him to send the servants with anything he can get together in the way of food. Another of you bring a bucket of drinking-water up here.”

The orders were carried out, and with watchful eyes and rifles ready to hand, the whole party partook of the rough refreshments passed round, the water proving, in their excited state, the principal object to which they directed their attention.

Wing limped up to Stan as soon as he had performed his task, to announce that Mr Blunt had gone “fas’ ’sleep. Velly weak; can’tee sit up. Dlinkee big lot wateh.”

Stan longed to go and see his chief, but duty kept him there watching the actions of the men still crowding the wharf, till some one in authority began to shout, when his followers crept up together as if for a fresh attack.

This brought the refreshing to a hasty end, every man hurrying at once to his post, but only to set up a subdued cheer, for, to Stan’s intense delight, the next order seemed to be one for making the fighting-men separate into half-a-dozen different parties, as if drilled to certain movements; but it only proved to be for forming up in the divisions belonging to each junk, on to which they now began to file, either direct from the wharf or across the nearest vessels to their own.

“They’ve had enough of it, sir,” said one of the clerks excitedly. “Hadn’t we better give them a cheer and a few parting shots?”

“No,” said Stan thoughtfully; “it would only be wasting ammunition. I can’t quite believe in their giving up so easily.”

“Easily!” said another to one of his companions. “Not much of that. Look at the dead and wounded.”

There was no need to draw attention to the poor wretches lying about, for their horrible presence was a burden to every one in the warehouse. Many were lying dead where they had received the fatal bullets, but many more lay where they had crawled painfully so as to get into shelter, evidently in the full expectation that if they did not get under cover they would be made the mark for fresh bullets. And oddly enough, as it seemed to the defender the cover most affected was the tea-chest wall, where those who crawled up lay close, with only a leg or arm visible to the watchers at the windows. They were, of course, so near that their groans came floating in through the openings, and now that they were hors de combat Stan became exercised in his mind as to whether he ought not to take some steps to give the poor wretches water, and he suggested it to his lieutenant.

“Yes,” said the latter, “I’ve been thinking something of the kind, sir; but it would be terribly risky work. They are savages to a man, and as likely as not they would turn upon the hand that came to their help. You see, they’re sure to have their knives and swords with them, and some of them their rifles. There, for instance,” he continued, pointing through the window where they stood to the stock of a jingal whose barrel was out of sight, being close under the wall where its owner lay.

“Yes, I’m afraid it would be risky; but if I went with a bucket of water and a tin dipper they never could be such wretches as to turn upon me.”

“My dear sir,” was the reply, “if one didn’t another would. But you couldn’t possibly do it.”

“I could, and I should feel plenty of confidence in their seeing what I meant.”

“Then your confidence would be misplaced, sir,” said the man decisively. “They’d all think you had gone out to poison them, and would turn upon you at once.”

“Oh, impossible!” cried Stan. “They’d be bound to see.”

“They’d see, sir,” said the man firmly, “but they wouldn’t understand. Men who go about getting their living by slaughtering their fellow-creatures can’t grasp the meaning of an act of self-denial. Besides, you couldn’t go.”

“I could: why not?”

“Because you are captain, and can’t leave your men.”

Stan made an impatient gesture.

“But I could, sir,” continued Lawrence quietly; “and if you order me I’ll go.”

Stan looked at him sharply.

“I mean it, sir,” said the man, with a peculiar smile; “but all the same I hope you will not send me.”

“I can’t,” said Stan. “How can I send you where I hold back from going myself?”

At that moment the man stretched out his hand sharply and caught the lad by the arm.

“What’s that for?” said Stan sharply.

“Look in that first junk.”

“Yes; I’m looking. They’re getting ready to hoist sail and go – No! I see now. They’re afraid to come to close quarters. They’re loading that gun.”

“That’s right; and the crews of the other junks are at the same game.”

Chapter Twenty Nine

“One Cartridge Left.”

There was no doubt about the matter, for as they were speaking a tiny curl of smoke began to rise from the middle of the group of busy men on the nearest junk, and Stan’s voice rose, sounding hoarse and deep:

“Begin firing again, slow and careful shots, at the men carrying the matches. Stop; I’ll begin.”

He took aim across the bale of silk behind which he was kneeling, and – though he did not see it, others did plainly – the linstock flew up, jerked from the holder’s hand, described a curve, and fell overboard to be extinguished.

There was a yell at this, and half-a-dozen men or so began discharging their matchlocks at the window from which the accurate shot had come; while directly after there was a roar from another junk, whose men had charged their brass gun unseen, and the contents went crashing and spattering about the opening, making a great uproar, but doing very little harm.

It was a disillusionment for the defenders which roused them to a feeling of bitterness and nerved every one present with determination, and the duel between the junks and the hong went on fiercely, but with no serious harm to the defenders. The attacking party, however, suffered terribly, man after man of the crews, if they can be so called, of the guns falling killed or wounded from the slow, steady, accurate fire which picked off with almost unerring precision those who loaded and those who fired the junks’ artillery, till the pirates yelled with rage and fury, crowding over one another to take the disabled men’s places.

Meanwhile, in spite of the nerve-shattering discharges whenever the swivel-guns were fired, Stan’s followers kept up their slow, steady, irregular reply. Sometimes minutes passed without a rifle being fired, for want of what was looked upon as a good opportunity; and then shot after shot would snap out from one or another window, giving the enemy the work of carrying off as many dead or disabled men.

Again and again Stan deluded himself into the belief, caused by the cessation of the firing, that the enemy were once more out of heart; but the pauses proved to be only due to the failure of ammunition or a difficulty in bringing up the lighted match, and the firing recommenced, and more gunners were in retaliation shot down.

“At last!” cried Stan exultantly, after the hottest passage of the attack yet endured, when all at once the firing ceased. “Look! they’ve had some accident; that big junk is on fire.”

He pointed needlessly to a great body of smoke which seemed to be rising amidships of the first-coming junk but the last to be moored.

“Yes, there’s something wrong there,” said his lieutenant excitedly. “No, no, no! Look out! Here they come.”

To a man the defenders drew a deep breath, and their hands went to their bandoliers to feel for cartridges. For it was plain enough: discouraged but enraged by the ill-success of their firing, the Chinese leaders had given their orders to their men, who needed no inciting, but began pouring over the sides of the vessels again, many of them bearing their abominable fire-pots, of which a number had been made ready in the hold of one of the junks; and, without leaders or any formation beyond that of a yelling, surging crowd, the enemy began running up to the hong to gain the shelter of the wall of chests.

Here there was a halt for a few seconds till the front wall was crowded, while not a shot was fired by the defenders, who, in full expectation of what was coming, had seen their young leader order up two-thirds of the coolies, one half to deal with the fire-pots, and return them blazing amongst the enemy, and the other to be ready with buckets and bales to smother out any fire which might arise.

The smoke of the pots was rising in a cloud, from the front of the wall, and though they could not see, the defenders surmised correctly enough that the bearers of the direful missiles were swinging them in the air to get them into a high state of combustion before beginning the assault; and all waited with knitted brows, wondering how long it would be before the bewildering roar of the gongs began again, for the delay seemed, in their over-excited state, to be long and strange.

Just when the excitement of waiting was becoming unbearable, there was a diversion, the quaint-looking, pig-tailed head of Wing rising slowly from the stairway, followed by the rest of him, and he began to limp painfully towards where Stan crouched rifle in hand, with its deadly charge waiting to bring down the first prominent leader upon whom he could bring the sight to bear.