Stan Lynn: A Boy's Adventures in China

He was about the only one of the defenders who did not see the coming of Wing, and he started as he felt the man’s soft fingers touch his arm.

“Ah, you, Wing!” he cried sharply. “What do you want here?”

“Misteh Blunt send Wing young Lynn.”

“Hah! Then he is awake?”

Wing nodded.

“Is he better?”

“No. Velly bad. Say smokee chokee. Tell Wing come say you takee ca’e fi’ no get to magazine and blow up allee ca’tlidge.”

“Yes, yes; I’ll take care. Tell him we are doing our best, Wing, and that I can’t come down to see him.”

“No; can’tee come down. B’long warehouse. Mustee stop kill big lot pilate.”

“Go down now, Wing,” said Stan impatiently. “You’ll only be in the way here.”

“Yes, go down soon fight begin.”

“And stay with Mr Blunt; he may want water.”

“No stay ’long Misteh Blunt – no. Say Wing makee ’self useful. B’long wa’ehouse now. Stop see if fi’ begin to buln, and put um out ’gain with bucketee wateh.”

“Very well; do that, then.”

“Yes, Wing go stand ’longside ca’tlidge place. See no stinkee-pot come floo.”

“Yes; good. Be off; I’m going to fire.”

“Go fi’?” said Wing. “Yes; no shootee Wing. Get ’way now.”

It was quite time, as the Chinaman felt. Limping along the floor, he made for the stairway, and had just reached it when, with a roar and dash, the fierce enemy climbed to the top of the little wall and began to discharge their jingals and fire-pots, no less than three of these latter falling inside at the first discharge.

It was a repetition of the first assault, but earned on with more savage energy, in spite of the calm, steady reply in single shots from the defenders, who kept to their former tactics, with the result that nearly every time a rifle sent forth its jet of flame and faint puff of smoke it meant a message of death or temporary disablement to some miscreant who was more prominent than his fellows in the assault.

But they were as far, apparently, as ever from carrying the place, and when, enraged by their ill-success, about a score of the most desperate dropped from the wall to try and batter in the doors, covered by a fierce discharge of the fire-pots through the windows above, Stan, terrible as the time was, felt an old incident of schoolboy life flash across his brain.

It was no time of fire, although it was mimic battle royal, for it was an episode of snowballing when the weaker side were driven to take flight and shelter themselves behind the dwarf wall of the covered-in portion of the playground, where no snow had of course fallen, while just outside it lay piled up consequent upon the roof having been swept after a heavy fall. Stan and his fellows were therefore in the position of being without ammunition, while their adversaries were standing knee-deep in the midst of abundance.

There seemed to be nothing left but ignominious surrender, when the idea occurred to Stan which enabled his party to turn the tables. It was merely to catch the ready-made balls of snow and return them instantly to the throwers. And with this memory coming to him in the emergency, just when the stink-pots were coming thickest and the doors below threatened to give way to the battering and hacking they received from the furious party beneath the windows, Stan brought his coolies together and gave his orders, which were to raise the blazing pots with crowbars and carry them to the openings over the threatened doors, after the barricading bales had been dragged away; and then, just when the attack was at its worst, two half-dozens of the blazing grenades were quietly dropped at once amongst the constituents of the Chinese forlorn-hope.

The effect was as instantaneous as it was horrible. Several of the men at each door were splashed with the burning resinous material, while one or two were in an instant blazing. There was a wild yelling of pain and despair, and, as much to avoid their fellows as the missiles flung after them, the whole of the attacking party took to flight to gain the other side of the wall, such of them as were burning making for the river.

This stopped the assault upon the doors, but only increased the fury of the enemy’s firing from their shelters, while more blazing pots were being brought rapidly down from the junks, to be handed up to the throwers and then hurled in as before.

“Never mind,” shouted Stan; “we’ve checked them a bit. Fire away at the men who bring the stink-pots. – Eh – what? Getting to the last cartridges? Plenty more. – Here, Mr Lawrence,” he continued, turning to his lieutenant; “there’s a whole case in the magazine; fetch them up.”

“Is the trap-door locked?” said the man thoughtfully.

“No – only shut down. Quick! We must not slacken our fire now.”

Lawrence placed his rifle against the breastwork from behind which he had been bringing down enemy after enemy, ran along the great store floor, and narrowly escaped being hit by one of the fiery missiles which came flying in; but he reached the broad stairway in safety, plunged down, and returned in a marvellously short space of time with an open case of ammunition in his hands.

“Here, cartridges – cartridges!” shouted two of his fellows as he hurried by where they were firing; but he paid no heed to their cries, trotting on to where Stan was as busy as the rest, and with a fierce growl banged the case at his feet.

“Well done!” shouted Stan. “Quick! Hand the packets round. What!” he cried. “Dripping wet?”

“Yes!” cried the bearer of the case and the most dire news that could be carried to men in so sore a strait – treachery. “The trap-door was thrown back, and some cursed scoundrel had emptied a bucket into the open chest. Look! The cases are saturated. I had to pour a gallon of water out into the iron bucket that was standing just below.”

Stan’s jaw dropped, and he stared for a moment or two helplessly at Lawrence.

The cry of “Cartridges – this way!” brought him back to himself.

“Patience!” he shouted as loudly as he could, and throwing open the breech of his rifle, he took out the full cartridge waiting to be fired and replaced it in his bandolier. Then, to break open one of the little packets in which the contents of the fresh case were wrapped, he snapped the string and tore off the sodden paper, which, as he crushed it in his hand and then dropped it, fell with a soft dab on the floor.

The next instant he had placed one of the new cartridges in the chamber of his rifle, closed the breech, turned, took aim at once at the most active of the jingal bearers, and drew trigger.

Click!

Just the falling of the hammer, and nothing more.

“That is the last case,” said Stan softly, and without showing the slightest emotion, as he merely withdrew the little cylinder, to whose detonator the water had evidently penetrated, though part of the powder might still have remained unspoiled.

“Yes, sir, the very last. What’s to be done now?”

“One moment,” said Stan quietly as he once more put in the dry cartridge from his bandolier. “Just you try one from another packet,” he whispered. – “Halt!” he shouted down the room. “Cease firing. – Now try one.”

Another packet from the next layer was tried, but the wrapper was if anything wetter, and a click! was the result.

“Oh, they’re all spoiled,” said Lawrence bitterly. “The game’s up, so only let us die fighting.”

“Of course,” said Stan coolly enough; “but we’ve not used our revolvers yet. We’ll give them a volley from our rifles, and then we must take to our pistols and wait till they come to close quarters.”

“What do you say to retreating to the office after the volley, and then defending the door as the brutes try to get at us? The revolvers will tell splendidly there, too, as we shall be firing into the dense mob who crowd into the passage.”

“The very thing,” said Stan; “and we shall be defending Mr Blunt at the same time. Of course; and we must set the coolies at work then to help us with their knives.”

“Yes,” said Stan’s lieutenant, “the coolies – Chinamen. Mr Lynn,” he cried in a hoarse whisper, “it must have been one of those dogs who were to be ready to stop the fire with their buckets.”

“It couldn’t have been,” said Stan. “They were all up here.”

“Then it was that cunning Chinese fox, Wing,” growled Lawrence angrily; “and if we’re to die he shall go first.”

“Oh, impossible!” said Stan excitedly.

“I’ve got but one cartridge left,” shouted a man at the far end of the room.

“And I,” – “And I,” – “And I,” cried others, while some of the rest confessed to having two or three.

“And the enemy are coming on for a fresh attack of some kind. There’s quite a mob making for your window, Mr Lynn.”

“And they’ve got about a dozen stink-pots with them, sir,” cried another.

Stan glanced round, and there was the situation plainly enough. Some ten men were in the front of a cluster of about forty of the enemy, who were coming steadily on with levelled jingals, obviously making for the centre of the building.

“Now’s your time, sir,” whispered the lieutenant. “Let’s give them one good roar.”

“Yes,” said Stan, and he shouted to the occupants of the other windows to close up round him and bring the coolies to stand ready for the fire-pots close behind.

The evolution, if such it can be called, was performed at once, the little party of riflemen placing themselves in three rows behind their barricade, the first kneeling, the second stooping a little to fire over their fellows’ heads, and the back row perfectly upright, with the barrels of their rifles resting on the shoulders of the second line.

“We must risk the fire-pots, gentlemen,” said Stan; “but I hope to give the wretches one good, startling volley before they are able to throw. Right into the thick of them, mind, and then, before the smoke rises, every man must dash down below and into the office. I mean to hold that now.”

“But hadn’t we better fill up our belts first, sir, with cartridges?”

“They have all been soaked with water,” said Stan quietly. “There has been treachery here.”

His words were received with a groan.

“Then it’s all over,” said one young fellow piteously.

“Not while we have our revolvers,” said Stan. “We can stop them from reaching the office, I think, and our Chinese helpers will have a chance to do something then.”

A hearty cheer arose at this, for the cloud of despondency that was gathering had been chased away, and once more every eye was bright and nerves strung for the final effort.

“They’re nearly close enough,” said Stan quietly. “When they are at the densest, and the order is given to advance, I shall utter the word. Then fire right into the centre; never mind the fire-pot throwers. Let’s try to startle them if we can.”

There was a low murmur of assent, and then all waited, glaring past the bristling barrels of their rifles at the coming enemy, who, contrary to their former action, now crowded closely together as they came in something like discipline, their movements pointing to the fact that they were about to deliver fire from their jingals and then to make a rush. What they intended with the stink-pots which were being carried was not evident until they were closer in, when the fire-bearers struck off suddenly to the left as if to deliver them from a fresh point.

At this moment, as if to excite and drive the party on into making a more desperate attack, and to fill the defenders with dismay, the gongs on every junk suddenly boomed out with a terrific din; the fresh party uttered a yell, and then stopped short to fire.

Stan’s voice was almost drowned, but not quite. There was enough of his order heard to animate his little body of defenders. Trigger was drawn before a single match could be lowered upon the powder-pans of the jingals, and the rifles made almost one report, their bullets tearing through the group of pirates, who were not twenty yards away. Then, blind to the effect of their volley, screened as everything was by the smoke, the defenders started back from the window and hurried down the stairway to make for the office, where Blunt, to the surprise of all, was found sitting back in a cane chair, with Wing assiduously operating to keep him cool with a palm-leaf fan.

“Wouldn’t stop lying down,” began Wing to the nearest man; but his explanation was not heeded, the men preparing to barricade their keep, only leaving space for the rest to file in.

Chapter Thirty

“To Certain Death?”

In the minutes that elapsed before the enemy could make their way into the deserted portion of the defences Stan and his Englishmen worked hard, making the coolies bring in a sufficiency of water for the hot and thirsty, while watch and ward was kept, and wonder was expressed as to what had been done with the stink-pots.

“I’m expecting,” said the lieutenant, “that we shall know by the crackling of burning wood what has become of them.”

But there was nothing to break the silence, no rush to indicate that the enemy had climbed in, and all attempts made to take an observation from the chinks of the boarded-up windows of the office were useless; for these latter only resulted in the examiners seeing the far-stretching verdant country, no sweep of the river being visible from that portion of the building.

“What does it mean?” said Stan at last. “Some trap?”

All listened again for some minutes before Stan, pistol in hand, led the way to the foot of the warehouse stairs, where they stood listening for a few minutes before the lad planted his foot on the first step.

“No, no, sir; let me lead,” whispered his lieutenant – “let me go this time. The first thing you’ll hear will be the swish of one of their great swords. They’re lying ready to take off the heads of all who begin to show.”

“But we must get to know what they’re doing,” said Stan.

“Then let the carpenters take down the top plank of one of the doors, sir; it’s only screwed, and we can see everything then. If they begin with their spears, a volley from our pistols will drive them back till the board is screwed on.”

“But I don’t believe that any one can be upstairs after all,” cried Stan impatiently. “How foolish to have all the windows closed up without leaving a hole!”

“Hasn’t proved very foolish, sir,” said the lieutenant dryly, “according to my ideas. Holes for us to peep out at mean places for the enemy to send spears through. Where we could reach from inside they could get at from outside.”

“Listen,” said Stan; and for nearly five minutes silence was maintained, without a sound being heard.

“There!” whispered Stan triumphantly; “do you mean to tell me that the enemy would be able to keep as still as that if they were up there?”

“I’m afraid they would if they had laid a trap for us.”

“Oh, impossible!” replied Stan.

“Perhaps you are right, sir,” said the lieutenant; “but I’ve been working out here in China for the last twenty years, mixing with the people and learning their ways, and I’m ready to say that they’re about the most artful beggars under the sun.”

“Then you really believe that they are upstairs in hiding?”

“I do, sir. What is it they want to do?”

“Murder us, of course.”

“Exactly; and they’ve been trying to do that for the last hour, losing men heavily all the time. Force has done no good, and now they’re trying some artful trick to get hold of us without losing any more men.”

“Then why don’t they burn us out? That seems to be the most likely thing to do.”

“Yes; only they’d burn all the rich loot they want to take. They haven’t attacked us here for nothing. Of course, they’d go back rejoicing after hacking us to pieces, but they don’t want to sail away back with empty junks.”

“There’s something in that,” said Stan thoughtfully.

“It’s a trap, sir, and if you want any proof of their cunning, you’ve just had one over those cartridges.”

Stan frowned and looked sharply in the speaker’s eyes.

“You don’t doubt that it was Chinese work?”

“No,” whispered back Stan; “we must have a traitor among us.”

“Yes; one who felt that the enemy would get the upper hand.”

“Do you know who did it?”

“I think so, sir,” was the reply; “and did at first, though I’ve had my doubts since.”

“Well, that’s all over. What we want to see now is whether the enemy are on the upper floor.”

“I say they are, sir; and if one of us goes up, the next thing we shall hear will be a horrible thud from one of their swords, and we shall be a man short.”

Stan stood listening in silence again for a few moments, gazing up the stairs from out of the semi-darkness into the light which came down from above.

“I don’t care,” he said at last; “there’s something more in this than you say.”

“Perhaps so, sir; but the grim death I can see is quite enough for me.”

“You’re all wrong, and I’m going up to see what’s the meaning of this silence.”

“What’s the good, sir?”

“The good?” cried Stan. “What an absurd question! To know, of course.”

“And what’s the good of your knowing when you won’t be able to tell us?”

“You mean I should be killed at a blow, and not be able to come back and say what I had seen?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Ah, well!” said Stan bitterly, “that wouldn’t matter. If you didn’t hear me cry out, you’d know you were right by my not coming back. Now then, lend me another pistol, and I’ll rush up at once.”

The lieutenant glanced round at those who were with him, and then stepped before the lad.

“You’re not going to run such a risk, sir,” he said.

“What! Who’s going to stop me?”

“I am, sir; and the rest are going to help me.”

“Mr Blunt put me in command, for all of you to obey me.”

“Yes, sir, to defend the place – fight for it with us.”

“And you are beginning a mutiny,” cried Stan angrily.

“No, sir; only going to stop you from doing a mad thing.”

“Mad?”

“Yes; going to throw your life away, when we want you to help us.”

Stan hesitated.

“I don’t want to do anything mad,” he said more quietly. “But we must know the meaning of what is going on upstairs and outside. The enemy may be laying a mine to blow us all up.”

“No, they may not, sir. In their selfish cunning they will not do anything to destroy the place.”

“Absurd!” cried Stan. “Why, they’ve been trying since the beginning to burn the place down.”

“Oh no, sir; there you’re wrong. Only to drive us out – stifle us with their stink-pots. As soon as they had done that they would have been the first to drown out any fire that had taken hold. Come, sir; I’ve fought my best and tried to prove to you that I was staunch, so take my advice – wait.”

“No one could have been more brave and true,” cried Stan warmly. “Forgive me if I have spoken too hotly, but don’t try and stop me now. I must make a dash for it.”

“It’s your duty to Mr Blunt and your people, sir, to stand fast and order us to go up.”

“To certain death?”

“Yes, if it means it, sir.”

“Then you have your doubts,” cried Stan. “There! I’m going to make a rush up. Who’ll follow?”

“All of us,” came in a burst.

“Ready, then,” cried Stan, cocking his pistol. “Now then; once more – ready?”

No one spoke, but there was a sharp clicking of pistol-locks, and then a pause, while Stan stood with his left foot on the second stair, ready to bound up, but listening intently.

“No one there,” he said in a sharp whisper, and rushed up into the light.

Chapter Thirty One

“A Traitor.”

No movement above him, no swish and horrible thud of a great two-handed sword, but a free course for the lad to spring from the last step into the long room, its blackened, pitch-besmirched floor covered with charred patches, and pieces of pitch, broken pots, and, above all, scores of empty cartridge-cases lying scattered about, and all lit up by the bright sunshine which streamed in through the open barricaded windows, Stan stopped short, with his follower crowding up and pressing upon him, pistol in hand, and gave a sharp look at every barricade to see if any of the enemy were crouching behind the holes in the window-opening; and, satisfied that the place was free, he waved one of the revolvers he held above his head and led off in a wild and excited – “Hip! hip! hip! hurrah!”

The shout was taken up and repeated with all the force of his companions’ lungs, while as the lad made a rush to the nearest window and gazed out on to the river, his lips parted for another cheer and his revolver-armed hand rose for a fresh wave.

But his lips closed again, his hand dropped to his side, and nothing but a hoarse, murmuring sound came forth in the words:

“I can’t – I can’t; I’m dead-beat now.”

“Hold up, my lad!” cried the lieutenant wildly as he sprang forward just in time to catch Stan as he reeled, and eased him down into a sitting position upon one of the bales, supporting the lad’s head against his breast. “Where are you hurt?”

“Nowhere,” said Stan in half-suffocated tones. “Done up, I suppose – too much for me. Water, please. Here,” he added feebly, “give the cowards one more cheer. No, no,” he added huskily and with more animation; “we’ve all done enough. Thank you!”

He took the tin of water dipped for him from one of the buckets brought up for extinguishing fire, drank with avidity, and then rose and staggered to the bucket-side, dropped upon his knees, and bent over to bathe his burning temples and smarting eyes.

“Hah!” he ejaculated as he rose and began drying his face with his blackened handkerchief. “It was very weak and cowardly, but I couldn’t help it. Sort of reaction, I suppose, after such a strain. I can’t help feeling a bit ashamed.”

“Of being so cowardly, sir?” said the lieutenant dryly.

“Yes; it was very weak,” replied Stan.

“Oh yes, very,” said the lieutenant, with a curious croak in his throat. “I never saw such a cowardly lot as we all are in my life. – Eh, lads?”

A wild, half-hysterical laugh arose from the party, and the next minute a most absurd performance was gone through, the men all beginning to shake hands with one another, the biggest fellow present with tears running down his cheeks.

“Shocking cowards, all of us, Mr Lynn,” said the lieutenant huskily; “but we’ve sent them flying with fleas in their ears.”

“Yes, yes,” cried Stan excitedly now, as he fast recovered from his weakness. “Oh! it was bravely done, but you ought to have had a man to lead you. Here, we must go down and let Mr Blunt hear the news.”

“Yes, directly,” said the lieutenant; “but when I tell him – I mean, we tell him – all that has been done, I think I know what he’ll say.”

“Say?” cried Stan, staring at the speaker. “What will he say?”

“That he couldn’t have done it better himself.”

A tremendous cheer arose at this, and the colour began to return to the young leader’s face, while to turn the conversation, which was growing painful, Stan suddenly said, addressing all:

“Why, it must have been that last volley!”

“Yes,” said the lieutenant; “that was too much for them. They stopped, though, to carry off all their wounded.”

This last was said as they stood gazing out of the windows at the six great junks gliding slowly up against the current with all sail set, but no remark was made about the way in which the broad river was dotted with ghastly-looking objects floating away with the stream and, fortunately for those at the hong, fast growing more distant; but all knew how busy the defeated enemy must have been plunging those who had fallen into the river before they sailed away.

“Now let us go down, sir, and see if Mr Blunt is well enough to hear the news.”

“Yes; he ought to have been told before.”

“We left him half-asleep,” said the lieutenant meaningly. “I wouldn’t wake a wounded man, sir, even to give him the best of news.”

“Perhaps it would be best to wait,” said Stan wearily, and looking as if all the spirit in him before had completely gone.

“Feel done up, sir?”

“Yes, horribly,” replied Stan as they reached the head of the stairs, and both glanced round and then looked in each other’s eyes.

“What were you looking round for?” said Stan.

“To see that there was no sign of fire anywhere about. Weren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Stan. “How horribly the place smells!” Then, with his thoughts reverting to the late engagement: “I say, the enemy must have lost very heavily.”