Kitabı oku: «Stan Lynn: A Boy's Adventures in China», sayfa 20
Stan clung to the hope that the enemy had learned enough and would now go. But he was soon undeceived, for freshly lit pots began to appear amidships of the junks, and as soon as they were blazing well they were raised, and the men came on again. Then the fight raged once more, being kept on for nearly half-an-hour without a sign of yielding on either side, while, fast growing weary, Stan began to look anxiously from one to the other of his two leaders.
It was not till he had glanced at them for the second time that Uncle Jeff caught his eye, and said quietly as he went on loading and firing:
“They’re tough, Stan, but they must give up soon, for they are losing men fast.”
“But what about us, uncle?”
“Eh? Oh, we’re all right, my lad. Ah! fire at those two mandarin-like fellows who are hounding the men on.”
Their two rifles went off together, and the one Stan fired at stopped short and then staggered back towards the nearest junk, while the other made a dash forward and disappeared round the corner of the building.
“Both badly hit, Stan,” said Uncle Jeff. “Let us hope that fellow’s too much hurt to do any more mischief.”
Their attention was taken off again to another party who were making desperate efforts to force one of the windows, but without effect. At last their success looked likely, for one of the men managed to climb high enough to get a knee on the sill of the opening; and help from his companions coming at the right moment, he raised himself up, spear in hand, and was just about to spring in, while others were following, when thrusts were made with a couple of rifle-barrels and the man’s balance was destroyed, making him leap backward to avoid a heavy fall, and being caught by his companions, who were surging about beneath the windows.
An exultant yell told the defenders that the enemy were satisfied that this was nearly an accomplishment of their desires, and encouraged now with the thought that the task was possible, the men came on like a furious wave, literally hurling themselves frantically against the walls and, regardless of life, swarming up at every opening.
“Getting warm,” shouted Uncle Jeff to Blunt. “Try and keep your men cool; the enemy can’t carry this on long.”
“I’m doing my best with them,” said Blunt, shouting to make his voice heard in the frightful din, and having a narrow escape, for one of the flaming pots came full in his face, to be avoided by a sharp wince, and then crashed down on the floor, where a coolie pounced upon it and dashed it flaming back.
“Good, Stan!” shouted Uncle Jeff in his nephew’s ear. “I saw you bring down the fellow who flung that wretched thing. Quick, boy! Fire faster. – Fire, all of you; they’re coming on more and more. How many are there of the wretches?”
“I’m firing as fast as I can, uncle,” cried Stan; “but I’m afraid that they’re doing something round at the back.”
“Then don’t be afraid – don’t be afraid of anything,” growled Uncle Jeff. “We don’t want imagination to help the real. That is bad enough. – Hah! That has settled you, my bloodthirsty scoundrel!” he growled as he reached out and shot a man down. But a spear came darting up and scratched the side of his face, making him utter an angry snarl, while his eyes lit up with rage as he glared through a loophole at the swarming enemy raging about beneath as if nothing but the defenders’ blood would suffice.
“Not going to be too much for us, are they?” thought Stan, whose blood was well up; but a slight feeling of dread attacked him as to their future. For the enemy seemed, in spite of their losses, by no means quelled, only spurred on to fresh attacks, which grew fiercer as the moments glided by.
“Eh? What?” cried Uncle Jeff suddenly, as a blue-frocked, particularly clean and tidy-looking individual forced his way amongst the powder-and-pitch-smoke blackened party of four defending Stan’s window.
“You here, Wing?” cried Stan, turning from taking aim, and feeling a hand grasp his arm.
“Come, quick!” cried the Chinaman, with a highly pitched squeak. “Pilate got in bottom. Plenty lot come ’long fast; cuttee allee float.”
“Quick, all!” roared Blunt at that moment. “The stairs – the stairs!”
A rush was made towards the opening, and Uncle Jeff sprang to the head of the broad stairs, just in time to bring his rifle-butt down on the head of a big Chinaman who, holding a great sword in both hands, was reaching forward to cut under the arms of Blunt, who was swinging his piece round, clubbed, to beat back three or four of the enemy who were crowding up.
Down came Blunt’s rifle, and with it two of the enemy; but half-a-dozen more were springing up ready to receive a tremendous blow from Uncle Jeff – a too tremendous blow, for though it tumbled one man down upon those beneath, the stock of the rifle went after him, and the barrel had to be used as a weapon alone.
Meanwhile Stan had dropped upon one knee, and waiting his opportunity, fired and brought down the next swordsman who reached up to cut at his uncle.
They were desperate moments, but those three held the pirates in check by their efforts till they were reinforced by the coolies who had dealt with the fire-pots, these flinging themselves bravely forward in defence of their masters; and the check grew more severe, giving the defenders time to improve their position.
Stan was the first to make a suggestion, and it was to Wing.
“Bring me a bale here,” he said, “to fight over.”
“Yes, and let’s have more and more,” cried Uncle Jeff.
Wing showed no signs of his old injury, and as he jabbered fiercely to the coolies, they followed his example, and in an incredibly short space of time bales and tea-chests were thrust to the edge of the broad opening, forming something of a defence against the attacking party, who were checked but not damped, for three of the defenders of the windows came to Stan’s help, firing with him from behind the new breastwork, over which Uncle Jeff raged like an angry lion; while Blunt, whose strength was failing fast, only struck at intervals as opportunities came.
“It’s all over,” thought Stan as he kept on loading and firing mechanically, for it was plain enough that somehow or another the enemy had forced a way into the lower floor, through which they were shouting defiance and fulminating threats; but they made no farther progress, for heads had only to be shown up the stairs for their owners to be beaten down by rifle-barrel or pistol-butt, and their supporters to stumble back or be riddled by one or other of the bullets that were fired with unerring aim.
“Oh deah!” came in a whining voice close to Stan’s ear in a momentary pause between two attacks; and turning his head sharply as his fingers were busy with the breech of his piece, there, bent over him, was Wing, with a tremendous knife in his hand. “Wing wish to be fighting-man. Allee fall downee. Pilate come fastee fastee. Look, look! Going buln evelybody up.”
Wing’s eyes and nostrils had been busier than Stan’s, for, engrossed as he was with his firing, he had seen nothing but those who were about to attack his uncle, and the greatest peril of all had escaped his notice.
But now it was patent to him that they were getting to the last of their defence, though still he felt in nowise ready to give up.
“See that, uncle?” he panted.
“Yes, my boy; they’re going to make our fall warm for us.”
“But the water-buckets!”
“No good, my lad, unless they can be well applied, and our coolies are helpless to do anything here.”
“Fire!” cried Blunt hoarsely.
“Yes, fire,” said Uncle Jeff; “but don’t slacken your efforts, man. Keep at it, hard; the wretches may get sick after all. If not, I hope they will be caught in their own trap.”
“But us – your nephew – escape?”
“I don’t see how,” said Uncle Jeff. – “Do you think you could make a jump from one of the windows and run for it out into one of the rice-fields and hide, Stan?”
“Are you all coming too, uncle?” said the lad.
“No, my boy; it is impossible. We must fight to the last.”
“Yes,” said Stan quietly; “of course it’s impossible. I should only jump into a crowd and be hacked to pieces. I’d rather stay here.”
Uncle Jeff was silent, but he lowered one hand to squeeze his nephew’s.
“Bless you, my boy!” he said hoarsely. “It’s very hard, but there’s nothing for it unless help comes.”
“And no help will come that I can see,” panted Blunt, who was reeling with weakness.
“Ah-h-h! Takee ca’e!” shrieked Wing, bringing down his big knife with all his might, as, regardless of flame and smoke rising with stifling fumes through the square opening of the stairs, some half-dozen of the enemy made a rush to get at the defenders. And once more a desperate struggle ensued, which was repeated till the suffocating wreaths were too much even for the much-diminished attacking party, who now drew back to make way for a strong force of their companions. These rushed to the foot of the stairs to hurl about a dozen of the flaming missiles up at the defenders, and then dashed away again, just in time to escape a furious burst of flame which indicated that the fire was beginning to rage below; in fact, within five minutes the staircase was perfectly impassable, the flames roaring up being augmented with fresh fuel by the enemy, who hurled in pot after pot.
“No escape there, Stan,” said Uncle Jeff as they drew back from the scorching heat.
“But no more attack, uncle,” replied Stan. “We are safe from that.”
“And safe to be burned out.”
“Yes,” said Blunt bitterly; “but we can’t die like this. – Come, my lads, back to the windows, and let us make the wretches feel that they will have to go on paying for our lives to the last.”
“Yes,” said Uncle Jeff solemnly; “it has all been bravely done, and so we have done our duty. I suppose we could not make a dash from one window and fight our way to some boat?”
“No,” said Blunt as he shared the old window with them again, the men going back to their former stations – “no; it would be utter madness to try it. Ah I look below.”
“Yes; swarming with their spears,” said Uncle Jeff.
“To catch us as we spring out from the fire,” cried Stan. “Oh uncle, can we do nothing?”
“Nothing but kill a few more of the wretches before we go, my boy. I should be acting the part of a coward now if I did not own that we have reached the worst.”
“Oh uncle,” cried Stan passionately, “why did you come?”
“To help you, boy; and I am sorry I’ve failed. There! shake hands, my dear lad; life is always short, but this is too short for you.”
“Fire! fire!” cried Blunt passionately. “My rifle’s useless, and in another ten minutes we shall be too late.”
Stan looked wildly round as he raised his rifle to fire through the loophole again at the wretches waiting to catch them on bristling trident forks and spears, and it seemed a mockery, though the rifle-shots were fast pattering down, for him to think of destroying still more life when so near the termination of his own; but Blunt was his captain to the last, and his eye was on the sight, his finger on the trigger, and almost by instinct he was marking down one of the wretches right in front. Once more his nerves were tensely strained, and in another instant the enemy before him would have fallen, dangerously wounded if not dead, when there was a sudden shock, as if the fire had reached the little magazine and the cartridges had proved how they would act under the circumstances. The place literally rocked, there was a deafening roar, and the savage yelling of the attacking force was drowned.
Chapter Thirty Seven
“But we weren’t beaten.”
Stan looked round, and the man at whom he had aimed escaped.
“What’s that?” he shouted as he looked for the crumbling down of the walls.
The answer to his question came in the shrill, piping voice of Wing:
“Um t’inkee gleat Englis’ man-o’-wa come ’long.”
The Chinaman spoke as he rushed away across the wide floor, to begin climbing the narrow ladder on one side – the steps leading to the roof and the trap-door through which he had passed to play the part of lookout.
“Oh, impossible!” cried Uncle Jeff hoarsely. – “Don’t believe him, Stan, boy; it’s too good to be true.”
Boom! thud! and a sound like a crash, followed by a cessation of the yelling for a perceptible space, and then a peculiar murmuring, with the enemy outside becoming wildly excited, and then as if by one volition swarming for the edge of the wharf.
“Wing’s right,” cried Blunt. “It must be a gunboat, and they are firing shell.”
“Yes, yes,” shouted Stan, and there was a peculiar hysterical ring in his voice. “Look, uncle! that junk to the right is torn open; the poop is smashed. There’s the smoke of the shell rising, and – Hurrah! She’s going down!”
Stan’s triumphant cry was taken up three times over, the defenders crowding the narrow slits to get a glimpse of what was going on – for the first shot had checked the attack, literally paralysing the pirates with astonishment; the second turned the assault into a retreat, while as the fierce hurrahs of the people in the hong went on, the gangways of the junks were being crowded in the rush for safety.
“Hoolay! hoolay! hoolay!” came from the ceiling of the great room; while as Stan turned, there was Wing’s head visible as he thrust it down, and as soon as he saw that he was observed the Chinaman shouted, “Big Englis’ ship fi’e two-bang shot.”
Boom! came another report, and, almost at the same moment, crash!
Another shell had burst just over the second junk close up to the wharf, the splintering of fragments causing terrible havoc, which was trampled out of sight directly by the men crowding aboard.
For the moment Stan forgot all about their own perilous position, for the air rushing in through the barricaded windows was cool and refreshing; but Blunt had had eyes for what was going on below and within, where the air was growing stifling with smoke and heat.
“Here, Lynn,” he shouted. “Quick! That whistle! Blow, lad, blow!”
The shrill note rang out, and brought every one crowding up to one end of the great stacked-up floor.
“Ah! that’s right,” cried Uncle Jeff. “Nothing to fear from the enemy now, lads; clear this window.”
“Yes; and throw the bales down the staircase. It will block the way,” cried Blunt.
The men cheered, and worked with all their might, bale after bale being tossed into the wide opening and filling it up so that the great draught of heat was checked and the place rendered more bearable as the flame and smoke ceased to rush up as if through some great flue.
This done, Blunt gave a fresh order, and the party began to drop one after another through the window, those behind covering them with their rifles in case of an attack.
But the precaution was needless, for the enemy had but one aim now – to get all on board their vessels, cast them off from the wharf, and make sail.
Hence it was that the defenders reached the outside of the burning hong uninterrupted, and while the pirates were busy their intended victims followed the whistle once more, being led by Blunt and Uncle Jeff round to the broken-down window at the back which the enemy had forced.
Here Blunt leapt in, followed by Stan and Uncle Jeff, marshalling his men for that which he had in view – the saving of the great warehouse before it was too late.
Lucky it was that such precautions against fire had been taken and the coolies and warehousemen were so drilled.
For there was only the smoke to fear now. The great casks stood full, and the buckets ready to be seized and passed along to Uncle Jeff and Lawrence, who, all soiled like the rest, and half-suffocated, sent the water streaming over the parts where the fire was eating its way along the woodwork and up the stairs, till in ten minutes flames and sparks began to give place to smoke and steam to such an extent that it was safe for some of the clerks to assist the carpenters, who, by Blunt’s orders, began to tear down the planks over the windows and let in air that could be breathed.
It was none too soon, for even Uncle Jeff of the mighty muscles began to feel that he must crawl out or stifle, while as the first puff of wholesome air rushed in Lawrence dropped, and he was being raised to be carried out into the open air, but began to struggle and make signs that he should be set down. Five minutes later he was vigorously swinging a bucket again.
“Hurrah, Stan!” shouted Uncle Jeff at last. “There’s nothing more to fear. – Do you see, Blunt? A splash here and a splash there. Keep the coolies at it and the mischief will not be so bad after all. Here, I must see what they’re doing outside.”
“Me know – I know,” piped Wing, who always seemed to be ready for everything but heavy manual labour such as might break his nails. “Wing been gone look outside off hong whooff. Big ship come all steam up livah. Shoot, shoot topside big junk. Numbee one topside junk go bottom. Numbee two topside junk float down livah go close ’longside. Allee ovey – junk lun ’way up livah. Steamship shoot, shoot, shoot two-bang gun.”
Poor Wing in his excitement suffered to such an extent from incoherency that his speech was hard to grasp; but helped by a lookout from the wharf, where the enemy was represented only by the dead, the state of affairs was fully grasped. For the masts and parts of the sails of two junks rose from the river a few yards from the wharf-edge; the wreckage of another lying over on its side was floating down-stream, while in response to the fire of a grim-looking grey gunboat, whose shells went through her sides as if they were papier-mâché, a fourth was settling down a couple of hundred yards away, and her late occupants were swimming for the farther bank across the river.
As Stan shaded his eyes, which were dim and painful from the effect of the smoke, he saw enough to prove that the fate of the other junks was sealed. They were sailing up-stream, but the grey gunboat was churning up the water astern as she stole after them like fate, every now and then sending forth a great ball of white smoke with a roar, followed by a stinging crack-like echo when a shell burst with unerring precision, the result being that the river seemed in the distance to be dotted in all directions with strange specks, all of which drifted for the farther shore.
“Ah, Uncle Jeff!” cried Stan suddenly, as he heard a sharp scratch, and turned to see a match burning in the bright sunshine.
“Yes, Stan, Uncle Jeff it is: come out to breathe and have a cigar. I’ve used up all my stuff, boy. Pumped out. Here we are, you see; safe, though, after all. – My word, how those Jacks can shoot! Did you see?”
“Yes, uncle. Why, that junk must be half a mile away.”
“Yes, splendid practice; but she’ll go no farther than to the bottom, and the lads will have a shell into that other directly.”
Uncle Jeff was right. It took two more shells as he sat smoking, and then the last of the six pirate junks was so much bamboo chip floating down the stream.
“Poor wretches!” he said. “It seems very terrible; but it would have been much worse if the poor warehouse had been smoking ashes now, and our bones beneath.”
“Yes,” said Stan, shuddering. “I say, uncle, this is a horrible place. – Ah, Wing! You there?”
“Yes; come see you like cup tea.”
“What! can you get some?” cried Stan.
“Yes, plenty tea. Wateh nea’ly boil.”
“Oh! I should,” cried Stan huskily, “for I feel quite sick at heart.”
There were a few rifle-shots fired at fugitives on the banks, but the object of the gunboat’s crew was more to scatter the savage miscreants than to add to their destruction; for the commander on board was satisfied with the blow at the pirates’ power, and he said so half-an-hour later, when his vessel had steamed back and was moored to the wharf.
He had landed to inspect the place and congratulate its defenders warmly.
“As brave a defence as I know of, gentlemen,” he said. “And it seems to me that I only just came up in time.”
“Only just,” said Uncle Jeff; “but we weren’t beaten.”
“Beaten – up!” said the officer sharply. “You’d have kept the miserable brutes off, but I’m afraid that the fire would have been rather too much – eh?”
“Yes,” said Uncle Jeff; “we should have had to strike our colours to that. But there I don’t talk about it. We’ve had an awful escape.”
“You have, and no mistake. Here! come on board and have a wash while something to eat is made ready.”
“A wash!” cried Stan. “Oh yes. – I say, uncle, you look awful.”
“Do I, my boy? Humph! – I say, captain, do you carry a pocket-mirror?”
“No; but there’s a looking-glass or two in the cabins. Do you want to shave?”
“What! cut off my growing beard?” said Uncle Jeff fiercely. “No, nor my head either. I wanted my nephew to see his face.”
“My face?” cried Stan, colouring invisibly – that is to say, the red was hidden by the black. “Is it very bad?”
He glanced at Blunt as he spoke.
“Well,” was the reply, “did you ever see a sweep?”
The hospitality on board the gunboat embraced the attentions of a doctor as well as refreshments, and he had a busy hour with cuts and burns before the night closed in, with sailors to keep the watch over those who slept the sleep of utter exhaustion; though ward was needless, for the remnants of the piratical gang were scattered far and wide, completely crushed.
