THE PERIL AT THE MISSION GATE
Upon their return on board the “Phœnix,” the midshipmen found all was
activity. A message had been received from Emmons which had decided
Commander Hughes to wait no longer before sending the guard to
protect the defenseless mission on the hill some miles from the town.
Persistent rumors were current that the Chinese outlaws would very soon
make an effort to efface this heathen blot of stone from their sacred
soil.
In the course of a half hour all was in readiness to embark the guard.
Tents, rations, Colt gun and rifles were carried into the waiting
boats, and in a few minutes more the small party of officers and men
found themselves on the stone jetty, immediately in front of the
Chinese city. Under the eyes of a quickly-gathered, curious crowd of
Chinese, the sailors formed and marched along the road skirting the
fortified wall of the city. After some miles had been covered, the
great buildings of the mission came in sight, and soon after they were
admitted within the walled compound by the anxious missionaries, whose
dread of Chinese cruelty had been acquired through long residence among
these fanatical people. Many of their number they had seen sacrificed
by the lawless element of a superstitious and conservative race, whom
they had come thousands of miles to civilize according to their Western
standards.
The sailor sentinels were quickly stationed at the four corners of the
walled compound, and the peaceful mission was soon transformed into a
warlike fortress.
“What do you think of all this?” inquired Phil of the pilot after the
lads had finished their duties of preparing for the defense.
“I think,” answered Langdon, a grim smile on his face, “that these
missionaries are wise to build their houses inside of a stone fort. The
only way to succeed in civilizing the Chinese is to make sure that they
don’t kill you before you’ve had a chance to show them the benefits of
our methods.”
“But I mean,” urged Phil, “do you believe that there’s going to be
trouble?”
“I’ve seen a great number of these threatened uprisings,” replied
Langdon thoughtfully, “come to nothing for the want of a leader with
energy enough to keep alive the spark of fanaticism; I hope this one
will follow in their footsteps, for if the Chinese ever awaken to the
knowledge of their power, our small force of ships and men could never
stem the rising flood.
“Do you see the forts over yonder?” he continued, pointing to the
numerous heavy gun emplacements on the heights below the city; “those
batteries command the anchorage occupied by the allied fleet, and their
garrisons are now wavering between their loyalty to the government
at Peking, and their families and friends taking an active part in
the intrigues against the lives of the foreigners. If those guns were
turned against us, our position here would indeed be a serious one.”
The two midshipmen, listening to the words of one who had lived ten
years among the Chinese, felt their hearts beat faster: secretly they
were glad that their cruise in the Orient was likely to be fraught
with grave dangers.
The missionaries and their numerous Chinese converts inside the walled
mission were once more at ease; they believed that all danger was past:
the Chinese had never attacked a mission so strongly defended by the
rifles of the hated but much feared foreign sailors.
The hot day came to an end, and the night wind from the distant
mountains brought to the anxious ones a desire for sleep which they had
not felt for days.
Phil and Sydney lay awake long after the mission was wrapt in slumber.
They had talked over the situation very thoroughly, the views of
Langdon having made a deep impression on their minds. There certainly
was a danger! Could the Chinese troops be depended upon to withstand
the bribes of the lawless ones?
Sydney’s even breathing, at last, showing that he had fallen off
to sleep, cut short further conversation between them; while Phil,
casting an annoyed glance at the unconcerned sleeper on the adjoining
cot, arose and silently left the tent; he was far from asleep and,
being the officer of the guard for the night, determined to make an
inspection of the sentries.
The night was dark save for the dim light shed by the crescent moon low
in the western sky. Ascending the mission stairs, he stepped out on the
broad top of the high barrier of brick and mortar and walked down the
wall. A sentry was posted at the near corner of the quadrangle.
“Is everything all right?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, sir, but I seen a bunch of Chinese up there near the gate a few
minutes before you come,” the sailor made answer. “I hollered at ’em,
and they ain’t stopped runnin’ yet.”
“What can I do if they don’t run?” he added, questioningly.
“Nothing; just call the sergeant of the guard,” replied Phil quickly.
“On your life don’t shoot without orders.”
“If a Chink shoots at me, sir, can’t I fire back?” the sailor asked,
casting an apprehensive glance into the darkness outside of the
compound.
Lieutenant Wilson had instructed the midshipmen to make certain
that the sentries did not fire first: the viceroy of the province
was believed to be striving to hold the malcontents in check, but an
untimely shot might precipitate hostilities.
“If you are fired upon,” Phil ordered, “fire your piece and arouse the
garrison, but don’t shoot unnecessarily.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the sailor answered, as the midshipman drew away up
the wall to visit the next sentry.
While Phil was crossing the stone archway over the heavily-barred iron
gate, the main entrance into the mission, he was attracted by a dark
object on the ground below him, close up to the metal doors.
A closer look filled the boy’s thoughts with an unknown dread. The
object appeared harmless enough, and yet why was it there against the
gate of the mission? Phil saw now that it was a large box, outlined
dimly in the shadow of the archway.
He peered about him uncertainly. He could see the two lookouts at the
wall’s corners; they were alert and yet in ignorance of the danger at
the mission gate. The midshipman’s thoughts dwelt on the information
given by the sentry with whom he had just spoken: there had been some
Chinamen at the gate but a few moments ago! Was this box harmless or
did its presence there foretell a warlike design against the hundreds
of non-combatants, women and children, now under the protection of the
American sailors?
His startled gaze traveled over the gloomy expanse of surrounding
country outside of the high wall: the shadowy mounds, graves of
departed Chinese, dotting the grassy slopes about the compound might
be now concealing an armed force of attacking fanatics; beyond the
graves it rested for a moment on the low mud walls of abandoned houses,
believed by their owners to be forever polluted by the close presence
of the despised foreigners. Down on a lower level the high walled
city lay sleeping; the closely packed roofs resembling a continuous
floor, upon which fell the dim light of the waning moon; then again it
descended to the silent waters of the river, the towering pagodas along
its banks standing like guardian sentinels, with the anchored ships a
phantom fleet upon its dark surface.
A spark-like glint below him caught his eye, and its ominous message
sent the blood from his heart. With every faculty alert Phil threw
himself at full length on the wall and peered anxiously below into the
deeper shadow of the gateway: a sputtering spark but a few feet away
from the box told only too plainly its terrible mission: there was an
explosive against the gates, and the crawling point of fire was the
live end of the slow-match, surely and deliberately burning its way
toward the captive force that would, in a fraction of a minute, hurl
the powerful gates asunder, thus letting in the ambushing Chinese,
doubtless watching and waiting, concealed in the misty shadows.
The lad’s heart stood still as it flashed upon him what his duty
demanded of him. If he were a second too late he would be blown to
pieces and yet the gates would be shattered and useless to protect the
mission. His mind was made up quickly: he must first warn the garrison
and then quench the fatal spark twenty feet below him.
“Turn out the guard!” he cried loudly; then as he heard the startled
sentries repeat his words, he dropped silently to the ground on the
outside of the compound and grasped the lighted end of the fuse between
his fingers, but a few inches from its awful goal.
He heard the startled cries of his companions awakened from their sleep
by the alarming summons; the rattle of rifles and accoutrements as the
sailors hastened to their stations on the wall. The reaction had now
set in; the boy’s limbs seemed about to fail him. Almost unstrung he
clung to the box while he collected his scattered thoughts. If the box
remained there the enemy might yet succeed in exploding its contents
against the gate.
With his body pressed close to the torpedo, and in its deeper shadow,
his ear detected a sound near him in the grass at the edge of the road.
Suddenly a figure darted forward across the archway and stopped on the
other side of the box, fumbling with its top, as if to relight the
fuse. Phil held his breath as he reached forth his hand and clutched
the wrist of the intruder. Drawing the surprised man, with all his
force, across the box, he threw him to the ground. A cry escaped the
captive as he felt the strong arms of the midshipman enfold him,
smothering him to the earth.
The two bodies heaved and strained; the efforts of the Chinaman became
visibly weaker, and finally Phil cast the insensible form from him.
“Who goes there?” in excited tones from above him showed him that aid
was near. A sailor peered over the wall immediately above the lad’s
head, his menacing rifle covering the exhausted boy.
“It’s Midshipman Perry, the officer of the guard,” he whispered
hoarsely; “heave me a line, quick! Keep the gate closed! The place is
full of Chinese!”
A rope dangled down from a corner of the archway and Phil, grasping its
end, quickly made it fast around the box, giving the signal to hoist.
“Be careful, that’s powder,” he cautioned; “send the end back for me.
Hurry,” he added, casting a fearsome look into the shadows behind him.
With the end of the rope in his hand he stooped down to tie it about
the body of his captive; when, without a moment’s warning, he felt
a stinging blow in the face, that sent him reeling to the wall. He
clutched wildly at the offender, now on his feet and struggling madly
to free himself from the terrifying embrace of the midshipman. The
fully recovered celestial fought with the strength of despair, uttering
piercing shrieks which seemed to be answered from the surrounding
darkness.
Suddenly Phil was wrenched nearly off his feet, and then fell backward
against the wall, the torn coat of the man in his hands, while the
escaping prisoner melted into the night.
Hand over hand, up the rope, it was but the work of a second to the top
of the wall, and there he found an anxious group of officers and men
who had watched, with bated breath, the struggle below them.
Phil explained the circumstances at once to Lieutenant Wilson.
“I feel sure they’re concealed all about here,” he ended excitedly. “I
heard answers to the man’s cries.”
Lieutenant Wilson turned to Langdon, who had been an eager listener.
“Is it an attack, Langdon?” he asked anxiously.
Langdon shook his head, much mystified, then the garment in Phil’s hand
caught his eye. He took it from the lad in silence and carried it down
from the wall, entering the small gate-house inside the compound.
“Keep a strict watch, Mr. Monroe,” the lieutenant ordered, motioning
Phil to follow him, and together they entered the room where Langdon
was carefully examining the garment.
It was a blue tunic, plain save for a white border and a number of
Chinese written characters on its back. It was this lettering that
Langdon was studying.
“Viceroy Chang-Li-Hun,” he read slowly aloud. Then he glanced up, a
worried expression on his usually calm face.
“Mr. Wilson,” he said, “it’s serious; we’ve the viceroy’s soldiers
against us.”