THE FORTS SURRENDER
While Phil had been gazing spellbound at the half ton shell, fired by
O’Neil with such startling effect, Sydney was watching excitedly a
small squad of Chinese soldiers toiling painfully upward from the gun
emplacements.
When the roar of discharge shook the air he had seen these small black
figures throw themselves behind the jutting rocks, and after the
missile had exploded upon the parapets of the forts, hurling by its
tremendous force a large gun backward from its substantial mountings,
these persistent dots of men again appeared to view, creeping steadily
upward. What did it mean? Were these men deserting their guns?
Sydney heard his captain give the order to reload, and knew that within
the minute another shell would be speeding toward the enemy. The
foremost Chinaman had now reached the foot of the great flagstaff, and
the next second, to the lad’s delight, he saw the yellow banner flutter
slowly to the ground.
“They are striking their colors,” he cried excitedly.
All eyes turned in glad surprise toward the flagstaff to the right of
and above the gun emplacements.
“A white flag!” Phil gasped, a tinge of disappointment in his voice, as
he saw the banner of submission mount the flagpole quickly. Now all was
over, and he had seen but one shot fired.
“Cease firing!” Commander Hughes hastily ordered, fearing that the
next shot might, with the white flag displayed on the forts, cause the
Chinese to think that the monitor had intentionally disregarded the
sanctity of the emblem, thus precipitating an engagement with the forts
which the American officer was only too glad to avoid.
The bugles sounded the retreat from firing, and disappointed faces soon
appeared from the turrets, to gaze out upon the unwelcome white flag
flaunting in the light morning breeze.
“Follow us,” had been the signal to the “Monadnock,” and the two
victorious vessels, in column, made a graceful turn and then steamed up
stream toward the renegade gunboats anchored off Ku-Ling.
“What does it mean?” Phil breathed excitedly to Langdon.
“Something has happened,” Langdon exclaimed, shaking his head in
mystery.
“The viceroy’s now going to send a flag of truce to us,” Sydney
suggested; “and I hope Ta-Ling comes with it. I’d certainly like to see
Phil hand him back the pigtail he borrowed.”
Despite the seriousness of the situation all laughed at the thought of
the discomfited Chinaman without his cue.
The ships were now passing close to the “Albaque”; the sailors of that
gunboat watched the American monitors in sullen silence. The midshipmen
looked in vain for Commander Ignacio; he was not on deck.
“She’s ready to get under way,” Phil exclaimed, pointing to that
vessel. “See! her anchor gear is rove off and her steam launch has
been hoisted inboard.” Sure signs indeed that the gunboat was ready to
move.
The “Monterey” slowly steamed by the renegades until the gate of the
city came in view from the river; then a rattle of chain announced that
the war-ship had anchored.
The “Monadnock” had by order stopped astern and upon signal dropped her
anchor, so that in case of treachery that monitor’s big guns could be
readily trained on the forts.
“Now, Barnes,” Commander Hughes said with energy, “call away the
landing force and set them ashore.” Then he drew Lieutenant Wilson
aside, talking earnestly with him for some minutes.
Inside of another ten minutes the midshipmen found themselves on the
jetty of the foreign concession, while in ranks along the water front,
their rifles at the shoulder, stood three hundred stalwart sailors from
the three American ships.
Phil glanced uneasily toward the high city wall. The gate he could not
see, but he knew it was closed and the drawbridge raised. Probably the
Chinamen he had seen on the wall when the monitors steamed down the
river were now peering out through the hundreds of loopholes, their
rifles ready to defend their city from the foreign invader, for the lad
knew that Lieutenant Wilson’s orders had been to rescue the sailors in
the yamen.
“How shall we cross the moat?” he faltered to Langdon at his side.
The question remained unanswered, for the next moment a heavy discharge
rent the still air, followed by an explosion near the city wall. Again
came the shock of firing and Phil saw that the “Monterey’s” big guns
had been fired at the main gateway of the city.
Shell after shell sped quickly toward the gateway, scarcely five
hundred yards from the monitor’s guns.
The lads gazed about them in bewilderment. How could this aid them?
Then the firing ceased and a flag waved rapidly from the war-ship.
“Fours right,” Lieutenant Wilson cried excitedly, hastily leading the
column to the cross street up which the monitor had fired. Arriving
there, Phil gasped with admiration at the havoc wrought by the big
shells. The drawbridge was down across the moat and the great gate of
wood and iron had been literally torn from its huge hinges and thrown
bodily fifty feet within the city.
In silence the sailors were led across the drawbridge, Phil noticing
the severed chains which had allowed the bridge to fall in place, and
then they were inside the city.
No signs of life were visible, and the open doors and windows of the
houses showed plainly that the Chinese had departed suddenly, fearing
the shells of the foreigners.
“To the yamen, Langdon,” Lieutenant Wilson cried eagerly. Then as the
pilot pointed out the direction: “Fix bayonets!” The rasping of the
three hundred bayonets as they were adjusted on the rifles lasted for
half a minute and then Lieutenant Wilson added sharply, “Forward,
double time.”
At a run the rescuing column swept along the narrow street.
Phil and Sydney eagerly raced ahead, followed closely by the lieutenant
and Langdon. After but a few minutes the midshipmen reached the gateway
of the yamen.
An exclamation of grave concern from Sydney caused his companions to
cast anxious glances toward the expansive parade grounds in front of
the yamen gate. The sight that met their eyes was indeed disconcerting.
They had expected no more than feeble resistance, but there before
them, drawn up as if on parade, was a vast army of Chinese soldiers.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Lieutenant Wilson asked falteringly,
coming to a sudden stop, while his men gazed in wonder at the thousands
of well-armed soldiers, apparently in battle array, awaiting the word
to begin the fight.
“It means that viceroy Chang-Li-Hun has overshot his bolt,” Langdon
returned joyfully; “these men are of another province. Do you see their
yellow plumes? The viceroy’s soldiers wear red.
“Sent by Peking,” he added. “It means the viceroy is to be brought to
account by his government.”
While Langdon was speaking, a horseman rode rapidly toward the
Americans. Langdon walked out quickly to meet him when he drew rein
at the edge of the roadway, and immediately addressed him in his own
language.
Then, after a few moments’ rapid talk, he turned to the lieutenant, a
broad smile on his face.
“Just as I supposed. They are here to suppress outlaws. His general
has gone to the forts to confer with Hang-Ki. He says the viceroy has
refused to receive him.”
“Tell him,” Lieutenant Wilson said hurriedly, “that four of our sailors
are held prisoners in the yamen, and that I am going to enter by force
if they refuse to open the gate.”
“He says his men will not interfere,” the pilot returned, after a few
hurried words with the Chinese officer. “In fact, I believe they’d
gladly help us. This viceroy is not popular with the Manchus.”
Without more ado Lieutenant Wilson knocked loudly on the gate with the
butt of his revolver. There followed a whispered consultation from
beyond the gate and then a small slit slid back suddenly, revealing a
pair of almond eyes, peering out suspiciously.
Before Langdon could speak, the Chinese officer had dismounted from his
Tartar pony, and held the owner of the eyes in earnest conversation.
A moment later the slit was closed sharply, and the officer recoiled
angrily, muttering invectives at the rudeness of his rebuff.
“He says, break in the gate,” the pilot laughed in amusement.
Anticipating this move, Sydney had led a party of men to where a
telegraph pole was lying on the ground, ready to replace a pole
apparently condemned.
“It couldn’t have been handier,” he exclaimed, as the men lifting it
moved it in position to batter in the gateway.
A few forceful blows, and the American sailors poured through the
shattered gates.
Another gateway barred further progress, and this was soon sent flying
to pieces and the foreigners found themselves within the main courtyard
of the viceroy’s palace. Never before had foreign sailors entered these
sacred precincts with hostile intent.
“Mr. Perry, you and Mr. Monroe press ahead,” Lieutenant Wilson ordered.
“You know something of the yamen,” he added, a faint smile on his
earnest face. “Don’t be rash,” he warned. “I’ll be on hand if you need
aid, but it looks as if the yamen were deserted.”
Quickly selecting a dozen men, among whom was O’Neil, who had pressed
forward to the midshipmen’s side upon entering the building, Phil led
the way toward the viceroy’s private apartments.
The door through which they had entered the night before was bolted
from within, but by the united weight of Langdon and O’Neil it soon
opened obediently. They found this room empty, but the door to the
viceroy’s bedroom was open slightly.
“Careful, Mr. Perry,” O’Neil cried, catching the lad’s arm and drawing
him back from the open door.
The boatswain’s mate was just in the nick of time. A rifle muzzle had
suddenly been thrust through the opening and discharged, filling the
room with the noise of thunder. Phil recoiled in terror, his face
burning painfully from the heat of the discharge, while his ears were
deafened.
“Do you see, sir?” O’Neil observed huskily, as he wrenched the rifle
from the Chinaman’s hand and clubbed him into insensibility before he
could run. “Always approach an open door with caution and from the
side.”
Crowding into the viceroy’s bedchamber, the Americans were struck dumb
by the sadness of the spectacle before them.
There in the great canopied bed lay the form of the aged viceroy; his
eyes were closed, while upon his parchment-like face had spread the
pallor of death. The room was empty save for a single figure standing
beside the bed, a look of mortal fear in his eyes.
“Dead!” Phil whispered in awe at the sight, while he reverently removed
his cap. The sailors stood in silence, their heads uncovered, thrilled
by the scene. Chang-Li-Hun’s face, even in death, had not lost its
cruel expression. He lay there, silent, unconquered. The will of Peking
held no terrors for him now.
[Illustration: _THE AMERICANS WERE STRUCK DUMB_]
Langdon motioned to the Chinaman at the dead man’s bedside that no harm
would come to him, and after gaining courage, but eyeing fearfully
the insensible body of the last remaining guard, he came slowly to the
pilot’s side.
“He says Ta-Ling has not returned,” Langdon breathed in a subdued voice
after a minute’s talk with the frightened man. “He’s the treasurer you
choked in the next room,” he continued hurriedly to Phil, “and he will
lead us to the cell where the sailors were confined.”
The lad’s hopes ran high. If Ta-Ling had not returned, it might be
possible that the men were as yet alive.
As the Americans hastened after the Chinaman, they passed Lieutenant
Wilson and his waiting sailors in the courtyard.
“The viceroy is dead!” Phil exclaimed hurriedly as he passed him.
The treasurer led the way past the cell in which the midshipmen had
spent so many horrible hours of torture, but to Phil’s alarm it was now
empty.
“The prisoners are gone,” the lad faltered, pointing to the deserted
prison. “Ask him the meaning, Langdon.”
“He says he knows nothing,” the pilot replied after stopping suddenly
and questioning the distracted Chinaman. “He has been with the viceroy
all night. Upon hearing of the arrival of the troops sent by Peking,
the viceroy swallowed poison, a deadly Chinese drug, which he always
carried with him.”
Moving rapidly onward the Chinaman stopped suddenly in front of a cell
door.
Phil’s heart was as lead as he pushed the door open. The cell was empty.
“Ta-Ling did return,” he cried in despair.