“That ought to hold the pirates for a little while,” declared Danny
Grin, his good-natured face looking unusually grim.
“I think it will,” replied Dave, halting before his cabin door. “Dan
Dalzell, if my face is as dirty as yours I shouldn’t care to walk up
Main Street in my native town.”
“Go in and look at _yourself_,” scoffed Dalzell.
“It’s fully as dirty,” called Dave, from the interior of his cabin,
surveying himself in the glass.
But it was as honorable dirt as any man may have on his face—the grime
of powder-smoke as it blew back when the gunboat’s five-inch guns had
been swung open at the breech.
For the “Castoga,” intercepted by wireless on the way to the
Nung-kiang, had been sent to Hong Kong by an official order from
Washington. The threatened troubles along the Nung-kiang had quieted
down to such an extent that cautious officials in Washington dreaded
lest Chinese sensibilities should be wounded by the sending of a
gunboat up the river.
So, day after day, the “Castoga” had lain in the mountain-bordered
harbor at Hong Kong.
Then came the word one day that the Chinese rebels in the district
around the city of Nu-ping, on the Nung-kiang River, had again become
troublesome, and that the American mission buildings at Nu-ping were
threatened. The “Castoga” had been ordered to proceed at full speed,
she being the nearest craft of a draft light enough to ascend the
river.
During the last hours of darkness the gunboat had steamed up the river,
all eyes on board turned toward the sinister red glow that lighted the
sky above the Chinese city, capital of a province.
Just before daylight the gunboat dropped anchor with every man and
officer at quarters.
From shore came the sound of rifle shots, a wild pandemonium of yells,
as thousands of raging Chinese surged upon the mission buildings, to
which fire had already been set, and from which the American
missionaries and their families, aided by the white residents of
Nu-ping, were making the only resistance that lay within their power.
The first note of cheer that came to the missionaries and their friends
was the whistle of the gunboat, sounding clearly when still two miles
distant. Then the lights of the fighting craft came into sight.
For a few minutes after coming to anchor, the commander of the
“Castoga” was forced to wait for sufficient daylight to enable him to
distinguish accurately between friend and foe.
At the side of the gunboat a launch and four cutters waited, to carry a
landing party, if the sending ashore of men should prove to be
necessary. Anxiously, using his night glasses every minute, the
American commander paced the deck and listened.
Then, when there was barely enough light, word was telephoned to the
division officers to begin action.
Boom! spoke the first gun from the gunboat. Other shots followed
rapidly.
In the compound before the burning mission buildings was a mass of
yellow fiends, crowding, yelling and shooting. From the windows of such
portions of the burning buildings as were still tenable American rifle
fire was poured into the mob.
That first shell, landing among the yellow fiends, killed more than
twenty Mongols, wounded others, and drove the attackers out of the
compound.
Boom! Bang! Other shells flew through the air, clearing away the rabble
further back.
From the mission buildings, a quarter of a mile away, went up a wild
cheer of hope.
But the attacking rabble, despite the first shell fire, came back,
inviting further punishment.
Again the gunboat’s five-inch guns roared out. There was now sufficient
light to enable the American gunners to make out the locations of the
mob.
At least thirty shells were fired ere the rebels beat a retreat beyond
the confines of Nu-ping.
It was time to stop firing, for some of the American shells had set
fire to Chinese dwellings and business buildings.
On a low hill, a quarter of a mile away from the burning mission
buildings, flew the Chinese flag, flanked by the flag of the governor
of the province.
Watching this yamen, or palace, the American officers saw a body of not
more than a hundred soldiers issue suddenly from behind the walls.
Straight to the mission hurried these tardy fighting men. Though late
in acting, the Chinese governor was sending an invitation to the
endangered missionaries and their friends to share the hospitality and
protection of his yamen.
“He might have done that before,” muttered Dan Dalzell.
“If he has so few Chinese soldiers,” Dave explained, “he never could
have driven back the thousands of rebels. Our friend, the governor, is
cautious, surely, but plainly he is no fool.”
Once the bombardment had stopped, the various officers, except one
division officer, had been ordered to their quarters to clean up and
put on fresh uniforms, for the work of the day was by no means
finished.
So back to their quarters hurried the released division officers.
Dave Darrin quickly divested himself of his dungaree working clothes,
then stripped entirely, going under a shower bath. From this he emerged
and rubbed down, drew on fresh underclothing, a clean shirt, and
hastily completed his toilet.
At that instant there came a summons at the door, with an order for
Ensign Darrin to attire himself in khaki uniform. The same order was
delivered to Dan.
“Landing party work,” was the thought that leaped instantly into the
minds of both.
Nor were they disappointed. Into the launch, with several other boats
alongside, tumbled forty sailors and twelve marines, armed, and with
rapid-fire guns and ammunition. In one of the other boats were
additional cases of ammunition; in others were commissary supplies.
Dave received his orders from Executive Officer Warden.
“You will go ashore, Ensign Darrin, and at all hazards reach our fellow
Americans. What you shall do on reaching them will depend upon
circumstances and upon instructions signaled to you from this ship.
Ensign Dalzell will accompany you as next in command. On board we shall
keep vigilant watch, and you may rely upon such backing as our guns can
give you in any emergency that may come up.”
Dave saluted, with a hearty “Very good, sir,” but asked no questions.
None were necessary.
In another moment the landing party had been reinforced by a petty
officer and three men who were to bring the boats back to the
“Castoga.”
Casting off, the launch headed shoreward, towing the boats astern.
Within three minutes, landing had been made at one of the smaller
docks.
“I don’t see any reception committee here to welcome us,” muttered
Ensign Dalzell.
“Probably all of the natives, who are curious by nature, are watching
the burning of the buildings that our shells set on fire,” returned
Ensign Darrin. “But I’m glad there’s no reception party here, for
undoubtedly it would be an armed committee.”
As soon as landing had been effected, however, a petty officer, who was
sent forward with three men, succeeded in routing out a number of
sturdy, sullen coolies, who had been hiding in a near-by warehouse.
These yellow men the petty officer marched back briskly, the coolies
being forced to pick up and carry the ammunition and food supplies.
“See to it that these Chinese don’t try to run away with the stuff,”
Dave ordered tersely. “Keep them under close guard.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
At the word from Darrin, Dalzell ordered the sailors to fall in and
lead the way in double file, the marines marching at the rear of the
little baggage train.
“Straight to the yamen!” commanded Darrin, as he gave Dan the forward
order, then fell back to keep an eye over the conduct of the porters.
For the first block of the march through the narrow, foul-smelling
streets, the natives contented themselves with glancing sullenly out at
the handful of daring invaders. But a turn in the street brought the
American naval men in sight of an angry-looking crowd of nearly a
thousand Chinese—all men.
“Are they going to block our way?” whispered Dan, marching quietly on
when Dave hastened to his side.
“They are not,” Darrin answered bluntly, “though they may try to. No
one is going to block us to-day until we have used all our ammunition.”
“That has the good old Yankee sound,” grinned Dalzell.
Seeing that the sullen crowd was massing, Ensign Darrin went forward,
hastening in advance of his little column.
“Is there any one here who speaks English?” Dave called pleasantly,
above the dead hush of that stolid Chinese crowd.
There was no answer.
“All right then,” smiled Ensign Darrin, “I shall have to talk to you by
sign language. Make way, please!”
Drawing his sword, he signed to the Chinese to make way for his command
to pass. Still no response.
Ensign Dan, marching his men on, came up to Dave’s side.
“Column halt!” Ensign Darrin called promptly. “Order arms. Draw
bayonets. Fix bayonets!”
With a rattling of steel, accompanied by many grins, sailors and
marines alike obeyed.
“Once more, I call upon you to make way!” called Dave, striding forward
and endeavoring to wave the crowd aside by gestures with his sword.
Still nobody moved.
“Ensign Dalzell,” rapped out the sharp order, “form two platoons
extending across the street in close order. Give promptly the order to
charge.”
As he gave this command Darrin stepped back, placing himself at the
extreme right of the first short platoon.
“Charge bayonets!” ordered Dan.
Dave led the men forward, Dalzell remaining behind with the remainder
of the little command.
Finding the points of the bayonets at their breasts, the Chinese gave
utterance to cries of fright. There was a backward surge.
“Halt!” cried Dave, just in time to prevent some of the Chinese from
feeling cold American steel. “Steady! Forward march! Hep, hep, hep!”
Emphasizing the speed of the step with his “hep, hep,” Dave now
continued his squad at a brisk walk, giving the yellow natives time to
make their retreat without trampling one another.
At the next corner the Chinese surged off at right angles in two
directions.
“I guess we’ll find the rest of the way clear enough,” smiled Ensign
Dave, again forming his men in double file and falling back to Dan’s
side. “The Mongols had me scared. I was afraid I’d have to order the
men to load and fire.”
“Would you have done that?” asked Dalzell.
“Why not?” asked Dave, with a shrug of his shoulders. “There are
American women up at the yamen, and they are still in peril. My orders
are to reach the yamen, and I propose to do it if it be possible. If
any yellow men try to block our way they will do so at their own risk.
I’ll charge or fire into any crowd or force that blocks our way.”
“Good!” chuckled Ensign Dan. “I like the sound of that talk!”
Down by the river front, save for the warehouses, the buildings were of
the meanest—flimsy affairs of bamboo, with cheaply lacquered facings,
windows of oiled paper and floors of earth. Now, however, the little
naval column began to pass through a better part of the city. Here the
houses were of wood, substantially built, and of pagoda or tent
patterns. Not a few of these dwellings were surrounded by compounds, or
yards, enclosed by high stone walls.
And then, at last, in the heart of the city, the column came out upon
the low hillside on which was the great square surrounding the
governor’s yamen.
None in front opposed Darrin’s command, but a crowd that must have
numbered two thousand followed close at the heels of the detachment.
“Going to halt in the center of the square?” Dan inquired in a low
tone.
“No,” rejoined Ensign Dave. “I shall march up to the main gate in the
compound wall.”
“And then—?” inquired Dalzell.
“I shall demand to be admitted to the American refugees.”
“And if you are refused?” pressed Dan.
“That will be the governor’s worry,” replied Dave quietly.