The Maxim came along after us, and we helped Langham up with it, and
spread ourselves out, to cover the retreat of the Skipper with the main
body, which came along almost immediately in a long line, slowly
trailing down the side of the hill from the house. We could see that
they were carrying the wounded, and they had got halfway across the
paddy fields before the Chinese seemed to "tumble" to the fact that we
were clearing out, and began to pour back from the outskirts of the town
and open fire at them.
"B.-T." and I managed to keep them in check, and the Skipper got across
without any casualties, "Blucher" coming galloping up the hill, wagging
his long whip of a tail when he spotted me.
But by this time a number of Chinese had crept along behind the banks
intersecting the paddy fields, and we couldn’t get at them with rifle
fire. They were right in between us and the walled house, cutting off
Parkinson’s retreat.
We could hear that he was having trouble—he was firing very heavily—and
directly the Skipper and his little lot had got across safely, we saw
his people begin leaving the house and falling back down the slope. We
saw them turning and firing back, and retiring by alternate companies,
and natives were swarming round the house and among the trees at the top
of the ridge. We knew that they must be having a pretty warm time of
it.
Those fellows who had crept round their rear began firing at them too;
but one of their companies simply charged down at them, broke right
through, and, opening out to left and right, swept them on one side.
They were the _Omaha’s_ men. We could tell that by the peculiar noise
they made and by their uniform. Langham was able to let rip into the
Chinese as they sprinted out of reach of the Yankee bayonets, and
hurried them along "pretty considerable", as Parkinson told me
afterwards, we were also able to stop the people swarming down that
ridge after him, and gave him time to bring along his Maxim and Colt
guns, and to extricate himself from rather an awkward position. He made
a wide sweep, so as not to mask our fire, and came across; but I saw
that he had to carry four or five men, who had been knocked over in the
open, and they delayed him much.
That is always the rotten part of a retreat, especially when fighting
semi-barbarous natives. One dare not leave the wounded behind, and each
one who cannot walk requires two able-bodied men to carry him.
From where "B.-T." and I were standing, I should think that we could see
at least seven hundred Chinamen, and away on the left, we could see any
number more hurrying: from the town.
"Buck up, old chap! Don’t look so blooming bored!" and I slapped him on
the back. "We’ll have our work cut out in the next half-hour, when we
are doing rearguard."
"Keep your beastly fists to yourself," he growled.
Old "Blucher" had bounded back to the Captain directly our Maxim had
begun firing.
"Old Lest" and his little lot were in the rear of our hill—at the bottom
of it—waiting for Parkinson to go on past them, farther back. We saw
Parkinson drop his wounded people and sweep past and away towards two
small rising bits of ground, about four hundred yards in the rear, and
the Skipper, picking up his wounded, followed slowly.
Then came our turn as rearguard.
My Christopher Columbus! we had about all we could do to keep the
beggars back. The heathen Chinee was simply seeing "red", and came
charging across the paddy fields, rushing up towards the slope in front
of us, and getting round both our flanks. They thought that they’d got
us in a hole, I expect, and they spared a couple of hundred fellows to
sneak away to the right, behind some banks, hoping to catch the Skipper
in the open. They would have done it too, and got right on top of him
before he could have spotted them, had not "B.-T." taken half his
company down the hill at a run, and posted himself behind a couple of
broken-down huts and a bit of another bank, and given ’em "beans" as
they went doubling along below him. It was really a race who should get
to the bank first, and old "B.-T." won.
They were now actually crawling up the hill in front of my chaps,
dodging among the "scrub" and among the grave mounds, and they were
getting round my left rear as well. There must have been four or five
hundred of them, and they were taking cover so well, that it made it
confoundedly difficult to hit them.
Langham caught a few of them in the open with the Maxim; but it’s such a
jolly extravagant kind of weapon as regards ammunition, and puts a dozen
cartridges into a chap before another can take his place, and get his
own share.
Young Withers was in command of the other half of "B.-T.’s" company of
bluejackets on my left. I sent one of my chaps across to him to tell
him to retire, and he began to fall back steadily. He was keeping his
head, but looking very white. Langham’s Maxim section began to haul
their gun back, and everyone was a bit flurried. Two men got bowled
over. One sprang straight up, with one hand clawing the air, and I knew
that he was shot through the heart. I’ve seen a good many men do that
in my time, and they all had been shot through the heart.
I had a funny feeling in my right arm, too, and guessed that it had got
in the way of a bullet, but could move it all right.
I looked back to see whether the skipper had got safely across yet, and
saw that he was just disappearing between the two little hills or ridges
which Parkinson was holding; so it was time for me to be off, and we
began to retire according to the laws and regulations of the dear old
drill book. I sent the Maxim downhill with a run, and Withers and his
half company with it, to get behind a bit of a bank two hundred yards in
the rear, and held on with my marines, dropping a few Chinese who were
brave enough to stand up and show themselves; but most of the skunks
were simply wriggling along from one bush or grave mound to another, and
I’m jiggered if you can hit a man who’s crawling and dodging—that is,
when you are excited, and your heart is trying to thump its way out of
your chest, and you are expecting the order to retire and have one eye
on the rear.
They began to get round my right flank then, and I was beginning to
think that "little James" was in a pretty tight corner, when old "B.-T."
saw them and came back, just in time, cheering as if he was winning the
battle of Waterloo and Trafalgar all rolled into one, and went careering
right into them.
This checked them for half a minute, and gave my people time to drag our
wounded man—I had to leave the dead one—down the hill, and for the rest
of us to fall back together halfway down the slope.
"B.-T." came along after us, and we faced round and walked backwards
very slowly, and they didn’t like the look of our bayonets and wouldn’t
charge down, though they were swarming up above us and yelling like
stuck pigs. (If they had charged they would have swept clean over us.)
We managed to bring along two more of my chaps who were hit and couldn’t
walk, and sent them on to the rear, and when we got to level ground
again we opened out, and bolted for where the Maxim and "B.-T.’s" other
half company were. They gave them blue blazes as they came screaming
after us, and dropped dozens.
I saw one of the bluejackets fall forward, his head striking the soft
ground, and go slithering along. The Chinese were not twenty yards
behind, so "B.-T." and two of his chaps stopped and tried to bring him
with them. Old "B.-T." had to do a bit of work with his sword and
revolver for a minute or two; but we’d got our breath behind the bank,
came along to his rescue, and beat ’em back, Langham picking the fellow
up like a sack of corn and carrying him to the rear.
"Look at that rotten thing," "B.-T." panted out, as he got behind the
Maxim, holding out his arm and showing me where his sword had broken
off, about twelve inches from the hilt.
"If you _will_ do the V.C. act, old chap, with a rotten tailor-made
sword, what can you expect?" I told him.
The Chinese daren’t face our fire in the open, and funked it, so that we
were able to fall back again all serenely. It wasn’t the fear of seeing
any of our people getting killed that worried me then; it was the dread
of seeing them wounded so badly that they had to be carried, because, as
I told you before, each one so wounded meant two sound men to carry him
away, and handicapped us so tremendously.
We were behind Parkinson now, and gave our wounded to the Skipper’s main
body. I caught a glimpse of "Old Lest" standing, with his great feet
wide apart, and of "Blucher" squatting between them. He was watching
the Chinese through his glasses, and young Ford and Ponsonby were
standing close to him, looking white and nervous. He shouted out, "Well
done, rearguard!" and we hurried past and came to a group of Chinese
bluejackets, standing shoulder to shoulder. In the middle of them, I
knew, was my poor little princess and her miserable little father. You
see, bullets were still coming past pretty thickly, and Ching was
shielding her with his men’s bodies.
That old Chinese gun was there too, with some of the _Ringdove’s_ people
to drag it, and a few yards farther along half a company of Trevelyan’s
men were sitting on the ground resting till they had to move on again.
They gave us a cheer as we passed them, jumping to their feet and waving
their caps, and off we went at the double for a low ridge about a
quarter of a mile farther to the rear. We expected to be able to see
the gunboats from there, and were ordered to try and attract their
attention. They had been told to keep a lookout for us.
This bit was only a case of speed, and we were all blowing like
grampuses when we stopped, and the men flung themselves down and faced
round, my little lot about a hundred yards from "B.-T.’s", with Langham
and his Maxim between us.
Some of his people had tied their silk handkerchiefs to their bayonets
and were waving them to attract the gunboats. I heard "B.-T." yell
something, and saw him pointing away towards the sea.
It was there all right, but, buttered crumpets! a beastly fog-bank, like
a solid wall of cotton wool, was creeping down from wind’ard. When I
first looked I could see the _Omaha’s_ one mast and tall funnel, but
three minutes afterwards the fog had blotted her out of sight, and I
could watch it creeping towards the shore. Great bluebottles! I didn’t
like it; another night like last night would about send me off my
"crumpet".
I was just thinking that it would have been better for me to have gone
into the Church, as my old dad always had wished, when Withers came
running across to ask if I could lend "B.-T." a cigarette.
"You might get your pater to give me one of his livings," I told him.
"I’m going to be a parson if we ever get out of this."
"He’s very particular, sir," the cheeky young rascal grinned, and ran
back with my last cigarette. Old "B.-T." would have borrowed my
matchbox, but I sent Withers to tell him to _rub two sticks together_
and light it that way; it would be good exercise, and the cigarette
would last longer.
I saw him shake his fist at me when he got the message, and then walk
down his line of men to try and borrow a match from one of them.
The main body was coming past now; Whitmore and Rawlings, at the head of
the little column, were just passing Langham’s Maxim; then Trevelyan’s
right half company, a dozen Chinese bluejackets in a circle round Sally
and Hobbs, with Ching and the old Scotchman walking behind them. Then
there was a gap, a long string of Chinese bluejackets carrying their
wounded, the rest of Trevelyan’s chaps carrying ours, the _Ringdove’s_
people dragging the little Chinese field gun, and Trevelyan with a few
men bringing up the rear.
They came to a halt behind us, and laid down their wounded very gently.
"There’s no one behind us, I think," "B.-T." shouted to Whitmore. "But
just look at that fog! It’s hidden the _Omaha_ since we’ve been up
here."
"Where’s the Skipper?" I asked him.
"Taking charge of the rearguard. This job isn’t exciting enough for
him. They’ll have all their work cut out to get back to us, and I don’t
know what will happen if we get many more wounded."
I had to go back to my men then, as I saw the rearguard already on its
way, fat little Rashleigh toddling along in front of two companies from
the left of the two little hills, and the Maxim section rushing their
gun towards us. From the right the rest of the rearguard commenced
their retreat, and I saw "Old Lest’s" great broad shoulders swaggering
back, with Parkinson, as thin as a lamp-post, striding along beside him,
and "Blucher" slinking between them.
Contrary to Whitmore’s opinion, they had very little trouble in
extricating themselves, because the ground was so flat on the other side
of those two little hills, that the Chinese had not dared to come to
close quarters, and they were more than halfway towards us before the
enemy occupied the slopes they had just evacuated, and stayed there,
contenting themselves with opening a very heavy but miserably directed
fire. They made rotten shooting.
I felt that we had now got over by far the worst part of the show, all
except the beastly fog part, which had already hidden the line of the
shore a mile away, with its advance guard of feathery mist quickly
creeping along the ground towards us.
The Skipper came along grunting and growling, lighting another cigar,
and highly pleased with himself and everything else so far; but when he
saw the fog he stormed and cursed.
"’Old Lest’ won’t worry about those chaps behind him. He’ll march
straight for the shore," he grunted, and sent Parkinson and the
gunboat’s brigade straight ahead, and ordered my marines and "B.-T.’s"
bluejackets to remain in the rear. He took charge of the rearguard
himself, but practically gave the job to me. I suppose that he knew
that I had conducted many skilful retreats across the exercise ground at
Forton Barracks, so would know all about it.
Anyhow, it was a great compliment to me, and old Whitmore was as sick as
a cat with a fish bone in its throat, only he tried not to show it.
No one troubled us in front, and we marched along quite quickly—as
quickly as it was possible to carry the wounded.
It was really a race against the fog. Everyone knew that, and we got
over the first half-mile without difficulty.
The Chinese were not worrying the rearguard much; but of course they saw
the fog almost as soon as we did, and many of them began streaming away
to the left and right, and I knew that they would scoot round our
flanks, try and get in between us and the sea, and hem us in as they had
done during the night. I didn’t like the idea of that—not a little bit.
But with only another half-mile to do, the moist tongues of fog began
drifting overhead, and in five minutes we couldn’t see fifteen yards.
We recognized the huts with the dead pig’s near them, and some of my
chaps had a brilliant idea, and brought them along on their bayonets.
"Wat ’o! Bill, for a bit of the Gunnery Lootenant’s sucking pigs when
we gets aboard," I heard one of them sing out.
The advance guard halted to let the main body get up to them, and threw
back their flanks to overlap it, and as we came up we threw forward our
flanks, and this meant that we practically formed a hollow square round
the main body and the wounded. Like this we marched very slowly along,
keeping in touch by shouting to each other. The Chinese were now
beginning to draw up to our rear, and we could hear them yelling and
firing rifles at us, the bullets seeming to make much more noise in the
fog.
They didn’t venture close yet.
In another five minutes the fog was so dense that I couldn’t see the
third man from me in the ranks. The skipper made a bugler with the main
body in the centre sound two "G’s" every half-minute, and that was a
great help to us to keep in station. All round us I could hear the
non-commissioned and petty officers singing out: "Not so fast on the
right! Keep up on the left! Close towards the bugle, you on the
flanks! Where’s No. 1 section? Don’t get ahead too far!"
These cries, with the howling of dogs and the yells of Chinamen, who had
got all round us now, were extremely discomposing. When presently they
did leave off yelling, and we had no idea where they were gathering or
where they did intend to attack us, I must admit that it was still more
disconcerting. But we could hear the sea beating on the shore, and
smelt the decaying seaweed, and knew we should reach it in a few
minutes. The Skipper must have been a little nervous too, for his
bugler sounded the "halt" and the "close", and everyone drew in towards
the centre till our little square was as complete as we could make it in
that horrid yellowish-grey fog.
We were just preparing to move on, when there was a most hideous uproar
on our right flank. People began firing; there was the noise of
hundreds of feet rushing towards us through the fog, a fearful din of
yelling, shrieks of pain, then the noise of bayonets at work, and I
could feel that the right side of the square was giving ground and being
pressed back, and could hear the strange, choking, grunting noise men
make when they are fighting hand to hand, and being overcome by numbers.
I had heard it once before with General McNeil’s column in the Soudan,
when our zareba had been rushed, and it was touch and go for a few
moments whether we were entirely wiped out or not. I was only a newly
caught subaltern in those days, and I shall never forget that rush.
Old "B.-T." ought to have written about this one, not I. He would have
done justice to it. I know that I can’t.
It all happened in a moment, and we had the yelling brutes all over us,
pushing a thin fringe of struggling bluejackets in front of them. They
looked huge as they rushed at us in the fog, but the first two or three
who came my way must have been pretty sorry that I hadn’t forgotten to
load my revolver. It was a regular pandemonium for about sixty or
seventy seconds, I should fancy. Ching’s men were making a strange,
squealing, hissing sound; the Yankees had a different row; and our
people were grunting and cursing. I could hear the Skipper roar: "Close
on the centre!" and his bugler kept on sounding the two "G’s" to let us
know where the centre was. I found myself near him. He had his
coxswain, and a couple of signalmen, and the two mids—Ford and
Ponsonby—close to him, and was laying about him with his big stick, and
punching fellows in the face with his fist. His coxswain knocked over
one brute who was coming for him at the back, and I helped him get rid
of another and then lost touch with him, and came across the wounded
trying to scramble up and defend themselves with their bayonets,
Trevelyan’s men standing over them, clubbing their rifles and making a
grand fight of it. I saw that they were holding their own, and with a
dozen of my own marines at my back, ran and forced my way into a lot of
fellows who were trying to cut down Ching’s men. I suppose they hated
him and his jackets even more than they hated us.
My Christopher Columbus! we did give ’em beans, and I’m precious glad
that my sword was the best that could be bought (well, perhaps bought
isn’t the right word; so I will say obtained), for their heads were as
tough as iron, and the wadded cotton coats they wore made it jolly hard
to use the point. For all that, though, it tickled one or two of them
considerably.
Old Grainger clung to me like my shadow. He always seemed to be handy
when I’d got two people to manage at the same time, and we always
managed to scoop the pool.
We eased off the pressure round my princess, especially when Parkinson’s
First Lieutenant, a man nearly forty, came along from the left with
twenty or so of his people, shouting, "Rah!—Rah!—Rah!—O!—Ma!—Ha!" and
burst in among them and began clubbing. Little Rashleigh suddenly shot
into view with a broken sword in one hand and a revolver in the other.
His scabbard got between his legs, and he fell sprawling, and would have
been killed if Langham hadn’t suddenly sprung out of the fog and run a
chap through who was standing over him and just going to jab him with a
bayonet.
The three machine-gun carriages and the little Chinese field gun were
all rallying places for our people, and I suppose I must have got into
the "focus of disturbance", as they say about earthquakes, because,
although the fog was so thick, I saw nearly all our officers at one time
or another, and we got so jammed together—Chinese and marines and
bluejackets—that we could hardly move.
I nearly came to grief near that Chinese gun. A wretched chap thought
he could prod people from beneath it in comparative comfort, and tried
his hand on me, but wasn’t quite quick enough. He got me a beastly rip
in the leg just above the knee.
Then "Old Lest" seemed to elbow his way along. If you’ll believe me, he
still had a cigar between his teeth (Whitmore saw it, and his coxswain
swears that it was even then alight). He had broken his stick over the
heads of two big ruffians, and they bungled against the gun carriage,
and just as I thought that it was my turn to do something prompt, he
caught them by their pigtails and "wanged" their heads together. That
knocked them out of time, and his coxswain saw to it that they were
dead.
Well, that was my little show, and I felt dizzy, and Grainger lowered me
on to that gun wheel. The old sergeant-major came up streaming with
blood and loaded my revolver for me, and Grainger wiped a lot of blood
stuff off my face, which was interrupting the view of the surrounding
scenery. People seemed to be leaving off fighting; our fellows were
cheering like mad, and the buglers began sounding the "fall in" and the
"cease fire".
I was all right in a second or two, and went back to my old place in the
rear, and my people began limping back, calling each other and falling
in, talking twenty to the dozen, and wiping their bayonets with tufts of
grass.
My sergeant-major got them into something like order again; there were
only twenty-seven on their feet out of the thirty-nine who had landed,
and only about four of these who had nothing in the way of cuts or stabs
to show for it.
Presently the bugler sounded the "still", and the coxswain piped,
"Officers commanding companies report to the Captain," and I groped my
way across the ground, simply littered with dead bodies, and found him
and Parkinson. "Blucher" was sitting behind the Skipper, and looking
extremely ashamed of himself.
Gradually all the officers commanding companies came up, except "B.-T.",
who had a bayonet wound through his thigh and couldn’t walk, and the
_Omaha’s_ First Lieutenant, who had been killed just after I had seen
him charging with his men.
Young Jones reported "A" company, and that Withers was missing; but then
someone came up to say that he’d been found with his head cut open, and
quite dead. Poor little chap! he was one of the brightest and most
gentlemanly youngsters on board, and I and my marines owed him a great
deal for the way in which he covered our retreat to the barge two nights
ago.
The doctors were singing out to let people know where they were, and I
ran up against old Barclay. He seemed to have had a bad time of it
himself, but was busy dressing people and fixing them up. Old "B.-T."
was sitting with his back to a Maxim carriage wheel, waiting his turn
and holding on to his leg. He wanted to borrow another cigarette, but
he’d had my last half an hour ago. I managed to get one for him,
however, and then found Whitmore. He’d had one of his thigh bones
smashed by a bullet, and was in great pain. The whole place was nothing
but a shambles. The _Sparrow’s_ people, who had borne the brunt of the
first attack, had come off worst, and after them Ching’s bluejackets;
but you will see by the list at the end what the actual casualties were.
Ching himself had a slash over the head, but looked as though he was
treading on air, he was so proud and happy, and I knew that there was a
good deal more than the love of fighting to account for that.
"How’s the little lass?" the Skipper said, and I followed him across to
the Chinese gun, and found my poor little princess bending over it with
her head buried in her hands, and Hobbs sitting on the ground beside
her.
The Skipper took her up in his arms and carried her off to a place where
there were not so many dead bodies. Then happened something which,
though disgraceful, is true. He was stalking along with her in his
arms, and had just made a long step across a body, when we were
horrified to see the apparently dead Chinaman spring up and raise a
sword above his head to strike the Skipper. He would have been killed
for a certainty, because the sword was a very heavy one—an executioner’s
sword—had not young Ford, who luckily had his revolver in his hand,
placed it against the man’s back and shot him.
[Illustration: "THE SKIPPER TOOK HER UP IN HIS ARMS"]
The Captain turned round and growled out "Umph!" but took no further
notice. However, the word was passed round that a wounded Chinaman had
attempted to kill him, and the men were so enraged that they made
certain that there were no more wounded pirates left inside the square.
This is a fact, whatever you may say about the rights and wrongs of it.
The Chinese had had enough fighting to last them for a "month of
Sundays", and let us alone after that, and gave us time to look after
the wounded. The men, of course, all had their little packets of field
dressings with them, and did a good deal of amateur doctoring, whilst
Barclay, Hibbert of the _Ringdove_, the doctor of the _Omaha_, and their
stretcher parties looked after the more seriously wounded.
Then we staggered down to the beach, wading through the fog with our
wounded.
When I say staggered, I mean staggered. Our people had been fighting
for practically twenty-four hours with no rest, and they were done to a
"turn". After that strenuous sixty or seventy seconds’ struggle, and
the square had been re-formed, and the wounds had begun to pain, and
arms and legs and bodies to feel stiff, reaction set in, and if you had
seen them walking that last three hundred yards, you would have thought
that most of them were drunk.
Lucky indeed it was that the Chinese let us alone till we could get the
wounded down on the beach behind a bank, light several fires to comfort
them, and gradually warmed our fellows up again.
I suppose that if they had charged out of the fog again, our men would
have roused themselves and put up just as good a fight; but I must say
that I felt most extremely anxious till we had the sea at our backs, and
that bank at the top of the beach with a deep ditch below it in front of
us.
We had hoped to find our boats lying off waiting for us, and tried to
attract attention by shouting and firing rifles. Eventually we heard one
of the gunboats begin firing a gun every half-minute. It turned out to
be the _Omaha_, and presently she began to make a signal with her fog
siren. We knew that she was feeling her way in towards us, by the sound
of the blasts coming nearer; but of course we could see nothing
whatsoever through that maddening nightmare of dirty fog, and out of it
came the moaning blasts of the _Omaha’s_ siren with the message: "Have
seen nothing of your boats since this morning. _Omaha’s_ boats have been
sent down the coast to where gunboats’ brigade originally landed, and
have not come back."
We well knew that that meant a night to be spent on the bleak shore till
the fog should clear away and allow the boats to find their way to us.
It was then that the tired men were set to work collecting drift wood
and making fires under the bank, whilst Rashleigh and Trevelyan had to
line the bank itself, and guard our two flanks across the beach.
Although the fires were fairly large ones, they could not be seen
fifteen paces from the far side of the bank. That will give you some
idea how dense was the fog, so that we were quite safe in making them,
and we brought the wounded across and settled them as comfortably as
possible. When I talk about the wounded, I mean, of course, the badly
wounded, men who were obliged to lie or sit perfectly still; but besides
these, nearly everyone was slightly wounded, but could still handle a
rifle.
Trevelyan had brought a tin of tea tabloids—he always had some dodge up
his sleeve—and with the water in our bottles, we made enough tea to give
the wounded and my poor little princess a hot drink.
Old Grainger "managed" to find another packet of sandwiches for me, and
was very disgusted when I gave them to Sally. A strange old chap he
was. I suppose that I owed my useless life to him half a dozen times
that day, but he would have been offended if I’d even suggested thanking
him. He had been my servant for nine solid years, and treated me as if
I were a helpless idiot, and that his whole business in life was to turn
me out on parade a credit to "The Corps". (I don’t mean to infer that
he was the only one who treated me as an idiot.)
Even during the night, when after a couple of hours’ sleep the marines
had to take their turn on top of that bank, he began bothering me about
my clothes.
I had noticed him looking at me as I stood warming myself in front of a
fire, and he began: "Them clothes won’t be no blooming good again, sir,
I’m thinkin’. Two serges and two pairs of trouses in three blessed
nights! We ain’t got enough gear to turn you out proper now, sir."
"That’s all right, Grainger; we’ll be at Hong-Kong in a fortnight," I
said to cheer him.
"’Ong-Kong!" he sniffed. "They knows us too well there, sir. They
wants ready money from us there, sir, and we ain’t got none. ’Ow’s your
arm, sir? You never showed it to the Doctor."
I hadn’t, I know; but he wouldn’t be satisfied till I had pulled up my
sleeve, and he had found a bandage and stuck round it, to cover up the
two little marks where a bullet had gone in and out.
It really didn’t trouble me much, except to make my arm stiff.
Then Ford and Rawlings came up to me. They ought to have been asleep.
They were like two little cock sparrows with all their feathers ruffled.
"Would you mind telling us, sir, who captured that gun?" Rawlings burst
out very angrily.
"As far as I remember," I told them, "one of ’B.-T.’s’ people was first;
beat you and Whitmore by a short head."
"There!" they both burst out, looking at each other joyously. "Do you
know, sir, that Mr. Rashleigh says it’s his, and that he captured it?"
"Stuff and nonsense! That’s all my eye! His people were nowhere in
sight!"
"Well, he’s got it, sir, and the _Ringdoves_ dragged it back, and they
say they’ve got it, and are going to keep it."
"Come and ask Mr. Whitmore," young Ford said; but I told them that they
were not to wake him, and not to be blithering idiots waking the whole
camp.
"Wait till the morning; no one can take it away to-night."
I knew that if it belonged to anyone it belonged to our Skipper, and
that it didn’t matter a tuppenny biscuit who claimed it now, for "Old
Lest" would have it in the long run.
Our two hours’ watch passed without any serious trouble, a few shots
occasionally whizzed overhead, that was all, and before daylight the fog
lifted a little, as it had done the previous day.
As soon as they could see us, the Chinese made a very half-hearted
attack, and the whole brigade had to stand to arms and line the bank;
but we had no difficulty in driving them off and keeping them at a
respectable distance.
As the sun rose the hateful fog swept away altogether, and it was a most
blessed sight to see the sun glittering on the muddy water, and the
_Omaha_ and _Ringdove_ close to one another, and only about half a mile
from the shore.
Little Sally looked such a forlorn, draggled little woman in the damp
daylight, that I thought she’d be only too glad for anyone to say
something kind to her, so old "B.-T.", moving in a very "dot-and-go-one"
manner, and I went over to say "how d’ye do" to her and give her a
treat. We were the best-looking fellows in the _Vigilant_, but old
"B.-T.", what with his limp and a forty-eight hours’ beard round his
aristocratic chin, wasn’t looking his best, I thought, however, that the
bandage round my noble forehead (to cover up a cut someone had given me)
would just about "fetch" her, and that she would be interested in about
a dozen different specimens of paddy-field mud which were plastered over
me.
However, she "bristled" up when we came along to pay her homage, and
"guessed she didn’t want anyone fooling round her—just yet awhile".
Poor little princess! She was so miserable, sitting on the beach behind
that bank, with the Skipper’s overcoat buttoned round her.
About an hour after daylight, and the fog had swept away, our boats
managed to find us.
Old "Blucher" had had enough shooting expeditions to last him till he
got home, and jumped into the very first _Vigilant’s_ boat that had run
up the beach, got under the thwart in the stern sheets, and never moved
till she got alongside the ship.
The Skipper gave me the job of covering the embarkation, and it wasn’t
all "beer and skittles" either, for the Chinese kept up such a
persistent and annoying rifle fire, that we had to get the _Omaha_ and
_Ringdove_ to shell them out of some paddy fields and clumps of bamboo
trees. They tried to steal round the beach and cut a few of us off, and
just as we were getting "busy" with them, young Ford and Rawlings came
rushing up again, right in the middle of everything, and squeaked out
that fat little Rashleigh was taking that wretched Chinese gun aboard
the _Ringdove_, that he had actually got it aboard one of his boats, and
was just going to shove off, and that as Whitmore was on the sick list,
and "B.-T." had gone off to the _Vigilant_, couldn’t I do something?
They wanted me to go to the Skipper, or something like that, and tell
him that it really belonged to the _Vigilant_.
"My dear young gentlemen," I told them, when we’d stopped a bit of a
rush, "if you’ll be so obliging as to go out there and ask about five
hundred Chinamen, who are very anxious to obtain specimens of our
livers, to cease firing and stop where they are till we’ve decided who
shall own their toy cannon, I’ll do the best I can to help you. Tell
them that the matter won’t admit of delay, and no doubt they will oblige
you."
They looked angry, and rushed away to try and interest someone else in
the important question.
Gradually everyone was withdrawn from the shore, till there was no one
except the Skipper, myself, and my marines remaining. We kept the
fellows at bay till the barge came along for us, and then we bolted down
to her and scrambled in, the Skipper being actually the last to embark.
We had hardly begun to shove off, before the Chinese had lined the other
side of that bank and began firing at us; but two can play at that game,
and we had another boat and the steam pinnace lying off, to cover our
retreat, and they peppered them pretty severely.
The _Vigilant_ had come round to meet us, and we got away out of range
all right and alongside her by seven bells in the afternoon, just in
time for afternoon tea.
As soon as I could manage to do so, I slipped away to Truscott’s cabin,
and found him much more cheerful.
Old Mayhew had said that he couldn’t tell what would happen till the end
of the third day, and this was the third day since he was wounded, and
he had no bad symptoms.
"To tell the truth, soldier," he whispered, "I’m as hungry as a hunter;
tinned milk and soda water ain’t very filling, and Mayhew won’t let me
have anything else, and precious little of that."
I felt pretty well "done up", now that everything was finished, so
Grainger got me a steaming hot bath, and I turned in and slept till next
morning.
Before I went to sleep, Grainger came back looking very cheerful. He
held up my two damaged pairs of trousers. "We can do ’em all right, sir;
one pair ’as a slit in the right leg, and the other a split over the
left knee. We’ll ’ave a try at taking ’em to pieces, and makin’ one
good pair out the two of ’em, sir."
"All right, Grainger; it will be better than having nothing to wear at
all, won’t it?" I told him, and went to sleep.
I copied this list of casualties from somewhere or other, and think that
it is pretty accurate as far as our own ships and the _Omaha_ are
concerned, though I cannot guarantee the figures given for the _Huan
Min_.
The "slightly wounded" were those requiring some treatment, and most of
those who were on the sick list only a few days.