I have known men who, from need of money or from love of adventure, have
contracted to do all sorts of seemingly impossible things. Some
conquered apparently unconquerable chasms by means of daring bridges;
others built railways across waterless, yellow deserts, where experts
had asserted that no railway could go; one contracted to find and raise
a treasure galleon sunk three hundred years ago; another agreed to
compose an opera in a week; while still another engaged to find a man
who for two years had been lost in equatorial Africa. It took a New
Englander, however, to sign a contract to capture walled and hostile
cities, at a stipulated price per city, just as a Chicago meat-packer
would contract to supply a government with beef at so much a pound.
The man who entered into this amazing agreement was baptized Frederick
Townsend Ward, but bore at his death the adopted name of Hwa. Though
born within biscuit-throw of Salem wharves he was by residence a citizen
of the world, and by profession a soldier of fortune. Now the trouble
with most soldiers of fortune is that they don't make good in the end.
They are generally entertaining fellows, with vast stores of information
on an amazing variety of subjects, wide acquaintanceships with
personages whose names you see in the daily papers, and an intimate
knowledge of the little-known places, but they rarely save any money,
they seldom rise to high positions, and they usually end their checkered
careers by being ingloriously arrested for breaking the neutrality laws,
or by dying, picturesquely but quite uselessly, between a stone wall and
a firing-party.
That Frederick Ward was a striking exception merely proves the soundness
of my remarks. Though he was a soldier of fortune (he fought under at
least six flags) he did make money, for he capitalized his remarkable
military genius by signing a contract to capture rebellious cities, at
seventy-five thousand dollars a city, and took a dozen of them, one
after another; he rose to be an admiral-general of China, and a Mandarin
of the Red Button, which was equivalent to being a Dewey, a Kitchener,
and a Cromer rolled into one; and though he died when scarcely thirty,
it was on the walls of a captured city, directing a victorious charge.
Though the Manchu dynasty of China, to which he gave an additional
half-century of existence, has fallen, the soldiers of the new republic
continue to invoke his spirit as that of a god of battles, and the
priests of Confucius still burn incense before his tomb.
The story of how this adventurous American youth recognized the splendid
fighting material into which the Chinese were capable of being
transformed; how he took that material and heated and hammered and
tempered it into a serviceable weapon, and gave that weapon a keen
cutting edge; how, with a force which never numbered more than six
thousand men, he broke the backbone of a rebellion which turned China
into a shambles; and how his battalions came to be known, in the annals
of time, as the "Ever-Victorious Army," forms a chronicle of courage and
thrilling incident the like of which can not be found in history. If the
almost incredible exploits of Ward have escaped the notice of our
historians, it is because, at the time they took place, Americans were
too intent on the business of their own great slaughter-house to be
interested in a similar performance going on, in much less workmanlike
fashion, half the world away. Though British writers slightingly allude
to Ward as "an obscure Yankee adventurer," the officer who succeeded
him, General Charles George Gordon, merely completed the work which his
predecessor had begun, and built his military reputation on the
foundations which the American had laid. Though the name of Frederick
Townsend Ward holds but little meaning for the vast majority of his
countrymen, it is still a name to conjure with in that country which he
saved from anarchy.
Though a youth in appearance and in years, Ward was a seasoned veteran
long before he set out on his last campaign. Before he was
five-and-twenty he had had enough experiences to satisfy a dozen
ordinary men. Coming from New England seafaring stock, it was only to be
expected that a passion for adventure should course through his veins.
From the time he donned short trousers he dreamed of a cadetship at West
Point, and a commission under his own flag. But it was destined that his
military genius should profit another country than his own, and that he
should fight and die under an alien banner. His father, a stern old
merchant captain, held that there was no training for a boy like that to
be had in the school of the sea, and so, when young Ward was scarce
half-way through his teens, he was packed off aboard a sailing-vessel
bound for the China seas. By the time he was twenty he held a first
mate's warrant, and had paid for it with three long voyages. Joining
Garibaldi's famous Foreign Legion, he saw service under that great
soldier in the war between the Republic of the Rio Grande and Brazil.
Afterward he helped the young Republic of Uruguay to defeat Manuel
Rosas, the Argentine dictator. At the outbreak of the Crimean War he
obtained a lieutenant's commission in a regiment of French zouaves, and
followed the tricolor until the Treaty of Paris brought that bloody
campaign to an end. Turning his steps toward Latin America again, he
joined William Walker in his ill-fated Nicaraguan adventure, and after
that leader's execution in Honduras he offered his sword and services to
Juarez, and helped to win for him the presidency of Mexico. With the
triumph of Juarez, peace settled for a time upon the western hemisphere,
and Ward, finding no market for his military talents, was driven by
financial necessities to take up the occupation of a ship-broker in New
York City. But the shackles of trade soon proved intolerable to this man
of action. He was like a race-horse harnessed to a milk-wagon. Though
his talk was of cargoes and bottomry and tonnage, his thoughts were far
away, on those distant seaboards of the world where history was in the
making. At the beginning of 1859, the only country in the world where
fighting on a large scale was going on was China, which was being
devastated by the great Taiping Rebellion. In the spring of that year
Ward, unable to longer resist the call to action which was forever
sounding in his ears, turned the key in the door of his New York office,
saddled his horse, and, unaccompanied, rode across the continent to San
Francisco, where he booked a passage for Shanghai. It was no random
adventure which he had undertaken. He had laid his plans carefully and
knew exactly what he intended doing. Nor did the magnitude of his
project dishearten him. He had set out to save an empire, and he
intended to win fame and fortune in doing it.
The conditions which prevailed in China between 1850 and 1863 can be
compared only to the French Reign of Terror, or to the rule of the Mahdi
in the Sudan. About the time that the nineteenth century was approaching
the half-way mark, a Chinese schoolmaster named Hung-siu-Tseuen,
inflamed by the partially comprehended teachings of Christian
missionaries, had inaugurated a propaganda to overthrow the Confucian
religion, and incidentally the reigning dynasty. There speedily rallied
to his banners all the floating scoundrelism of China. In 1852 the rebel
hordes had moved into the province of Hunan, murdering, pillaging, and
burning as they went; advanced down the Kiang River to the Yang-tse,
down which they sailed, capturing and sacking the cities on its banks.
Making Nanking his capital, the rebel leader assumed the title of Tien
Wang, or "Heavenly King," and proclaimed the rule of the Ping Chao, or
"Peace Dynasty," which, with the prefix Tai ("great") gave the rebellion
its name, Taiping. Wang's great hordes of tatterdemalions, flushed with
their unbroken series of successes, gradually overran the silk and tea
districts, the richest in the empire, threatened Peking, and advanced
almost to the gates of Shanghai, carrying death and destruction over
fifteen of the eighteen provinces of China. Perhaps it will give a
better idea of the magnitude of this rebellion when I add that reliable
authorities estimate that it cost China _two billion five hundred
million dollars, and twenty million human lives_. By the autumn of 1859
such of the imperial forces as remained loyal had been whipped to a
stand-still, and the European powers having interests in China had their
work cut out to defend the treaty ports; the rebels were undisputed
masters of all Central China; the rivers were literally choked with
corpses, and the smoke of burning cities overhung the land. The
atrocities committed by order of the Taiping leader shocked even the
dulled sensibilities of China. On one occasion, six thousand people,
suspected of an intention to desert, were gathered in the public square
of Nanking. A hundred executioners stood among the prisoners with bared
swords, and, at a signal from the Wang, slashed off heads until their
arms were weary, and blood stood inches deep in the gutters. Ward had
indeed chosen a good market in which to sell his services.
Through an English friend in the Chinese service, Ward obtained an
introduction to Wu, the Taotoi of Shanghai, and to a millionaire
merchant and mandarin named Tah Kee. The plan he proposed was as simple
as it was daring. He offered to recruit a foreign legion, with which he
would defend Shanghai, and at the same time attack such of the Taiping
strongholds as were within striking distance, stipulating that for every
city captured he was to receive seventy-five thousand dollars in gold,
that his men were to have the first day's looting, and that each place
taken should immediately be garrisoned by imperial troops, leaving his
own force free for further operations. Wu on behalf of the government,
and Tah Kee as the representative of the Shanghai merchants, promptly
agreed to this proposal, and signed the contract. They had, indeed,
everything to gain and nothing to lose. It was also arranged that Tah
Kee should at the outset furnish the arms, ammunition, clothing, and
commissary supplies necessary to equip the legion. These preliminaries
once settled, Ward wasted no time in recruiting his force, for every day
was bringing the Taipings nearer. A number of brave and experienced
officers, for the most part soldiers of fortune like himself, hastened
to offer him their services, General Edward Forester, an American, being
appointed second in command. The rank and file of the legion was
recruited from the scum and offscourings of the East, Malay pirates,
Burmese dacoits, Tartar brigands, and desperadoes, adventurers, and
fugitives from justice from every corner of the farther East being
attracted by the high rate of pay, which in view of the hazardous nature
of the service, was fixed at one hundred dollars a month for enlisted
men, and proportionately more for officers. The non-commissioned
officers, who were counted upon to stiffen the ranks of the Orientals,
were for the most part veterans of continental armies, and could be
relied upon to fight as long as stock and barrel held together. The
officers carried swords and Colt's revolvers, the latter proving
terribly effective in the hand-to-hand fighting which Ward made the
rule; while the men were armed with Sharp's repeating carbines and the
vicious Malay _kris_. Everything considered, I doubt if a more
formidable aggregation of ruffians ever took the field. Ward placed his
men under a discipline which made that of the German army appear like a
kindergarten; taught them the tactics he had learned under Garibaldi,
Walker, and Juarez; and finally, when they were as keen as razors and as
tough as rawhide, he entered them in battle on a most astonished foe.
The first city Ward selected for capture was Sunkiang, on the banks of
the Wusung River, some twenty-five miles above Shanghai. In choosing
this particular place as his first point of attack, Ward showed himself
a diplomatist as well as a soldier, for it was one of the seven sacred
cities of China, and to it had been wont to come thousands of pilgrims
from the most distant provinces, to prostrate themselves in the temple
of Confucius, the oldest and most revered shrine in the empire. Its
capture by the Taipings and their desecration of its altars had sent a
thrill of horror through the imperialists, such as was not even caused
by the loss of the great metropolis of Nanking.
Ward, who appreciated the necessity of winning the recognition and
confidence of the higher authorities, well knew that the regaining of
this sacred city would endear him to the religious heart of China as
nothing else could do. But Sunkiang, with its walls twenty feet high and
five miles in circumference, and with a garrison of five thousand
fanatics to defend those walls, was no easy nut to crack even for a
powerful force well supplied with artillery. The idea of its being taken
by Ward and his five hundred desperadoes was preposterous, unthinkable,
absurd. He first tried the weapon he had so painstakingly forged on a
July morning, in 1860. Just as his European critics in Shanghai had
prophesied, the attack on Sunkiang proved the most dismal of failures.
His stealthy approach being discovered by the Taipings, he was greeted
with such a withering fire upon reaching the walls that, being without
supports, and perceiving the hopelessness of the situation, he ordered
his buglers to sound the retreat.
But Ward was one of those rare men to whom discouragements and disasters
are but incidents, annoying but not disheartening, in the day's work. He
spent a fortnight in strengthening the weakened _morale_ of his force,
and then he tried again, making his onset with the suddenness and fury
of a tiger's spring just at break of day. Slipping like ghosts through
the grayness of the dawn, Ward and his men stole across the surrounding
rice-fields, and were almost under the city walls before the Taiping
sentries discovered their approach. As the first rifle cracked, Ward and
one of his lieutenants raced ahead with bags of powder, placed them
beneath the main gate of the city, and lighted the fuse. Like an echo of
the ensuing explosion rose the shrill yell of the legionaries, who
dashed forward like sprinters in a race. Instead of the gates being
blown to pieces as they had expected, they found that they had been
forced apart only enough for one man to pass at a time--and on the other
side of that door of death five thousand rebels waited eagerly for the
first of the attackers to appear. "Come on, boys!" roared Ward, his
voice rising above the crash of the musketry, "We're going in!" and
plunged through the narrow opening, a revolver in each hand. Hard on his
heels crowded his legionaries. Though they were going to what was almost
certain death, such was the magnetism of their leader that not a man
hung back, not a man faltered. Before half a dozen men were through they
were attacked by hundreds, but, so deadly was the fire they poured in
with their repeaters, they were able to hold off the defenders until
the whole attacking force was within the gate. Then began one of the
most desperate and unequal fights in history. The key to the city was
the howitzer battery, which was stationed on the top of the massive main
gate, forty feet above. Up the narrow ramps the legionaries fought their
way, five hundred against five thousand, hacking, stabbing, firing, at
such close range that their rifles set fire to their opponents'
clothing, driving their bayonets into the human wall before them as a
field-hand pitchforks hay. Wherever there was space for a man to plant
his feet or swing his sword, there a Taiping was to be found. The
passageway was choked with them, but they sullenly gave way before the
frenzy of Ward's attack as a hillside slowly disintegrates before the
stream from a hydraulic nozzle. Ward was wounded, and his men were
falling about him by dozens, but those that were left, mad with the lust
of battle, fought on, until with a final surge and cheer they reached
the top, and the position which commanded the city was in their hands.
Then the Taipings broke and fled, some to be overtaken and slaughtered
by the legionaries, others throwing themselves into the streets below.
Bayoneting the rebel gunners, the howitzers were turned upon the city,
raking the streets, sweeping the crowded walls and house-tops, and
leaving heaps of dead and dying where Taiping regiments had stood
before.
[Illustration: "Come on, boys!" shouted Ward. "We're going in!" and
plunged through the narrow opening, a revolver in each hand.]
For four-and-twenty hours Ward and the exhausted survivors of his
legion, without food and without water, held the gate in the face of the
most desperate efforts to retake it. Then the Chinese reinforcements for
which he had asked tardily arrived, and Sunkiang was an Imperial city
again. The American had taken the first trick in the great game he was
playing. It was at fearful cost, however, for of the five hundred men
who followed him into action, but one hundred and twenty-eight remained
alive, and of these only twenty-seven were without wounds. In other
words, the casualties amounted to _more than ninety-four per cent of the
entire force_. Ward had ridden out of Shanghai a despised adventurer to
whom the foreign officers refused to speak. He returned to that city a
hero and a power in China. The priesthood acclaimed him as the saviour
of the sacred city; the emperor made him a Mandarin of the Red Button;
the merchants of Shanghai voiced their relief by adding a splendid
estate to the promised reward of seventy-five thousand dollars. His
reputation would have been secure if he had never fought another
battle.
Leaving Sunkiang heavily garrisoned by imperial troops, Ward withdrew to
Shanghai for the purpose of recruiting his shattered forces. Such a
glamour of romance now surrounded the legion that Ward was fairly
besieged by European as well as Oriental volunteers. Shortly after the
capture of Sunkiang, Ward had occasion to visit Shanghai with reference
to the care of his wounded. While riding through the streets of the city
he was arrested by a British patrol, and despite his protestations that
he was an officer in the imperial service, was hustled aboard the
flag-ship of Admiral Sir James Hope, which lay in the harbor, and was
placed in close confinement. In reply to his inquiries he was told that
he was to be tried for recruiting British man-o'-war's-men for service
in his legion. Though the arrest was high-handed and unjustified, there
seemed no immediate prospect of release, for the American consul-general
refused to interfere on the ground that Ward, by taking service under
the Chinese government, had forfeited his right to American protection;
the imperial authorities were powerless to take any action; while the
British were notoriously fearful of the dangerous ascendancy which this
American might gain if his successful career was permitted to continue.
The only hope for Ward--and for China--lay in his escape. A friend
perfected a plan of flight. While visiting Ward, who was confined in an
outside cabin of the flag-ship, with a marine constantly on guard at the
door, he synchronized his watch with that of the cabin clock, and
whispered to the prisoner that he would be in a sampan under his cabin
window at precisely two o'clock in the morning. Taking off his coat and
shoes that he might be unhampered in the water, Ward sat on the edge of
his berth with his eyes on the face of the clock. Just as the
minute-hand touched the figure II, Ward made a dash for the window and
sprang head-foremost through the sash, for the windows of the old
fashioned men-of-war were much larger than the ports of modern
battle-ships. He had hardly touched the water before he was pulled
aboard a sampan, which disappeared in the darkness long before the
flag-ship's boats could be manned and lowered. This daring exploit
enormously increased Ward's prestige among both Chinese and Europeans,
with whom the British, as a result of their insolent and overbearing
attitude, were intensely unpopular. Some days later Admiral Hope sent a
message to Ward requesting an interview, and, upon Ward assuring him
that he would no longer recruit his ranks from the British navy, the
old sea fighter became his strong partisan and friend.
With his ranks once more repleted, Ward made preparations for a second
venture. This time it was the city of Sing-po toward which he turned;
but the Taipings, getting wind of his intentions, secretly threw an
overwhelming force into the place under a renegade Englishman named
Savage. Ward was without artillery with which to breach the walls, and,
after several desperate assaults, in leading which he was severely
wounded, he was forced to retire. Ten days later, regardless of his
wounds, he tried again, but this time he was taken in the rear by a
Taiping army of twenty thousand men, his little force being completely
surrounded. So certain was the rebel leader that the famous general was
within his grasp, that he consulted with his officers as to what methods
of torture they should use upon him. But he was a trifle premature, for
Ward struck the Taiping cordon at its weakest point, fought his way
through, and reached Shanghai with a loss of only one hundred men. His
secret agents bringing him word that the powerful force from which he
had just escaped was to be used in the recapture of Sunkiang, Ward, by
making night marches, slipped unperceived into that city. When the
Taipings attempted to carry it by storm a few days later, instead of
meeting with the half-hearted resistance which they had grown to expect
from Chinese garrisons, they were astounded to see the helmeted figure
of the dreaded American upon the walls, and were greeted with a blast of
rifle fire which swept away their leading columns and crumpled up their
army as effectually as though it had encountered an earthquake.
Dangerously weakened by half a dozen wounds, Ward was reluctantly
compelled to go to Paris in the fall of 1860 for surgical attention.
Back at Shanghai again at the beginning of the following summer, he
found that the Taipings, emboldened by his absence, were flaunting their
banner within sight of the city walls. From end to end of the empire
there existed an unparalleled reign of terror, the rebels now having
grown so strong that they demanded the recognition of the European
powers. Ward, meanwhile, had become convinced that the true solution of
the problem lay in raising an army of natives, rather than foreigners,
for not only was the supply of Chinese unlimited, but his experience had
shown him that there was splendid fighting material in them if they were
properly drilled and led. When he asked permission of the imperial
government to raise and drill a Chinese force, therefore, it was gladly
granted.
An opportunity to put his theories regarding the fighting capabilities
of the Chinese to a test soon came. Learning that a force of rebels, ten
thousand strong, was advancing in the direction of Shanghai, Ward
sallied forth from his headquarters at Sunkiang with two thousand five
hundred men, struck the Taiping army, curled it up like a withered leaf,
and drove it a dozen miles into the interior. Pressing on, he captured
the city of Quan-fu-ling, which the rebels had garrisoned and fortified,
and with it several hundred junks loaded with supplies. Throughout these
actions his Chinese displayed all the steadiness and courage of European
veterans. That he showed sound judgment in pinning his faith to natives
is best proved by the fact that from that time on he never met with a
reverse. His motto was "Cold steel," and his tactics would have
delighted the old-time sea fighters, for, appreciating the fact that few
Oriental troops are capable of remaining steady under a galling
long-range fire, he invariably threw his men against the enemy in an
overwhelming charge, and finished the business at close quarters with
the bayonet.
Moving up from Sunkiang with a thousand of his men, Ward joined a
combined force of French and British bluejackets, who had with them a
light howitzer battery, in an attack on Kaschiaou, just opposite
Shanghai, which was the city's main source of supplies, and which the
rebels had seized and fortified. Using the contingent from the war-ships
as a reserve, Ward and his Chinamen did the work alone, carrying the
stockades by storm and capturing two thousand rebels, as a result of
which the enemy fell back from the neighborhood of Shanghai. So strongly
impressed were the British officers with the behavior of Ward's soldiery
that Sir James Mitchel, the commander-in-chief on the China station,
strongly urged that the task of suppressing the rebellion be placed in
the American's hands, and that he be empowered to raise his force to ten
thousand men. A few weeks later Ward received an imperial rescript
acknowledging his great services to China, and appointing him an
admiral-general of the empire, the highest rank that the emperor could
bestow. With this came the authority to recruit his force to six
thousand men, and its baptism, by imperial order, with the sonorous and
thrilling title of _Chun Chen Chun_, or the Ever-Victorious Army.
As the barometer of Ward's fortunes steadily rose, that of his native
country began to fall, the dark cloud of secession hanging
threateningly over the land. It has been said of Ward that he
denationalized himself by marrying a Chinese wife and adopting a Chinese
name, but there is no doubt that it was only his stern sense of duty
which kept him at the task he had undertaken in China when the guns of
Sumter boomed out the beginning of the Civil War. He immediately sent a
contribution of ten thousand dollars to the Union war fund, however,
with a message that his services were at the disposal of the North
whenever they were required. At the time of the _Trent_ affair, when war
between England and the United States was momentarily expected, and the
British in China had laid plans to seize American shipping and other
property in the treaty ports, Ward effected a secret organization of
American sympathizers and prepared to surprise and capture every British
war-ship and merchant vessel in Chinese waters. In view of his success
in equally daring exploits, there is good reason to believe that he
would have accomplished even so startling a _coup_ as this.
While recruiting his army to its newly authorized strength, Ward did not
give the Taipings a moment's rest. He kept several flying columns
constantly in the field, attacking the rebels at every opportunity,
cutting up their outposts, harrying their pickets, breaking their lines
of communication, and demoralizing them generally. One day Ward would be
reported as operating in the south, and the Wang would draw a momentary
breath of relief, but the next night, without the slightest warning, he
would suddenly fall upon a city a hundred miles to the northward and
carry it by storm. By such aggressive tactics as these Ward struck fear
to the heart of the Taiping leader, who saw the despotism he had built
up crumbling about him before the American's smashing blows. It was
said, indeed, that the mere sight of Ward's white helmet in the van of a
storming party was more effective than a brigade of infantry. With a
thousand men of his own corps and six hundred royal marines he attacked
and captured Tsee-dong, a walled city of considerable strength, and
cleared the rebels from the surrounding region as though with a
fine-tooth comb. The town of Wong-kadza was in the possession of the
Taipings, and Ward decided to capture it. General Staveley, who had
succeeded Sir James Mitchel in command of the British forces, offered to
co-operate with him. It was agreed that they should rendezvous outside
the town. Ward reached there first with six hundred of his men. Without
waiting for the British to come up, he ordered his bugles to sound the
charge, and after a quarter of an hour of desperate fighting he carried
the stockade, and the rebels broke and ran, Ward's men killing more of
them in the pursuit than they themselves numbered. When General Staveley
arrived a few hours later he was chagrined to see the imperial standard
flying over the city and to find that the impetuous American had done
the work and reaped the glory. The allied forces now pressed on to the
Taiping stronghold of Tai-poo, which was held by a strong and well-armed
garrison. While the British engaged the attention of the rebels in front
with a fierce artillery fire, Ward and his Chinamen made a detour to the
rear of the city, and were at and over the walls almost before the
garrison realized what had happened.
The Ever-Victorious Army now numbered nearly six thousand men. It was
well drilled and under an iron discipline; it was fairly well armed; it
was magnificently officered; it was emboldened with repeated successes.
The man who was the maker and master of such a force might well go a
long way. That Ward dreamed of eventually making himself dictator of
China there can be but little doubt. Louis Napoleon, remember, climbed
to a throne on the bayonets of his soldiers. By this time the American
soldier of fortune had become by long odds the most popular figure in
the empire; the army was with him to a man; he possessed the confidence
of the great mandarins and merchant princes; and he had to his credit an
almost unparalleled succession of victories. Dictator of the East! What
American ever had a more ambitious dream and was within such measurable
distance of realizing it? It is no exaggeration to say that, had Ward
lived, the whole history of the Orient would have been changed, and
China, rather than Japan, would doubtless have held the balance of power
in the Farther East.
In April, 1862, Ward, the Viceroy Lieh, and the French and British
commanders held a council of war in Shanghai. Ward suggested a plan of
campaign designed to break the Taiping power in that part of China for
good and all. Briefly put, his scheme was to capture a semicircle of
cities within a radius of fifty miles of Shanghai and the coast. This
would result in the rebels being held within their own lines by a cordon
of bayonets, and, as they had utterly devastated the regions they had
overrun, would mean starvation for them. Thus cut off from the seaboard,
Ward argued, they would be unable to obtain ammunition and supplies,
and the rebellion would soon wither. The series of operations was
carried out as planned, Ward's corps being reinforced by three thousand
French and British. It ended in the capture, in rapid succession, of the
cities of Kah-ding, Sing-po, Najaor, and Tsaolin. In every case Ward
insisted on being given the post of honor; he and his Chinamen, who
fought with an appalling disregard for life, carrying the defences at
the bayonet's point, while his European allies covered his advance with
artillery fire and supported his whirlwind attacks. Leaving garrisons
barely large enough to hold the captured cities, he pushed on by forced
marches to Ning-po, which was a large and strongly fortified city. Twice
his storming parties were driven back. The third time the men, exhausted
by the continuous fighting in which they had been engaged and the long
marches they had been called upon to perform, momentarily faltered in
the face of the terrible fire which greeted them. Instantly Ward ordered
the recall sounded, formed them into line within easy rifle-range of the
city walls, and calmly put them through the manual of arms with as much
precision as though they were on parade, while a storm of bullets
whistled round them, and men were momentarily dropping in the ranks.
Then, his men once more in hand, the bugles screamed the charge and the
yellow line roared on to victory.
Ward gave his last order to advance--he had forgotten how to give any
other--on September 21, 1862. With a regiment of his men he was about to
attack Tse-Ki, a small fortified coast town a few miles from Ning-po.
With his habitual contempt for danger he was standing with General
Forester, his chief of staff, well in advance of his men, inspecting the
position through his field-glasses. Suddenly he clapped his hand to his
breast. "I've been hit, Ed!" he exclaimed, and fell forward into the
arms of his friend. Very tenderly his devoted yellow men carried him
aboard the British war-ship _Hardy_, which was lying in the harbor, but
the naval surgeons shook their heads when an examination showed that the
bullet had passed through his lungs. "Don't mind me," whispered Ward.
"Take the city." So Forester, heavy at heart, ordered forward the
storming parties. That night the great captain died. The last sound he
heard was his Chinamen's shrill yell of triumph.
With extraordinary solemnity the dead soldier was laid to rest in the
temple of Confucius in Sunkiang, the most sacred shrine in China and
the very spot where he had established his headquarters after his first
great victory. His body, which was followed to the grave by imperial
viceroys, European admirals, generals, and consuls, and Chinese
mandarins, was borne between the silent lines of his Ever-Victorious
Army. By order of the emperor his name was placed in the pantheon of the
gods. Temples to commemorate his victories were built at Sing-po and
Ning-po, and a magnificent mausoleum was erected in his honor in
Sunkiang. In it the yellow priests of Confucius still burn incense
before his tomb. In all his history there can be found no hint of
dishonor, no trace of shame. He was a great soldier and a very gallant
gentleman, but he has been forgotten by his own people. To paraphrase
the lines of Matthew Arnold:
"Far hence he lies,
Near some lone Chinese town,
And on his grave, with shining eyes,
The Eastern stars look down."
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Punctuation normalized.
Page 66: "cimiter" retained as printed.
Various: retained as printed "Tippo-Sahib" and "Tippoo Sahib".
Page 104: "govenment" replaced with "government" in "government
of this new country which was about to be annexed".
Page 115: "alignement" changed to "alignment".
Page 116: "caufles" retained as printed.
Page 157: "lowered the flag next day" and "Commodore T. ApCatesby
Jones" retained as printed.
Duplicate chapter headings removed.