Chapter Twenty Nine.
“One Cartridge Left.”
There was no doubt about the matter, for as they were speaking a tiny curl of smoke began to rise from the middle of the group of busy men on the nearest junk, and Stan’s voice rose, sounding hoarse and deep:
“Begin firing again, slow and careful shots, at the men carrying the matches. Stop; I’ll begin.”
He took aim across the bale of silk behind which he was kneeling, and—though he did not see it, others did plainly—the linstock flew up, jerked from the holder’s hand, described a curve, and fell overboard to be extinguished.
There was a yell at this, and half-a-dozen men or so began discharging their matchlocks at the window from which the accurate shot had come; while directly after there was a roar from another junk, whose men had charged their brass gun unseen, and the contents went crashing and spattering about the opening, making a great uproar, but doing very little harm.
It was a disillusionment for the defenders which roused them to a feeling of bitterness and nerved every one present with determination, and the duel between the junks and the hong went on fiercely, but with no serious harm to the defenders. The attacking party, however, suffered terribly, man after man of the crews, if they can be so called, of the guns falling killed or wounded from the slow, steady, accurate fire which picked off with almost unerring precision those who loaded and those who fired the junks’ artillery, till the pirates yelled with rage and fury, crowding over one another to take the disabled men’s places.
Meanwhile, in spite of the nerve-shattering discharges whenever the swivel-guns were fired, Stan’s followers kept up their slow, steady, irregular reply. Sometimes minutes passed without a rifle being fired, for want of what was looked upon as a good opportunity; and then shot after shot would snap out from one or another window, giving the enemy the work of carrying off as many dead or disabled men.
Again and again Stan deluded himself into the belief, caused by the cessation of the firing, that the enemy were once more out of heart; but the pauses proved to be only due to the failure of ammunition or a difficulty in bringing up the lighted match, and the firing recommenced, and more gunners were in retaliation shot down.
“At last!” cried Stan exultantly, after the hottest passage of the attack yet endured, when all at once the firing ceased. “Look! they’ve had some accident; that big junk is on fire.”
He pointed needlessly to a great body of smoke which seemed to be rising amidships of the first-coming junk but the last to be moored.
“Yes, there’s something wrong there,” said his lieutenant excitedly. “No, no, no! Look out! Here they come.”
To a man the defenders drew a deep breath, and their hands went to their bandoliers to feel for cartridges. For it was plain enough: discouraged but enraged by the ill-success of their firing, the Chinese leaders had given their orders to their men, who needed no inciting, but began pouring over the sides of the vessels again, many of them bearing their abominable fire-pots, of which a number had been made ready in the hold of one of the junks; and, without leaders or any formation beyond that of a yelling, surging crowd, the enemy began running up to the hong to gain the shelter of the wall of chests.
Here there was a halt for a few seconds till the front wall was crowded, while not a shot was fired by the defenders, who, in full expectation of what was coming, had seen their young leader order up two-thirds of the coolies, one half to deal with the fire-pots, and return them blazing amongst the enemy, and the other to be ready with buckets and bales to smother out any fire which might arise.
The smoke of the pots was rising in a cloud, from the front of the wall, and though they could not see, the defenders surmised correctly enough that the bearers of the direful missiles were swinging them in the air to get them into a high state of combustion before beginning the assault; and all waited with knitted brows, wondering how long it would be before the bewildering roar of the gongs began again, for the delay seemed, in their over-excited state, to be long and strange.
Just when the excitement of waiting was becoming unbearable, there was a diversion, the quaint-looking, pig-tailed head of Wing rising slowly from the stairway, followed by the rest of him, and he began to limp painfully towards where Stan crouched rifle in hand, with its deadly charge waiting to bring down the first prominent leader upon whom he could bring the sight to bear.
He was about the only one of the defenders who did not see the coming of Wing, and he started as he felt the man’s soft fingers touch his arm.
“Ah, you, Wing!” he cried sharply. “What do you want here?”
“Misteh Blunt send Wing young Lynn.”
“Hah! Then he is awake?”
Wing nodded.
“Is he better?”
“No. Velly bad. Say smokee chokee. Tell Wing come say you takee ca’e fi’ no get to magazine and blow up allee ca’tlidge.”
“Yes, yes; I’ll take care. Tell him we are doing our best, Wing, and that I can’t come down to see him.”
“No; can’tee come down. B’long warehouse. Mustee stop kill big lot pilate.”
“Go down now, Wing,” said Stan impatiently. “You’ll only be in the way here.”
“Yes, go down soon fight begin.”
“And stay with Mr Blunt; he may want water.”
“No stay ’long Misteh Blunt—no. Say Wing makee ’self useful. B’long wa’ehouse now. Stop see if fi’ begin to buln, and put um out ’gain with bucketee wateh.”
“Very well; do that, then.”
“Yes, Wing go stand ’longside ca’tlidge place. See no stinkee-pot come floo.”
“Yes; good. Be off; I’m going to fire.”
“Go fi’?” said Wing. “Yes; no shootee Wing. Get ’way now.”
It was quite time, as the Chinaman felt. Limping along the floor, he made for the stairway, and had just reached it when, with a roar and dash, the fierce enemy climbed to the top of the little wall and began to discharge their jingals and fire-pots, no less than three of these latter falling inside at the first discharge.
It was a repetition of the first assault, but earned on with more savage energy, in spite of the calm, steady reply in single shots from the defenders, who kept to their former tactics, with the result that nearly every time a rifle sent forth its jet of flame and faint puff of smoke it meant a message of death or temporary disablement to some miscreant who was more prominent than his fellows in the assault.
But they were as far, apparently, as ever from carrying the place, and when, enraged by their ill-success, about a score of the most desperate dropped from the wall to try and batter in the doors, covered by a fierce discharge of the fire-pots through the windows above, Stan, terrible as the time was, felt an old incident of schoolboy life flash across his brain.
It was no time of fire, although it was mimic battle royal, for it was an episode of snowballing when the weaker side were driven to take flight and shelter themselves behind the dwarf wall of the covered-in portion of the playground, where no snow had of course fallen, while just outside it lay piled up consequent upon the roof having been swept after a heavy fall. Stan and his fellows were therefore in the position of being without ammunition, while their adversaries were standing knee-deep in the midst of abundance.
There seemed to be nothing left but ignominious surrender, when the idea occurred to Stan which enabled his party to turn the tables. It was merely to catch the ready-made balls of snow and return them instantly to the throwers. And with this memory coming to him in the emergency, just when the stink-pots were coming thickest and the doors below threatened to give way to the battering and hacking they received from the furious party beneath the windows, Stan brought his coolies together and gave his orders, which were to raise the blazing pots with crowbars and carry them to the openings over the threatened doors, after the barricading bales had been dragged away; and then, just when the attack was at its worst, two half-dozens of the blazing grenades were quietly dropped at once amongst the constituents of the Chinese forlorn-hope.
The effect was as instantaneous as it was horrible. Several of the men at each door were splashed with the burning resinous material, while one or two were in an instant blazing. There was a wild yelling of pain and despair, and, as much to avoid their fellows as the missiles flung after them, the whole of the attacking party took to flight to gain the other side of the wall, such of them as were burning making for the river.
This stopped the assault upon the doors, but only increased the fury of the enemy’s firing from their shelters, while more blazing pots were being brought rapidly down from the junks, to be handed up to the throwers and then hurled in as before.
“Never mind,” shouted Stan; “we’ve checked them a bit. Fire away at the men who bring the stink-pots.—Eh—what? Getting to the last cartridges? Plenty more.—Here, Mr Lawrence,” he continued, turning to his lieutenant; “there’s a whole case in the magazine; fetch them up.”
“Is the trap-door locked?” said the man thoughtfully.
“No—only shut down. Quick! We must not slacken our fire now.”
Lawrence placed his rifle against the breastwork from behind which he had been bringing down enemy after enemy, ran along the great store floor, and narrowly escaped being hit by one of the fiery missiles which came flying in; but he reached the broad stairway in safety, plunged down, and returned in a marvellously short space of time with an open case of ammunition in his hands.
“Here, cartridges—cartridges!” shouted two of his fellows as he hurried by where they were firing; but he paid no heed to their cries, trotting on to where Stan was as busy as the rest, and with a fierce growl banged the case at his feet.
“Well done!” shouted Stan. “Quick! Hand the packets round. What!” he cried. “Dripping wet?”
“Yes!” cried the bearer of the case and the most dire news that could be carried to men in so sore a strait—treachery. “The trap-door was thrown back, and some cursed scoundrel had emptied a bucket into the open chest. Look! The cases are saturated. I had to pour a gallon of water out into the iron bucket that was standing just below.”
Stan’s jaw dropped, and he stared for a moment or two helplessly at Lawrence.
The cry of “Cartridges—this way!” brought him back to himself.
“Patience!” he shouted as loudly as he could, and throwing open the breech of his rifle, he took out the full cartridge waiting to be fired and replaced it in his bandolier. Then, to break open one of the little packets in which the contents of the fresh case were wrapped, he snapped the string and tore off the sodden paper, which, as he crushed it in his hand and then dropped it, fell with a soft dab on the floor.
The next instant he had placed one of the new cartridges in the chamber of his rifle, closed the breech, turned, took aim at once at the most active of the jingal bearers, and drew trigger.
Click!
Just the falling of the hammer, and nothing more.
“That is the last case,” said Stan softly, and without showing the slightest emotion, as he merely withdrew the little cylinder, to whose detonator the water had evidently penetrated, though part of the powder might still have remained unspoiled.
“Yes, sir, the very last. What’s to be done now?”
“One moment,” said Stan quietly as he once more put in the dry cartridge from his bandolier. “Just you try one from another packet,” he whispered.—“Halt!” he shouted down the room. “Cease firing.—Now try one.”
Another packet from the next layer was tried, but the wrapper was if anything wetter, and a click! was the result.
“Oh, they’re all spoiled,” said Lawrence bitterly. “The game’s up, so only let us die fighting.”
“Of course,” said Stan coolly enough; “but we’ve not used our revolvers yet. We’ll give them a volley from our rifles, and then we must take to our pistols and wait till they come to close quarters.”
“What do you say to retreating to the office after the volley, and then defending the door as the brutes try to get at us? The revolvers will tell splendidly there, too, as we shall be firing into the dense mob who crowd into the passage.”
“The very thing,” said Stan; “and we shall be defending Mr Blunt at the same time. Of course; and we must set the coolies at work then to help us with their knives.”
“Yes,” said Stan’s lieutenant, “the coolies—Chinamen. Mr Lynn,” he cried in a hoarse whisper, “it must have been one of those dogs who were to be ready to stop the fire with their buckets.”
“It couldn’t have been,” said Stan. “They were all up here.”
“Then it was that cunning Chinese fox, Wing,” growled Lawrence angrily; “and if we’re to die he shall go first.”
“Oh, impossible!” said Stan excitedly.
“I’ve got but one cartridge left,” shouted a man at the far end of the room.
“And I,”—“And I,”—“And I,” cried others, while some of the rest confessed to having two or three.
“And the enemy are coming on for a fresh attack of some kind. There’s quite a mob making for your window, Mr Lynn.”
“And they’ve got about a dozen stink-pots with them, sir,” cried another.
Stan glanced round, and there was the situation plainly enough. Some ten men were in the front of a cluster of about forty of the enemy, who were coming steadily on with levelled jingals, obviously making for the centre of the building.
“Now’s your time, sir,” whispered the lieutenant. “Let’s give them one good roar.”
“Yes,” said Stan, and he shouted to the occupants of the other windows to close up round him and bring the coolies to stand ready for the fire-pots close behind.
The evolution, if such it can be called, was performed at once, the little party of riflemen placing themselves in three rows behind their barricade, the first kneeling, the second stooping a little to fire over their fellows’ heads, and the back row perfectly upright, with the barrels of their rifles resting on the shoulders of the second line.
“We must risk the fire-pots, gentlemen,” said Stan; “but I hope to give the wretches one good, startling volley before they are able to throw. Right into the thick of them, mind, and then, before the smoke rises, every man must dash down below and into the office. I mean to hold that now.”
“But hadn’t we better fill up our belts first, sir, with cartridges?”
“They have all been soaked with water,” said Stan quietly. “There has been treachery here.”
His words were received with a groan.
“Then it’s all over,” said one young fellow piteously.
“Not while we have our revolvers,” said Stan. “We can stop them from reaching the office, I think, and our Chinese helpers will have a chance to do something then.”
A hearty cheer arose at this, for the cloud of despondency that was gathering had been chased away, and once more every eye was bright and nerves strung for the final effort.
“They’re nearly close enough,” said Stan quietly. “When they are at the densest, and the order is given to advance, I shall utter the word. Then fire right into the centre; never mind the fire-pot throwers. Let’s try to startle them if we can.”
There was a low murmur of assent, and then all waited, glaring past the bristling barrels of their rifles at the coming enemy, who, contrary to their former action, now crowded closely together as they came in something like discipline, their movements pointing to the fact that they were about to deliver fire from their jingals and then to make a rush. What they intended with the stink-pots which were being carried was not evident until they were closer in, when the fire-bearers struck off suddenly to the left as if to deliver them from a fresh point.
At this moment, as if to excite and drive the party on into making a more desperate attack, and to fill the defenders with dismay, the gongs on every junk suddenly boomed out with a terrific din; the fresh party uttered a yell, and then stopped short to fire.
Stan’s voice was almost drowned, but not quite. There was enough of his order heard to animate his little body of defenders. Trigger was drawn before a single match could be lowered upon the powder-pans of the jingals, and the rifles made almost one report, their bullets tearing through the group of pirates, who were not twenty yards away. Then, blind to the effect of their volley, screened as everything was by the smoke, the defenders started back from the window and hurried down the stairway to make for the office, where Blunt, to the surprise of all, was found sitting back in a cane chair, with Wing assiduously operating to keep him cool with a palm-leaf fan.
“Wouldn’t stop lying down,” began Wing to the nearest man; but his explanation was not heeded, the men preparing to barricade their keep, only leaving space for the rest to file in.