“The next rush ought to sweep us down into the compound. Then for the magazine, and—the Big Noise!”
“Mr. Darrin,” bawled a missionary from below, “your sailor, Sampson, ordered me to come to you to say that the governor is nearly dead with terror over his position. Sin Foo promises that if the governor be brought up here, his excellency will order and persuade the rabble to cease fighting and withdraw.”
“Do you believe that, at this late stage, the governor could influence these thousands of mad men?” Dave demanded.
“It is more than possible,” replied the missionary.
“Tell Sampson, if you please, to bring his excellency up here. If the governor makes one false move, back he goes to the top of the magazine, without any further chance to redeem himself from going up with the rest of us in the Big Noise. Please tell Sampson to rush the governor here.”
“And shall I come back, that I may know just what his excellency says to the rabble?” suggested the missionary, who, like most of the others of his band, spoke the language of China.
“Be sure to come back, if you please,” Dave begged.
Again swarms of ladders were rushed to the walls. Pigtailed heads were mixed with short-haired Chinese heads, for, though the republic desired all Chinamen to lop off the pigtails of the monarchial days, only a portion of the Chinese men have done so.
At times the swarms coming up the ladders pressed so close that sailors and marines fought them with the butts of their rifles and with fists, even. The superior athletic physique of the Anglo-Saxon bore up before the rushes of the Chinamen with seemingly tireless energy. Had the top of the rampart been broader the Chinese must have carried all before them, but in the narrowness of the top of the wall the sailors had the advantage.
Once more ladders had been tipped over, the last of the yellow men hurled to the ground below, and again the machine guns and the infantry rifles poured their shots into the thousands below.