“Boom!” came the round shot hopping over them; and “Bang!” and “Rattle!” and “Rattle!” and “Bang!” they went on incessantly until all were out of range, the boats in tow resembling a funeral procession which, with its weird surroundings, seemed like Holbein’s “Dance of Death.”
It was such a ghastly picture, which those who saw it will never forget.
The lapping water had by this time overflowed the shelving banks of the river, which spread out far beyond its regular bounds into the reedy plains and marshes on either hand, the swollen stream bringing down, as the tide ebbed again towards midnight, the wreckage of the gunboats that had been sunk during the conflict.
Broken spars and the remnants of the destroyed booms floated along, impeding the progress of the craft that had escaped, and blocking the narrow channel where only sufficient depth could be obtained to admit of their passage out to sea; while the corpses of the slain that had fallen overboard floated by similarly on the turbid bosom of the Peiho.
All these baffled our poor fellows who were struggling for their lives when the boats upset, and endeavouring to swim to the steamers, which, on their part, were trying their hardest to get across the bar before it would be too late!
All the time, too, the Manchurian marksmen were busy taking pot-shots at some unhappy survivor wallowing in the mud under the forts, which were firing furiously without a moment’s cessation, lighting up the hideous scene on which the dark heavens above, without a star to be seen, looked down in horror.
Of the eleven vessels we had engaged from first to last, three were sunk, four disabled, and three more so much damaged as to require considerable repair subsequently before being again fit for service; while out of a total of eleven hundred men who had started off so gaily in the morning to play their part in this tragic play, our casualties amounted to five hundred, so that not one half ever returned to swing in their respective hammocks again.
“By Jove we have got a thrashing!” said Commander Nesbitt, ruefully, next morning, when Dr Nettleby came to make his report as to the state of the wounded we had and there was a general counting up of losses. “I didn’t think John Chinaman had it in him to make such a stand!”
“Neither did I,” replied Captain Farmer, who was standing by on the poop, looking over the taffrail at the spot made memorable by last night’s carnage, though the whilom muddy river appeared bright enough now with the sun shining down on its rippling surface, and no trace of the fight of yesterday visible save the masts of one and part of the hull of another of the sunken gunboats in the distance, and the grim forts staring down on them defiantly, apparently quite uninjured by the pounding they had received. “They have certainly given us a licking, but they’ll have a very heavy reckoning to pay for their temporary triumph by-and-by, Nesbitt, or I am very much mistaken! I suppose you recollect the old proverb, Hodie mihi, eras tibi?”
“Can’t say I do, sir,” said the commander in answer, scratching his head reflectively as he raised his cap for the purpose, with the object apparently of quickening his memory by that means. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten all my Latin, sir, long since. What does it mean, eh?”