“The mission,” he whispered; then he stopped in his tracks, while those behind pressed forward eagerly to know the cause. The metallic bark of a Colt gun rang out distantly on the quiet evening air, accompanied by the duller rattle of musketry. The mission was already being attacked.
CHAPTER XXI
TO THE RESCUE OF THE MISSION
The ominous sound of strife sent shivers up and down Phil’s spine; the mission was surrounded by a force far in excess of the handful guarding the helpless ones inside its wall; but the droning sound of the Colt gun was reassuring; it showed that Lieutenant Wilson had been on the alert, and he knew that officer well enough to believe that he would sacrifice himself and every man with him before the women and children were allowed to fall into the hands of the cruel Chinese mob.
These thoughts flashed through Phil’s mind while the sailors quickened their pace in obedience to Commander Hughes’ orders.
Reaching the crest of the hill, Phil gazed with his companions through the darkness down upon the valley between the mission hill and the one on which they were standing.
“Don’t deploy yet,” Langdon cautioned in a whisper to the American commander, who, he observed, was on the point of forming for the attack; “we must cross the bridge over that irrigation ditch in the middle of the valley; you can see the shadow of willows along it from here. Once across that, all will be clear ground between us and the mission.”
They pressed forward until the pilot raised his hand warningly and Commander Hughes signaled a halt. Langdon, motioning Phil to accompany him, left the column and advanced cautiously along the road toward the bridge, concealed from their view by a group of willow trees. Reaching the bridge, the pilot examined carefully the bamboo structure, then he gingerly placed his heavy foot on the wooden planking, testing it with his great weight of over two hundred pounds. Motioning Phil to remain where he was, he then walked cautiously across the bridge to test the fastenings on the other side of the deep ditch. The midshipmen saw his huge bulk dissolve in the darkness, but in a few moments he returned and his discovery was calculated to bring despair to the stoutest heart. They quickly joined the main body, waiting impatiently to push forward to the rescue of their comrades.
“Many of the lashings are cut on the far side, sir,” Langdon exclaimed in a low, excited voice; “one or two men at a time can probably cross in safety, but no more. There is no other bridge for five miles, and that may be in a similar condition.”
Here indeed was an effective stop to the eager sailors in sight of the battle between their comrades and the bloodthirsty enemy. The volume of musketry fire directed upon the mission had increased alarmingly, and at frequent intervals came the roar of artillery.
“Breaching the wall or shelling the gate,” Phil whispered in an awed voice as his eyes caught the flash of a heavy explosion at the base of the wall. His gaze, accustomed to the darkness, traveled over the ground across the ditch; it was strewn with high mounds, graves of forgotten Chinamen, and the lad saw that the natural protection offered excellent cover for the sailors when once across the shaky bridge structure; but, and a great fear rose in his mind, it would also aid the enemy in its endeavor to prevent the rescuers from crossing the nearly destroyed structure. Were those mounds even now concealing a large force of Chinese soldiers, who, when the unwary foreigners had rushed upon the tottering bridge, and many had fallen to the bottom of the deep culvert fifty feet below, would open fire upon their demoralized comrades, cut off from further attempts to succor those inside the mission compound?