Another gateway barred further progress, and this was soon sent flying to pieces and the foreigners found themselves within the main courtyard of the viceroy’s palace. Never before had foreign sailors entered these sacred precincts with hostile intent.
“Mr. Perry, you and Mr. Monroe press ahead,” Lieutenant Wilson ordered. “You know something of the yamen,” he added, a faint smile on his earnest face. “Don’t be rash,” he warned. “I’ll be on hand if you need aid, but it looks as if the yamen were deserted.”
Quickly selecting a dozen men, among whom was O’Neil, who had pressed forward to the midshipmen’s side upon entering the building, Phil led the way toward the viceroy’s private apartments.
The door through which they had entered the night before was bolted from within, but by the united weight of Langdon and O’Neil it soon opened obediently. They found this room empty, but the door to the viceroy’s bedroom was open slightly.
“Careful, Mr. Perry,” O’Neil cried, catching the lad’s arm and drawing him back from the open door.
The boatswain’s mate was just in the nick of time. A rifle muzzle had suddenly been thrust through the opening and discharged, filling the room with the noise of thunder. Phil recoiled in terror, his face burning painfully from the heat of the discharge, while his ears were deafened.
“Do you see, sir?” O’Neil observed huskily, as he wrenched the rifle from the Chinaman’s hand and clubbed him into insensibility before he could run. “Always approach an open door with caution and from the side.”
Crowding into the viceroy’s bedchamber, the Americans were struck dumb by the sadness of the spectacle before them.
There in the great canopied bed lay the form of the aged viceroy; his eyes were closed, while upon his parchment-like face had spread the pallor of death. The room was empty save for a single figure standing beside the bed, a look of mortal fear in his eyes.
“Dead!” Phil whispered in awe at the sight, while he reverently removed his cap. The sailors stood in silence, their heads uncovered, thrilled by the scene. Chang-Li-Hun’s face, even in death, had not lost its cruel expression. He lay there, silent, unconquered. The will of Peking held no terrors for him now.