Halfhyde on the Yangtze Read online

  “Sir, the enemy!” He was too far away; he left his place at the tail of the line and went ahead full belt to make his Captain aware of the creeping danger that threatened to squeeze the British force like a pair of nutcrackers.

  Chapter 5

  “HOLD YOUR tongue, Mr Beauchamp, I have other things to think about than lily-livers and fools, I am about to come under attack–”

  Beauchamp’s control broke. “So am I!” he screamed.

  “What?”

  Beauchamp, his eyes wide and his face working, gestured violently towards the rear. “We are being pincered and all you do is—”

  “Kindly calm yourself, Mr Beauchamp,” Watkiss interrupted with dignity. “What do you wish to report?”

  “A large force closing in from the rear, sir!”

  “I’ll be damned! Why the devil didn’t you say so before, Mr Beauchamp, you are utterly useless and a great trial to me. Mr Halfhyde, pass the order to halt, if you please, and to re-form with my for’ard half facing front, my after part facing to the rear, front ranks to kneel. And quickly.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Halfhyde passed the order. The manoeuvre was completed within the minute, and Halfhyde returned to his Captain’s side. “What’s your intention, sir?”

  “To stand and fight, of course, what else?” Watkiss flourished his sword. “When the enemy disperses, I shall continue towards the relief of the hostages. In the meantime, I shall fight as a square.”

  “A square, sir?”

  “Yes, Mr Halfhyde, I have in effect formed square, have I not, and what was good enough for Wellington is good enough for me. When ashore, we must adapt to land fighting, and the British square has never yet been beat. God damn and blast these filthy yellow swine, Mr Halfhyde, kindly get rid of that for me.” Watkiss jerked some vile-smelling object from his arm, an object that had flown through the air from the enemy ahead. This was only the first cast, the one that seemed to act as a signal, and a moment later the bombardment began. Stones, clods of mud, small dead animals, everything handy to the Chinese came flying; and simultaneously a murmur began, a murmur of hate and fury that rose higher and higher. Rear Admiral Hackenticker brought his mouth close to Watkiss’ ear. “I guess we should open fire, Captain,” he shouted. “Will you give the order to your men?”

  “No.”

  “I think—”

  “I am not concerned with what you think, my dear sir, I know my orders deriving from the Queen and I shall follow them. The dagoes are to fire first, or diplomacy will be shattered—”

  “The heck with diplomacy!” Hackenticker shouted back, his face scarlet with anger. “You’ll kill every man jack unless you show fight!”

  Watkiss glared. “Sticks and stones can only break our bones, Admiral, not kill us. Mr Bodmin?”

  “I be ’ere, zur.”

  “I know, that’s why I addressed you, I wish you wouldn’t say that each time I open my mouth. Did you not say your wife was a da—Chinese woman?”

  “Ar, she be that, zur.”

  “And that you had influence with her fellow countrymen?”

  “Ar, that I did say, zur.”

  Watkiss bounced up and down. “Use it, then, for God’s sake!”

  “Well…” Mr Bodmin scratched his nose, looking dubious. “What be I to say like, zur?”

  “Oh, dear…anything you feel may call the buggers off!”

  “Ar. That be a ’ard task now, zur, but I’ll try.”

  “Yes, do.”

  Mr Bodmin made his way ahead and stood a few feet in advance of the main body. He waved his arms, and the sounds of hate died a little as did the hail of filth and stones. He called out in Chinese, seeming voluble. He produced no effect of value: the verbal assault and the missiles picked up again, and Mr Bodmin was himself struck heavily on the chest by a chunk of earth. He fell to the ground, his influence at an end, and was assisted back into the British lines by Admiral Hackenticker. “He’s proved quite useless,” Watkiss said angrily and stamped his foot. “Mr Halfhyde!”

  “Sir?”

  “Stronger measures are called for. I shall try to disperse the blasted dagoes bloodlessly. The men are to open fire over the heads of the mob, Mr Halfhyde, kindly see to that.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The order passed, the massed rifles crashed out ahead and astern. Watkiss gave them six volleys and became extremely bitter when the crowd sounds worsened and even more filth was cast. Ammunition was only being wasted, and Watkiss ordered the cease fire. He stared around at his tattered men: they were all covered in muck, their white duck jumpers and gaitered legs almost black, and many were streaming blood from cuts sustained in the bombardment, and there were many contusions and lumps—Watkiss himself had one like a hen’s egg on his forehead, but was able to cover it up a little by means of pulling down the blue-puggareed white helmet which he was wearing for action rather than his gold-oak-leaved cap. He breathed hard; what was he to do now? He was not, in fact, short of advice; Rear Admiral Hackenticker was offering plenty in a loud, hectoring voice. The British were ninnies, and Watkiss lacked guts. The time had come to fight and by heck, if Watkiss wouldn’t give the order, well, he would and be damned.

  “Not to my men,” Watkiss snapped. “They will not obey you. I shall see to that! I shall not break diplomacy. I am under orders, for the tenth time I think this is, to avoid bringing about a war.”

  “What the heck d’you think you’re in now, for crying out aloud?”

  “Not a war. A civil disturbance.”

  “Civil my arse.”

  Watkiss turned his back. He seethed up and down, growing filthier by the second. Civil? Was it? There were uniformed men present in the mob, were there not? And it was more than a disturbance, more than a riot really, it was deliberate attack, a damned insult to the Queen whose representative he, Watkiss, was at this moment. He looked around for Halfhyde, but Halfhyde was not to be seen. Captain Watkiss reached a decision: diplomacy was important, naturally, but now it was a case of first things first; total failure and many dead would scarcely commend him to the Admiralty and never mind the damn diplomats, he was a seaman. He turned again upon Hackenticker. “The situation’s altered,” he said huffily, “and it is clear that I must retaliate whatever your view may be, Admiral. I am about to give the order to open fire.”

  “A shade too late, I guess.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  The American swept a hand around, sardonically. “Look.”

  Watkiss looked. Down side alleys to right and left more Chinese had closed in, while from the gaping windows of sleazy dwellings alongside yellow faces peered through above rifles and dirty bayonets. In rear the mob had moved closer and looked extremely menacing. And in front as well: the massed Chinese, moving forward like those in rear, chose this moment to part to left and right and into view trundled an ancient field piece, a muzzle-loading gun, probably of smooth bore and certainly of very heavy calibre, mounted on a gun-carriage propelled by coolies stripped to the waist and wearing blue calf-length trousers and straw hats.

  “God damn!” Watkiss said, staring. The field gun would blow everybody to smithereens, so much was quite obvious, unless it blew up in its firers’ faces when sent into action, which was a strong possibility but one on which a prudent man could not afford to bank. Watkiss must consider his gallant men, and did. “I told you it was blasted stupid to open fire in such a situation,” he said to Hackenticker. “I shall not now do so.”

  “You’ll surrender?”

  “The British never surrender. No, I shall parley.”

  Hackenticker grinned. “With the gun?”

  “I don’t consider your attitude helpful, and I shall report as much when I reach Hong Kong.” Bravely, Captain Watkiss advanced, waving his sword belligerently. Having second thoughts about belligerency when parleying, he thrust the sword back into its sheath. He advanced smack into the mouth of the field gun, which he saw was in a deplorable state and might well have blown u
p, but never mind that now, the die was cast for good or ill. Halting, he called out in an imperious tone, “Who’s in charge here, may I ask?” There was no answer; the hail of muck and the catcalls in Chinese had stopped by now, and there was a heavy silence, full of threat. “Damn them, none of the buggers speaks English. Mr Bodmin?” Bodmin failed to respond with his customary answer, and Captain Watkiss turned impatiently to find out why. Then he turned back again, having heard sounds from the Chinese mob, and found a person in uniform advancing upon him bearing an immense sword such as he believed the dagoes used for public executions.

  “You head serang?” this person asked.

  “I am not a serang, no. I am a Post Captain in Her Britannic Majesty’s Fleet. If your query was designed to find out if I am the senior officer present, the answer is yes, I am. The Rear Admiral behind me is an American.”

  The uniformed Chinese towered unpleasantly over Captain Watkiss and flourished his sword so close to Watkiss’ nose that he stepped back a pace. Having thus been made to look foolish, Watkiss scowled; he was annoyed already at being correlated with a serang, who was a kind of Chinese boatswain, or alternatively a leading hand in an engine-room. In any case, he believed the person confronting him had not taken in the purport of what he had said, and he was flummoxed for what to say or do next, and where the devil was Bodmin? As Watkiss started once again to turn to look for Bodmin, an immense yellow hand, very bony, clamped hard on his shoulder and swung him back again. Watkiss immediately ordered the fellow to remove the hand, but his order was totally disregarded. Inappropriate words about placing him in arrest bubbled to Watkiss’ lips, but, seen in time as absurd in the circumstances, did not emerge. Instead, scarlet in the face, he called out: “Mr Halfhyde!”

  “I be ’ere, zur,” a voice behind him said.

  “Oh, it’s you. I called for Mr Halfhyde, but never mind. Why didn’t you come earlier?” Watkiss breathed hard. “Tell this person who I am, if you please, Mr Bodmin, and what I have come for, which is, to obtain the release in the name of Her Majesty Queen Victoria of the Europeans held in the British Consulate, peacefully if possible, but if the buggers insist on opposing me, then not peacefully. Tell him that.”

  “Aye, aye, zur.” Respectfully, Bodmin touched his cap-peak. He spoke in Chinese to the uniformed person, who gave several nods of his head and a number of what Watkiss took to be grunts but which appeared to mean something to the former boatswain.

  “Well, Bodmin, is it peace or war?”

  “I be unsure, zur, just yet like.”

  “Hurry up, then.”

  “Aye, aye, zur. It be ’ard, zur, to ’urry them Chinamen.”

  “Balls, I haven’t got all day. Tell him that.”

  “Aye, aye, zur.” Mr Bodmin turned back to his task, and further exchanges took place while Captain Watkiss mopped at his face and looked forbearing. The whole thing was thoroughly undignified, and the dagoes were appalling, quite impossible, dirty and unkempt, uniforms or not, and if this fellow was their commander, then he had no business to be. He didn’t look like a gentleman to start with, and presumably even in foreign armies the officers were expected to be gentlemen, in this case mandarins or such. Captain Watkiss began to suspect he was mere mob and had stolen his uniform from a dago officer slaughtered in some riot, that would be just like foreigners, untrustworthy buggers to a man. Captain Watkiss appeared to steam like an engine as the ridiculous parley continued, and he stamped his foot.

  “Mr Bodmin, this is crazy.”

  “Ar, zur.”

  “Tell the man to remove that wretched field gun, and I shall march my force through his ranks.”

  “I don’t think that be wise, zur.” Mr Bodmin shook his head.

  “Oh, balls to wisdom, Mr Bodmin,” Watkiss said wearily. “It’s action that’s needed, not blasted wisdom, dagoes always respect thrust and I didn’t ask your advice anyway so far as I’m aware. Do as ordered, if you please.”

  “Zur—”

  “Get on with it, blast you.”

  “Very well, zur.” Mr Bodmin did, though not looking happy about it. The result was remarkable, really extraordinary; it caused Captain Watkiss to preen and hoist his sagging stomach up into his chest: the uniformed person grinned at Bodmin, then turned and shouted incomprehensible sounds at his ragged mob. As Watkiss watched, trying not to look astonished since what appeared to be happening was only what he had predicted, the field gun was once again set in motion by its blue-trousered coolies and hauled aside, while at the same time the mob ahead remained parted to right and left, evidently for the British sailors to march through.

  Captain Watkiss immediately drew his sword again and flourished it. “Well done, Mr Bodmin, what did I tell you! There’s no substitute for determination, by God! What did that fellow tell his men?”

  “I didn’t catch it, zur, I’m afraid. I be a shade deaf, zur, at long distance like, since—”

  “Yes, yes, never mind, Mr Bodmin, I seem to have settled matters very satisfactorily.” Captain Watkiss turned a pompous back upon the enemy to the front of his line of advance, and marched with drawn sword back to the group of officers, where he halted and once again mopped at his face: Chungking was murderous, and the smells were still there too. “You see, Admiral Hackensticker—”

  “Ticker. Hackenticker. Not Hackensticker.”

  “Oh, very well then, ticker. I apologize,” Watkiss said huffily. He was glad the American was only a very little taller than himself. That was one of the things about Halfhyde, too damn tall. “You see, I expect, that I was right. It’s no use shilly-shallying with the heathen Chinese, my dear sir, one must take the fight into their midst and never mind shot and shell—”

  “I’ll be darned!” Hackenticker said in amazement. “If you’ll pardon me saying so, Captain, it was me that—”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, there is now no time to be lost.” Captain Watkiss, seeing Halfhyde approaching, called out to him. “Mr Halfhyde, you’ll be so good as to form up the men for the march through the mob. Rifles at the short trail, ready for instant use if required.”

  “Are you sure this is wise, sir?”

  “Of course I am, or I’d not order it, thank you, Mr Halfhyde.”

  “I smell a trap, sir,” Halfhyde said for the second time that morning.

  “Oh, rubbish, there’s no blasted trap, that’s fact, I said it. I know these people,” Watkiss said with confidence, “they go down at the first fence. Mr Beauchamp?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m putting you in charge of the fifes and drums, that’s non-combatant enough. You can’t do much harm. You’ve no objection, Mr Sankey, have you?” Watkiss asked perfunctorily of the lieutenant of marines.

  “Well, sir, it’s really my—”

  “I thought not. Now, Mr Beauchamp, the fifes and drums. Play manfully. Mr Halfhyde, you will advance in column of fours at once. No quarter.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Halfhyde passed the order to the gunner’s mate, and the seamen moved out once again behind the music of the Royal Marine Light Infantry and Mr Beauchamp. The sound, though thin for lack of numbers of musicians, beat off the war-torn walls of the primitive Chinese dwellings. They moved through the close-packed, smelly bodies of the mob and, as they came past yet another Street of the Prostitutes, the voice of Captain Watkiss was heard calling loudly over the fifes and drums.

  “Sing, if you please, Mr Beauchamp. Show pride.”

  “I can’t sing, sir!”

  “Yes, you can, if you try. ‘Heart of Oak.’ It’s an order, Mr Beauchamp, and you will sing so as to be damn well heard.”

  Beauchamp, scarlet-faced, sang. The high-pitched but yet stirring words drifted back over the ranks of grinning bluejackets:

  ’Tis to glory we call you

  Not treat you like slaves,

  For who are so free

  As the sons of the waves?

  Heart of oak are our ships

  Heart of oak are our men,

&n
bsp; We’ll fight and we’ll conquer

  Again and again…

  “That’s enough after all, Mr Beauchamp, you have no idea of the tune.” The shaky, tuneless voice sang on and Captain Watkiss seethed. “Shut up, Mr Beauchamp, you are making me look foolish in the dagoes’ blasted sight!”

  Beauchamp stopped; almost crying with vexation, he reflected that there was simply no pleasing Captain Watkiss.

  EVEN WATKISS was amazed at the lack of interference, though he refrained from saying so, when behind the guidance of Mr Bodmin he halted his column outside the British Consulate, which was in fact surrounded by the Chinese so deeply that the naval force was entirely cut off from it. “There you are, my dear sir,” he remarked to Hackenticker. “I told you, did I not?”

  “I’m a trifle lost,” the Rear Admiral admitted, “as to who told who what—”

  “Well, never mind, we’re here and intact.”

  “So what?”

  Watkiss glared. “I beg your pardon?”

  Hackenticker indicated the mob outside the Consulate building. “Do you now ask them respectfully to stand aside and let you in, Captain?”

  “I haven’t decided yet; I’ve only just arrived. Mr Beauchamp, you’re as much use as a bishop in a brothel, you can’t even sing. It was like a dirge, not a sound of British stalwartness. Mr Halfhyde?”