Read Online Guns to the Far East by V. A. Stuart - Free Book Online Page B

away. He’s signalling for a chase, sir!”
    The boy was right, Phillip saw. The majority of the junks had been taken or run ashore; some, abandoned in midstream, were on fire as their lost prize had been, their crews adding to the hundreds of bobbing heads on the wreckage-strewn surface of the water. But some twenty or thirty had contrived to make their escape and it was these the Commodore was after, heading the chase in Edward Turnour’s cutter. Only seven or eight boats followed him, for the flotilla had taken savage punishment, some hulled and barely afloat, others disabled by casualties and capable of doing no more than paddle slowly to the rescue of sinking comrades. Keppel, he knew, was not the man to quit when there was still fighting to be done and he would need all the support available … He glanced at O’Brien. The coxswain, reading his thoughts, gave him a grin.
    â€œI’m all right, sir,” he asserted.
    â€œVery good,” Phillip said. “Obey the Commodore’s signal, Mr Lightfoot.”
    â€œAye, aye, sir,” Lightfoot acknowledged happily. He gave a shrill-voiced order and the men bent to their oars.
    The fleeing junks were well commanded and, even in defeat, they fought back bravely. Some were headed and taken, several blew up or ran aground, but the remainder continued the running battle, hotly pursued by Keppel’s boats. For mile after mile they pulled, the rowers half-blinded by sweat and suffering casualties from the persistent fire of the Chinese stern-guns and gingalls. As a wounded oarsman slumped across his thwart, his place was taken by an officer or a marine and the chase continued, with only six boats in it now, two badly disabled by the enemy’s fire.
    Phillip, serving the battered brass gun in the bow of his launch, realised suddenly that he could see the red roofs of the city of Fatshan coming steadily nearer and found himself wondering whether the Commodore knew how small their force was and, if he did, whether it was his intention to attempt the capture of the city with his half-dozen boats. That the inhabitants feared an attack became evident, a few minutes later, when several hundred of them sallied forth in martial array, ringing bells and beating gongs, their waving banners and brandished swords clearly visible from the river.
    A few shots from Minié rifles and a shower of grape from the bow-gun of the cutter commanded by Captain Cochrane soon scattered them and they retired in undignified haste to the city. Three of the leading junks took advantage of their appearance to make their own escape but five others were caught up with and captured intact, and Commodore Keppel, his coxswain Spurrier lying severely wounded beside him and his boats’ crews exhausted, finally gave the signal to break off.
    â€œWell done, my brave boys!” he called out, as the boats clustered about him. “I wish I could lead you into the city—with the support you’ve all given me today, I fancy it would be in our hands by nightfall. But never mind …” He shook his fist in the direction of the retreating Fatshan soldiery and added, with a laugh, “We’ll be back, you rascals—and very soon!”
    The men, spent and weary though they were, somehow found the energy to respond with a cheer.
    â€œDo what you can for the wounded,” the Commodore ordered. “And then we’ll take our prizes back with us.” He looked down at the injured Spurrier, whose hand was clasped in his own, and the flush of elation faded from his cheeks. “Only three of them got away from us … we must have polished off most of their fleet and that’s a good day’s work, by any standard. But now there’s the butcher’s bill to be paid, more’s the pity … still, we saved your dog for you, Spurrier my lad. Although I shall never know how!”
    The little terrier, crouched by the coxswain’s side,