The China Station (The Earl’s Other Son Series, Book 1)

by Wareham, Andrew

  “Has he bigger guns of his own?”

  “None, sir, or not worthy of the name. A few of old, black-powder muzzle-loading two-pound bronze guns, sir. They make a bang and will propel cast-iron fragments for as much as two hundred of English yards, but are as likely as not to burst, sir, being ancient.”

  Magnus accepted that such pieces were worthless, being outranged by any modern rifle.

  “I intend, if possible, to capture the enemy’s guns, Mr Ping. To that end, I shall use the machine guns rather than the big guns. If I cannot take the battery, I shall destroy them with the five-inch guns. I shall attack at the earliest possible moment, as soon as we have any light.”

  A more modern vessel would have carried the new electric searchlights, but Bustard had no generator.

  The sky was almost cloud free and there was a little of moonlight two hours before dawn when Magnus ordered Bustard away from the river bank.

  “Forward cable, Mr Whyte.”

  The cable was released from the mooring bollard and coiled ready for immediate use. The current of the river caught Bustard’s bows so that she angled out into the stream.

  “Revolutions for five knots. Slip the stern cable. Man the guns. Landing party ready.”

  Bustard’s five inchers were set singly, on pivot mountings, each with a gun shield, two each to bows and the quarterdeck, one forward and one to the rear of the smokestack, port and starboard. The eight machine guns were placed between them, on the broadside.

  Mr McGurk had chosen to man all of the starboard guns and the five inchers to bows and stern, leaving six gun crews spare for the landing party. Mr Ping had assured them there was no reason to believe that the enemy had crossed the river, was advancing on both banks, and they certainly had no armed vessels on the water.

  The lookouts in the bows called the village and the enemy camp within a few minutes of rounding the big bend. There were weak lantern lights spread throughout the bivouacs and the remains of cook fires surrounding the village.

  “Lights on the shore as well, sir. Wharf, sir, with lanterns on posts. Nothing tied up, sir.”

  Any boats owned by the villagers would have fled ahead of the invaders.

  “Bring us close to the wharf, Mr Whyte. Revolutions for two knots.”

  They crawled quietly forward, ship darkened, hoping to be invisible.

  “All guns ready, Mr McGurk.”

  The command was a necessary formality; McGurk had been ready for action since nightfall.

  A ship’s boy ran from the bows.

  “Mr Prosser’s compliments, sir, the guns are in sight, sir. Six of them. Parked, sir.”

  Not ready for action.

  “Mr McGurk! With Maxims and Nordenfelts only, you may open fire on targets of opportunity.”

  The word was passed and the guns took an aim, the layers of the Maxims ordered to seek out clusters of soldiers and the heavier Nordenfelts to target any houses with sentries at the doors suggesting the presence of officers. The five inchers loaded shrapnel, pointed towards the bivouacs surrounding the village and waited.

  Mr McGurk held fire till the last moment, waited until the ship was barely fifty yards off the wharf before giving his shout. The night was shattered with the noise of the automatic Maxim Guns, interspersed with the rapid volleys of the four-barrelled Nordenfelts, and followed immediately by screaming and the first rifle shots from ashore.

  “Five-inch, Mr McGurk! Rapid fire.”

  A good crew could just get off a round a minute with the five-inch guns in normal shipboard conditions. Faster rates had been achieved with coastal guns, fixed and with less need to aim and allow for the movement of the ship; admirals commonly demanded more, but Magnus was content with practical, aimed fire. The fifty-pound shells burst most effectively at point blank in the bivouacs, created a very satisfactory panic among soldiers who had neither trenches nor foxholes to shelter in, were forced to take such cover as they could in the rice fields.

  Bustard thumped against the wharf, still firing hard, and Magnus called the landing party to follow him. He detailed two of the men to stay at his shoulder, in company with his servant, Carter; three rifles should be sufficient, he thought, and the Chinese expected him to keep a retinue about him. He glanced across at the guns, all undamaged, something like a three-inch, at a glance, field guns, designed for the purpose, not naval guns on cobbled up carriages as he had expected. But the limbers were no more than carts pressed into service – he speculated that the original owners had managed to sabotage the limbers but had been unable to destroy the guns. He wondered where the ammunition had come from.

  The market square was empty of the living and walking wounded; the men who remained were all down, mostly silent, blown to pieces by the heavy machine gun rounds.

  “Check the houses round the square. Clear them.”

  The landing party split up into fours and fives, each under a leading seaman or petty officer, bursting into the wrecked houses, generally coming out again very quickly, shaking their heads.

  Magnus pushed inside the nearest, revolver in hand, kicking the shards of the doorframe out of his way.

  The two-roomed shanty had been hit by Nordenfelt rounds, one-inch calibre, solid steel slugs with a hardened tip that ripped their way through timbers, mud bricks and human beings quite equally. There had been perhaps as many as twelve men sleeping in the hut; Magnus thought that the sole way of taking an accurate count would be to total the number of arms and legs and divide by four. The stink of ripped open guts was overpowering, utterly vile. He left very quickly.

  “Mr Hawkes, working party from Bustard to manhandle the guns and limbers to the wharf and then to hoist them aboard.”

  Hawkes ran.

  Magnus worked his way round the little market square until he came to a group of larger houses, more sturdily built, some with outbuildings behind them, obviously the domain of merchants or other local dignitaries. A petty officer called across to him.

  “Sir, got some live ones here. Officers, maybe.”

  It made sense that the officers would have taken the better accommodation – that was what officers did.

  “Chinese?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Hold them here, outside, until the interpreter, Mr Ping, comes for them.”

  Out of curiosity, Magnus made his way inside the nearest house. The sun had risen and he could see clearly, was interested to discover a little of how the local folk lived.

  The house had been smashed, by looters, he suspected, before his guns had opened up on the village. There was nothing to see, apart from the few bags of personal belongings of the officers. Carter, his steward, moved across to glance into the bags. Magnus saw him, said nothing – there might be a few shillings there, he suspected.

  Returning to the square, Magnus saw the first gun being lifted onto Bustard, men swarming round the others, fixing strops and cables in readiness for their turn. He shook his head in amazement, seeing Mr Whyte supervising the boatswain; they had rigged a hoist to the mizzen yardarm, were using that as a crane to lift and swing the guns across. Nelson would have been familiar with the procedure, he thought. They were working quickly, which could only be applauded, he supposed. The guns would weigh little more than a quarter of a ton, should not be too great a problem.

  A five-inch gun crashed from the forecastle; he saw Mr McGurk standing by the layer, pointing out another target.

  The interpreter appeared at his side.

  “All is almost over, sir. The invaders are running. They are under pursuit from the Army, sir. My father will have thanks for you, sir. There are many dead. The village is much destroyed as well, but they are only peasants, and they will no doubt be pleased to rebuild.”

  Magnus made no direct reply – it was China, and it was not for him to dictate how the warlord should behave.

  “My men have captured some of the officers, they tell me.”

  “I have taken that news to the General, sir. He has sent
members of his staff to deal with them. Over there, sir.”

  The interpreter pointed to the side of the square where there was a busy little group of soldiers.

  “What are they doing?”

  “They are asking the officers questions, sir. They wish to know who they are and where they came from.”

  Magnus heard a howl of agony, knew then just how the questions were being asked. He had taken pains to make it none of his affair – he turned away. Lieutenant Prosser came running across the square, drawing Magnus’ instant disapproval. An officer ran only if pursued by a dozen, at least, of savages waving spears and axes at his back; otherwise, he walked in calm, dignified fashion.

  “Sir, there are white men, sir. Four of them. The Chinese have taken them prisoner. If we run, sir, with the landing party, we can save them.”

  “What, are they ours? Are they Englishmen?”

  “No, sir, not that I know…”

  “Then, Mr Prosser, they are none of our damned business! I believe I gave specific orders to that effect.”

  “But…”

  “Go aboard Bustard, Mr Prosser. Relieve Mr Roberts and request that he should report to me.”

  Roberts appeared within three minutes, still buckling a revolver to his belt.

  “Well done, Mr Roberts. Take over the party shifting the ammunition wagons, if you would be so good. I shall be in this square or close to.”

  Roberts strode off.

  Carter spoke from behind him.

  “Permission to return to Bustard, sir?”

  Magnus looked round, saw he was carrying a heavy sack.

  “Pinched some rice for breakfast, Carter? Go on, take it back.”

  The seamen laughed – stewards were renowned for scavenging extras for their officers; they expected he had a bottle or two in the bag as well. Carter trotted off.

  “Captain, Lord, sir?”

  Mr Ping called from the edge of the village, waving to him. It was undignified to accede to the demands of a foreigner, a Chinese at that, but it was probably sensible to do as he asked on the field of battle. He could always kick his backside afterwards if he was out of order. Magnus walked – he certainly was not going to run – across to the interpreter.

  “Beg pardon, very much, sir, but General Li has the wish to speak to you. He is here, sir.”

  Magnus turned to the general, expecting a cosseted mandarin in robes, discovering a lean, thin-faced and alert-seeming forty year old in a grey, Western-style field uniform. This was a professional, he decided and offered the senior man his salute; it was returned correctly, but with a faint expression of surprise at the courtesy.

  The General made a brief statement to the interpreter.

  “General says, sir, that he is grateful for your efficient use of your guns. He has lost almost no men, and has brought the campaign to an end, as a result. He wishes to know what is to happen to the field guns.”

  “Please to inform the General that they are to be taken to Hanshan and there be placed in the custody of his master, your father. It seems to me that they would be far easier moved on my ship than pulled overland.”

  General Li bowed, an expression of content, Magnus presumed.

  “General Li says that the machine guns, the Maxims, are very fine weapons. He would much like them himself one day.”

  “No doubt the Emperor’s navy or army will soon possess them, Mr Ping.”

  It was clear to Magnus that General Li wanted them in his own hands, suggesting that he might regard the Qing forces as potential enemies rather than his natural friends.

  “There is a small matter of tidying up to be performed, Captain, sir. You will no doubt wish to observe the fruits of your endeavours, as my teacher so often wisely said.”

  Mr Ping led Magnus and General Li back to the marketplace, to the end of the wharf where he could see a party a few yards away on the riverbank.

  Two of the biggest men he had ever seen, massively muscled, tall Chinese, stood with swords. General Li called an order.

  The Chinese officers who had been undergoing questioning were carried across and forced to kneel at the waterside, six of them, ten feet apart. The executioners ambled casually across and swung their swords horizontally, taking their heads one after the other, alternately. The last of the six required two cuts, but he had let his head bow while the others had knelt upright. The heads rolled into the river and the bodies were kicked in after them, all very casually and attracting little attention from the Chinese soldiers who were picking over the village and the bodies behind them.

  A slight delay and four more men, whiteskins in civilian clothing but all in their twenties and fit, were dragged to the place of execution, struggling and trying to dig their heels in. General Li made an obviously disparaging comment.

  “General says they have no dignity, Captain, sir. Death is now assured, to fight is to show ill-manners.”

  Magnus summoned a sneer, met the General’s eye.

  “They are not British, sir. One expects no better of the lesser races.”

  Mr Ping translated; the General showed approval.

  The four called out in what Magnus was fairly sure was German, possibly asking him to intercede. He said nothing, made no acknowledgement.

  They were pushed to their knees but would not hold still, continuing to struggle. General Li gave a quick command and their hands were tied behind them and they were kicked face forward into the mud. The swordsmen slashed as they could and the heads were eventually removed.

  Magnus swallowed and did his best to seem unmoved by the untidy deaths. He shook his head in distaste.

  “Shameful, Mr Ping. They disgraced themselves. Were they carrying any papers, any documents, do you know?”

  Mr Ping produced a little kitbag, stuffed full with the contents of their pockets.

  “One had the bag and I have personally put in all else they carried, sir. General Li says that you will wish to know what and who they were.”

  “Thank General Li for me, Mr Ping. I shall have these papers taken quickly to the staff of my Admiral in Hong Kong. They will be of much interest, I do not doubt.”

  The guns and their makeshift limbers were aboard and tied down within two hours. Magnus ordered all of his men back, called for a count, to make sure that no enthusiastic looters were left ashore, and turned Bustard’s head down river to Hanshan. They tied up next morning and Mr Ping ran to inform his father of the capture of the guns and to arrange for their safe reception.

  “What do you think, Mr McGurk?”

  “New Krupp field guns, sir, on factory-made carriages. The seventy-five mm, sir, which is their standard for infantry support guns. All in good condition, sir. Looked after by gunners, not by untrained soldiers. The limbers, so-called, are no more than carts, sir, with wooden boxes to carry the shells. The boxes are the originals, sir, with the names burned off, but you can just see some of the words and figures. Come off a ship and sent inland to replace the stuff what was in the limbers which was destroyed, sir. Don’t know what or where they come from, sir, the guns – the French don’t use German guns, but Austria-Hungary, Italy and Belgium do – and they all have people here. At a guess, sir, the Germans – if that’s what they were – helped the Chinks kill off a few of whoever it was but couldn’t stop them blowing up their ammunition and had to replace it. Or it could be that the Chinks took the guns and lost the limbers in the fight, and the Germans came in with the offer of a few hundred rounds. No way of telling for sure, sir.”

  “How much have they got?”

  “Six guns and one hundred and twenty of HE and one-eighty of Shrapnel, sir. Fifty rounds apiece, which is sufficient for a single little battle or to take a small fort. It will do for their needs just hereabouts, sir.”

  Magnus sat in his cabin to think. He had a choice of giving the guns across to Ping Wu, and greatly increasing his military strength, for it would not be too hard to get hold of more ammunition; or he could take them out to sea and heave them
over the side. What he could not do was to take them to Hong Kong and publicly display them, with all of the questions that would quickly lead to. There were Germans and every other nationality present in Hong Kong, and the presence of the guns would be known within the day.

  Destroying the guns would mean they could never be used against British interests. It would also bitterly and probably permanently offend Ping Wu, who had at least one professional officer in his army…

  Magnus came to the conclusion that he must honour his pledge to General Li, he must deliver the guns to Ping Wu.

  “Mr Whyte, the captured artillery to go ashore, sir, in good condition, with all of the ammunition.”

  Whyte’s whole stance made it clear that he disapproved of the very concept of placing modern guns into the hands of the Chinese.

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  He stamped out on deck and proceeded to display great efficiency, back rigid, scowling, looking for fault. The men ran to their duty.

  “We must return to Hong Kong with all speed, Mr Whyte. The Admiral’s people will wish to examine the information we have obtained.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The interpreter, Mr Ping, came running back, bearing very kind messages from his father.

  “Will you go to the Admiral, Captain, sir?”

  “He must be informed of all that has happened, Mr Ping. Especially, he must know that soldiers of another European country were involved in the invasion of a friendly part of the Chinese Empire. He must be given the documents that you so cleverly recovered, for they may well be of the greatest importance, Mr Ping.”

  The young man knew he was clever, but it was very rare for him to be told so by important people. He bowed his thanks.

  “I would hope to return to my patrol quickly, Mr Ping, and will no doubt call again at Hanshan in the near future.”

  “My father, sir, instructs me to say that you are welcome indeed, at any time, sir.”

  Magnus made his thanks. A change in the political weather and he could be an instant enemy, he knew, but it was very pleasant to be a friend for the while.

  “Beg permission to report, sir, on why Bustard returned early from her patrol.”