04 Peking Nightmares (The Earl’s Other Son Series, #4)

by Andrew Wareham

  “There’s twenty thousand riflemen in Tientsin, sir. And some big guns, as we know.”

  The shelling had been unbroken for the previous ten days and the rifle fire was constant although inaccurate.

  “Better run fast when you attack, Eskdale. I want your people to lead the Naval parties – you have the name for this sort of thing. You are to make a lodgement and we shall pass through you into the town.”

  Magnus peered out of the windows of the warehouse he had taken over. It had been full of cotton in bales which had proven very useful. A rifle bullet could not penetrate two bales of cotton and they had been set up around the walls as protection, leaving small firing slits for the men on duty. The unused bales had been broken open and provided comfortable underlayers for the men’s groundsheets – they had slept well for the past nights.

  “The merchant won’t be pleased about the damage done to his stock, Eskdale.”

  “Only some damned Parsee and he can claim off his insurance anyway.”

  “Oh! I was worried it might be Jardines or one of the important chaps.”

  Magnus dismissed his fears – he would not have gone near a Jardines warehouse, he had more nous than that.

  “Have you seen the ground we have to cover, sir?”

  They looked out together at more than a furlong of open flat grassland speckled with the remains of tiny mud brick houses and garden walls. Nothing stood more than knee high.

  “Slow running and open, sir. The wall must be twenty feet high. Solid brick. I don’t know how wide it is, how many men could stand on it under cover.”

  “I don’t know its actual width, but it’s made of several courses of bricks with earth infill before you reach the rear wall, which is equally thick. Too big and broad for artillery to cut a hole in it – at least a hundred feet wide at its narrowest. Little towers at intervals, so if you get on top of the wall the Chinks can fire along it. They have guns up there as well as riflemen.”

  “That’s impossible if they defend it, sir.”

  “I know, Eskdale. Your main job is to distract the Boxers while the Japs go for the gate. I don’t think you’re expected to get over the wall.”

  Magnus called his officers together that afternoon.

  “Morning after next, we are to assault the Old Town. We attack the wall to our front and make a huge distraction while the Japs destroy the gates.”

  They waited to hear the rest of the plan. After a short silence they realised that was it. All of it.

  “Lieutenant Robbins. You will lead the Marines forward in a double line, as far as you can before you take cover behind the broken-down walls and houses. When in cover, you will open a heavy fire on the ramparts to your front.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Robbins thought the orders were clear and simple. He could do all that was asked of him, he was sure.

  “The remainder of us will give fire on the ramparts from the cover of the warehouse until Lieutenant Robbins has made one hundred yards. Then, Lieutenant Pattishall, you will lead your men out in lines to close on the Marines. If you can, leapfrog them. If not, find cover and fire on the walls. Mr Knuyper, your party next, followed by Mr Geddes, Mr Lockhart and Midshipman Warren. I shall accompany you, Mr Pattishall. Any sick or wounded to remain in the warehouse and hold our base. Each party will nominate two runners to return for additional bandoliers of ammunition as necessary. Each man to carry eighty rounds in pouches and bandoliers. Water bottles full – it will be very hot. Issue hardtack as a midday ration. There will be a rum ration before dawn. Nominate one medical orderly per party who is to bring wounded back to the warehouse. None others to assist – we do not want men going back on the excuse of aiding the wounded.”

  The orders were simple and easy to remember.

  “In the event that we take the wall, move along it to the gate and secure it. If we are pinned down, as is not impossible, then wait on my order to retreat. If I fall, normal seniority will apply.”

  All of the officers knew the chain of command – promotions to a great extent depended on seniority and they all knew exactly how many years each had in.

  “Make sure the men wear their sunhats. They are not very handsome, I know, but we are not going on parade!”

  Many of the officers disapproved of the floppy, broad-brimmed hats that had been issued.

  “What of prisoners, sir?”

  “Take surrenders provided it is safe to do so. Watch the Boxers for swords and knives when they get close.”

  They nodded, faces blank.

  Magnus was sure they would give the order for no quarter, to be on the safe side. There had been too many stories of fanatical Boxers who would happily die if they could take a gwailo with them and humanitarian conduct was low on the list of priorities. He wondered if he should remind them of the recent Geneva Convention relating to the treatment of combatants taken in battle. Pointless, he suspected.

  “You will protect women and children.”

  “None there, sir. They are all safe in our compound, sir.”

  Again, it was not worth the effort, the blank incomprehension of trying to explain that the Chinese also had non-combatants who must be protected.

  “A minimum of fatigues for the men during the rest of today and tomorrow, gentlemen. We shall be busy on the day after. I am less concerned that the men’s uniforms look smart than that they should be well-fed and rested. They may be out in the heat for fifteen or sixteen hours unbroken and they must be able to fight the whole of that time. We do not have extra water bottles for them, unfortunately. Your ammunition runners should also be used to bring out refills for their bottles. Encourage the men to drink heavily – of water and tea – with their breakfast.”

  Lieutenant Robbins enquired whether those orders must apply to Marines as well – his men tended to be more hardy than mere jack tars.

  “Every man needs water in his body, Mr Robbins. Even a Marine. You do as well.”

  Mr Robbins was unconvinced but would not argue with his captain.

  “I have given orders to the kitchens to supply double rations tonight. There will be a meat stew with rice. Encourage the men to eat their fill. Are there any questions?”

  Mr Pattishall had one.

  “Shooting, sir. Should we order the men to take careful aim and not waste their rounds?”

  “No. They are to shoot at any man they see and if they have no obvious targets then they must aim at loopholes and hope to ricochet rounds into the firing points behind them. It is vital that the Boxers shall be frightened into keeping their heads down so that the Japanese can get to the gates.”

  “The men will need to be closer than one hundred yards if they are to consistently fire into small embrasures, sir.”

  “Get as close as you can, Mr Pattishall. I shall be at your shoulder, sir.”

  “Take care, sir. We do not want you going the way of Captain Jellicoe or Commander Beatty.”

  “Both men took their wounds going forward, Mr Pattishall. No man can do better than that.”

  In fact Magnus had grave doubts about his own statement – Beatty had run forward, cutlass in hand at the head of his men, making an unnecessary charge on a broken enemy. If there was mopping up to be done, then as a commanding officer he should have been directing the operation rather than taking part in it. A commander in the forefront of a battle became no more than another strong right arm – officers had other functions than to seem dashing and brave. It was rumoured that Beatty wanted a Victoria Cross and would take any risk to himself and his men to achieve that ambition. Jellicoe had been shot in battle while in his proper place; in Magnus’ opinion a far more honourable wound.

  He would not utter any words of disparagement, in part because they were going into battle and the men needed no doubts about their officers, but also because Beatty was a dashing fellow, much loved by the press and high society for his rakish cap and winning smile. The wise man did not denigrate the popular hero, even when he had little virt
ue other than undoubted courage.

  “What are you taking with you in the morning, sir?”

  “Revolver and a hundred rounds, Carter. Sword. Two water bottles and a flask of brandy. The last for any wounded – a swig of spirits ain’t healing, perhaps, but it can make a man feel better. Besides that, they like to see their captain doing the rounds and giving away his own comforts – cheers them up no end. You will do the same, if you please – extra water is important. Have you still got a supply of chlorine pills?”

  The pills were issued for the purification of dubious water. They were said to make ditch water potable, or less dangerous at least.

  “Got a hundred, sir.”

  “Bring ‘em along, Carter. We may well need them before the day is out. Some iodine too and a few bandages if you can. The medical orderly may need help and they say the Boxers will shoot at any man with a red cross on his sleeves for thinking he’s a missionary.”

  “Bloody Boxers got no decency in them, sir. Killing medics ain’t the right way of behaving!”

  Magnus was inclined to agree.

  “Have you a rifle to carry, Carter?”

  “I have that, sir - with a sharp bayonet too.”

  “Good man.”

  There was no need to tell Carter to keep close to his shoulder; he would not be parted from his captain while he was still mobile.

  They started moving well before dawn, lights shaded in the hope of not alerting the Boxers to their activity. The cookhouse supplied hot food in the form of another thick stew. Magnus could not stomach the heavy meal but most of the men scoffed it, delighted with the extra free rations.

  “Tea, Carter, and a slice of bread.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The tea came in a pint mug, thick with sugar and with a generous admixture of issue rum.

  “Bloody hell, man! Two of those and I won’t be walking straight!”

  “Put hairs on your chest, Captain. Look what’s it’s doing to Mr Warren!”

  The midshipman had seemed a little nervous, tentative one might say, but was now full of resolve, laughing and chattering with the best.

  “The boy’s half-pissed, Carter!”

  “Only the right half, sir. He’ll come to no harm now.”

  Magnus shrugged – while the boy did his duty, he did not care what stimulus was used. In any case, next time round he would not be green, knowing what perils he was about to face, and all would seem much easier. He smiled quietly, wishing that he knew just what he would come up against that day – but he knew that his whole bearing would display confidence, hearten his men by being more visible, more present than any one of them. That was his job, his duty, his pride…

  “Fall the men in, Mr Pattishall. Fifteen minutes till time.”

  The whistles blew and petty officers shouted and the men made their last-minute runs to the heads and their frantic tenth-time-over checks of their equipment and then finally formed their lines, silent in place exactly to time. They filed out of the doors to the rear of the warehouse and then walked rather than marched into their positions in cover, assigned to them the day previously so that every man knew exactly where he must be.

  “Load, Mr Robbins, Mr Pattishall.”

  The commands were given quietly and the men were reminded to keep the safety catches on until they were ordered.

  A bugle blared out from behind them, calling for the day’s business to begin. Lieutenant Robbins led his Marines around the warehouse and formed them up and marched them forward at the double, all to his command. His sergeant kept the line straight. Thirty yards and they were unopposed, then Boxers began to appear on the ramparts opposite them.

  Rifle fire broke out, sporadic at first, growing as more and more Boxers ran out onto the broad ramparts. Almost all had magazine rifles and stood to empty them before dropping back to reload. From the little Magnus could see through his binoculars, the Boxers had only one magazine each which they had to refill after firing, slowing them greatly. There seemed to be little attempt to take any exact aim, the rifles pointed in the general direction of the sailors and the bolt thrown and trigger yanked at repeatedly.

  “I’ve been told that a lot of the Boxers believe that the bang is more dangerous than the bullet, Mr Pattishall. It looks as if that might be true.”

  “Possibly, sir. None of the Marines are down yet and they’re closer than a hundred yards to the wall. Mr Robbins has them to one knee now, sir. They’ve started firing, sir.”

  The Marines scored repeated hits among the mob of Boxers on the wall. More men flooded up to the ramparts as they did so, ignoring the casualties around them.

  “Time to go, Mr Pattishall.”

  Magnus turned to the other officers.

  “Wait until we have made fifty yards and then go, gentlemen.”

  There was a chorus of assent as Magnus stepped out, leading the party of riflemen into the field.

  “Marines are taking casualties now, sir.”

  Magnus stared, saw a party of regular soldiers up on the wall, their uniforms drab compared to the scarlet sashes and headgear of the Boxers. They were under discipline, firing aimed volleys.

  “Double, Mr Pattishall.”

  They ran the hundred yards across the rough ground, formed a line and dropped behind the mud brick remnants of a street of village huts, perhaps thirty yards short of the Marines.

  Magnus stood and shouted his orders, pointing at the wall.

  “Target is the party of soldiers in brown. Take aim. Five rounds rapid. Fire!”

  Lieutenant Pattishall called the reload and took over, ordering volley fire and a careful aim. The block of about fifty regulars began to melt away, exposed as they were on the high wall.

  “Reload!”

  “Change target, Mr Pattishall. Over by the tower to our left, do you see?”

  There was a small field gun, just being emplaced, surrounded by its crew. It was probably no more than a little two pounder but it could destroy riflemen on open ground.

  Pattishall called three volleys in the space of thirty seconds, killed the gunners, uncovered in broad daylight as they were.

  “Petty Officer Higgins. The ready-use rounds, do you see them?”

  “Got ‘em, sir.”

  “In your own time, destroy them.”

  Pattishall turned to Magnus, explained his order.

  “Higgins is our best shot, sir. A sniper.”

  Magnus was annoyed with himself – he should have known that.

  They watched as Higgins fired four precisely aimed rounds. A shell blew at the final shot and the little magazine followed, a dozen two pound charges doing a deal of damage to the surrounding men.

  Pattishall called two more volleys and then the reload.

  “Advance the men, sir?”

  “Yes. Take them to the cover of that bit of a wall about ten yards behind the Marines.”

  Magnus looked behind him and waved Mr Knuyper to take his place, watched as the parties of Obelisks trotted along, one after the other, and then opened fire on the walls.

  The noise was growing all of the time, the volume of fire increasing. The air stank of powder and there was a haze beginning to obscure the sun. Not all of the troops involved were firing smokeless powder.

  Magnus stared at the Marines, saw two down and unmoving, presumably dead, and three in cover with an orderly attending them. High casualties for so small a party.

  “Fire at will, Mr Pattishall, the men to pick their targets.”

  “Sir. Over on the right, sir. The Japs are doing none too well.”

  There was cover behind the rubble and Magnus sat down to use his field glasses.

  The Japanese were on more open ground where a road led up to the gates. They had been held a good hundred yards short of their objective, unable to cross the flat section below the gates. Magnus could see clumps of bodies where sappers had tried to run forward with explosive charges.

  He turned his binoculars on the brick wall to his front, sa
w a sheer face the better part of twenty feet high, unclimbable. There was no way in other than through the gates.

  “Mr Pattishall, get the men to build themselves some sort of cover. Pile up bricks to their front. We are not going anywhere until those gates are blown.”

  The order was given and the men dug in for a long day in the sun.

  “Lieutenant Robbins!” Magnus stood up and shouted. Robbins stood in his turn and raised a hand to his ear.

  “Dig in! Get your men to build little ramparts to cover them.”

  By ten o’clock the attack had stalled all of the way along the line. The Boxers continued to fire and there was a slow trickle of casualties, orderlies running the wounded back, returning with water bottles and messages.

  “The Americans are in the wrong place, sir. Got lost going forward and they’re stuck behind a deep pond in marshy ground with no cover. Can’t go back or forward, sir, and taking hellish losses.”

  A few minutes later Magnus was told that the Germans had lost most of their officers for exposing themselves in, presumably, heroic fashion.

  In mid-afternoon he heard that the Russians had reached the foot of the wall but could do nothing when they got there.

  He watched as parties of Japanese continued to run forward, to pick up the packages of guncotton and then to fall having gained at most another two or three yards.

  “They must have taken fifty per cent casualties, Mr Pattishall! What sort of soldiers can do that?”

  “Mad buggers, sir. Braver than me, that’s for sure!”

  The firing died away during the afternoon, the attackers shooting only at clear targets, the Boxers possibly running short of ammunition having fired hundreds of thousands of rounds through the morning.

  The runners brought more water and the order to fall back as soon as it was full night.

  “We’ve been beaten, Pattishall! We are bloody well defeated!”