A United States Midshipman in China

Upon their return on board the “Phœnix,” the midshipmen found all was activity. A message had been received from Emmons which had decided Commander Hughes to wait no longer before sending the guard to protect the defenseless mission on the hill some miles from the town. Persistent rumors were current that the Chinese outlaws would very soon make an effort to efface this heathen blot of stone from their sacred soil.

In the course of a half hour all was in readiness to embark the guard. Tents, rations, Colt gun and rifles were carried into the waiting boats, and in a few minutes more the small party of officers and men found themselves on the stone jetty, immediately in front of the Chinese city. Under the eyes of a quickly-gathered, curious crowd of Chinese, the sailors formed and marched along the road skirting the fortified wall of the city. After some miles had been covered, the great buildings of the mission came in sight, and soon after they were admitted within the walled compound by the anxious missionaries, whose dread of Chinese cruelty had been acquired through long residence among these fanatical people. Many of their number they had seen sacrificed by the lawless element of a superstitious and conservative race, whom they had come thousands of miles to civilize according to their Western standards.

The sailor sentinels were quickly stationed at the four corners of the walled compound, and the peaceful mission was soon transformed into a warlike fortress.

“What do you think of all this?” inquired Phil of the pilot after the lads had finished their duties of preparing for the defense.

“I think,” answered Langdon, a grim smile on his face, “that these missionaries are wise to build their houses inside of a stone fort. The only way to succeed in civilizing the Chinese is to make sure that they don’t kill you before you’ve had a chance to show them the benefits of our methods.”

“But I mean,” urged Phil, “do you believe that there’s going to be trouble?”

“I’ve seen a great number of these threatened uprisings,” replied Langdon thoughtfully, “come to nothing for the want of a leader with energy enough to keep alive the spark of fanaticism; I hope this one will follow in their footsteps, for if the Chinese ever awaken to the knowledge of their power, our small force of ships and men could never stem the rising flood.

“Do you see the forts over yonder?” he continued, pointing to the numerous heavy gun emplacements on the heights below the city; “those batteries command the anchorage occupied by the allied fleet, and their garrisons are now wavering between their loyalty to the government at Peking, and their families and friends taking an active part in the intrigues against the lives of the foreigners. If those guns were turned against us, our position here would indeed be a serious one.”

The two midshipmen, listening to the words of one who had lived ten years among the Chinese, felt their hearts beat faster: secretly they were glad that their cruise in the Orient was likely to be fraught with grave dangers.

The missionaries and their numerous Chinese converts inside the walled mission were once more at ease; they believed that all danger was past: the Chinese had never attacked a mission so strongly defended by the rifles of the hated but much feared foreign sailors.

The hot day came to an end, and the night wind from the distant mountains brought to the anxious ones a desire for sleep which they had not felt for days.

Phil and Sydney lay awake long after the mission was wrapt in slumber. They had talked over the situation very thoroughly, the views of Langdon having made a deep impression on their minds. There certainly was a danger! Could the Chinese troops be depended upon to withstand the bribes of the lawless ones?

Sydney’s even breathing, at last, showing that he had fallen off to sleep, cut short further conversation between them; while Phil, casting an annoyed glance at the unconcerned sleeper on the adjoining cot, arose and silently left the tent; he was far from asleep and, being the officer of the guard for the night, determined to make an inspection of the sentries.

The night was dark save for the dim light shed by the crescent moon low in the western sky. Ascending the mission stairs, he stepped out on the broad top of the high barrier of brick and mortar and walked down the wall. A sentry was posted at the near corner of the quadrangle.

“Is everything all right?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, sir, but I seen a bunch of Chinese up there near the gate a few minutes before you come,” the sailor made answer. “I hollered at ’em, and they ain’t stopped runnin’ yet.”

“What can I do if they don’t run?” he added, questioningly.

“Nothing; just call the sergeant of the guard,” replied Phil quickly. “On your life don’t shoot without orders.”

“If a Chink shoots at me, sir, can’t I fire back?” the sailor asked, casting an apprehensive glance into the darkness outside of the compound.

Lieutenant Wilson had instructed the midshipmen to make certain that the sentries did not fire first: the viceroy of the province was believed to be striving to hold the malcontents in check, but an untimely shot might precipitate hostilities.

“If you are fired upon,” Phil ordered, “fire your piece and arouse the garrison, but don’t shoot unnecessarily.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the sailor answered, as the midshipman drew away up the wall to visit the next sentry.

While Phil was crossing the stone archway over the heavily-barred iron gate, the main entrance into the mission, he was attracted by a dark object on the ground below him, close up to the metal doors.

A closer look filled the boy’s thoughts with an unknown dread. The object appeared harmless enough, and yet why was it there against the gate of the mission? Phil saw now that it was a large box, outlined dimly in the shadow of the archway.

He peered about him uncertainly. He could see the two lookouts at the wall’s corners; they were alert and yet in ignorance of the danger at the mission gate. The midshipman’s thoughts dwelt on the information given by the sentry with whom he had just spoken: there had been some Chinamen at the gate but a few moments ago! Was this box harmless or did its presence there foretell a warlike design against the hundreds of non-combatants, women and children, now under the protection of the American sailors?

His startled gaze traveled over the gloomy expanse of surrounding country outside of the high wall: the shadowy mounds, graves of departed Chinese, dotting the grassy slopes about the compound might be now concealing an armed force of attacking fanatics; beyond the graves it rested for a moment on the low mud walls of abandoned houses, believed by their owners to be forever polluted by the close presence of the despised foreigners. Down on a lower level the high walled city lay sleeping; the closely packed roofs resembling a continuous floor, upon which fell the dim light of the waning moon; then again it descended to the silent waters of the river, the towering pagodas along its banks standing like guardian sentinels, with the anchored ships a phantom fleet upon its dark surface.

A spark-like glint below him caught his eye, and its ominous message sent the blood from his heart. With every faculty alert Phil threw himself at full length on the wall and peered anxiously below into the deeper shadow of the gateway: a sputtering spark but a few feet away from the box told only too plainly its terrible mission: there was an explosive against the gates, and the crawling point of fire was the live end of the slow-match, surely and deliberately burning its way toward the captive force that would, in a fraction of a minute, hurl the powerful gates asunder, thus letting in the ambushing Chinese, doubtless watching and waiting, concealed in the misty shadows.

The lad’s heart stood still as it flashed upon him what his duty demanded of him. If he were a second too late he would be blown to pieces and yet the gates would be shattered and useless to protect the mission. His mind was made up quickly: he must first warn the garrison and then quench the fatal spark twenty feet below him.

“Turn out the guard!” he cried loudly; then as he heard the startled sentries repeat his words, he dropped silently to the ground on the outside of the compound and grasped the lighted end of the fuse between his fingers, but a few inches from its awful goal.

He heard the startled cries of his companions awakened from their sleep by the alarming summons; the rattle of rifles and accoutrements as the sailors hastened to their stations on the wall. The reaction had now set in; the boy’s limbs seemed about to fail him. Almost unstrung he clung to the box while he collected his scattered thoughts. If the box remained there the enemy might yet succeed in exploding its contents against the gate.

With his body pressed close to the torpedo, and in its deeper shadow, his ear detected a sound near him in the grass at the edge of the road. Suddenly a figure darted forward across the archway and stopped on the other side of the box, fumbling with its top, as if to relight the fuse. Phil held his breath as he reached forth his hand and clutched the wrist of the intruder. Drawing the surprised man, with all his force, across the box, he threw him to the ground. A cry escaped the captive as he felt the strong arms of the midshipman enfold him, smothering him to the earth.

The two bodies heaved and strained; the efforts of the Chinaman became visibly weaker, and finally Phil cast the insensible form from him.

“Who goes there?” in excited tones from above him showed him that aid was near. A sailor peered over the wall immediately above the lad’s head, his menacing rifle covering the exhausted boy.

“It’s Midshipman Perry, the officer of the guard,” he whispered hoarsely; “heave me a line, quick! Keep the gate closed! The place is full of Chinese!”

A rope dangled down from a corner of the archway and Phil, grasping its end, quickly made it fast around the box, giving the signal to hoist.

“Be careful, that’s powder,” he cautioned; “send the end back for me. Hurry,” he added, casting a fearsome look into the shadows behind him.

With the end of the rope in his hand he stooped down to tie it about the body of his captive; when, without a moment’s warning, he felt a stinging blow in the face, that sent him reeling to the wall. He clutched wildly at the offender, now on his feet and struggling madly to free himself from the terrifying embrace of the midshipman. The fully recovered celestial fought with the strength of despair, uttering piercing shrieks which seemed to be answered from the surrounding darkness.

Suddenly Phil was wrenched nearly off his feet, and then fell backward against the wall, the torn coat of the man in his hands, while the escaping prisoner melted into the night.

Hand over hand, up the rope, it was but the work of a second to the top of the wall, and there he found an anxious group of officers and men who had watched, with bated breath, the struggle below them.

Phil explained the circumstances at once to Lieutenant Wilson.

“I feel sure they’re concealed all about here,” he ended excitedly. “I heard answers to the man’s cries.”

Lieutenant Wilson turned to Langdon, who had been an eager listener.

“Is it an attack, Langdon?” he asked anxiously.

Langdon shook his head, much mystified, then the garment in Phil’s hand caught his eye. He took it from the lad in silence and carried it down from the wall, entering the small gate-house inside the compound.

“Keep a strict watch, Mr. Monroe,” the lieutenant ordered, motioning Phil to follow him, and together they entered the room where Langdon was carefully examining the garment.

It was a blue tunic, plain save for a white border and a number of Chinese written characters on its back. It was this lettering that Langdon was studying.

“Viceroy Chang-Li-Hun,” he read slowly aloud. Then he glanced up, a worried expression on his usually calm face.

“Mr. Wilson,” he said, “it’s serious; we’ve the viceroy’s soldiers against us.”