Part 20

As I hurried past the Skipper, he sang out, "Drive those fellows off that hill!"—pointing with his big stick. "Travers will go with you, and I’ll send a Maxim along after you, and am coming on directly."

"Very good, sir," and I saluted and went off to tell my men what we had to do, and sang out to Travers, "Come along, old ’B.-T.’, bring your people along."

We started off.

*CHAPTER XV*

*The Retreat*

Old B.-T. Wins—A Hard Retreat—A Case of Speed—A Race against the Fog—Hand-to-hand Fighting—Captain Marshall is Wounded—The Captain’s Life Attempted—Round the Fire—Ford is Indignant—On Board Again

_Written by Captain Marshall, Royal Marine Light Infantry_

Old "B.-T." and I extended our people, ran down towards the paddy fields, crawled and dodged across them, and prepared for the "do-or-die business" up the farther slope.

It was a bit of a rush, and old "B.-T." looked "bored" when we met again at the top. The blighters had never given us a show, but had cleared out, pretty well most of them. A few had run into "B.-T.’s" little lot by accident, and been polished off, that was all.

I don’t suppose that they were expecting us to go at ’em so soon.

The Maxim came along after us, and we helped Langham up with it, and spread ourselves out, to cover the retreat of the Skipper with the main body, which came along almost immediately in a long line, slowly trailing down the side of the hill from the house. We could see that they were carrying the wounded, and they had got halfway across the paddy fields before the Chinese seemed to "tumble" to the fact that we were clearing out, and began to pour back from the outskirts of the town and open fire at them.

"B.-T." and I managed to keep them in check, and the Skipper got across without any casualties, "Blucher" coming galloping up the hill, wagging his long whip of a tail when he spotted me.

But by this time a number of Chinese had crept along behind the banks intersecting the paddy fields, and we couldn’t get at them with rifle fire. They were right in between us and the walled house, cutting off Parkinson’s retreat.

We could hear that he was having trouble—he was firing very heavily—and directly the Skipper and his little lot had got across safely, we saw his people begin leaving the house and falling back down the slope. We saw them turning and firing back, and retiring by alternate companies, and natives were swarming round the house and among the trees at the top of the ridge. We knew that they must be having a pretty warm time of it.

Those fellows who had crept round their rear began firing at them too; but one of their companies simply charged down at them, broke right through, and, opening out to left and right, swept them on one side. They were the _Omaha’s_ men. We could tell that by the peculiar noise they made and by their uniform. Langham was able to let rip into the Chinese as they sprinted out of reach of the Yankee bayonets, and hurried them along "pretty considerable", as Parkinson told me afterwards, we were also able to stop the people swarming down that ridge after him, and gave him time to bring along his Maxim and Colt guns, and to extricate himself from rather an awkward position. He made a wide sweep, so as not to mask our fire, and came across; but I saw that he had to carry four or five men, who had been knocked over in the open, and they delayed him much.

That is always the rotten part of a retreat, especially when fighting semi-barbarous natives. One dare not leave the wounded behind, and each one who cannot walk requires two able-bodied men to carry him.

From where "B.-T." and I were standing, I should think that we could see at least seven hundred Chinamen, and away on the left, we could see any number more hurrying: from the town.

"Buck up, old chap! Don’t look so blooming bored!" and I slapped him on the back. "We’ll have our work cut out in the next half-hour, when we are doing rearguard."

"Keep your beastly fists to yourself," he growled.

Old "Blucher" had bounded back to the Captain directly our Maxim had begun firing.

"Old Lest" and his little lot were in the rear of our hill—at the bottom of it—waiting for Parkinson to go on past them, farther back. We saw Parkinson drop his wounded people and sweep past and away towards two small rising bits of ground, about four hundred yards in the rear, and the Skipper, picking up his wounded, followed slowly.

Then came our turn as rearguard.

My Christopher Columbus! we had about all we could do to keep the beggars back. The heathen Chinee was simply seeing "red", and came charging across the paddy fields, rushing up towards the slope in front of us, and getting round both our flanks. They thought that they’d got us in a hole, I expect, and they spared a couple of hundred fellows to sneak away to the right, behind some banks, hoping to catch the Skipper in the open. They would have done it too, and got right on top of him before he could have spotted them, had not "B.-T." taken half his company down the hill at a run, and posted himself behind a couple of broken-down huts and a bit of another bank, and given ’em "beans" as they went doubling along below him. It was really a race who should get to the bank first, and old "B.-T." won.

They were now actually crawling up the hill in front of my chaps, dodging among the "scrub" and among the grave mounds, and they were getting round my left rear as well. There must have been four or five hundred of them, and they were taking cover so well, that it made it confoundedly difficult to hit them.

Langham caught a few of them in the open with the Maxim; but it’s such a jolly extravagant kind of weapon as regards ammunition, and puts a dozen cartridges into a chap before another can take his place, and get his own share.

Young Withers was in command of the other half of "B.-T.’s" company of bluejackets on my left. I sent one of my chaps across to him to tell him to retire, and he began to fall back steadily. He was keeping his head, but looking very white. Langham’s Maxim section began to haul their gun back, and everyone was a bit flurried. Two men got bowled over. One sprang straight up, with one hand clawing the air, and I knew that he was shot through the heart. I’ve seen a good many men do that in my time, and they all had been shot through the heart.

I had a funny feeling in my right arm, too, and guessed that it had got in the way of a bullet, but could move it all right.

I looked back to see whether the skipper had got safely across yet, and saw that he was just disappearing between the two little hills or ridges which Parkinson was holding; so it was time for me to be off, and we began to retire according to the laws and regulations of the dear old drill book. I sent the Maxim downhill with a run, and Withers and his half company with it, to get behind a bit of a bank two hundred yards in the rear, and held on with my marines, dropping a few Chinese who were brave enough to stand up and show themselves; but most of the skunks were simply wriggling along from one bush or grave mound to another, and I’m jiggered if you can hit a man who’s crawling and dodging—that is, when you are excited, and your heart is trying to thump its way out of your chest, and you are expecting the order to retire and have one eye on the rear.

They began to get round my right flank then, and I was beginning to think that "little James" was in a pretty tight corner, when old "B.-T." saw them and came back, just in time, cheering as if he was winning the battle of Waterloo and Trafalgar all rolled into one, and went careering right into them.

This checked them for half a minute, and gave my people time to drag our wounded man—I had to leave the dead one—down the hill, and for the rest of us to fall back together halfway down the slope.

"B.-T." came along after us, and we faced round and walked backwards very slowly, and they didn’t like the look of our bayonets and wouldn’t charge down, though they were swarming up above us and yelling like stuck pigs. (If they had charged they would have swept clean over us.) We managed to bring along two more of my chaps who were hit and couldn’t walk, and sent them on to the rear, and when we got to level ground again we opened out, and bolted for where the Maxim and "B.-T.’s" other half company were. They gave them blue blazes as they came screaming after us, and dropped dozens.

I saw one of the bluejackets fall forward, his head striking the soft ground, and go slithering along. The Chinese were not twenty yards behind, so "B.-T." and two of his chaps stopped and tried to bring him with them. Old "B.-T." had to do a bit of work with his sword and revolver for a minute or two; but we’d got our breath behind the bank, came along to his rescue, and beat ’em back, Langham picking the fellow up like a sack of corn and carrying him to the rear.

"Look at that rotten thing," "B.-T." panted out, as he got behind the Maxim, holding out his arm and showing me where his sword had broken off, about twelve inches from the hilt.

"If you _will_ do the V.C. act, old chap, with a rotten tailor-made sword, what can you expect?" I told him.

The Chinese daren’t face our fire in the open, and funked it, so that we were able to fall back again all serenely. It wasn’t the fear of seeing any of our people getting killed that worried me then; it was the dread of seeing them wounded so badly that they had to be carried, because, as I told you before, each one so wounded meant two sound men to carry him away, and handicapped us so tremendously.

We were behind Parkinson now, and gave our wounded to the Skipper’s main body. I caught a glimpse of "Old Lest" standing, with his great feet wide apart, and of "Blucher" squatting between them. He was watching the Chinese through his glasses, and young Ford and Ponsonby were standing close to him, looking white and nervous. He shouted out, "Well done, rearguard!" and we hurried past and came to a group of Chinese bluejackets, standing shoulder to shoulder. In the middle of them, I knew, was my poor little princess and her miserable little father. You see, bullets were still coming past pretty thickly, and Ching was shielding her with his men’s bodies.

That old Chinese gun was there too, with some of the _Ringdove’s_ people to drag it, and a few yards farther along half a company of Trevelyan’s men were sitting on the ground resting till they had to move on again.

They gave us a cheer as we passed them, jumping to their feet and waving their caps, and off we went at the double for a low ridge about a quarter of a mile farther to the rear. We expected to be able to see the gunboats from there, and were ordered to try and attract their attention. They had been told to keep a lookout for us.

This bit was only a case of speed, and we were all blowing like grampuses when we stopped, and the men flung themselves down and faced round, my little lot about a hundred yards from "B.-T.’s", with Langham and his Maxim between us.

Some of his people had tied their silk handkerchiefs to their bayonets and were waving them to attract the gunboats. I heard "B.-T." yell something, and saw him pointing away towards the sea.

It was there all right, but, buttered crumpets! a beastly fog-bank, like a solid wall of cotton wool, was creeping down from wind’ard. When I first looked I could see the _Omaha’s_ one mast and tall funnel, but three minutes afterwards the fog had blotted her out of sight, and I could watch it creeping towards the shore. Great bluebottles! I didn’t like it; another night like last night would about send me off my "crumpet".

I was just thinking that it would have been better for me to have gone into the Church, as my old dad always had wished, when Withers came running across to ask if I could lend "B.-T." a cigarette.

"You might get your pater to give me one of his livings," I told him. "I’m going to be a parson if we ever get out of this."

"He’s very particular, sir," the cheeky young rascal grinned, and ran back with my last cigarette. Old "B.-T." would have borrowed my matchbox, but I sent Withers to tell him to _rub two sticks together_ and light it that way; it would be good exercise, and the cigarette would last longer.

I saw him shake his fist at me when he got the message, and then walk down his line of men to try and borrow a match from one of them.

The main body was coming past now; Whitmore and Rawlings, at the head of the little column, were just passing Langham’s Maxim; then Trevelyan’s right half company, a dozen Chinese bluejackets in a circle round Sally and Hobbs, with Ching and the old Scotchman walking behind them. Then there was a gap, a long string of Chinese bluejackets carrying their wounded, the rest of Trevelyan’s chaps carrying ours, the _Ringdove’s_ people dragging the little Chinese field gun, and Trevelyan with a few men bringing up the rear.

They came to a halt behind us, and laid down their wounded very gently.

"There’s no one behind us, I think," "B.-T." shouted to Whitmore. "But just look at that fog! It’s hidden the _Omaha_ since we’ve been up here."

"Where’s the Skipper?" I asked him.

"Taking charge of the rearguard. This job isn’t exciting enough for him. They’ll have all their work cut out to get back to us, and I don’t know what will happen if we get many more wounded."

I had to go back to my men then, as I saw the rearguard already on its way, fat little Rashleigh toddling along in front of two companies from the left of the two little hills, and the Maxim section rushing their gun towards us. From the right the rest of the rearguard commenced their retreat, and I saw "Old Lest’s" great broad shoulders swaggering back, with Parkinson, as thin as a lamp-post, striding along beside him, and "Blucher" slinking between them.

Contrary to Whitmore’s opinion, they had very little trouble in extricating themselves, because the ground was so flat on the other side of those two little hills, that the Chinese had not dared to come to close quarters, and they were more than halfway towards us before the enemy occupied the slopes they had just evacuated, and stayed there, contenting themselves with opening a very heavy but miserably directed fire. They made rotten shooting.

I felt that we had now got over by far the worst part of the show, all except the beastly fog part, which had already hidden the line of the shore a mile away, with its advance guard of feathery mist quickly creeping along the ground towards us.

The Skipper came along grunting and growling, lighting another cigar, and highly pleased with himself and everything else so far; but when he saw the fog he stormed and cursed.

"’Old Lest’ won’t worry about those chaps behind him. He’ll march straight for the shore," he grunted, and sent Parkinson and the gunboat’s brigade straight ahead, and ordered my marines and "B.-T.’s" bluejackets to remain in the rear. He took charge of the rearguard himself, but practically gave the job to me. I suppose that he knew that I had conducted many skilful retreats across the exercise ground at Forton Barracks, so would know all about it.

Anyhow, it was a great compliment to me, and old Whitmore was as sick as a cat with a fish bone in its throat, only he tried not to show it.

No one troubled us in front, and we marched along quite quickly—as quickly as it was possible to carry the wounded.

It was really a race against the fog. Everyone knew that, and we got over the first half-mile without difficulty.

The Chinese were not worrying the rearguard much; but of course they saw the fog almost as soon as we did, and many of them began streaming away to the left and right, and I knew that they would scoot round our flanks, try and get in between us and the sea, and hem us in as they had done during the night. I didn’t like the idea of that—not a little bit.

But with only another half-mile to do, the moist tongues of fog began drifting overhead, and in five minutes we couldn’t see fifteen yards. We recognized the huts with the dead pig’s near them, and some of my chaps had a brilliant idea, and brought them along on their bayonets. "Wat ’o! Bill, for a bit of the Gunnery Lootenant’s sucking pigs when we gets aboard," I heard one of them sing out.

The advance guard halted to let the main body get up to them, and threw back their flanks to overlap it, and as we came up we threw forward our flanks, and this meant that we practically formed a hollow square round the main body and the wounded. Like this we marched very slowly along, keeping in touch by shouting to each other. The Chinese were now beginning to draw up to our rear, and we could hear them yelling and firing rifles at us, the bullets seeming to make much more noise in the fog.

They didn’t venture close yet.

In another five minutes the fog was so dense that I couldn’t see the third man from me in the ranks. The skipper made a bugler with the main body in the centre sound two "G’s" every half-minute, and that was a great help to us to keep in station. All round us I could hear the non-commissioned and petty officers singing out: "Not so fast on the right! Keep up on the left! Close towards the bugle, you on the flanks! Where’s No. 1 section? Don’t get ahead too far!"

These cries, with the howling of dogs and the yells of Chinamen, who had got all round us now, were extremely discomposing. When presently they did leave off yelling, and we had no idea where they were gathering or where they did intend to attack us, I must admit that it was still more disconcerting. But we could hear the sea beating on the shore, and smelt the decaying seaweed, and knew we should reach it in a few minutes. The Skipper must have been a little nervous too, for his bugler sounded the "halt" and the "close", and everyone drew in towards the centre till our little square was as complete as we could make it in that horrid yellowish-grey fog.

We were just preparing to move on, when there was a most hideous uproar on our right flank. People began firing; there was the noise of hundreds of feet rushing towards us through the fog, a fearful din of yelling, shrieks of pain, then the noise of bayonets at work, and I could feel that the right side of the square was giving ground and being pressed back, and could hear the strange, choking, grunting noise men make when they are fighting hand to hand, and being overcome by numbers.

I had heard it once before with General McNeil’s column in the Soudan, when our zareba had been rushed, and it was touch and go for a few moments whether we were entirely wiped out or not. I was only a newly caught subaltern in those days, and I shall never forget that rush.

Old "B.-T." ought to have written about this one, not I. He would have done justice to it. I know that I can’t.

It all happened in a moment, and we had the yelling brutes all over us, pushing a thin fringe of struggling bluejackets in front of them. They looked huge as they rushed at us in the fog, but the first two or three who came my way must have been pretty sorry that I hadn’t forgotten to load my revolver. It was a regular pandemonium for about sixty or seventy seconds, I should fancy. Ching’s men were making a strange, squealing, hissing sound; the Yankees had a different row; and our people were grunting and cursing. I could hear the Skipper roar: "Close on the centre!" and his bugler kept on sounding the two "G’s" to let us know where the centre was. I found myself near him. He had his coxswain, and a couple of signalmen, and the two mids—Ford and Ponsonby—close to him, and was laying about him with his big stick, and punching fellows in the face with his fist. His coxswain knocked over one brute who was coming for him at the back, and I helped him get rid of another and then lost touch with him, and came across the wounded trying to scramble up and defend themselves with their bayonets, Trevelyan’s men standing over them, clubbing their rifles and making a grand fight of it. I saw that they were holding their own, and with a dozen of my own marines at my back, ran and forced my way into a lot of fellows who were trying to cut down Ching’s men. I suppose they hated him and his jackets even more than they hated us.

My Christopher Columbus! we did give ’em beans, and I’m precious glad that my sword was the best that could be bought (well, perhaps bought isn’t the right word; so I will say obtained), for their heads were as tough as iron, and the wadded cotton coats they wore made it jolly hard to use the point. For all that, though, it tickled one or two of them considerably.

Old Grainger clung to me like my shadow. He always seemed to be handy when I’d got two people to manage at the same time, and we always managed to scoop the pool.

We eased off the pressure round my princess, especially when Parkinson’s First Lieutenant, a man nearly forty, came along from the left with twenty or so of his people, shouting, "Rah!—Rah!—Rah!—O!—Ma!—Ha!" and burst in among them and began clubbing. Little Rashleigh suddenly shot into view with a broken sword in one hand and a revolver in the other. His scabbard got between his legs, and he fell sprawling, and would have been killed if Langham hadn’t suddenly sprung out of the fog and run a chap through who was standing over him and just going to jab him with a bayonet.

The three machine-gun carriages and the little Chinese field gun were all rallying places for our people, and I suppose I must have got into the "focus of disturbance", as they say about earthquakes, because, although the fog was so thick, I saw nearly all our officers at one time or another, and we got so jammed together—Chinese and marines and bluejackets—that we could hardly move.

I nearly came to grief near that Chinese gun. A wretched chap thought he could prod people from beneath it in comparative comfort, and tried his hand on me, but wasn’t quite quick enough. He got me a beastly rip in the leg just above the knee.

Then "Old Lest" seemed to elbow his way along. If you’ll believe me, he still had a cigar between his teeth (Whitmore saw it, and his coxswain swears that it was even then alight). He had broken his stick over the heads of two big ruffians, and they bungled against the gun carriage, and just as I thought that it was my turn to do something prompt, he caught them by their pigtails and "wanged" their heads together. That knocked them out of time, and his coxswain saw to it that they were dead.

Well, that was my little show, and I felt dizzy, and Grainger lowered me on to that gun wheel. The old sergeant-major came up streaming with blood and loaded my revolver for me, and Grainger wiped a lot of blood stuff off my face, which was interrupting the view of the surrounding scenery. People seemed to be leaving off fighting; our fellows were cheering like mad, and the buglers began sounding the "fall in" and the "cease fire".

I was all right in a second or two, and went back to my old place in the rear, and my people began limping back, calling each other and falling in, talking twenty to the dozen, and wiping their bayonets with tufts of grass.

My sergeant-major got them into something like order again; there were only twenty-seven on their feet out of the thirty-nine who had landed, and only about four of these who had nothing in the way of cuts or stabs to show for it.

Presently the bugler sounded the "still", and the coxswain piped, "Officers commanding companies report to the Captain," and I groped my way across the ground, simply littered with dead bodies, and found him and Parkinson. "Blucher" was sitting behind the Skipper, and looking extremely ashamed of himself.