The War of the Dragon Lady (10 page)

Gripping the top of the ladder as it projected upwards, Simon presented his revolver at the kneeling man, fired and, predictably, missed him.

‘It fires high, dammit,’ shouted Jenkins from down below.

The man was now on his feet, fumbling with the bolt mechanism of his rifle. Fonthill adjusted his aim and shot the man in the breast. Cocking the revolver with his thumb, he fired at the nearest of the two men standing and brought him down too. The third man held up his hands in surrender and Simon waved him aside. He looked along the sights of the Colt for the fourth but he had disappeared behind the two cannon.

‘Can you get up, bach?’ hissed Jenkins. It was always a sign of great anxiety when the Welshman omitted the ‘sir’ when addressing his comrade. ‘Me trousers are soaked and me ’ead’s spinnin’ up ’ere. I think I’m goin’ to fall.’

‘No you’re not. Hang on. I’m climbing up.’

Attempting to keep his revolver levelled at the standing Chinaman and wary of the man hiding behind the two cannons, Simon hauled himself over the edge and, on knees and one hand, crouched on the top of the tower. There was a clunk as Jenkins threw his bag of spikes ahead of him and a cry of ‘Thank God!’ as the Welshman scrambled away from the edge.

His arrival distracted Fonthill and the standing man ducked away, reaching down to pick up a rifle. Simon’s first shot caught him in the shoulder, spinning him round, and the second took him in the forehead, causing him to fall.

‘I keep telling you, it fires high,’ grunted Jenkins, now his normal,
cool self again. ‘’Ere, let me ’ave it.’ He put out his hand and Fonthill was happy to hand over the Colt.

‘Just two more shots left,’ he said. ‘Be careful. There’s another man behind the guns.’ As he spoke, he was aware of firing breaking out down below, near the edge of the burnt-out shops. Strouts and his men were obviously under attack. They must hurry.

The thought had hardly crossed his mind when a rifle barrel poked through the spokes of one of the guns and a bullet zipped through the edge of Fonthill’s jacket, prompting him to roll away. It immediately galvanised Jenkins, who sprang to his feet with amazing alacrity for a man who, moments before, had been wetting himself with fear. Ducking under the barrel of the nearest gun, the Welshman fired one shot from the revolver. As the sound echoed away, he called out, ‘All right, bach sir. We’ve cleared this top, like. The others can come up.’

Fonthill crawled back to the ladder. His men were lined up it, presenting a perfect target to whoever was attacking the marines in the ruins. ‘All right,’ he called. ‘Climb up, as quick as you like.’

Jenkins was already examining the guns. ‘Where did that Frenchie say we should stick the spikes?’ he asked, perspiration dripping down his face.

‘In the priming hole, at the top. Give me a spike. I’ll hold it while …’ His voice tailed away. There was no priming hole, this was a modern, breech-loading gun. One that could not be spiked.

‘Damn that Frenchman,’ he swore. ‘Must have fought at Austerlitz.’ Then he became aware that eight of his men were now on the top of the tower. ‘Where are the rest of you?’ he demanded.

‘Got picked off comin’ up the tower,’ replied a corporal of marines. ‘We was strung out like paper ducks at the fairground.
’Ow are we goin’ to get down again, sir?’

‘We’ll get down all right, don’t worry about that.’ In fact, the thought of climbing back down that ladder under gunfire perturbed him considerably. ‘Right. Four of you line the edge. See if you can get a sight on whoever is firing at us and take a few out. They’ll be in the ruins. You four give me and Jenkins a hand to see if we can tip these bloody guns over the edge. Come on.’

It took some time before they could move either gun. They had been propped up by bricks to ensure that the recoil did not send them back over the edge. All of the bricks therefore had to be cleared away, together with the bodies of the dead Chinese, before the heavy guns could be shifted.

‘Now,’ said Simon. ‘Spin them round on their wheels and simply push them over the edge – but one at a time, in case we cause the tower to collapse further. And not the ladder side, for God’s sake …!’

All of this was being done while the four marines were delivering a steady fire on whatever Chinese they could see amongst the debris down below. Fonthill looked over their shoulders. Strouts and his men had spread out among the ruins and were engaged in a lively exchange with mainly hidden adversaries. Looking down, Simon had a sudden idea.

He turned round. The marines were on the point of tipping the second Krupp gun over the edge. ‘Stop,’ he shouted. ‘Pull it back.’

With ill grace, the sweating men did so. ‘What’s up?’ asked Jenkins.

‘I think we can use this thing before we throw it over.’

‘Ah … what? Fire down on them lot, down there?’

‘Why not? If we can depress it enough to fire down – and if we can find out how to load and fire it.’

Jenkins wiped the back of his wrist across his perspiring brow. ‘Aw, it’s just a matter of shovin’ in a shell and pullin’ the trigger, ain’t it?’

‘I doubt it.’ He turned to the marines, standing at the wheels. ‘Anyone know anything about artillery?’ He was greeted by blank faces. But one of the men firing from the edge turned his head.

‘I was a gunner for a time, sir.’

‘Good. See if you can load this thing. You,’ he indicated the men standing, ‘pull the gun back, swivel it around and build up bricks under its trail to see if we can depress the muzzle.’ He looked to the east. Was the sky brightening there? ‘Come on, lads. Look lively. We haven’t got much time. The rest of you keep firing.’

A shell was soon found and the marine opened the breech and inserted it into the groove, slamming the breech block over it. The gun was inched carefully on its wheels toward the edge facing the ruined retail area. Then the bricks were built up under the wooden trail that would normally attach it to the harness of the horses pulling it. This, of course, depressed the barrel. There seemed to be no sophisticated sights, so Fonthill directed the men to move the gun so that its barrel was roughly aimed at the middle of the rubble and timber from which the flashes of rifle fire could be seen.

A sudden thought struck him. ‘Do we have to fuse the shell before we fire it?’ he asked of the ex-gunner.

‘Dunno, sir. Never had to do that bit.’

‘Well, we’ll just have to take a chance on that.’ He sighted down the barrel of the gun. ‘Come and look at this,’ he ordered the marine. ‘Laid like this, should we be able to land a shell amongst those riflemen?’

The ex-gunner squinted down the barrel. He waved his hand. ‘Bit more elevation, sir.’

Fonthill removed a couple of bricks.

‘That should do it, sir.’

‘What’s your name, marine?’

‘Oakley, sir.’

Simon grinned. ‘Let’s hope you’re a relative of … what was her name? Ah yes. Little Annie Oakley. Deadliest shot in the west. Can you fire this thing?’

‘Oh yes, sir. That’s the easiest part.’

‘Right men. Stand back.’

Fonthill looked around him quickly. The space on top of the tower was rectangular, the size of a large tennis court, but much narrower. If the gun backfired in some way, then they could all be blown off the top, for it was firing from the narrowest part. If the bricks wedged under the wheels proved inadequate, then the recoil could take the gun and Oakley back over the edge. Would it work? There was only one way to find out. He nodded at Oakley. ‘Fire!’

The report was deafening and the muzzle of the gun spurted flame. The bricks were sent scattering as the whole thing recoiled – but less than a foot and it did not implode. Instead, the explosion came from the middle of the ruins below them, roughly where the gun had been aimed. An inverted triangular-shaped sheet of flame sprang up, sending a shower of debris high into the air.

The marines on the tower sprang to their feet and waved their woolly hats, cheering. A similar but fainter cheer came from Strouts’ men, down below.

‘Oakley,’ shouted Fonthill. ‘Get another shell. I’d like to give
’em one more round to make ’em think we are going to keep up the shelling.’

The shell was found and inserted into the breech.

‘Right, Oakley,’ said Fonthill. ‘Lay the gun to fire just a little back of where the last shell landed. You three, pile up the bricks again. You lads at the edge, keep up the musketry until we fire the gun, but start shimmying down that ladder like hell as soon as we have fired. The rest of us will cover you from up here.’

Once more the barrel was adjusted and once more the shell exploded satisfactorily in the target area.

‘Good shot, Oakley,’ shouted Simon. ‘You’ll be awarded a coconut when we get back. Now, let’s all tip this gun over the edge. We can’t hang about up here. You others, down the ladder as fast as you can. Once down, all of you sprint across to join Captain Strouts. Jenkins and I will cover you as best we can. Off you go.’

With an effort, the gun was reversed, wheeled to the opposite edge and given a final push that sent it tumbling down to land on its mate with a satisfying, metal-tearing crash.

Simon picked up two of the rifles left by the Chinese and the bandoliers that lay by their sleeping bags. Throwing a rifle and a bandolier to Jenkins, he crouched on the edge, joining the marines waiting to take their turn down the ladder. ‘Can you see any of the men firing on our chaps?’ he asked the man next to him.

‘They were over there, sir,’ said the marine, pointing. ‘But I think the shells may have got most of them.’

‘Good. Get down the ladder.’

Soon, only Fonthill and Jenkins were left on the top of the tower. Dawn was colouring the sky to the east. Simon looked to his right, to
the south, away from the ruins, where the narrow streets criss-crossed the Chinese City. Was it his imagination, or could he see figures running along them in the direction of the open space and the tower?

‘Down you go, 352.’

‘No, bach sir. I’ll follow, look you.’

‘No. You go first. Get on that ladder or I’ll push you over. Here, give me that rifle and bandolier. I’ll carry them. Get onto the first rung, face the wall and hold on to the side pieces. Oh, and think of the Queen. Go on, man. I can see Chinese troops running towards us. We don’t want to be stuck up here. I promise not to pee on you.’

Jenkins forced a ghastly grin. ‘Very kind, I’m sure.’ But his legs were trembling as he reached with a tentative foot for the top rung.

Fonthill selected a couple of rounds from the bandoliers slung around his shoulders and inserted them into the breech of one of the Mausers – a rapid-firing rifle, much better than the old
Martini-Henrys
they carried. He fired them in the general direction of the figures he could now see running through the nearest street. The range was too extreme, of course, but it made him feel better. Then he swung himself onto the ladder.

Climbing down that ladder was one of the most frightening and frustrating journeys of Simon’s life. His progress, of course, had to be geared to that of Jenkins who, with eyes tightly shut, seemed hardly to be moving as he groped his way down, one foot slowly feeling for the rung below it. At any moment, Fonthill felt that a hail of bullets would thud into their bodies. Looking down, he could see that all of the marines from the tower had been able to reach their comrades in the ruins, some hundred yards away. And they had stopped firing, presumably because the enemy had fled. Or had they, themselves,
fled? He shuddered and plodded down, after Jenkins.

At last a cry of ‘Oh, thank God for that’ from below him showed that his comrade had reached the ground safely. The cry that quickly followed of ‘Throw me a rifle, quick’ showed that the Welshman had regained his normal equanimity. He tossed a rifle down, followed by one of the bandoliers.

It was at that moment that a bullet thudded into the brickwork to his left, followed by another, high above him to the right. Immediately, they were answered by Jenkins, who was now kneeling and coolly firing at figures running across the open ground towards them from the Chinese City. At the same moment, his shooting was supplemented by firing from the ruins. As Fonthill clung to the ladder, he saw at least a dozen Chinese soldiers brought down.

‘Come on, bach,’ called Jenkins. ‘You’re only a few feet up. You can jump down now. We’ve got to get out of here quick, see.’

Simon, encumbered by rifle, bandolier and cutlass, swivelled round and jumped, landing on all fours next to the Welshman. ‘Right,’ shouted Jenkins, ‘our lads over there will cover us, look you. Run like hell.’

They did so and gained the cover of the ruins, where about fifteen marines were spread out behind the debris firing steadily.

‘Where’s Captain Strouts?’ asked Fonthill of a stout, hugely moustached sergeant.

The man nodded. ‘Over there, sir. Gone, I’m afraid. Bullet through ’is ’ead. Are you all down now, sir?’

‘Yes.’ Simon’s voice was half choked with grief. ‘Is this all you’ve got left of the party?’

The sergeant coolly sighted and let off another round. ‘’Fraid so, sir.’
He nodded over his shoulder. ‘Got caught from be’ind us, so to speak. We’ve lost about ’alf our number. If you ’adn’t started your fireworks up there, the rest of us would have got it, too. I think the Chinks be’ind us took fright at that.’ He wiped his moustache with a dirty handkerchief. ‘They don’t like artillery, y’see, sir. Pity we don’t ’ave a few more guns.’ He regarded Fonthill respectfully. ‘If I may say so, sir, you did a good job up there. But I do suggest now that we should bugger off back to the compound.’ He nodded across the space to where flashes of rifle fire could be seen coming from the streets. ‘I think we’ve got the rest of the Chinese army comin’ after us.’ Then he nodded behind him. ‘And a few more be’ind us still to get through.’

Fonthill nodded. ‘Of course, Sergeant. Do we have any wounded?’

‘Only scratches, sir. Their firin’ was quite good for savages. Got most of our blokes through the ’ead.’

‘Right. I’m afraid we can’t stay to bury them. I will take the lead, Sergeant, and I would be grateful if you would bring up the rear, with another good man. We may have to do a couple of bayonet charges to get through.’