By this time the British fleet had separated into three squadrons in preparation for the coming attack. For a while the ships were held back by the retreating tide; nor was there a breath of wind to fill their sails. The pounding of North Wantung continued while they waited for a breeze; in the windless air smoke and debris rose from the island’s heights in roiling clouds, as if from a belching volcano.
It was past ten when a breeze stirred the air. Hoisting sail, the largest of the three squadrons set off for Humen, to the east; it was led by two seventy-four-gun line-of-battle frigates, Melville and Blenheim. The second squadron headed westwards, towards the restored fort of Tytock on the other shore: it consisted of only two vessels, the Wellesley and the twenty-four-gun Modeste. The third squadron converged on the battered and smoking island of North Wantung. Accompanying each group of attack vessels was a complement of rocket-boats.
Till this time no British warship had fired a single shot. Now, as the squadrons drew abreast of the gun-emplacements, they dropped anchor with springs on their cables, so that they could stay beam-on to their respective targets. Then, almost simultaneously they unloosed their broadsides at all three sets of defences — Humen, Tytock and North Wantung. The thunder of their cannon was accompanied by the shriek of Congreve rockets.
The firing was of such concentrated ferocity that it was as if a deluge of metal and flame had swept around the channel, setting fire to the water itself. As broadside followed upon broadside a dark thundercloud blossomed around the Tiger’s Mouth: the fumes were so dense that the warships had to stop firing to let the air clear.
When the smoke lifted it was seen that much of the Chinese artillery had been knocked out. The fort of Tytock had fallen silent while the guns at Humen and North Wantung were firing only sporadically. At all three points the battlements and defences had been badly battered and breached.
Now, as preparations for the ground assault got under way, the warships redeployed: the Wellesley and Modeste had already succeeded in reducing the fort of Tytock to a smoking ruin. Turning away, they crossed over to join in the attack on North Wantung.
It was only now that Zachary could bring himself to lower his telescope: he had watched the entire operation with breathless excitement, focusing now on the channel’s right bank, now on the left, and sometimes on the island in the middle.
Never had he seen such a spectacle, such a marvel of planning and such a miracle of precision. It seemed to him a triumph of modern civilization; a perfect example of the ways in which discipline and reason could conquer continents of darkness, just as Mrs Burnham had said: it was proof of the omnipotence of the class of men of which he too was now a part. He thought of the unlikely mentors who had helped him through the door — Serang Ali, Baboo Nob Kissin Pander and Mrs Burnham — and was filled with gratitude that destiny had afforded him a place in this magnificent machine.
*
Kesri and the Bengal sepoys had been assigned to the landingparty that was to attack the island of North Wantung. This force included troops from the Royal Irish, the Cameronians and the 37th Madras: each detachment was allotted a cutter of its own. Two were taken in tow by the steamer Madagascar and the others by the Nemesis.
As the cutters were pulling up to North Wantung, they were met by volleys of arrows and matchlock-fire. Even before the landing-parties reached the shore, the defendants came rushing out of the battered remnants of the fortifications, brandishing swords, pikes and spears.
Kesri knew then that what had happened at Chuenpee would repeat itself here: having endured a devastating bombardment, knowing themselves to be hopelessly outgunned, the defendants had decided that their only hope lay in hand-to-hand combat. This had given them a desperate courage, prompting them to abandon the shelter of the battlements. But once on exposed ground they were fatally vulnerable: before they could close with their attackers they were mowed down by musket-fire and grapeshot. As at Chuenpee a great number of defendents were set afire by their powder-scattered clothing; many had to fling themselves into the water, to douse the flames, only to be picked off as they thrashed about.
By the time the landing-parties stepped on shore the ground was already carpeted with dead and dying defendants. Some of the British officers began to call out: ‘Surrender! Surrender!’; some had even learnt the Chinese word — Too-kiang! But their cries went unheeded; many of the defenders fought on, flinging themselves on their attackers’ bayonets.
The landing-parties had brought escalade ladders with them but only a few were used. The battlements had been so badly battered that at some points it was possible to climb through the breaches.
On entering the fortifications, the landing-parties split up as the remaining defendants retreated towards the island’s heights. Kesri found himself running through corridors that were empty except for dead and wounded Chinese soldiers. In many of the gun-emplacements the bodies of the gunners lay draped over the barrels, pierced all over by grapeshot. Kesri was amazed to see that instead of seeking shelter they had stayed at their posts until the end.
Near the island’s summit Kesri came upon a large group of disarmed defenders, squatting in a courtyard, under the guns of a detachment of British troops. His friend Sarjeant Maggs was in charge.
‘These gents had the good sense to surrender,’ said the sarjeant. ‘But take a dekko at that lot over there.’
He pointed to an embrasure that faced the channel. Looking down, Kesri saw that the rocks below were littered with corpses: evidently rather than surrender dozens of Chinese soldiers had chosen to throw themselves down from the heights.
Once again Kesri was reminded of earlier campaigns, in the Arakan and against the tribes of the hills. There too the defenders had fought in this way, killing themselves to thwart their attackers. For sepoys and other professional soldiers there was nothing more hateful than this — it seemed to imply that they were hired murderers.
Why? Why fight like this? Why not just accept defeat and live? He wished he could explain to them that he, for his part, would much rather have let them survive than see them die: he was just doing his job, that was all.
Averting his eyes, Kesri looked ahead, at the fort of Humen which lay directly across the water. British flags were flying on it now, wreathed in plumes of black smoke. Suddenly there was a flash and an ear-splitting noise; as the sound faded an enormous chunk of the fort’s battlements slid slowly into the channel. Kesri realized that British sappers were now systematically demolishing the fort and its walls.
So much death; so much destruction: what was it all for?
*
More than anything else it was the swiftness of the operation that dazzled Zachary: within four hours all the fortifications of the Tiger’s Mouth were in British hands. No sooner was Humen captured than the chain that had been slung across the river was torn from its moorings and allowed to sink to the bottom.
Then began a spectacle that was, in its way, just as awe-inspiring as the co-ordinated assault: the destruction of captured guns and the demolition of the forts.