by V. A. Stuart
He paused, looking about him. “The attack on the fort will be led by Commodore Elliott, gentlemen, and I have no doubt that it will be successful. The Commodore has already shown us how such an attack ought to be made when he captured or destroyed 27 war junks of Sonhay’s squadron in Escape Creek last week, bringing out ten as prizes … and all with the loss of only two men wounded!” He paused again, blue eyes twinkling, and Phillip saw the expression on Commodore Charles Elliott’s face undergo a swift change. Elliott had been resentful of his supersession in command of the Canton River and, for days now, had made no secret of his resentment, scarcely exchanging a word with the man who had replaced him. Now, however, finding himself the object of such unstinted praise, he reddened and then managed an answering smile.
“Thank you,” he acknowledged. “We were fortunate, of course, and only about forty junks opposed us. There are at least three times that number defending Fatshan Creek.”
“In the region of a hundred and seventy,” Henry Keppel told him. “As nearly as the Admiral and I could ascertain from the top of a pagoda, after Divine Service this morning. Seventy of them form the first division, moored in line abreast across the two creeks, with their bow-guns ranged so as to cover both channels. Autey’s made copies of my sketch—pass them round, Matt, if you please.” He added, as his secretary obediently handed out the sketch-maps, “There is a six-gun battery mounted opposite the fort, Commodore Elliott, and you’ll have about twenty ranged against you in the fort itself.”
“I had observed that,” Elliott returned, with a hint of asperity. “Don’t worry, my dear Keppel—we shan’t permit you to be held up.”
Phillip again exchanged glances with Edward Turnour but neither spoke and Commodore Keppel, still with a smile playing about his lips, continued to read his orders. “The Commander-in-Chief objects to long-range firing and, in the advance, the return of the Chinese fire is to be regulated by the officer commanding the leading division. The all-important object is to reach the junks through narrow and shallow water, requiring attention to navigation, which should not be diverted by a too hasty discharge of guns.” His smile widened. “You have been warned, gentlemen! For the rest, Admiral Seymour wishes it to be clearly understood that, if any impediments exist to the steam gunboats’ progress up the creek, it is not to delay the prompt advance of the oared boats. All casualties for hospital treatment are ultimately to be conveyed to the Inflexible for passage to Hong Kong. And finally, the Admiral wishes me to impress upon all Officers the necessity of restraining their men from attacking unarmed people, confining operations to those directed against the war junks and troops, and they are strictly to respect and protect the persons and property of the peaceable inhabitants. I trust that is clear to you all?” There was a murmur of assent from the assembled officers. The attacking force had been divided into four divisions and individual commands and stations had already been allocated so that, when the Commodore invited questions, only Elliott responded.
“I understand that it will be left to my discretion whether— having taken possession of the fort and outworks—I advance by land with my division or re-embark in the boats, to unite with the other divisional attacks on the junk forces.” It was more a statement than a question and Keppel nodded. Clearly, Phillip thought, Commodore Elliott had no intention of being omitted from the main attack, merely because, as a necessary prelude to it, he was required to storm a fort defended by twenty heavy guns. This attitude was understandable; he had been involved from the outset in the tortuous negotiations with Commissioner Yeh, had captured a Chinese brig in retaliation for the seizure of the nominally British lorcha, the Arrow—which had initiated hostilities—and he had led the attacks on the Bogue Forts and Dutch Folly the previous year.
The Canton River had been, until Keppel’s arrival, his happy hunting ground. With Captain Hall, of the flagship Calcutta, and Commanders Bate and Fortescue, Charles Elliott had been at the right hand of both the British Plenipotentiary, Sir John Bowring, and his own Commander-in-Chief, Rear-Admiral Sir Michael Seymour. He had assisted the Consul, Harry S. Parkes, the American Commissioner, Dr Parker, and the French Chargé d’Affaires, Count de Courcy, in their dealings with the Chinese and, in liasion with the French Admiral, Guérin, and the American Commander-in-Chief, Commodore Armstrong, had carried out the capture and destruction of the four Barrier Forts and the bombardment of the Government buildings in the city of Canton, at the end of November, 1856.
Since then, however, there had been changes, Phillip was aware. The French struck their Consular flag in Canton and removed their subjects from the factories, withdrawing their naval force from the river; the Americans, whilst continuing to demand assurances for future adherence to the Treaty, and respect for their flag, desisted from the use of force and, early in December, resumed diplomatic negotiations with the Chinese Viceroy. Commodore Elliott was by no means the only man to find himself superseded; Sir John Bowring had informed the British government in January that, before the negotiations could be opened with the Chinese in Peking or elsewhere with any prospect of success, it was essential to capture and occupy the city of Canton. On the advice of Admiral Seymour, he had asked for military aid to enable him to achieve this objective, advocating that a force of five thousand men, with artillery, should be supplied from India.
He had the full support of the American and French Plenipotentiaries. In April he, Dr Parker for the United States, and M. de Bourboulon, the French Minister, signed a Memorandum of Agreement, pledging the co-operation of their naval forces for the reduction of the city of Canton as a necessary preliminary to further negotiation. The British Government, however, wanted pressure brought upon the Chinese by a naval blockade of the Yangtze and Peiho Rivers and Sir John Bowring’s proceedings in Canton had come under strong criticism in the Commons. The Foreign Office, displaying its traditional reluctance to trust to the judgement of the man on the spot, announced the appointment of the Earl of Elgin— previously Governor-General of Canada—as High Commissioner and Plenipotentiary. Bowring was directed to serve under him as Minister and was informed that Lord Elgin, who was to travel overland to Singapore, might be expected in Hong Kong aboard the fifty-gun steam frigate Shannon early in July, together with a military force of fifteen hundred men.
The French also decided to replace their Plenipotentiary, appointing Baron de Gros in place of de Bourboulon, and Dr Parker, although he had signed the Agreement on behalf of the United States in April, had received no further instructions from his Government since then and he, too, was anticipating his replacement and recall. In these circumstances, neither Minister considered that he had the power to involve his country’s naval forces in aggressive action and, without their support, a blockade of China’s major rivers by the British alone was clearly out of the question.
Diplomatic activity continued unabated, particularly on the part of the French and a report concerning the arrival of a Russian emissary in the Peiho added to the uncertainty. As Admiral Seymour had wryly put it, when endeavouring to explain the complexities of the present situation to a gathering of his senior officers, Phillip recalled: “We’re on our own, with our feathers clipped, gentlemen … but at least we shall maintain control of the Canton River. Mainly, of course, in the belief that, on his arrival here, Lord Elgin will see the wisdom of the measures Sir John Bowring has advocated and permit us to enter the city of Canton. In addition, we must ensure that no foreign diplomats, with bribes in their hands, are in a position to tempt Imperial Viceroy Yeh to grant them trade concessions to the exclusion of ourselves. We’ll hold what we have fought for and leave Yeh in no doubt that we mean business!”
The order for an attack on the Chinese war junks followed shortly afterwards and had been greeted enthusiastically by both officers and men of the British naval squadron. The arrival of the frigates Tribune and Amethyst had provided adequate reinforcements; that of the battleship Sanspareil, with 300 Royal Marines on board, was expected and a total force
of nineteen hundred seamen and marines was now gathered below Hyacinth Island, some two miles from the entrance to Fatshan Creek and about halfway to Canton itself. A miscellaneous fleet of oared boats had been towed into position by steam gunboats and corvettes, each division having its own towing craft which, tomorrow—as Commodore Keppel had outlined—would take it as far as the depth of water permitted.
As he listened to Keppel, with his irresistible charm, continuing the discussion on tactics with his fellow Commodore, Phillip let his own thoughts wander. The attack would have its perils, he knew; the Chinese fought well and their guns were well served and accurately ranged but, like everyone else in the crowded cabin, he was eager for action … and boat actions smacked of Nelson’s day—of seamen, armed with cutlasses, boarding enemy ships and fighting for their possession at close quarters, on decks slippery with blood. He smiled at his romanticised picture. It would not be like that tomorrow, of course. Initially it would be fought out with guns; the Chinese thirty-two-pounders and “stink-pots” and their gingalls —those curious, breech-loading firearms which required two men and a rest to fire their four- to eight-ounce balls—pitted against British ships’ guns and rockets, and Minié or Enfield rifles. Only later would it come to hand-to-hand combat—and only then if the junks weren’t set ablaze by British rockets.
For the moment, Phillip found himself pitying their primitively armed opponents; then, recalling the sickening eyewitness accounts he had heard of Commissioner Yeh’s wholesale executions, his resolution hardened. Yeh was a brutal tyrant, who had put down the rebellion of the so-called Taiping Celestial Dynasty with an iron hand, reputedly beheading three thousand whom he had taken prisoner. He had incited his people to murder British subjects by offering a substantial reward for their severed heads, conniving at attacks on their persons and an attempt to poison those resident in Hong Kong by the addition of arsenic to flour supplied for making bread in the Colony. And he had, of course, burnt down the trading factories and sought, in every way he could, to deny to “foreign barbarians” the rights they had been granted under the Treaty of Nanking—clearly, he had to be stopped. He … Edward Turnour laid a hand on his arm.
“Time to be on our way, Phillip. Our revered Chief has worked his usual miracle and charmed Elliott out of his sulks. Look, he’s actually smiling! You’d think, to look at him now, that he’d chosen his role for tomorrow himself, instead of having it forced upon him. Keppel, I swear, could charm the birds off the trees if he set his mind to it.”
Phillip laughed. In common with virtually every officer and seaman who had served with him, he had become a devoted admirer of the diminutive Henry Keppel. His admiration dated from his midshipman days, when both he and Turnour had served under Keppel’s command in the frigate Maeander—an eventful, three-year commission, which had taken them to the Far East and Australia between 1848–51. His boyish hero-worship had been in no wise diminished when he had again found himself under his old Commander in the Naval Brigade in the Crimea. Indeed, it was largely thanks to Henry Keppel, he reflected gratefully, that he had lived down the stigma of his court martial and the bitter self-doubt which dismissal from command of the Huntress had engendered in him. On the rocky Heights above Sebastopol, when his whole career had been in jeopardy, Keppel had given him more than friendship; where another Commander might have ignored the torment he was enduring, Keppel had recognised it and offered him the chance to redeem himself. The little Commodore’s charm was proverbial but there was a great deal more to him than charm. A very great deal more.
Commodore Elliott departed in his gig for the steam paddle gunboat Coromandel, at anchor with her string of oared boats a mile ahead of them and, with his departure, Commodore Keppel relaxed his earlier formality. He was in high good humour, joking and laughing, the keen blue eyes holding their familiar twinkle as he wished each one of them well. “No racing me tomorrow, Cochrane,” he warned the Niger’s Captain. “Have proper respect for my grey hairs!”
“When have I not, sir?” Cochrane challenged, smiling. His gig, handled more smartly than Elliott’s, went skimming up river and Keppel watched it, eyes momentarily narrowed.
“Get as much sleep as you can, my boys,” he advised, when the more junior of his officers filed past him in their turn. “You’ll need all the stamina you’ve got tomorrow—and all the guts! Don’t underrate John Chinaman simply because his junks look a trifle antiquated—they’re ideal for navigating this river and he handles them expertly. If you’ve never encountered them before, you’ll be astonished at the punch they pack and the speed at which they can travel, under sail or oars.” He laid a hand on Phillip’s arm. “Ah, my dear boy— the Admiral was talking about you this morning.”
“Was he, sir?” Phillip eyed him uncertainly.
“Indeed he was. We shall shortly have three holders of the Victoria Cross on this station—Captain Peel and Midshipman Daniels, when Shannon joins, and yourself,” Keppel said. “Her Majesty is to present the first Crosses to sixty-two officers and men at a special parade to inaugurate the award, in Hyde Park on the twenty-sixth of June. Their Lordships have informed the Commander-in-Chief that your three Crosses are to be sent out here and he’s been instructed to arrange for their presentation … in the latter part of July, very probably. I thought you would like to know.”
“Thank you, sir,” Phillip acknowledged, without noticeable pleasure. Keppel should have been given a Cross, he thought rebelliously, instead of the penny-pinching C.B. with which the First Lord had sought to fob him off. He …
“You’ll be in excellent company,” the Commodore reminded him. “Well, I’ll see you first thing in the morning. You’re commanding Raleigh’s cutter, Edward, are you not?” Turnour nodded. “Then be a good fellow and make sure that Spurrier has a length of blue bunting to serve as my broad pennant when I leave Hong Kong, would you? I intend to lead the attack in my galley and it’s important that the third and fourth divisions should be able to see exactly where I am.”
“Very good, sir, I’ll attend to it,” Edward Turnour promised.
“And,” Keppel added, as an afterthought struck him, “tell Spurrier also that he’s to leave my dog Mike behind—there’s no space for it in any of the boats.”
Turnour contrived to keep a straight face. Spurrier, the Commodore’s coxswain, had served with him for so long that he regarded certain privileges as his right and the dog, Mike— an intelligent little terrier—had adopted him and was his constant shadow, to whose presence the Raleigh’s officers usually turned a blind eye. “I’ll tell him, of course, sir. But he maintains that Mike won’t leave him and—”
“Be damned to that for an unlikely yarn!” Keppel retorted. “He’s my dog, isn’t he? Well, he can be tied up here in my cabin.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Turnour acknowledged.
Phillip, also careful to conceal his amusement, put in diffidently, “Mike is quite good for morale, sir. The younger men regard him as a mascot, I fancy and—”
“Mascot indeed! Since when have seamen of Her Majesty’s Navy required a mascot?” Keppel demanded. But his lower lip had a suspicious tremor and he said, with well-simulated gruffness, “All right but it’s pure superstitious poppycock, you know. If Spurrier must bring the unfortunate animal into battle with him, he’d better keep it out of my sight. If he gets it killed, he’ll have only himself to blame … and what price his mascot then, eh?”
“I’ll warn him, sir,” Turnour assured him.
“Yes, you do that, my dear boy,” Keppel agreed. The tremor became a smile. “I’ll have a quiet word with him when he picks me up in the morning. I’m going to make sure of a comfortable night—I’m sleeping here, in my own cabin, and the Admiral’s dining with me. Rank has its advantages sometimes, has it not? I wish you both joy of the Hong Kong’s deck!”
The Hong Kong, when they returned on board, was in a state of organised chaos, her boats, like those of the other steamers—strung out astern of her and her decks crowded wi
th seamen and marines. Edward Turnour went in search of the Commodore’s coxswain to discharge his errand and Phillip, after inspecting his own command—the Raleigh’s launch—partook of a frugal supper and then lay down as best he could in the sternsheets of the launch, his long legs tucked uncomfortably beneath him and his head resting on the gunwhale. It was a calm, warm night; the hum of men’s voices and the croaking of frogs on the river bank the only sounds he could hear and, accustomed to snatch a brief nap at sea, whenever the opportunity offered, he dozed off undisturbed by the men talking on either side of him.
Young Lightfoot, his boat’s midshipman—whom he had sent to the Hong Kong for what remained of the night—wakened him well before first light, bringing with him the rest of the launch’s crew and the news that Commodore Keppel had come aboard the gunboat an hour before.
So much for the privileges of rank and the comfortable night he had promised himself, Phillip thought, and smiled in the warm darkness, remembering other nights in the Sebastopol batteries when Henry Keppel, supposedly sound asleep in his tent, had made his appearance just before an attack as if, by instinct, he had sensed the danger and knew that his mere presence would put heart into the men who had to face it.
“Shall I issue the rations, sir?” his coxswain asked and he nodded. Breakfast, according to the Admiral’s orders, was to be eaten before the advance began—ship’s biscuit and the grog ration, sparse enough fare, but welcome as a distraction, if nothing else, from thoughts which at such a moment tended to be apprehensive ones. His own included … Phillip stretched his cramped limbs. It was nearly two years since he had been under fire from an enemy and he felt the familiar sick sensation in the pit of his stomach as he recalled details he had imagined long since forgotten. The face of a young soldier, newly dead, his rifle still clutched in his nerveless hands; the agonised sobbing of a gallant sergeant of the 88th whose legs had been carried away by a roundshot as he led the way into the Russian Redan. And—he drew in his breath sharply. The ghastly scene of carnage inside the fort itself, when he had finally entered it with the survivors of his ladder party and the Engineer officer, Ranken, to find the Russians, secure behind their embrasures, mowing down their attackers in a terrible cross-fire of grape and canister and ball.
