Then masses of men rushed down the hills to the
attack. Not a shot was fired at them. Encouraged by the garrison's silence
and carried away by the prospect of an easy victory, they lost all
formation and crowded together in dense swarms.
The two British officers watched them from the central redoubt. Parker held
his binoculars to his eyes with his right hand, while his left forefinger
rested on a polished button in a little machine on the table beside him.
The assailants, favoured by the fall of the ground, soon reached the limits
of the cantonments, bare now of buildings and trees. There were trained
Chinese troops, some tall, light-complexioned Northerners of Manchu blood,
others stocky, yellow men from Canton and the Southern Provinces. Mobs of
Bhutanese with heads, chests, legs, and feet bare, fierce but undisciplined
fighters, armed with varied weapons, led the van. Uttering weird yells and
brandishing their _dahs_, spears, muskets, and rifles, they rushed towards
the fort, from which no shot was fired. Accustomed to the lofty _jongs_, or
castles, of their own land they deemed the breastworks and trenches
unworthy of notice. And the stone barracks and walls in the Fort were
rapidly melting away under the rain of shells.
Flushed with victory the swarming masses came on. But suddenly the world
upheaved behind the leaders.
Pages:
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350