China by Edward Rutherfurd (historical books to read TXT) 📕

as a dozen cannon fired in perfect unison. The guns were not aimed at the Chinese rigging or at the decks, but at the body of the ship and at her bowels, near the waterline.

Even from where he was, he could hear the crash as the Chinese vessel’s sides were smashed open and the screams of men torn to shreds by a typhoon of wooden splinters. As he stared in horror, smoke began to issue from the shattered junk.

The Volage had moved on; she left the next Chinese vessel, a fire ship, to the Hyacinth, who came in to deliver a smaller but perfectly directed broadside at the fire ship’s waterline. This time the thunderous crash was followed by a strange silence, during which the fire ship seemed to shudder. Then she began to list. She was foundering.

“She will sink,” said the admiral impassively.

Shi-Rong followed the Volage. She was still coming on rapidly, drawing opposite a war junk only a short way downstream of the admiral’s flagship. The Chinese ship fired three shots at the Volage’s rigging and damaged one of the sails. Yet the British ship came on regardless. The frigate was almost exactly opposite the war junk now. Could the British gunners have reloaded yet? The answer came moments later, as the Volage emitted another mighty broadside, with a huge roar.

And then, just for an instant, he thought that the world had come to an end.

The flash was so great it seemed to fill the sky with fire; the bang was deafening. Something, he scarcely knew what, hit him in the chest like a wave and almost knocked him down. The men on the deck below him suddenly turned black against the curtain of flame. Before his eyes, the war junk ahead was exploding like a bursting barrel. Smoke billowed out. Spars, shards, lumps of flesh, began to fall out of the sky and rain down upon the deck.

In the unearthly glare, the admiral’s face looked like a fierce Chinese mask. “Gunpowder,” he growled. “They hit a magazine.” He turned to Shi-Rong. “Come with me.”

As they descended onto the main deck, Shi-Rong could see that the mariners were shocked into silence by the explosion. To see men killed in battle was one thing, but to see an entire ship and all the men it carried explode into nothingness before your eyes was another.

“The barbarians got lucky once,” the admiral shouted. “Now we’ll teach them a lesson.” To the gunners he called out: “Do not aim for the rigging. Aim for the body of the ship. Destroy their guns.” And he placed himself in front of the main mast in the center of the deck, to put heart into his men. To Shi-Rong he said: “Go to the first cannon and make sure they aim at the sides. If the first gun gets it right, the others may follow.”

The flagship had a dozen cannon, more than any of the other war junks. But that was still only six on each side, just half the firepower of the frigate. Every shot had to count.

The gunners didn’t seem to resent Shi-Rong. They tried their best. “We always aim at the rigging,” one of them said apologetically. Indeed, they had some difficulty in positioning the cannon to fire at a lower trajectory. But as the prow of the Volage came level, they did get off a shot—and knocked off her figurehead. The gun crew let out a cheer. Shi-Rong looked back at the admiral, hoping he had seen. The next Chinese cannon hit the frigate’s side. The third crew failed to obey the order and fired high. Shi-Rong wasn’t sure where the other three shots went.

And now the British frigate was exactly level. Her length matched the flagship’s. She had entered a gentle upward roll, as though she were taking a breath, and now the line of cannon descended, and her guns roared.

The admiral’s war junk was stoutly built. But her sides were not made to receive a battering like this. Shi-Rong felt the whole vessel shudder as a dozen cannonballs struck her just above the waterline. He saw the British ship’s quarterdeck passing. A double bang from two of the smaller guns mounted there was followed by a huge crack as one of the cannonballs smashed into the main mast, just above the admiral. He ran across to make sure the great man was safe, only to find Admiral Guan, with a splinter wound in his arm that he ignored, coolly assessing the damage.

“The mast’s only a little damaged,” he remarked. “It’ll hold. I saw you hit the British ship.” He gave Shi-Rong an approving nod. “The real question,” he added quietly, “is how badly we’re holed, and how much water we’re taking in.”

As if in answer, the big war junk gave a slight but perceptible list towards the side where she’d been holed. The admiral pursed his lips. And he might have gone to inspect the damage himself if just then the Hyacinth had not appeared.

Seen from the British vessel, Shi-Rong realized, the exposed deck full of men presented a tempting target. After the shock they’d just received, the flagship’s gunners had hardly started to reload. The admiral and his crew could only wait, helplessly. The Hyacinth was coming in close. Shi-Rong saw to his horror that the guns were not pointing at the belly of the ship, but at the deck. One of the guns was pointing straight at him. He saw the flash and hurled himself to the deck as a sound like a thunderclap burst out. A moment later, the screams began. For the Hyacinth hadn’t fired cannonballs. It had fired grapeshot.

Grape: a canvas bag tightly filled with lead or iron balls, each ball the size of a grape. Fired by the navy at close range. The balls fanned out at once. Any sail, spar, or rigging in the grapeshot’s path was torn to shreds. Also humans.

From his lying position, Shi-Rong raised his head to look around.