Free The War of the Dragon Lady by John Wilcox

was a close thing, for the torches could be seen bobbing down the narrow street towards them.
    ‘Where’s the machine gun?’ demanded Fonthill of the young Austrian sergeant in charge of the guard.
    ‘On zer roof, sir.’
    ‘No. No good up there. Bring it down here. To shoot up the street. Quickly now. Er … schnell jetzt! ’
    The young man nodded, immediately responding to Simon’s air of authority, and he doubled away, taking two of his men with him.
    The Boxers were now some three hundred yards away and the cries of ‘ Sha! Sha! ’ could clearly be heard. Fonthill clipped the old, triangular-shaped bayonet to the end of his rifle and nodded to Jenkins to do the same. With the lunger fitted, the rifle became a stabbing weapon six feet long, which even the Zulus had feared.
    The Austrians had protected the door of the Legation with mealie bags. ‘Drag ’em out so that they give us some protection facing up the road,’ Simon shouted. ‘Quickly, before they are on us.’ The three laid aside their weapons and pulled six of the bags out into the road so that they formed a rough, low bastion.
    As Fonthill knelt, resting his rifle on top of one of the bags, he had a momentary impression of Chang, standing very erect and extending his arm holding the Colt and pulling the trigger – with no result.
    ‘Safety catch,’ he yelled, ‘just by the trigger.’ Then, ‘Rapid fire!’
    At one hundred yards they could not miss, and three of the leading figures fell, their torches scattering across the road before them, burning on the cobbles. The Boxers halted for a moment and then came on again. But their hesitation was enough for Fonthill and Jenkins each to thrust a round into the breech and fire again and then again. Four more of the red-banded figures fell again, causing the mob to stand irresolutely.
    Except for one brave man. Screaming ‘ Sha! ’ and brandishing a large sword, he bounded forward, red bands at forehead, wrist and anklesflying behind him, presenting a terrifying figure by the light of the burning brands. Simon was still fumbling to thumb another cartridge into the breech of his rifle and Chang was clumsily attempting to reload his revolver. Jenkins, however, put one hand on top of the mealie bag and vaulted over, in time to present his rifle and bayonet to the Chinaman, who stopped, puzzled with how to deal with this strange, crouching man with the large moustache.
    ‘Come on, yer yeller bugger,’ coaxed Jenkins. ‘Yer not so brave now it’s not a woman or child or some poor little bugger of a clergyman facing yer, are yer? Come on, boyo.’ And he made a feint to the right shoulder, which the Boxer clumsily countered with his sword. Immediately, the Welshman brought up the butt of his rifle and caught the Chinaman on the chin. As he staggered back, Jenkins reversed his rifle and plunged his bayonet into the man’s chest. For a moment the two stood, seemingly connected umbilically, before Jenkins twisted the bayonet and withdrew it, allowing the Boxer to slump to the floor with a sigh.
    Fonthill heard a sound behind him and swung round in consternation. The three Austrians were staggering through the doorway, carrying the heavy machine gun.
    ‘Quick!’ shouted Simon. ‘On top of the bag. Come back, 352. We’re going to fire.’
    Laboriously, the Austrians mounted the gun on its tripod and fed the ammunition belt into the breech, while the Chinese watched, unsure, it seemed, whether to charge or run away. Then the soldier at the handles depressed the trigger and the gun chattered into life. It was enough. The Boxers turned and fled, casting aside their torches and showing the white soles of their bare feet in the flickering light.Fonthill watched, expecting the gun to cut a swathe through the running horde. Instead, telegraph poles in the distance were severed, falling and bringing down the wires.
    ‘You bloody fools,’ screamed Simon. ‘You’re firing too high!’
    But the Austrians paid