If Ward left any written record of how much these factors influenced his decision to strike again at Sung-chiang, it has not survived. But this as well as future moves made by the Foreign Arms Corps’s commander indicate that he took account of such considerations almost instinctively. The British journalist Andrew Wilson found Ward not only “a man of courage and ability” but one whose “mind seems always to have been occupied with military matters as affording his proper and destined sphere in life.” The axiom that an important objective (such as Shanghai) is best protected not from within but from a strong secondary position (such as Sung-chiang) would have been not only one of the basic tenets that Ward learned during his course of study at the American Literary, Scientific and Military Academy but also one that was validated during the siege campaigns of the Crimean War. An imperialist bastion at Sung-chiang would be a thorn in the side of any Taiping advance against Shanghai, as well as an ideal base from which a “flying column,” or highly mobile group of raiders, could strike at other positions in the area. The decision to renew the attack was, therefore, eminently sound.
Ward would not, however, be rushed into a premature assault by Wu Hsü and Yang Fang. Perhaps doubting their decision to back the American, both men again became anxious in early July for tangible proof of his ability. But the impatience of Wu and Yang had already been almost fatal to the Foreign Arms Corps. Ward—whose career shows a singular absence of repeated mistakes—prepared for the second assault thoroughly. He may have bought time by arguing with Yang, or he may have employed the tactic that Charles Schmidt spoke of as common in Ward’s dealings with “the Mandarins”:
In fact,—whenever the Mandarins ordered him to do any thing, he always said Yes, in a negative manner; in so prepossessing a way, however, that he left no doubt on their minds as to his sincerity. But he invariably put off their demands for a more leisure time, and in the interval acted according to his own views of the thing demanded, the result of action invariably agreeing with his own ideas. Then he would tell them that he had omitted through hurry, the order given him. The Mandarins seeing what would have been the result of their orders had he followed them, omitted to task him for disobedience, not daring to open their mouths for fear of letting out their own ignorance.
The most important job to be completed before taking the field again was to augment the corps’s excellent small arms with artillery. Through his usual channels Ward purchased two twelve-pounder, muzzle-loading brass guns, as well as eight brass six-pounders. “Guns” referred to long-barreled cannon with flat trajectories and high muzzle velocities, which generally fired solid shot of the weight cited in the name and were most effective when battering down defenses or ripping through closely ordered units of men. Howitzers and mortars, in contrast, could achieve greater elevation and higher trajectories, as well as lob hollow shells filled with the devastating invention of Britain’s Henry Shrapnel behind walled defenses. In preparing for his assault on Sung-chiang, Ward had the destruction of the city’s gates foremost in his mind, and he concentrated on guns, although howitzers and mortars would later play important roles in his operations.
Twelve-pounder guns were the principal ordnance pieces of the French army in 1860, and twelve-pounder gun-howitzers (which could achieve a higher trajectory than ordinary guns) were the sole artillery weapon of the United States. But Ward in all likelihood obtained British models. The British twelve-pounder was six and a half feet in length and weighed one and a half tons; the six-pounder was far less cumbersome at five feet and just under seven hundred pounds. Handling artillery in what the Chung Wang referred to as the “water-bound countryside” of Kiangsu province was a tricky task, as indeed were all military maneuvers: “[I]t is difficult for troops to move,” the Chung Wang wrote, “there is water everywhere and no other routes to take [than the canals or main roads].” Training the Manilamen as well as inexperienced Westerners in the use of such weighty pieces took time, and Ward incurred the anger of the British community once again by making a special effort to recruit British gunners as trainers.
Along with artillery, Ward purchased more rifles for his growing roster of troops (who soon numbered more than two hundred), as well as machetes, scaling ladders, small boats, stinkpots, and ammunition. He had apparently learned that the Taipings could be formidable enemies and that piercing the fortifications of Sung-chiang would require every advantage his money could buy. Yet such weapons would not produce the desired effect unless Ward’s appreciation of the tactics that went with them was adequate. For Ward was beginning his operations during a period of profound change in the history of warfare. That change had been initiated by the introduction of rifled barrels and breech-loading mechanisms into firearms and artillery, producing dramatically improved accuracy along with increased range and rates of fire. The tactical implications of this revolution had been sorely underestimated and even ignored by armies in both the East and the West, but the latter stages of the Taiping rebellion, along with the American Civil War and the Austro-Prussian War of 1866, would be one of the great arenas in which those implications would become savagely apparent.
In his study of the strategy and tactics of the American Civil War, the eminent British military historian and theorist J. F. C. Fuller made a keen observation that applied equally to Ward’s predicament in China. Fuller believed that the “lack in the appreciation of the power of the rifle bullet has constituted the supreme tragedy of modern warfare, a drama of insanity in which millions have perished for a dream—the bayonet clinch, the flash of steel, the stab and the yell of victory.” Both the Taiping and imperialist armies in China placed a high value on “the flash of steel, the stab and the yell of victory,” and they continued to do so even after modern firearms had been introduced into the war. They had little knowledge of or use for the tactics that would eventually solve the problems posed by the development of rifling, tactics that continue to characterize progressive warfare today: mobility (of individual soldiers as well as units) and hard-hitting, precise artillery support. It was Ward who introduced these tactics into China, and in doing so he placed himself among the most forward-thinking commanders of his day.
By mid-July the Foreign Arms Corps was again ready for action, as was its commander. Understanding the value of mystique in Chinese society, Ward had developed a personal style that inspired awe (and no little consternation) in the native populace as well as among his enlisted men. He abandoned the gold braid and insignia that adorned the tunics and jackets of Western commanders (and many of his own officers) and took to wearing a plain, dark blue frock coat, cut in the pattern of a Prince Albert and generally buttoned high. A white shirt and black kerchief tied loosely at the neck completed this unique uniform, which was sometimes augmented by a cape and occasionally a field cap in the French style. But most important, Ward abandoned the use of side arms and went into battle carrying only a short rattan cane or crop. This stick would become his trademark and the symbol, to many Chinese, of his superhuman daring and courage—even invulnerability. Such superstitions may have been absurd, but they were important in China and Ward cultivated them. In addition, the rattan cane had a practical application: Disciplinary floggings in the Middle Kingdom were administered with just such an instrument.
The fact that his distinctive attire and accoutrements made Ward a very distinguishable target in the field counted for less in his mind than the positive effect they produced on his men and on the collective mind of the Chinese. As this effect heightened with time, his appearance became more and more consistent. Archibald Bogle—a lieutenant and later admiral in the British Royal Navy who knew Ward in China and was with him at the time of his death—later recalled that he “never saw Ward with a sword or any arm; he wore ordinary clothes,—a thick, short cape, and a hood, and carried a stick in his hand, and generally a Manila cheroot in his mouth.” In addition, the more battles Ward survived unarmed, the more he exposed himself to danger; and in exchanges with other Westerners he often expresse
d something very close to a belief in the superstitions about his luck and providential protection that were circulated among the Chinese.
On the night of July 16, 1860, Ward once again moved on Sung-chiang. The exact circumstances of the battle have always been a subject of discussion and argument, but one version eventually became standardized in Shanghai and is quite probably closest to the truth. Ward’s plan, as in the first assault, was to achieve surprise under cover of night. But this time he took greater pains to ensure success. Most of his Western officers were left behind in Kuang-fu-lin, where their drunken carousing could only be interpreted by the rebels as an indication that the main body of the corps was idle. Ward and Burgevine, meanwhile, boarded a shallow-draft steamer with somewhere between one and two hundred Manilamen. They moved along one of the area’s principal canals, but toward Ch’ing-p’u rather than Sung-chiang. This diversionary tactic was completed when Ward’s men left the steamer surreptitiously and boarded a group of smaller boats while the noisy river steamer moved on toward Ch’ing-p’u. The corps reached Sung-chiang’s moat under cover of a heavy fog at a little past ten o’clock. Ward moved his men toward the east gate of the city, on top of which was positioned a Taiping artillery battery armed with howitzers. The corps was able to maneuver its guns into position and train them on the gate unnoticed, and just before eleven o’clock they opened fire.
As the six- and twelve-pounders blew fragments of teak and iron away with solid shot, Ward’s foot soldiers threw scaling ladders across the Sung-chiang moat and poured into the archway in front of the gate, safe from Taiping fire. With the gate shattered, Ward led a charge inside, only to find an unwelcome sight: a second gateway, also made of thick planks and wrought iron, but out of reach of Ward’s guns. There seemed no way to penetrate this barrier; Ward’s artillery could not be dragged across the moat. By now the Taipings had been alerted to the attack and were concentrating a heavy fire on Ward’s men, who retreated into the archway of the outer gate.
Ward took a small party of Manilamen and, returning through the heavy Taiping musket fire, moved back across the moat. Here the detachment fetched twenty fifty-pound sacks of gunpowder and once more made for the east gate. Working under a protective fire provided by the Manilamen—whose careful training in the use of the Sharps repeating carbines now began to pay off—Ward’s party packed the sacks of gunpowder under the interior gate and ignited them, producing a tremendous explosion. As the dust settled, it appeared that the powder had had no effect: The gate still stood. And then a small opening became visible, just wide enough for one or two men to slip through at a time.
What happened next is one of the more uncertain and embellished parts of the story of the second battle for Sung-chiang. Popular accounts had it that Ward, seeing his men hesitate with fear before the inner gate, stood, indicated the small opening with his rattan stick, and said: “Come on, boys. We’re going in.” At that he disappeared through the hole, followed quickly by Vincente, Burgevine, and the rest of the Manilamen. Other accounts state that it was Vincente who was first inside the walls, and this may indeed be so, but it is also true that Ward often conquered his men’s trepidation by exposing himself to extreme dangers in a manner unheard of for nineteenth-century commanding officers. It was a period, generally, of rear area command; Ward’s consistently forward position was another anticipation of modern tactics.
Inside Sung-chiang’s second gateway was a wide ramp leading up to the Taiping howitzer battery, where six pieces were answering the fire of Ward’s guns across the moat. For two hours Ward, Burgevine, Vincente, and the Manilamen fought their way up this ramp at close quarters, the Sharps repeaters going off with such well-practiced speed that they reportedly set the clothes of the Taipings afire with their muzzle flashes. In addition, the Manilamen did grim work with machetes and their fearsome kris, curved blades that were said to possess mystical power and were certainly effective in battle. Finally, at 1:00 A.M., Ward’s men reached the howitzers. Turning the pieces around, Ward began to pummel the inside of Sung-chiang with rapid fire, killing what was later claimed to be a full third of the city’s thousands of defenders.
The overall plan of operations called for Ward’s small storming party to be relieved at this point by a large contingent of Li Heng-sung’s Green Standard braves, who had taken up positions a few miles away. This force was to approach Sung-chiang as soon as Ward fired a rocket signal from atop the city walls. But the Foreign Arms Corps now learned a dismal lesson in the unreliability of imperial troops. Several rockets were fired off, but there was no sign of the Green Standard soldiers. Finally, at about 6:00 A.M., when Li saw by light of day that the Taipings were in fact abandoning Sung-chiang, he moved on the city.
Only a comparative few of Ward’s men were still on their feet. Sixty-two were dead and another hundred wounded. Ward himself had received the first of what would become, during the course of his Chinese career, at least fifteen wounds, this one in his left shoulder. Such injuries never slowed his pace, however: During the first six hours of his occupation of Sung-chiang, Ward established his headquarters near a Confucian temple, sent his wounded back to Shanghai, and arranged to have Li Heng-sung’s men garrison and police the city. For those of Ward’s men who were still ambulatory, there ensued the promised looting, a time-honored military tradition in China and one practiced by all sides in an attempt to ensure loyalty. Besides guns and ammunition, the Taipings had left in Sung-chiang stores of silver and other valuables which they had plundered during their march through Kiangsu. These were distributed among the soldiers of the Foreign Arms Corps, the greatest portions going to men such as Burgevine and Vincente, who had displayed exceptional courage. (Shanghai’s Westerners affected great disdain for this practice, but during their ongoing march to Peking in the north, British and French troops would prove the most wanton plunderers of all.) Then came a proclamation ordering the inhabitants of the city and its suburbs once more to swear faith to the emperor in Peking. Finally, in the afternoon, Ward returned to Shanghai to have his shoulder treated.
The victory had immediate repercussions in every community in Shanghai. To Wu Hsü, Yang Fang, and the Chinese generally, Ward was a hero who had delivered the first significant blow to the Taiping cause in Kiangsu. To the Europeans, however, Ward was now confirmed in his status as a dangerous filibuster and outlaw, perhaps even a lunatic, and it was generally anticipated that the corps’s action would bring the Chung Wang’s armies sweeping mercilessly down on Shanghai. Thus anything that could be done to minimize the battle at Sung-chiang and discredit Ward was seen as helpful in the settlements. The North China Herald, for example, dismissed the events of July 16-17 with the following statement: “The rebels, having exhausted Sung-chiang, and not liking the Manila-men near them, left the city, and retreated on Ssu-ching. The imperialists sent an officer to see the reason of the city’s stillness, and on receiving assurance that the enemy had evacuated, rushed in and beheaded as many of the unfortunate inhabitants as they could lay their hands on.”
As for the Foreign Arms Corps, Herald editor Charles Compton continued his attacks: “The Manila-men are still near Sung-chiang, committing their depredations. The Chinese will have a long account to settle with these gentry one of these days. Can’t the Spanish Consul be induced to order them, as Spanish subjects, to return? We are sure the treaty powers would grant him assistance. It is a disgrace that such a gang should be allowed to set all laws at defiance because they are in the pay of the Taotai.”
And there was this alarmist—and notably inaccurate—warning to the worried Western citizens of Shanghai: “[T]he Taotai directed all his efforts to retake the place [Sung-chiang], and drive the rebels to come near Shanghai by some other road. They are coming another way, and good care is being taken to keep up the vision of foreign gold and opium in their minds, and of the extraordinary helpless condition of the settlement.”
In addition to vexed foreigners, imperial officials who had had nothing to do with t
he events at Sung-chiang made an effort to discount and distort reports of Ward’s victory. One such man, Wu Yün—whose actual post was in Soochow but who had fled to Shanghai in the spring—claimed that Ward’s attack had occurred when all of Sung-chiang’s able-bodied Taiping defenders were in the field. The remaining rebel garrison, said Wu, was made up of the old and the incapacitated, and Ward faced no greater task than taking a few men, swimming under one of the water gates that bestrode the city’s canals, seizing one of the four main gates, and opening it for the rest of the corps. Wu Yün’s version of the story, like so many reports of Chinese imperial officials, cannot be given any great credence. As one expert on the Taiping period has written, such characters were “frequently mendacious, nearly always ill-informed, and inevitably prejudiced.”
Whether heroic or criminal in aspect, the capture of Sung-chiang established Ward, Burgevine, and the rest of the Foreign Arms Corps as men of notoriety throughout Kiangsu. The most important practical result of the victory, however, was the payment to Ward of the bonus for which he had contracted with Wu Hsü and Yang Fang. The exact amount of this reward has been another of the contested details of Ward’s life. Estimates ranging from 10,000 taels (or about $16,000) to 75,000 taels (or $133,000) have been offered. The actual amount probably came closer to the larger of these figures, and without doubt Ward would need the money during the months to come. For the victory at Sung-chiang opened onto not the brightest but the darkest period of Ward’s fortunes: a period marked by defeat, severe injury, and finally imprisonment.