The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 936 D-Day

1883年10月12日，凌晨3时17分，马来亚东海岸。

A thick sea fog, like a giant net, enveloped the reefs along the coast of Kota Bharu. Every thirty seconds, the searchlights of the British forts swept across the sea, their pale beams piercing the darkness, yet unable to penetrate the boundless fog.

Two nautical miles from the coast, the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom's first landing force of the Southern Ocean Fleet was quietly approaching at a speed of 3 knots. On the bridge of the flagship armored cruiser "Zhenyuan," Vice Admiral Chen Kunshu held up a Zeiss telescope in one hand, his eyes slightly narrowed behind the lens. He could vaguely make out the outline of the shore battery—a standard bastion-style defensive fortification, with six 8-inch Armstrong breech-loading guns arranged in a fan shape, their dark muzzles pointing directly at the sea.

“Final report from the third reconnaissance group of the airship,” the operations staff officer said in a low voice, “No anomalies found in the target area, but there are traces of British patrol boat activity three nautical miles to the southeast.”

Chen Kunshu's knuckles tapped out a dull rhythm on the teak bridge. Behind him, nine armored cruisers of the same class stood in a single column, the smoke billowing from their funnels deliberately kept to a minimum. The turrets of each warship were preheated, their 200mm .35-caliber rapid-fire guns ready to rain shells onto the beaches of Malaya at any moment.

"Where is the special agent team?"

"No signal received yet." The staff officer handed over a pocket watch; the luminous hands on the dial showed 3:28. "There are still seventeen minutes left according to the plan."

An eerie silence fell over the bridge, broken only by the occasional hiss of the steam pipes. Everyone knew that the key to this battle lay not in the fleet's firepower, but in the hidden force lurking on the coast—the Malayan Order of the True Covenant, painstakingly cultivated over thirty years.

At 3:45 a.m., in the dense forest 800 meters northwest of Kota Bharu Fort.

Chen Baoguo's nostrils were filled with the smell of rotting leaves and gunpowder. He huddled behind the natural shelter formed by the aerial roots of a banyan tree, his index finger gently tapping the moisture-proof wax on the signal tube. Beside him, Li Ziqiang was using a dagger to carve the final mark on the tree bark—a route marker for the following troops.

"Wind from the southwest, wind speed level 2." Li Ziqiang's voice was softer than a mosquito's buzz. "Searchlight cycle 28 seconds."

Chen Baoguo nodded and took a monocular periscope from the deerskin bag. Through the lens, the sentry at the northwest corner of the fort seemed to be yawning, his Lee-Enfield rifle casually leaning against a sandbag. Even more exciting, the faint sound of metal clanging came from the direction of the highway bridge to be blown up—a signal from another group of agents who had completed the placement of the explosives.

When the clock struck 3:44, the two men simultaneously pulled out their pocket watches to check. Li Ziqiang suddenly grabbed Chen Baoguo's wrist: "The backup plan?"

"If the flares fail, set the rubber plantation on fire." Chen Baoguo pulled open his collar, revealing the brass whistle hanging around his neck. "The old rule: three long, two short."

As the searchlight swept across the bushes where they were hiding, Li Ziqiang suddenly ripped open the fuse of the signal tube. With a sharp "whoosh," three white flares rose into the air in a triangular formation, exploding at a height of 150 meters, illuminating the entire fort as if it were daytime.

The gun emplacement erupted in chaos. British artillerymen in their white tropical uniforms swarmed out of their barracks, some knocking over kerosene lamps in the confusion, flames leaping from the canvas gun covers onto the haphazardly piled empty ammunition boxes. But an even more deadly threat came from the sky—the radio operator on the observation airship "Skyhawk VII" frantically tapped the transmitter: "Bearing confirmed! Elevation 42 degrees, distance 8000 yards, prepare for salvo!"

At 3:47 a.m., the armored cruiser "Zhenyuan"

Through Chen Kunshu's binoculars, the gun emplacement was clearly visible in the light of the signal flare. He saw an officer waving his saber to direct the firefighting efforts, while several soldiers frantically tore open the gun covers. Most surprisingly, the ammunition depot door in the northwest corner was wide open, and the brass shells on the cart gleamed in the firelight.

"All formation, fire at once!"

"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

The roar of sixty 200mm main guns made the sea boil. The first volley of shells landed in a perfect strafing pattern, with the closest shell landing only twenty meters from the ammunition depot. The shockwave overturned the entire trolley against the protective wall.

Major Hamilton, the battery commander, was knocked to the ground by the blast wave as soon as he rushed out of the command room. He struggled to crawl to the telephone, only to find that all the lines were down. Through the broken observation window, he saw five pillars of fire rising in the direction of the city—the highway bridge, the telegraph office, the police station, the barracks, and the dock warehouse were all under attack simultaneously.

"These damned things!" He spat out blood as he grabbed the Webley revolver, only to hear a heart-wrenching warning from the observation tower: "The second salvo is coming!"

This time, the shells fired by the Zhenyuan seemed to have eyes. A high-explosive shell went straight into the open ammunition magazine, and three seconds later, the entire western side of the battery disappeared in a deafening explosion. Hamilton was thrown ten meters into the trench by the blast wave, and the last thing he saw was half a gun barrel spinning towards the bay.

At 4:10 a.m., in the Chinese village of Yi An Zhuang.

The white hair of the True Covenant missionary Wu Wenyou shone like silver threads in the torchlight. Before him stood a line of over a thousand able-bodied young men, all dressed in coarse cloth jackets dyed indigo, their Type 20 rifles, their bayonets gleaming like a forest. Almost every stock of these rifles was engraved with words—some the dates of their fathers' deaths, others the numbers of land deeds stolen—for thirty years, the Chinese immigrants under the True Covenant leadership had clashed countless times with the indigenous people supported by the British! "For thirty years, the British have been supporting the natives in bullying us!" The old man's trembling hand pointed southeast, where the faint sound of cannon fire could be heard. "Tonight, with the Heavenly King's blessing, we will avenge our blood debt!"

Wang Xinghua, at the front of the line, gripped the gun barrel tightly. His father, Wang Acai, had immigrated to Malaya twenty-five years ago, acquiring his own farm under the protection of the Gentalists and establishing a large family in Malaya. However, he was hanged from a banyan tree outside Kota Bharu by the British colonial authorities, who had sided with the Gentalist militia in a clash with Malay militias. Now, twenty kilograms of explosives were buried under that tree, enough to send the entire colonial patrol to their deaths.

"First team, control of the highway!"

"The second team has seized the train station!"

"The third team will coordinate with the main force to launch a feint attack on the barracks!"

As orders were issued, the armed farmers displayed astonishing military skills. For thirty years, the Gentile militias of Malaya had been engaged in small-scale armed struggles against indigenous militias or British colonists. This generation, growing up in Malaya, had not tasted hunger, but at the cost of fighting various enemies in the Malayan jungles from a young age.

For them, survival is a struggle!
5:30 a.m., Kota Bharu main beach.

Through Sikh Battalion Commander Singh's binoculars, countless black dots suddenly appeared on the sea. Those were the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom's "Island"-class landing ships. As these flat-bottomed bows cleaved through the waves, they looked like a group of steel crocodiles pouncing on their prey. Even more terrifying were the 150mm rapid-fire guns of the light cruisers accompanying them—a salvo every ten seconds blasted the beachhead into the shape of the moon.

"The machine gun position is completely destroyed!"

"D Company has lost contact!"

"Large enemy ships have appeared in the barbed wire area. My God, they're going to beach us!"

Bad news followed in quick succession. A short while later, Singh discovered the telephone line had been cut, and the messenger, who had just rushed out of command post, had half his head sliced ​​off by shrapnel. When he stumbled to the front-line trenches, he saw recruit Rajiv slumped in a pool of blood, his crotch soaked.

"Rise! Her Majesty's soldiers!"

"boom"

Before he could finish speaking, an unbelievable scene unfolded—a ship weighing over a thousand tons crashed headfirst into the beach! Immediately following, the square bow of the ship slammed onto the sand with a deafening roar.

What kind of ship is this?
Before Singh could even process what was happening, a Taiping officer at the forefront unleashed a hail of bullets from two revolvers, knocking Singh's cap off. Even more terrifying were the following troops—Taiping marines in tropical uniforms with short sleeves and shorts, working in groups of three. Some threw grenades to clear a path, others used long-handled axes to cut through the abatis, and still others carried shotguns to clear the trenches.

As Lieutenant Mike led his twenty men in a counter-charge, they ran right into the muzzle of a Taiping Army Maxim water-cooled machine gun. The rapid-fire of the machine gun mingled with screams, wiping out half of the twenty men Lieutenant Mike had painstakingly assembled.
Less than an hour after the first Taiping soldier stormed onto the beachhead of Gotha Baru, a battle flag embroidered with "Taiping First Land War Brigade" was planted on the highest point of the beachhead.

Noon at 12:00, at the eastern exit of the Strait of Malacca.

Inside the conning tower of the battleship HMS Sovereign, Admiral Hood, pipe in mouth, stared intently at a nautical chart. His fleet, a source of pride for the Royal Navy in the Far East, was sailing north at 14 knots, the Union Jack fluttering in the tropical sun.

"Heading 025, maintain battle formation!"

As the flagship's signal flag was raised, all eighteen capital ships turned simultaneously. Leading the charge were three "Sovereign-class" battleships—steel behemoths with a standard displacement of 15200 tons, their four twin 10-inch main gun turrets arranged in a diamond pattern, their speed of 20 knots making them remarkably agile in the battle line. Closely following were three "Majestic-class" battleships; these improved Sovereign-class ships possessed thicker Harvey steel armor, their 381mm main armor belts sufficient to withstand any known naval gun.

But the real trump card was the four Typhoon-class armored cruisers. These cutting-edge warships were equipped with Parsons steam turbines, capable of reaching speeds of 25.5 knots under high-pressure ventilation. At this moment, the captain of the Typhoon was proudly pointing to the pressure gauge—the needle was steadily at 210 pounds per square inch, enough to outrun any ironclad. And their 203mm guns could sink any Taiping Army transport ship and escort light vessels—as long as they could reach the vicinity of the Kota Bharu beachhead, they could immediately unleash a wanton carnage!
"All ships, prepare for battle!" Hood's order was relayed to every ship in the fleet via flag signals. "Target: Kota Bharu waters, engagement expected in six hours!"

But he didn't notice that thousands of meters above him in the clouds, the observers of the Taiping Army's "Sky Eagle III" airship were using Zeiss telescopes to observe the outlines of every British ship.

(End of this chapter)