The legionnaires put up a spirited defense, but the situation was growing critical. They had lost their pack mules during the retreat, so they were without food or water, and quickly their supply of ammunition reached the critical point as they had only such rounds as they were carrying on their person.
The two lieutenants were killed early in the fight, then at midday, Capitaine Beajou was shot in the chest and died. Now under the command of Sergeant Major Dubois, the legionnaires continued to keep up a spirited fight, despite the overwhelming odds against them.
By five o’clock that afternoon, only twelve of the legionnaires remained, with not an officer or a noncommissioned officer among them. John assumed command and the others readily followed him. They continued to fight until their ammunition was nearly exhausted.
After repulsing the last charge, only three men remained: John, Hans Frey, the Swiss, and Desmond Winthrop, the Englishman.
The Vietnamese had pulled back after the last assault and were now approximately one hundred yards away, on the other side of a rice paddy.
“You both know that when they come the next time, it will be the end, don’t you?” John asked.
“Yes, I know, and I have already made my peace with God,” Desmond said. “But I do hope to kill at least three more of the buggers before they get me.”
“I figured I would die at the hands of some jealous husband, never thought I would die in some stinking rice paddy,” Hans said. “What about you, Jean? Are you ready to die?”
“I’m already dead,” John replied. “I was killed at Gettysburg, and I’ve been on borrowed time ever since. So, what the hell?”
“I think our little yellow friends are getting ready to come again,” Desmond said.
“Yeah, it looks like it,” John said. “All right let’s . . . wait! Listen! Do you hear that?”
The three men could hear the sound of a bugle, coming from behind them.
“Quickly,” John said. “Let’s get a few of these bodies up against the wall, put their rifles out, maybe they’ll think relief has already come.”
The soldiers of the Black Flag attacked again, but this time John, Hans, and Desmond had pulled back to the other side of the house. Each of the three had found a place to hide, and they picked off Liu Yongfu’s attackers from concealment. The positions of Hans and Desmond were found, and both were killed. John fired his last round, then fitted his bayonet to his rifle and waited for the final attack.
It was at that moment that the relief element of the legionnaires arrived on the scene, twelve hundred strong. They swept through the compound, and over the walls, shooting down the Vietnamese where they could, capturing five, and chasing the rest from the field.
When General de Lattre arrived he saw John sitting on the stone fence, surrounded by the dead officers and men of his company. John stood, and saluted the general.
“Were you with Capitaine Beajou?” General de Lattre asked.
“I was, sir,” John replied.
“How many of you remain?” the general asked.
“I believe I am the only survivor,” John replied.
General de Lattre put his hand on John’s shoulder. “I am sorry that I did not arrive in time to save your comrades.”
CHAPTER SIX
Cholon—November 1867
The five captured Black Flag soldiers were tried and condemned. They walked to their death without tremor or hesitation. They were chatting together, and chuckling, as if they were going to some sort of social event, instead of their own execution. They threw curious glances at those who were gathered to watch them die, the witnesses not there by choice, but by command.
They were ordered to stand five meters apart, and they did so, spitting out the red juice of the narcotic betel leaves they were chewing. Behind them, and not seen by the condemned men, the five executioners, all wearing black hoods and carrying wide-bladed swords, approached them. A French officer stood in front of the five men for a moment, then shouted, “Vive la France!”
That was the signal, and at the shout all five executioners swung their blades at the same time. The severed heads of the prisoners bounced off the cobblestone square, as the headless bodies tumbled forward.
Later that same afternoon, John was standing at a window in the headquarters building in Cholon, looking down at the Saigon River. A large boat was docked at a pier, an eye painted on the bow in order to allow the boat to see, and avoid, demons. A young man wearing a conical straw hat was squatted on the bow, working with fishing net.
“Bun mae! Bun mae!” The haunting calls came from an old woman who was walking the cobblestone road alongside the river, calling out for customers to buy the hot, small baguettes of bread she was selling. A man, pushing a cart that contained a steaming cauldron of soup, was using a young boy to advertise his product, the young boy walking in front, beating sticks together in a precise rhythm that was the specific signature of this man’s soup.
[This was probably very similar to the Annam soup now known as pho, though in fact pho did not become an Annam staple until 1907. It is very likely that the soup peddler Jackson refers to here was Chinese, as Cholon had already become a center for Chinese immigrants into Annam.—ED.]
John watched as customers bought both the bread and the soup. It was nearly time for lunch and he wished he could be down there on the riverfront, buying the soup and bread, rather than standing here, awaiting his appointment with General de Lattre.
What did de Lattre want? He had asked that question of Capitaine Ernest Doudart de Lagrée, his new commanding officer, but de Lagrée told him that he didn’t know.
“I am but a capitaine. Generals do not consult with me.”
“Private Jourdain,” a sergeant said. “General de Lattre will see you now.”
John nodded, then stepped into the general’s office. De Lattre had piercing dark eyes, and a vandyke beard.
“Private Jourdain reporting as ordered,” John said, saluting the general. The general made a casual return of the salute.
“Private Jourdain, I am pleased to report that I am sending you back to Paris, where you will receive the Légion d’Honneur, the highest award that can be given to a member of the Foreign Legion.”
“Why?” John asked.
John’s response was totally unexpected, and the general looked up in surprise.
“Why? You ask why? It is because of your heroic stance in the battle so recently fought.”
“General, I wasn’t a hero, I was a survivor,” John said. “If anyone is to get the medal, it should be Capitaine Beajou, Sergeant Major Dubois, and the sixty-one others who died in the battle.”
“Your hesitancy to accept the medal is commendable, Sergeant Jourdain.”
“I’m a private, sir.”
“You were a private. I have promoted you to sergeant. And, as I was saying, your hesitancy to accept the medal is commendable, but it is being awarded to you precisely because you are still alive. You will go back to Paris, be awarded the medal, be given two weeks of leave, then assigned as a recruiter to bring other young men into the legion.”
“To come to Algeria, or Indochina to die gloriously?” John asked.
“Yes, yes! You do understand!” General de Lattre said.