Kitabı oku: «The North Pacific», sayfa 6

CHAPTER X.
THE FIRST BLOW

On the evening of February 8th a fleet of dark-hulled ships moved silently westward across the Yellow Sea. In the harbour of Port Arthur lay the pride of the Russian navy, most of the ships riding peacefully at anchor in the outer roads. They comprised the battle-ships Petropavlovsk (flagship), Perseviet, Czarevitch, Retvizan, and Sebastopol, and the cruisers Novik, Boyarin, Bayan, Diana, Pallada, Askold, and Aurora. Of the officers, many were on shore, enjoying the hospitalities of the port and drinking the health of the Czar. The crews were below decks, or smoking idly and talking, in the low gutturals of their language, of home and friends far away. Secure in their sense of their mighty domain and the power that reached from the Baltic to the Pacific, they sang snatches of rude forecastle songs, or joked and laughed at the prospects of a war with the Japanese, "those little monkeys," who dared dispute even in mild diplomacy with the Great Empire. And as they laughed, and the smoke curled upward from their bearded lips, and the little waves of the peaceful harbour lapped softly against the huge floating forts, the black hulls from the east crept nearer, through the darkness.

Nine years had elapsed since the Japanese had invaded Korea and Manchuria. In 1895, victor over the Chinese, firmly established with his troops on the main land, with his fleet riding in the harbour of Port Arthur, which his army had taken by storm, the Mikado had been compelled by the powerful combination of Russia, France, and Germany to give up the material fruits of his victory, and Japan, too exhausted to fight for her rights, withdrew sullenly to her island Empire.

Three years later Russia obtained from China a twenty-five years' lease of Port Arthur, which she claimed she needed "for the due protection of her navy in the waters of North China." Her next move was to secure right to build the Manchurian Railway, connecting her two Pacific ports, Vladivostock and Port Arthur, with her western capital. She had at last reached the open sea. Vladivostock, at the south-eastern extremity of her own possessions in the north, was blocked by ice and shut off from the ocean every winter; Port Arthur offered a safe and open roadstead for her navy and mercantile marine throughout the year.

During the years that followed Russia strained every nerve to establish her customs, her power, and her people in Manchuria. Japan saw the danger to herself, but was powerless to prevent it. Recruiting from the expenditures of the Chinese war, she prepared for the greater struggle that was inevitable. She built up one of the most formidable navies the world had seen; she trained her officers and crews by the most modern methods; she reorganised her army and laboured to perfect it as a fighting machine. By wise laws and enlightened counsels she fostered her resources until her treasury was plethoric with gold. At last, early in 1903, she calmly reminded Russia that the stipulated term of her occupation of Manchuria, save at Port Arthur, had expired; that her excuse for remaining there no longer existed; that her pledges of removal must be kept.

Russia winced under the word "must"; the keyword of her own domestic polity, when applied by the nobles to the masses, it now had a strange and unwelcome sound. She redoubled her efforts to pour troops into the province, provisioned and fortified Port Arthur for a year's siege, established a "railroad guard" of sixty thousand men, – and blandly promised to retire in the following October.

Japan was no less alert. One by one the divisions of her great army were mobilised. They were drilled unceasingly, by competent officers from Western schools. They invented new and terrible explosives and engines of war, and prepared their battle-ships and torpedo-boats for active service. October passed, and the forces of Russia in Manchuria had been largely augmented instead of diminished. More diplomatic messages, couched in courteous terms, passed between the two capitals, and greater numbers of armed men flocked to the eastern and western shores of the Japan Sea.

Again and again St. Petersburg gained a modicum of time through silence or evasive answer; while the rails of the long railroad groaned under the heavy trains that day and night bore troops, supplies, and ammunition eastward. At last the limit was reached. On the 6th of February, at 4 P.M., Kurino, the Japanese minister at St. Petersburg, presented himself at the Foreign Office at that city and informed Count Lamsdorff that his government, in view of the delays in connexion with the Russian answer to Japan's latest demand, and the futility of the negotiations up to that time, considered it useless to continue diplomatic relations and "would take such steps as it deemed proper for the protection of Japan's interests." In obedience to instructions, therefore, he asked, most gently and politely (after the fashion of his countrymen), for his passports.

On one of the Japanese torpedo-boats silently approaching Port Arthur, just forty-eight hours after M. Kurino had made his farewell bow at the court of the Czar, was Oto Owari. No one who had seen him on the Osprey, meekly serving his commander with sliced cucumbers and broiled chicken, would have recognised the trim, alert little figure in the blue uniform, his visor drawn low over his sparkling eyes, his whole bearing erect, manly and marked with intense resolve as he conned his vessel through the channel toward the doomed fleet of the enemy.

When the American ship arrived at Shanghai, Oto had at once procured his own discharge and that of Oshima, which was an informal matter, they not being enlisted men but merely cabin servants. Rexdale was glad to let them go. The little Japs were too mysterious and secretive personages to render their presence welcome on a war-ship where the commander should know all that is going on, above-board and below. Dave more than half suspected that his stewards were of more importance in their own country than their menial office would indicate; and while he could not exactly regard them in the light of spies – Japan being friendly to the United States – he felt more comfortable when they had taken their little grips and marched ashore to mingle with the heterogeneous population of the Chinese port.

The torpedo-boats increased their speed as they neared the outer basin of the harbour of Port Arthur. Oto steered his small black craft directly toward a huge battle-ship with three smoke-stacks.

"It is the Retvizan," he whispered to the officer next in command. "I know where to strike her. Wait for the order."

The Russian ships had their nets out. They believed the Japanese fleet two hundred miles away.

"Now!" hissed Oto sharply; and in a moment a long, black, cigar-shaped missile leaped from the bows of his ship toward the Russian leviathan. It dashed, foaming, through the water, sheared its way through the steel meshes of the torpedo net, and struck the hull of the doomed Retvizan exactly where Oto had planned his attack. There was a dull roar, echoed by another and another a short distance away. Wild cries and shrieks of anguish rose from the Russian fleet. Two mighty battle-ships, the Retvizan and the Czarevitch, slowly heeled over, mortally wounded. The cruiser Pallada began to settle. She, too, was pierced below the water-line. Thus the Japanese declared war.

The harbour now seemed full of torpedo-boats. Flash-lights from the forts on the Golden Horn and the Tiger's Tail disclosed the swarm of invaders. The hills resounded with the sudden roar of artillery, and every machine-gun in the Russian fleet that could be trained on the audacious enemy poured its hail of steel shot upon them. Outside the harbour, within easy range, lay the heavier vessels of the Japanese, which opened fire on the forts and the town from their great turret-guns. In the midst of the uproar and confusion the torpedo-boats which had inflicted such terrible damage retired to the shelter of the outer battle-ships and cruisers, unhurt. The Retvizan limped over to the entrance of the harbour and rested on the rocks. The Czarevitch was towed out of further danger. The storm of Japanese shot and shell diminished and at length ceased altogether, as the attacking fleet withdrew. The assault had occupied less than an hour; at one o'clock all was silent again, save where the wounded were being cared for, on the ill-fated Retvizan and her sister ships, and the crews of every vessel in the harbour talked hoarsely as they stood to their guns, with decks cleared for further action. The first sea-battle – if such it can be called – of the twentieth century was over. Japan had struck, and struck fiercely. Russia was stunned by the blow. Although she did not then realise it, her sea-power in the Pacific was at an end, for years to come.

"Sayonara, Retvizan!" said Commander Oto Owari grimly, as he headed his ship for the open sea.

The midnight attack was but the first outburst of the storm. Before noon the Mikado's fleet returned, as the United States ships came back at the battle of Manila, and once more the huge twelve-inch rifles thundered and the shore forts replied. The still uninjured vessels of the Russians came bravely out to meet the foe, but reeled under the terrible fire that was concentrated upon them. For an hour the bolts fell thick and fast. Then the Japanese drew back, and the Russians, dazed, bewildered, thunderstruck at the swiftness and might of the assault, again counted their losses.

"By order of Viceroy Alexieff," reported the commanding officer to St. Petersburg, "I beg to report that at about eleven o'clock in the morning a Japanese squadron, consisting of about fifteen battle-ships and cruisers, approached Port Arthur and opened fire…

" … At about midday the Japanese squadron ceased its fire and left, proceeding south.

"Our losses are two naval officers and fifty-one men killed… During the engagement the battle-ship Poltava and the cruisers Diana, Askold, and Novik were damaged on the water-line."

Three battle-ships and four cruisers put out of action in a single day! But more was to follow.

In the harbour of Chemulpo, across the neck of the Yellow Sea, lay the Russian cruisers Variag and Korietz, in company with several war-ships of other nations, including the U. S. gunboat Vicksburg. On the evening before the assault on Port Arthur the commanders of these two cruisers were notified by the Rear-Admiral Uriu, commanding a Japanese squadron, which lay just outside, that on the following day they would be attacked at their moorings if they did not quit the port by noon. Other foreign ships in the harbour were warned to withdraw from the line of fire.

Early the next morning the Variag and Korietz cleared for action, and, with their bands playing the Russian national anthem, slipped their cables and moved slowly out of the harbour to sure destruction, amid the cheers of the crews of other nations, who appreciated their splendid bravery and the devotion of the men to the Czar, at whose command they were ready for death in its most terrible form.

At a range of nearly four miles the battle began. The Japanese squadron opened fire upon the advancing Russians, who replied as promptly as if they were the forefront of a fleet of a dozen battle-ships, instead of a cruiser and gunboat as absolutely helpless as two spaniels encountering a pack of wolves.

Five shells struck the Variag in rapid succession, while shrapnel swept the crews repeatedly from her guns. A single shell killed or disabled all save one of the gunners on her forecastle; another struck one of her six-inch rifles (the largest in her armament), and exploded part of her ammunition; still another demolished her fore-bridge and set fire to the débris, so that the crew had to cease firing and rush to fire stations. Two shells now penetrated at the water-line. The second bridge was wrecked and a funnel shattered. All this time the Korietz was firing wildly and doing little damage to the Japanese, who paid but slight attention to her.

The Variag, to save the lives of her remaining crew, turned slowly toward the shore, and, accompanied by the gunboat, regained her anchorage, listing heavily and evidently sinking fast. Surgeons and ambulances were instantly despatched to the doomed ship by every war-ship in the harbour, including the Vicksburg. It was maliciously reported that the latter did not assist in this Samaritan work, but the slander was refuted and absolutely disproved. Commander Marshall, of the Vicksburg, was one of the very first to send boats to rescue the sailors, and medical aid to succour the wounded.

At four o'clock the Korietz was blown up by her commander. There were two sharp explosions, forward and aft. A mass of flame arose, and a column of black smoke rolled upward. As the noise of the explosion died away the Russians on the other ships could be heard across the bay singing the national anthem.

The Variag's sea-cocks were now opened, and the ship gradually filled. At five, a succession of small, sharp explosions were heard. The Russian captain, fearing that the Japanese would arrive, begged the commander of a British war-ship to fire at her water-line, but he refused.

The list to port became more and more marked, and flames burst out from the sides and stern of the beautiful ship which, like the Retvizan, had been the pride of the builders in Cramp's Philadelphia shipyard a few years before.

The ship's guns remained fast to the end, but there was a tremendous clatter and roar of gear falling to leeward. At last, with a slow and majestic plunge, the Variag sank, all her tubes charged with torpedoes, and her great rifled guns pointing upward. Soon afterward the mail-boat Sungari was fired, and the flames sent their red glow over the harbour of Chemulpo until it and all the ships seemed embayed in a sea of blood, while the wounded and dying men moaned below decks. So ended the first terrible day of the war, and night fell, as softly, as gently, as on the hills of Palestine long ago when the holy Babe lay in the manger and the angels sang "Peace on earth – good will to men!"

CHAPTER XI.
IN THE MIKADO'S CAPITAL

On the evening after the event narrated in the last chapter a group of foreigners sat on the pleasant verandah of one of the largest hotels in Tokio. They were easily distinguishable from the natives that thronged the street and square, not only by the Occidental costumes – of the latest and most fashionable styles – which adorned the ladies, but by the bright and animated faces with which they looked out on the strange scene before them, and discussed the astounding news which had just been displayed, "in real tea-chest letters," Edith said, on the newspaper bulletins.

Edith and Ethelwyn Black had been invited by their father's old friends Colonel and Mrs. Selborne to join them in a trip around the world. The two young girls were delighted with the prospect, and with some reluctance Major Black consented to the plan. His wife had died five years before, and a widowed sister kept house for him; so, although the separation bore hardly upon the jolly major – from whom Wynnie must have inherited her unfailing flow of spirits – there really was no good excuse for letting the girls miss such an opportunity to enlarge their horizon, mental and physical. The party left New York in December, spent Christmas in San Francisco, and late in January landed in Yokohama. After a brief tour inland they went to Tokio, arriving just before the assault of the Japanese on the ships in the harbour of Port Arthur.

On this special evening Tokio was a blaze of light. Not only were lanterns strung over every shop door and the porches of private houses, but in groups of twos and threes the golden and crimson globes veered wildly through the streets, borne by children as well as by their jubilant elders. Newspaper boys ran to and fro with extras, their little bells jingling and their shrill cries sounding above the roar of the crowds. The naval cadets of Japan in their neat uniforms massed in a solid column, and their cheer rang out, loud and clear: "Banzai! Dai Nippon banzai! Banzai, banzai, banzai!"

Edith clasped her hands as she listened. "It's like a Harvard cheer," she exclaimed; "only it's more real!"

"Yes," said the Colonel, blowing out a whiff of smoke. "It's life and death, instead of a mere football victory. I wish I could get the latest news – "

Just then a slight, alert figure came up the steps of the hotel. The young man glanced quickly right and left as he reached the verandah.

"Ah, Miss Black and Miss Ethelwyn," he said, coming forward with outstretched hand, "I'm not sure that you remember me, but that evening on the Osprey– "

"Mr. Larkin!" exclaimed both girls, rising and cordially shaking his hand. "How delightful to find you here! Colonel Selborne, Mr. Larkin, a friend of Lieutenant-Commander Rexdale's."

"Is Mr. Larkin in the navy?" inquired Colonel Selborne, meeting the young man's friendly greeting in his hearty way.

"Well, no, not exactly," said Larkin with a laugh, "although I am on board the war-vessels pretty often, as war correspondent for the Boston Bulletin. There are half a dozen of us here already, trying to get our passes to go to the front, wherever that may be. Just now it's on the fleet and at Chemulpo, where the Japs have landed a regiment."

"O Mr. Larkin!" exclaimed Edith. "You'll surely be shot, or something, if you go right where the soldiers and battles are!"

"It will be 'something,' then, I guess," said the reporter with another of his jolly laughs. "We fellows aren't often shot. The greatest trouble we have, in a foreign war, is getting within reach of bullets at all. These blessed Japs bow and smile and promise, from dawn to sunset, but somehow there's always some hitch when it comes to actual permission to start. If I don't get my pass soon," he added, lowering his voice, "I shall get a move on, permission or no permission."

As he spoke, both girls nodded to a man who bowed low as he passed them and entered the open door of the hotel. Larkin, following the direction of their glances, stopped short. A puzzled expression came into his face.

"Pardon me," he said quickly, "may I ask you the name of the gentleman who bowed to you?"

"That? Oh, that's Señor Bellardo," replied Wynnie carelessly. "He's a Spaniard, I believe, travelling for his health, but he speaks English very nicely. Have you met him?"

"There's something familiar about his face," mused Fred, "but I can't remember – a Spaniard, did you say, Miss Ethelwyn?"

"I think – yes, I know he is, for he alluded to his estates near Barcelona. That's in Spain, isn't it?"

"It certainly is," assented the war correspondent, "but that fellow – excuse me; that gentleman-looked more like a – well, I think the air of Tokio, or the pleasure of finding old friends here, must have gone to my head. So we'll let the Señor drop. You'll be surprised when I tell you of another friend of yours who arrived here this very day!"

"Oh, who is it? Tell us!" exclaimed the girls.

"Perhaps you've forgotten him," said Fred, with a sly glance at Wynnie. "I declare there he is, now! Hulloa, there! Ship ahoy!" he cried, beckoning to a trim-looking lad who was passing on the other side of the street.

"Why, it's Mr. Starr!" said Wynnie, with a gladness in her voice that proved she had not forgotten her companion of the Osprey banquet.

"Come up here, young man!" called out Larkin, rising from his seat. "I would have brought you here to-morrow, anyway, but my good intentions are frustrated by your untimely appearance."

By this time the midshipman, recognising the faces of the two girls, had reached the verandah with a bound. He was presented to Colonel Selborne, and then came such a rapid fire of questions and answers as might have been expected.

Bob explained that he had been temporarily detached from the Osprey to carry important documents and messages from the commanding officer of the battle-ship squadron (of which the gunboats formed one division) of the Asiatic fleet to the United States naval attaché at Tokio. He had arrived that morning on the U. S. Ship Zafiro, which had immediately steamed away again under orders to return for him at some future day to be appointed. He had run across Fred Larkin on the wharf, that enterprising gentleman being on the lookout for news from the fleet and any scraps of information the Zafiro might have picked up as to the midnight assault on Port Arthur. Starr's official duties had occupied his attention most of the day, and he was on his way to see the crowds at the park when he was hailed from the hotel verandah.

"Well, this is homelike!" he exclaimed with great satisfaction, as he settled back in his chair next Wynnie's.

"What is the latest war news?" inquired the Colonel.

"Oh, the Russians have got it in the – have sustained a severe defeat," said Bob, cutting short his Academy slang. "The Japs have blown up, sunk, or disabled half a dozen of the finest ships in their fleet. This afternoon Admiral Uriu finished off the Variag and Korietz just outside Chemulpo. The naval attaché got it direct from the commander of the Vicksburg. I tell you, the old academy made itself felt when those Russian ships steamed out of the harbour!"

"Made itself felt? Why, what academy, Mr. Starr?" asked Colonel Selborne, who was himself a West Point man.

"Didn't you know, sir, that the Japanese Admiral Uriu was a graduate of the Naval Academy at Annapolis?" cried Starr.

"Is it possible?"

"It's true, and what's more, he married a Vassar girl."

"To graduate from the Naval Academy and marry a Vassar girl – what more could man desire?" laughed Edith.

"Echo answers 'What,'" agreed the midshipman enthusiastically. "That is, unless – Miss Ethelwyn, – " But if he had intended to ask whether she were a Vassar student, his courage failed him and he lamely inquired if she "felt the draught."

Wynnie dimpled and then laughed outright, putting the young man to still more confusion. Larkin struck in with one of his irrepressible puns about a "Vassarlating maid," and the laughter became general.

"I married a farmer's daughter from Connecticut," said Colonel Selborne, "and, as a result, see what a charming pair of adopted nieces I have!"

In the midst of the merriment that followed this sally, Señor Bellardo passed out of the hotel door, raising his hat to the group and saying "Good evening, ladies!" on his way to the street, in the shadows of which he soon after disappeared.

Larkin started again and frowned. "Where have I heard that voice?" he demanded. No one could enlighten him, and the gay badinage and laughter of the young people was resumed, while the far-off clamours of the crowds were renewed as fresh details of the victory appeared on the illuminated bulletins. The "piazza party" at the Grand Hotel was prolonged to a late hour, when Fred and the midshipman took their leave, promising to call early the next forenoon in order to show the young ladies some of the sights of Tokio.

When the correspondent reached his lodgings he cudgelled his brain to recall the time and place in which he had met that stranger whose voice affected him so unpleasantly. He gave it up at last, but his last waking thought was a resolve to follow up the mystery and establish that black-bearded Spaniard's identity before he left Tokio.

The next morning the two young men appeared promptly at the appointed hour, together with three jinrikishas (or "rickshaws," as foreigners call them) of the most gorgeous description. It being Saturday the Mikado's private pleasure-grounds, the Fukiagé Gardens, were thrown open to the public, and here the American party wandered for an hour, observing and discussing the broad, smoothly cropped lawns, the cascade, the masses of dark evergreen trees – unfortunately the plum was not yet in blossom – and, most interesting of all, the careless, bare-headed, quaintly dressed, good-natured people who thronged the grounds. Of the six thousand policemen in Tokio not one was visible in the Garden, yet everybody was well-behaved and courteous.

In the afternoon Larkin took his daily tramp to the War Office. The sentry outside allowed him to pass with what Fred could not help interpreting as a sardonic gleam in his dark eye. The man had admitted many newspaper men, during January and February, and had seen them depart, bearing gloomy and disappointed faces and using strong language which fortunately he could not understand. Any boy or man who has ever drilled will remember the wearying performance called "marking time," when the soldier goes through all the motions of marching, tramp, tramp, tramp, but never gets ahead one inch. A noted American war correspondent contributed to his journal at this period a series of papers called "Marking Time in Tokio." No term could be more expressive.

Larkin found half a dozen of his brothers-of-the-craft in the War Office. There were besides, in the large, bare room, two uniformed orderlies and two or three grave, elderly, courteous generals, each apparently doing nothing by himself, and although politely interested in the welfare of the foreign visitors, unable to spare time to discuss the war with them.

"Perhaps," said one of these officials to Fred, "a column will leave soon for Korea. It would give me exalted pleasure to allow you to accompany them. No, I cannot tell when or where. Must you go? Good-day!"

The days passed quickly. Larkin did his best to pick up scraps of information and cable, or write them out, for the Bulletin. His leisure moments he spent with the Blacks and Bob Starr, who was their unfailing escort in all excursions. Once they came upon Bellardo in full daylight, and Fred studied his face, but had to confess himself baffled. A rather dark complexion, full black beard, and an odd mispronunciation of English – these peculiarities he noted; in the two-minute interview with the young ladies he could make out nothing more, nor did he even secure an introduction, Bellardo excusing himself, on the plea of an engagement, and moving away just as Fred joined the group.

The correspondents of the great American, English, French, and German dailies became more and more impatient. Some of them gave up, or were recalled, and went home. The certainty that Japanese troops were being taken across in transports made the situation the more aggravating. News of various sea-fights, and skirmishes on land, was posted by the newspapers. It was evident that the war was proceeding, just as if there were no war correspondents waiting to report it – at least, on the Japanese side. The city reporters in New York were better informed as to the movements of the two great armies than these scouts so near the firing line, yet so far away. Before long there appeared ship-loads of wounded men, sent back from the front to the hospitals in Nagasaki and Tokio.

Information was given out that the Russians were concentrating in the lower Yalu valley, and that here the first great battle might take place. It was necessary for Japan to strike across the Korean peninsula and isolate Port Arthur, cutting the railroad above it if possible.

"Larkin," said Starr, meeting the reporter in the street one day early in March, "I've received word that the Zafiro will be at this port to-morrow, and I am ordered back to the Osprey. I hate to say good-bye to you, old fellow!"

"And I hate to have you," said Fred. "Perhaps you won't have to," he added meaningly.

"Oh, yes, of course I must obey orders. I'm on my way now to make my farewell call at the hotel. This evening I'll run in to see you at your lodgings on my way home."

But when Bob called, Larkin was not in his lodgings, nor, strange to say, was there any trace left of his ever having occupied the room. No one knew where he had gone. He had paid his bill in full and left the house early in the evening, taking the small bag which constituted all his luggage.

With a heavy heart – for various reasons – Bob went on board the Zafiro the next morning, and the little despatch-boat put out to sea.