Kitabı oku: «The North Pacific», sayfa 8

CHAPTER XIV.
THE ATTACK OF THE "OCTOPUS"

Since the Stone Age, when long-haired men, half brutes, fought with battle-clubs made by lashing a rudely shaped lump of stone in the cleft end of a club, and with arrows and javelins tipped with hammered flint, through all the successive generations of fighters, human ingenuity has been exercised to its utmost to devise new implements of warfare, and new defences to protect against them.

A long stride was taken when the first elaborately carved, bell-mouthed cannon roared at Cressy and Poictiers; another when iron balls were substituted for stone, and still a third when the idea flashed upon some belligerent inventor to make his iron shot hollow and transform them into explosive shells and death-dealing shrapnel.

From shells to torpedoes was an easy transition, and the torpedo-boat became necessary, duly followed by the torpedo-boat destroyer. At the same time the armour of the largest fighting ships was increased in thickness from two or three inches to a foot, over the vital parts of the battle-ship and cruiser, the primary batteries of which now included huge rifled guns throwing a steel projectile of well-nigh half a ton's weight.

The torpedo is a terrible but uncertain weapon. The modern search-light makes daylight of the darkest night, and renders the approach of a torpedo-boat within striking distance exceedingly difficult. If detected, the boat is doomed, for a concentration of fire from the larger ship beats the necessarily small assailant to death in a moment. Moreover it is by no means sure that the torpedo will do its work when launched at the enemy, even if it succeeds in piercing the wire net that is suspended to entangle it at a safe distance from the hull of the vessel attacked.

Summing up all the obstacles to successful torpedo attack, it may be reckoned that only one in twelve reaches its mark, explodes, and accomplishes its purpose.

It remained for the twentieth century to produce a terrible fighting-machine – often foretold but never perfected until the Russo-Japanese war – which should approach the enemy unseen, discharge its torpedo with careful aim at the most vulnerable part of its huge adversary, and, while the latter was floating in fancied security on the open sea, strike a blow which should be instantly fatal. Such is the marvellous submarine torpedo-boat of this day and generation.

The idea of a boat that shall move under water and discharge its missile at a hostile ship is by no means a new one. In 1776 a young man named David Bushnell, of New Haven, Connecticut, constructed a submarine boat resembling two "turtle-backs" screwed together. She was so small that only one man could occupy her. Air was supplied to last half an hour. The "crew," who was expected to work by hand the propelling screw, was also supposed to be able to pump in and out water ballast to enable her to descend to the desired depth, to maintain the craft on an even keel when submerged, and to detach two hundred pounds of ballast weights in order to rise again to the surface. An explosive mine containing one hundred and fifty pounds of gunpowder was to be towed alongside until the bottom of the enemy's ship was reached, when, the mine having been fastened to the hull, a clock-work arrangement, set by the operator, would explode the charge. Nothing practical resulted from the young Yale man's scheme, but it is evident that his boat was the original model for every submarine torpedo-boat which has since been invented.

In 1800 Robert Fulton, turning his attention from steam engines for a while, modelled a boat which was a considerable improvement upon Bushnell's, but, like the latter, failed in practical use.

During our Civil War several essays were made at submarine warfare, the Confederates taking the initiative. One of these submarines actually blew up a Union man-of-war, but was itself demolished, with its crew of nine men. Every great navy in the world now reckons a number of submarines among its available forces.

One of the most dangerous and powerful of these deadly destroyers at the time of the breaking out of the Japanese war was the Octopus, launched at night, with great secrecy, near the naval station of Sasebo. Her length was eighty feet, diameter eleven feet, displacement (when submerged) one hundred and thirty-nine tons. When she was running light, or "awash," the twin-screws, operated by triple expansion engines worked by steam, gave a speed of fifteen knots, with a minimum endurance, at this speed, of twelve hours.

To drive the craft when submerged a battery of storage cells supplied an electric current to operate motors sufficient to give a speed of eight knots for at least six hours. Her armament consisted of five automobile torpedoes and two expulsion tubes, which opened through her black prow like the nostrils of some hideous sea-monster. She was able to sink to a depth of twenty feet below the surface within one minute after the order to dive was given. When she was submerged three feet the pilot obtained a view over the water by means of a camera lucida in a tube that projected above the surface.

When Jules Verne wrote Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea, in 1873, his Nautilus was deemed by the reader untaught in naval constructive history a wild creation of the author's fancy, like his passenger-car shot to the moon from an enormous cannon. To-day there is not a naval commander who would not look grave and consider an immediate withdrawal of his ship when told an enemy's submarine was cruising in his neighbourhood.

In the face of open danger, visible to eye and ear, no officer of the navy blenches. The submarine is out of sight. It may be within a hundred yards of the ship when the report is brought. A man who will stand up against a wild beast or a band of savages without a tremor will turn white and shriek with terror if, when he is in the water, the cry of "Shark!" is raised. The shark betrays its presence by its black dorsal fin above the surface of the sea. When the fin disappears the danger increases, becomes terrible; the fear of the swimmer in the vicinity of that black, unseen peril overmasters him.

The submarine sinks, like the shark, to attack. Its gleaming back, surmounted by the small, round conning tower, disappears amid a swirl of foam. A single staff at the stern betrays its presence for a moment; then that, too, glides beneath the surface. Not a man on the battle-ship but shudders at the thought of that hidden monster under the waves, driven by the skill and hatred of the human brain.

Only tried and absolutely reliable men are chosen for the crew of the submarine. They must be ready to endure extreme discomfort and hardship and must hold their lives in their hands. A well-aimed shot from a war-ship, or a defect in the delicate machinery of the boat, and all is over. A submarine never is wrecked; it sinks, with all on board; it is obliterated.

The Japanese have been among the first to realise the terrible effectiveness of this formidable engine of war. No one outside a handful of men near the Mikado's throne knows how many submarine torpedo-boats are included in the Japanese navy, nor where they are stationed. Japanese naval officers and men form an ideal body from which the crews of these boats are to be chosen. In conflict with the enemy, whether on land or at sea, they reckon their lives as nothing. They seek eagerly for a glorious death at the hands of the foe, and when that is denied them and defeat is inevitable they prefer to die by their own weapons, or by leaping into the sea, rather than prolong what would be to them a life of disgrace.

Oto Owari was appointed, on the 11th of April in this eventful year, to the command of the submarine Octopus, then docked, under a concealing roof, at Sasebo. Three nights later he went on board with a picked crew at midnight, and the Octopus, first gliding out of the dock, and gathering speed until she reached open water, suddenly stopped her engines and began to sink, inch by inch. In one minute a dark spot on the sea, and a patch of foam, indicated the top of her conning tower; and a moment later she was out of sight. In the act of sinking, her prow was toward the west.

Early on the morning of April 13th, the Japanese fleet made a demonstration in the direction of Port Arthur. Always ready to accept a challenge while there was a shot in the locker, the Russians steamed out to meet them. There was but a brief exchange of battle courtesies. The Port Arthur ships were far out-numbered and out-metalled, and Admiral Makaroff, on the Petropavlovsk, signalled for his squadron to retire.

The Petropavlovsk was a first-class battle-ship of about 11,000 tons, with heavy armament of twelve-inch guns and secondary batteries. She had on board the admiral, the regular crew of 650 men, the Grand Duke Cyril, and, as a special guest, the famous painter Verestchagin. Makaroff, with several officers of high rank, having satisfied themselves that the ship was in no immediate danger, proceeding as she now was under good headway, toward her home port, with the Japanese fleet hull down in the offing, went below to breakfast. The Grand Duke and the great artist remained on the bridge with the commander of the flagship and its lieutenant. They scanned through their glasses the far-off pursuers, and the frowning forts on Golden Hill, and congratulated each other on the escape of the Russian squadron from the danger of annihilation by an immensely superior force. Not a man of them guessed the near presence of a peril, unseen beneath those waves, dimpling in the morning sunlight, more terrible than the whole array of Japanese battle-ships on the horizon. Verestchagin, then the greatest living painter of death on the battle-field, knew not that Death was at that moment gliding toward him; that he was taking his last look at the drifting clouds, the rippling sea, the blue hills of Manchuria. The Petropavlovsk sped onward, but faster, beneath the waves, sped the Octopus, guided by the fierce eyes, the strong hand, the glowing heart and brain of the small brown man erstwhile cabin steward of the Osprey.

Suddenly the great battle-ship quivered from stem to stern, as if she had struck upon a rock. The sea rose on the starboard side in a tremendous wave, and a roar like a broadside of a frigate filled the air, followed by a rattling, crashing discharge from the magazines. A huge gap appeared in the hull of the ship. A cataract of water poured in, and slowly turning upon her side, with one great, hissing gasp the Petropavlovsk sank.

The other ships of the squadron hastened to the spot, and almost before the fighting-tops of the battle-ship disappeared their boats were foaming across the water to pick up the survivors from the ill-fated vessel. The Grand Duke was saved, as were the lieutenant, two other officers, and about fifty sailors. Every other man went to the bottom. Never again would the guns of Russia boom out their noisy salute to the gallant admiral; and Verestchagin had made his last great study of Death.

CHAPTER XV.
UNDER THE RED CROSS

When Fred Larkin regained consciousness, after being hurled into the sea, he found himself lying on a large table covered with a white cloth. Around him stood a number of big, burly men with black beards and stern but not unkindly faces. He knew at once that they must be Russians, and (having applied himself vigorously to the study of their language on his outward voyage from San Francisco) addressed himself to the most amiable-looking of the lot.

"Where am I?" he asked, in very poor Russian.

The man did not reply, but said, "Do you speak French?"

"Oui!" replied Larkin, glad to know that he could converse in a tongue much more familiar to him than the former. He repeated his question, adding, as a twinge of pain shot through his shoulder, "I am hurt."

"Yes," said the other; "you were struck by a splinter. We picked you up from the water and brought you here. You are English?"

"American. Am I in Port Arthur, then?"

"You are near Port Arthur, at Laouwei. What were you doing in the Chinese junk which was sunk by the Japanese?" demanded the Russian more sternly.

"I am a newspaper correspondent," said Fred boldly, though in a weak voice. His wound pained him more and more, and he rightly guessed that the collar-bone was fractured. "I have been in Tokio, and could not reach the front, so I crossed over to your side, where, they tell me, the press receives more consideration. My credentials are in my inside pocket."

The officer – for such Fred deemed him to be – smiled grimly, but made no comment upon this speech.

"You must be taken to the hospital in the city, where they will set your broken bone," he said. "Meanwhile you will pardon the discourtesy of covering your face."

A word of command was given, and a light cloth laid over the reporter's head. He was then placed gently upon a stretcher and carried on board some kind of a vessel. Before long Fred heard the clamour of a wharf crowd; then felt himself lifted again and borne through the streets of a city which he knew must be Port Arthur, up a rather steep hill, to a building where he was deposited on a cot beside two other men. The cloth was now removed, and the first object which met his eye was the kind, good face of a young woman, on whose arm was bound a strip bearing a red cross. With a feeling that he was in a safe refuge he meekly took the medicine held to his lips and fell into a deep sleep.

Between his sleeping and waking, the collar-bone was set that afternoon. Fred only remembered a confused sense of gentle hands and rough voices, of the smell of chloroform, of a general battered and "want-to-cry" feeling; and, at last, of utter abandonment of restfulness. The next morning he was weak and a little feverish, but he felt like a new man. In three weeks, the surgeon told him, he would be about again. Fred made use of his first returning strength to cable to the Bulletin and ask for instructions. The censor passed the message without cutting. The reply was terse: "Remain Russian army."

The time passed pretty heavily with the disabled correspondent, during his convalescence at the hospital. From the window of his room he could look down on the harbour and see the Russian war-ships. His two room-mates, Japanese officers from one of the stone-laden hulks sunk in a vain attempt to block the channel in Hobson fashion, had been sent to prison soon after his arrival.

From time to time he obtained scraps of information from other patients, from the hospital surgeon-staff, and from his gentle little nurse, Marie Kopofsky, a native of Moscow. Not "at the Czar's command," but of her own free will, she had volunteered, as had hundreds of Japanese women on their side of the sea, to nurse the sick and wounded at the front, under the banner of the Red Cross.

On the day before he left the hospital Fred was walking idly through the corridors to his room, when his ear caught the sound of an unpleasantly familiar voice. It recalled the prison at Santiago, where he had been confined at the close of his daring scouting expedition during the Spanish War. It recalled, too, strangely enough, the bright days he had recently passed at Tokio. Suddenly a light broke upon his mind.

"Stevens!" he exclaimed under his breath. "That mean traitor who tried to bribe me to betray the secrets of the United States navy to the Spanish – he and Señor Bellardo are the same man! It was the beard and the dark complexion that fooled me! What tricks is he up to now, I wonder?"³

Fred turned away abruptly, before Stevens caught sight of him, and entering his private room closed the door.

"I may not be here long," he muttered, "but while I am I will keep an eye on that fellow."

The next day he received his discharge from the hospital, and obtained lodgings at a respectable hotel near by. As soon as possible he presented his credentials to General Stoessel, and received a newspaper pass, with the instructions of the Russian government governing war correspondents at the front. They were, in brief, as follows:

Rule I. Correspondents must not interfere in any way with the preparations for war, or the plans of the staff, or divulge military secrets of advantage to the enemy, such as actions in which forts are damaged or guns lost.

II. No criticism of members of the General Staff, Corps, or Division Staff. The report of an engagement must be limited to a simple statement of fact.

III. Correspondents must not transmit unconfirmed information about the enemy, such as rumours of victory, or threatening movements, which may cause public uneasiness in Russia.

IV. All correspondents without credentials will be turned back. Those given permission to join the forces are in honour bound to observe the regulations, with the penalty of expulsion without warning for any violation. They can go anywhere in the field, and are barred only from the Russian fleet.

"H'm," said Fred, as he read over the printed rules, "fair enough, though 'a simple statement of fact' is hard lines on a flowery writer. If my friends the Japs had been as liberal, I shouldn't have got into Port Arthur in a hurry."

He soon made the acquaintance of two or three other newspaper men from European capitals, and managed to get a few good cables through the censor without their being mangled beyond recognition. He soon discovered Stevens's lodgings, where he learned that the traitor had the entrée of Staff headquarters, and was known as Henry Burley, of Liverpool. For the present Fred could see no spoke to put in his wheel, for the interests of the United States were, as far as he knew, in no way involved in the man's character or actions. Still, as Fred soliloquised, "he would bear watching."

The war proceeded with unabated vigour. During the second week of Fred's enforced idleness another sea-tragedy took place in the Yellow Sea, off Korea. The Japanese transport Kinshiu Maru was proceeding from Nagasaki to the Korean coast, with ammunition, coal, supplies, and infantry. In the middle of the night several large ships loomed up through the haze. Supposing them to be Togo's fleet, the Kinshiu Maru signalled, "I am bringing you coal." What was her commander's dismay to read the answer, twinkling out in red and white Ardois lights, "Stop instantly!" At the same moment the cry ran through the transport, "The Russians! the Russians!"

"Surrender!" signalled Admiral Yeszen, from his flagship. It was the Vladivostock squadron of formidable cruisers, released at last from the ice which for months had both protected and fettered them.

Instead of surrendering, the crew of the Kinshiu Maru began to lower their boats in mad haste, hoping to escape in the darkness; a Russian steam cutter captured every boat but one, which was afterward picked up by a Japanese schooner, many miles from the scene of the disaster.

The Russians boarded the transport, and found about one hundred and fifty soldiers, who barricaded themselves in the cabin and refused to surrender. Withdrawing to their ships, the victors began to shell the doomed hulk. The Japanese soldiers swarmed on deck and discharged their rifles in the direction of the foe, shouting old Samurai battle-songs. Pierced and shattered, the transport settled lower and lower in the water. At last a Whitehead torpedo, exploding against the ship, tore a great hole in her hull amidships, and she plunged into the depths of the sea. Up to the last moment, when the waves rolled over them, the soldiers shouted their defiance and steadily loaded and fired. With two hundred prisoners, the Russian squadron returned to Vladivostock.

On land the Japanese advanced steadily. Gradually the long, throttling fingers extended from east and west toward the railroad that meant life or death to the great fortress. Then came the battle of the Yalu, to the east. The river was crossed, the Japanese poured into Manchuria, and the position of the Russian forces on the Liaotung peninsula became still more critical. Supplies were crowded into the beleaguered port, and non-combatants filled the northward-bound trains to overflowing. Early in May it became evident that with one more clutch of the relentless hand of Nippon all communication between Port Arthur and the rest of the world would be cut off.

Fred Larkin saw that he must decide whether to move out at once or remain virtually a prisoner in the town. Most of the other correspondents had already gone. The instructions from the home office were ambiguous. He tried to cable again, but the wires were pre-empted for military despatches in those stirring days. He decided, reluctantly, to abandon Port Arthur and join the Russian army now entrenched a few miles north, on the line of the railroad.

On the evening before the day which he had set for his departure he was strolling about the large square where a military band was playing national airs, when he bumped against a stranger who was hurrying in the opposite direction. Both paused, and their eyes met.

"Larkin!"

"Stevens!"

"Hush!" said the latter, looking nervously over his shoulder. "My name is Burley. Why are you here? When did you leave Tokio?"

"At about the same time when you decamped with the War Office documents," said Fred easily. "Look here, old fellow," he continued with assumed cordiality, "there's no need for us to quarrel in a foreign camp. You've got something on hand now, or I'm mistaken. Can't you let me in?"

"You used pretty hard words to me the last time we met," said the other gloomily. "It wasn't your fault that I wasn't strung up."

"Nor yours that I wasn't," assented Fred cheerfully, "so we're square on that score. But this is a different matter. It's all Japanese or Russian over here, and your Uncle Samuel hasn't a finger in the pie. Now you must have made a good thing out of your Tokio observations, and the presumption is that, having the confidence of our friend Stoessel and his staff, you are about ready to face about."

"Perhaps I am," said Stevens, or Burley, again looking about him. "And if I am, I need one good man I can depend on, to help me in the job. It's too big for one to handle, and the city is so full of spies that I wouldn't trust a native round the corner. But how do I know you will do your part, eh?"

"Try me and see," said Larkin with great firmness.

"All right, I'll try you." They were now walking through one of the side streets, which was but dimly lighted. "Here are my lodgings. Come in and we'll talk it over."

He opened the outer door with a pass-key, and Fred followed him up two flights of narrow stairs.

"Here we are," said Burley, opening a door. "Step right in, and I'll light up."

Larkin entered, but he was hardly over the threshold when he was pushed headlong to the floor, and heard the door closed and locked behind him.

A low laugh sounded from the entry. "'Help me out,' will you, you puppy?" whispered Burley through the keyhole. "You'll never help anybody out, in this world. Within ten minutes this house will be a heap of rubbish, and you will be in kingdom come. Good-bye! I'll report you at home!"

His steps echoed down the stairway, and then the house was still.