The loud reverberation of the shot—the first one fired on the American side—acted as a nerve-tonic all round, and all felt as though they had been relieved from an intolerable burden.

While the right gun was being reloaded and the stinking gases escaping from the gun filled the narrow chamber with their fumes, the lieutenant looked for traces of the effect of the shot. The wind whistled through the peep-hole and made his eyes smart. The shot did not seem to have touched the Satsuma at all. The foam seen in the bow was that produced by the ship's motion.

"Two hundred and fifty yards over," came through the telephone, and on the glass-plate of the distance-register, faintly illuminated by an electric lamp, appeared the number 2550.

"2550 yards!" repeated the lieutenant to the captain of the left gun, giving the angle of direction himself. The Connecticut again heaved over to port, and the thunder of cannon rolled over the waves of the Pacific.

"The shell burst at a thousand yards!" called the lieutenant. "What miserable fuses!"

"Bad shot," came down reproachfully through the telephone, "use percussion fuses."

"I am, but they're no good, they won't work," roared back the lieutenant. Then he went down into the turret and examined the new shell on the lift before it was pushed into the breech.

"All right," he said aloud, but added under his breath, suppressing an oath: "We mustn't let the men notice there's anything wrong, for the world!"

Another shot rang out, and again the shell burst a few hundred yards from the Connecticut, sending the water flying in every direction.

Again came the reproachful voice from above: "Bad shot, take percussion fuses!"

"That's what these are supposed to be," replied the lieutenant in a terrible state of excitement; "the shells are absolutely useless."

"Fire at the forepart of the Satsuma with shrapnel," rang out the command from the wall.

"Shrapnels from below!" ordered the lieutenant, and "shrapnels from below" was repeated by the man at the lift into the 'phone leading to the ammunition chamber.

But the lift continued to bring up the blue armor-piercing shells; five times more and then it stopped.

During a momentary pause in the firing on both sides, the buzzing and whirring of the electric apparatus of the lift could be distinctly heard. Then the lift appeared once more, this time with a red explosive shell.

"Aim at the forepart of the Satsuma, 1950 yards!"

The Connecticut rolled over heavily to starboard, the water splashed over the railing, rushing like a torrent between the turrets; then the ship heeled over to the other side. The shot rang out.

"At last," cried the lieutenant proudly, pointing through the peep-hole. High up in the side of the Satsuma, close to the little 12-cm. quick-firing gun, a piece was seen to be missing when the smoke from the bursting shell had disappeared.

"Good shot," came from above; "go on firing with shrapnel!"

The distance-register silently showed the number 1850. Then came a deafening roar from below and the sharp ring of tearing iron. A hostile shell had passed obliquely below the turret into the forepart of the Connecticut, and clouds of thick black smoke completely obscured the view through the peep-hole.

"Four degrees higher!" commanded the lieutenant.

"Not yet correct," he grumbled; "three degrees higher still!" He waited for the Connecticut to roll to port.

"What's the matter?"

"Use higher elevation in turrets. The Connecticut has a leak and is listing to starboard," said the telephone. "Three degrees higher!" ordered the lieutenant.

A shot from the left barrel.

"Splendid," cried the lieutenant; "that was a fine shot! But lower, lower, we're merely shooting their upper plates to bits," and the gun went on steadily firing.

The turrets on the starboard side were hit again and again, the hostile shells bursting perpetually against their armored sides. As if struck by electric discharges the gunners were continually thrown back from the rumbling walls, and they were almost deaf from the fearful din, so that all commands had to be yelled out at the top of the lungs.

The raging storm and the rough sea prevented the Americans from using a part of their guns. While the explosive shells from the enemy's heavy intermediate battery were able to demolish everything on deck and to pass through the unarmored portions of the sides, working fearful havoc in the interior and among the crew, the light American secondary battery was compelled to keep silence.

An attempt had been made, to be sure, to bring the 7-inch guns into action, but it proved of no avail. The gunners stood ready at their posts to discharge the shells at the enemy, but it was utterly impossible, for no sooner had they taken aim, than they lost it again as the hostile ships disappeared in the foaming glassy-green waves that broke against their sides. The water penetrated with the force of a stream from a nozzle through the cracks in the plates and poured into the casemates till the men were standing up to their knees in water. At last the only thing that could be done was to open the doors behind the guns in order to let the water out; but this arrangement had the disadvantage of allowing a good deal of the water which had run out to return in full force and pile up in one corner the next time the ship rolled over, and on account of this perpetual battle with the waves outside and the rolling water inside, it was impossible for the men to aim properly or to achieve any results with their shots. It was therefore deemed best to stop the firing here, and to have the gunners relieve the men at the turret-guns, who had suffered greatly from the enemy's fire. The men in charge of the completely demolished small guns on the upper deck had already been assigned to similar duty.

We therefore had to depend entirely on our 12-inch and 8-inch guns in the turrets, while the enemy was able to bring into action all his broadside guns on the starboard side, which was only little affected by the storm. And this superiority had been used to such advantage in the first eleven minutes of the battle, before the surprised Americans could reply, that the decks of the latter's ships, especially of the admiral's flag-ship, were a mass of wreckage even before the first American shot had been fired. The decks were strewn with broken bridges, planks, stanchions and torn rigging, and into the midst of this chaos now fell the tall funnels and pieces of the steel masts. In most instances the water continually pouring over the decks put out the fires; but the Vermont was nevertheless burning aft and the angry flames could be seen bursting out of the gaping holes made by the shells.

Admiral Perry, in company with the commander and staff-officers, watched the progress of the battle from the conning-tower. The officers on duty at the odometers calmly furnished the distance between their ship and the enemy to the turrets and casemates, and the lieutenant in command of the fire-control on the platform above the conning-tower coolly and laconically reported the results of the shots, at the same time giving the necessary corrections, which were at once transmitted to the various turrets by telephone. The rolling of the ships in the heavy seas made occasional pauses in the firing absolutely necessary.

The report that a series of shells belonging to the 8-inch guns in the front turret had unreliable fuses led to considerable swearing in the conning-tower, but while the officers were still cursing the commission for accepting such useless stuff, a still greater cause for anxiety became apparent.

Even before the Americans had begun their fire, the Japanese shells had made a few enormous holes in the unprotected starboard side of the Connecticut, behind the stem and just above the armored belt, and through these the water poured in and flooded all the inner chambers. As the armored gratings above the hatchways leading below had also been destroyed or had not yet been closed, several compartments in the forepart of the ship filled with water. The streams of water continually pouring in through the huge holes rendered it impossible to enter the rooms beneath the armored deck or to close the hatchways. The pumps availed nothing, but fortunately the adjacent bulkheads proved to be watertight. Nevertheless the Connecticut buried her nose deep into the sea and thereby offered ever-increasing resistance to the oncoming waves. Captain Farlow therefore ordered some of the watertight compartments aft to be filled with water in order to restore the ship's balance. Similar conditions were reported from other ships.

But scarcely had this damage been thus fairly well adjusted, when a new misfortune was reported. Two Japanese projectiles had struck the ship simultaneously just below her narrow armor-belt as she heaved over to port, the shells entering the unprotected side just in front of the engine-rooms, and as the adjacent bulkheads could not offer sufficient resistance to the pressure of the inpouring water, they were forced in, and as a result the Connecticut heeled over badly to starboard, making it necessary to fill some of the port compartments with water, since the guns could not otherwise obtain the required elevation. This caused the ship to sink deeper and deeper, until the armor-belt was entirely below the standard waterline and the water which had rushed in through the many holes had already reached the passageways above the armored deck. The splashing about in these rushing floods, the continual bursting of the enemy's shells, the groans and moans of the wounded, and the vain attempts to get out the collision-mats on the starboard side—precautions that savored of preservation measures while at the same time causing a great loss of life—all this began to impair the crew's powers of resistance.

As the reports from below grew more and more discouraging, Captain Farlow sent Lieutenant Meade down to examine into the state of the chambers above the armored deck. The latter asked his comrade, Curtis, to take his place at the telephone, but receiving no answer, he looked around, and saw poor Curtis with his face torn off by a piece of shell still bending over his telephone between two dead signalmen.... Lieutenant Meade turned away with a shiver, and, calling a midshipman to take his place, he left the conning-tower, which was being struck continually by hissing splinters from bursting shells.

Everywhere below the same picture presented itself—rushing water splashing high up against the walls in all the passages, through which ambulance transports were making their way with difficulty. In a corner not far from the staircase leading to the hospital lay a young midshipman, Malion by name, pressing both hands against a gaping wound in his abdomen, out of which the viscera protruded, and crying to some one to put him out of his misery with a bullet. What an end to a bright young life! Anything but think! One could only press on, for individual lives and human suffering were of small moment here compared with the portentous question whether the steel sides of the ship and the engines would hold out.

"Shoot me; deliver me from my torture!" rang out the cry of the lieutenant's dying friend behind him; and there before him, right against the wall, lay the sailor Ralling, that fine chap from Maryland who was one of the men who had won the gig-race at Newport News; now he stared vacantly into space, his mouth covered with blood and foam. "Shot in the lung!" thought Meade, hurrying on and trying, oh so hard, not to think!



The black water gurgled and splashed around his feet as he rushed on, dashing with a hollow sound against one side of the passage when the ship heeled over, only to be tossed back in a moment with equal force.

What was that?—Lieutenant Meade had reached the officers' mess—was it music or were his ears playing him a trick? Meade opened the door and thought at first he must be dreaming. There sat his friend and comrade, Lieutenant Besser, at the piano, hammering wildly on the keys. That same Johnny Besser who, on account of his theological predilections went by the nickname of "The Reverend," and who could argue until long after midnight over the most profound Biblical problems, that same Johnny Besser, who was perpetually on the water-wagon. There he sat, banging away as hard as he could on the piano! Meade rushed at him angrily and seizing him by the arm cried: "Johnny, what are you doing here? Are you crazy?"

Johnny took no notice of him whatever, but went on playing and began in a strange uncanny voice to sing the old mariner's song:

"Tom Brown's mother she likes whisky in her tea, As we go rolling home. Glory, Glory Hallelujah."

Horror seized Meade, and he tried to pull Johnny away from the piano, but the resistance offered by the poor fellow who had become mentally deranged from sheer terror was too great, and he had to give up the struggle.

From the outside came the din of battle. Meade threw the door of the mess shut behind him, shivering with horror. Once more he heard the strains of "Glory, Glory, Hallelujah," and then he hurried upstairs. He kept the condition in which he had found Johnny to himself.

When Lieutenant Meade got back to the conning-tower to make his report, the two fleets had passed each other in a parallel course. The enemy's shells had swept the decks of the Connecticut with the force of a hurricane. The gunners from the port side had already been called on to fill up the gaps in the turrets on the starboard side. By this time dead bodies were removed only where they were in the way, and even the wounded were left to lie where they had fallen.

When large pieces of wood from the burning boats began to be thrown on deck by the bursting shells, a fresh danger was created, and the attempt was made to toss them overboard with the aid of the cranes. But this succeeded only on the port side. The starboard crane was smashed to bits by a Japanese explosive shell just as it was raising a launch, the same shot carrying off the third funnel just behind it. When Togo's last ship had left the Connecticut behind, only one funnel full of gaping holes and half of the mainmast were left standing on the deck of the admiral's flag-ship, which presented a wild chaos of bent and broken ironwork. Through the ruins of the deck structures rose the flames and thick smoke from the boilers.

The Japanese ships seemed to be invulnerable in their vital parts. It is true that the Satsuma had lost a funnel, and that both masts of the Kashima were broken off, but except for a few holes above the armor-belt and one or two guns that had been put out of action and the barrels of which pointed helplessly into the air, the enemy showed little sign of damage. Those first eleven minutes, during which the enemy had had things all to himself, had given him an advantage which no amount of bravery or determined energy could counteract. In addition to this, many of the American telescope-sights began to get out of order, as they bent under the blows of the enemy's shells against the turrets. Thus the aim of the Americans, which owing to the heavy seas and to the smoke from the Japanese guns blown into their eyes by the wind was poor enough as it was, became more uncertain still. As the enemy passed, several torpedoes had been cleared by the Americans, but the shining metal-fish could not keep their course against the oncoming waves, and Admiral Perry was forced to notify his ships by wireless to desist from further attempts to use them, in order that his own ships might not be endangered by them.

The enemy, on the contrary, used his torpedoes with better success. A great mass of boiling foam rose suddenly beside the Kansas, which was just heeling to port, and this was followed immediately by sheets of flame and black clouds of smoke which burst from every hole and crevice in the sides and the turrets. The Kansas listed heavily to starboard and then disappeared immediately in the waves. The torpedo must have exploded in an ammunition chamber. On the burning Vermont the steering-gear seemed to be out of order. The battleship sheered sharply to port, thus presenting its stern, which was almost hidden in heavy clouds of smoke, to the enemy, who immediately raked and tore it with shells. The Minnesota was drifting in a helpless condition with her starboard-railing deep under water, while thick streams of water poured from her bilge-pumps on the port side. She gradually fell behind, whereupon the last ship of the line, the New Hampshire, passed her on the fire side, covering her riddled hull for a moment, but then steamed on to join the only two ships in Admiral Perry's fleet which were still in fairly good condition, namely the Connecticut and the Louisiana.

When the hostile fleet began to fall slowly back—the battle had been in progress for barely half an hour—Admiral Perry hoped for a moment that by swinging his three ships around to starboard he would be able to get to windward of the enemy and thus succeed in bringing his almost intact port artillery into action. But even before he could issue his commands, he saw the six Japanese ironclads turn to port and steam towards the Americans at full speed, pouring out tremendous clouds of smoke. Misfortunes never come singly; at this moment came the report that the boilers of the New Hampshire had been badly damaged. Unless the admiral wished to leave the injured ship to her fate, he was now forced to reduce the speed of the other two ships to six knots. This was the beginning of the end.

It was of no use for Admiral Perry to swing his three ships around to starboard. The enemy, owing to his superior speed, could always keep a parallel course and remain on the starboard side. One turret after the other was put out of action. When the casemate with its three intact 7-inch guns could at last be brought into play on the lee-side, it was too late. At such close quarters the steel-walls of the casemates and the mountings were shot to pieces by the enemy's shells. The fire-control refused to act, the wires and speaking-tubes were destroyed, and each gun had to depend on itself. The electric installation had been put out of commission on the Louisiana by a shell bursting through the armored deck and destroying the dynamos. As the gun-turrets could no longer be swung around and the ammunition-lifts had come to a stand-still in consequence, the Louisiana was reduced to a helpless wreck. She sank in the waves at 11.15, and shortly afterwards the New Hampshire, which was already listing far to starboard because the water had risen above the armored deck, capsized. By 12.30 the Connecticut was the sole survivor. She continued firing from the 12-inch guns in the rear turret and from the two 8-inch starboard turrets.

At this point a large piece of shell slipped through the peep-hole of the conning-tower and smashed its heavy armored dome. The next shot might prove fatal. Admiral Perry was compelled to leave the spot he had maintained so bravely; in a hail of splinters he at last managed to reach the steps leading from the bridge; they were wet with the blood of the dead and dying and the last four had been shot away altogether. The other mode of egress, the armored tube inside the turret, was stopped up with the bodies of two dead signalmen. The admiral let himself carefully down by holding on to the bent railing of the steps, and was just in time to catch the blood-covered body of his faithful comrade, Captain Farlow, who had been struck by a shell as he stood on the lowest step. The admiral leaned the body gently against the side of the military-mast, which had been dyed yellow by the deposits of the hostile shells.

Stepping over smoldering ruins and through passages filled with dead and wounded men, over whose bodies the water splashed and gurgled, the admiral at last reached his post below the armored deck.

To this spot were brought the reports from the fire-control stationed at the rear mast and from the last active stations. It was a mournful picture that the admiral received here of the condition of the Connecticut. The dull din of battle, the crashing and rumbling of the hostile shells, the suffocating smoke which penetrated even here below, the rhythmic groaning of the engine and the noise of the pumps were united here into an uncanny symphony. The ventilators had to be closed, as they sent down biting smoke from the burning deck instead of fresh air. The nerves of the officers and crews were in a state of fearful tension; they had reached the point where nothing matters and where destruction is looked forward to as a deliverance.

Who was that beside the admiral who said something about the white flag, to him, the head of the squadron, to the man who had been intrusted with the honor of the Stars and Stripes? It was only a severely wounded petty-officer murmuring to himself in the wild delirium of fever. For God's sake, anything but that! The admiral turned around sharply and called into the tube leading to the stern turret: "Watch over the flag; it must not be struck!"

No one answered—dead iron, dead metal, not a human sound could be heard in that steel tomb. And now some of the electric lights suddenly went out. "I won't die here in this smoky steel box," said the admiral to himself; "I won't drown here like a mouse in a trap." There was nothing more to be done down here anyway, for most of the connections had been cut off, and so Admiral Perry turned over the command of the Connecticut to a young lieutenant with the words: "Keep them firing as long as you can." Then murmuring softly to himself, "It's of no use anyhow," he crept through a narrow bulkhead-opening to a stairway and groped his way up step by step. Suddenly he touched something soft and warm; it groaned loudly. Heavens! it was a sailor who had dragged his shattered limbs into this corner. "Poor fellow," said the admiral, and climbed up, solitary and alone, to the deck of his lost ship. The din of battle sounded louder and louder, and at last he reached the deck beneath the rear bridge. A badly wounded signalman was leaning against a bit of railing that had remained standing, staring at the admiral with vacant eyes. "Are the signal-halyards still clear?" asked Perry. "Yes," answered the man feebly.

"Then signal at once: Three cheers for the United States!" The little colored flags flew up to the yardarm like lightning, and it grew quiet on the Connecticut.

The last shell, the last cartridge was shoved into the breech, one more shot was aimed at the enemy from the heated barrels, and then all was still except for the crash of the hostile projectiles, the crackling of the flames and the howling of the wind. The other side, too, gradually ceased firing. With the Satsuma and the Aki in the van and the four other ships following, the enemy's squadron advanced, enveloped in a thin veil of smoke.

High up in the stern of the Connecticut and at her mastheads waved the tattered Stars and Stripes. The few gunners, who had served the guns to the end, crept out of the turrets and worked their way up over broken steps. There were fifty-seven of them, all that remained of the proud squadron. Three cheers for their country came from the parched throats of these last heroes of the Connecticut. "Three cheers for the United States!" Admiral Perry drew his sword, and "Hurrah" it rang once more across the water to the ships sailing under the flag which bore the device of a crimson Rising Sun on a white field. There memories of the old days of the Samurai knighthood were aroused, and a signal appeared on the rear top mast of the Satsuma, whereupon all six battleships lowered their flags as a last tribute to a brave enemy.

Then the Connecticut listed heavily to starboard, and the next wave could not raise the heavy ship, bleeding from a thousand wounds. It sank and sank, and while Admiral Perry held fast to a bit of railing and waited with moist eyes for the end, the words of the old "Star-Spangled Banner," which had been heard more than once in times of storm and peril, rang out from the deck of the Connecticut. Then, with her flag waving to the last, the admiral's flag-ship sank slowly beneath the waves, leaving a bloody glow behind her. That was the end.



Chapter XI

CAPTAIN WINSTANLEY

Captain Winstanley slowly opened his eyes and stared at the low ceiling of his cabin on the white oil-paint of which the sunbeams, entering through the porthole, were painting numerous circles and quivering reflections. Slowly he began to collect his thoughts. Could it have been a dream or the raving of delirium? He tried to raise himself on his narrow bed, but fell back as he felt a sharp pain. There was no mistake about the pain—that was certainly real. What on earth had happened? He asked himself this question again and again as he watched the thousands of circles and quivering lines drawn by the light on the ceiling.

Winstanley stared about him and suddenly started violently. Then it was all real, a terrible reality? Yes, for there sat his friend Longstreet of the Nebraska with his back against the wall of the cabin, in a dripping wet uniform, fast asleep.

"Longstreet!" he called.

His friend awoke and stared at him in astonishment.

"Longstreet, did it all really happen, or have I been dreaming?"

No answer.

"Longstreet," he began again more urgently, "tell me, is it all over, can it be true?"

Longstreet nodded, incapable of speech.

"Our poor, poor country," whispered Winstanley.

After a long pause Longstreet suddenly broke the silence by remarking: "The Nebraska went down at about six o'clock."

"And the Georgia a little earlier," said Winstanley; "but where are we? How did I get here?"

"The torpedo boat Farragut fished us up after the battle. We are on board the hospital ship Ontario with about five hundred other survivors."

"And what has become of the rest of our squadron?" asked Winstanley apprehensively. Longstreet only shrugged his shoulders.

Then they both dozed again and listened to the splashing and gurgling of the water against the ship's side and to the dull, regular thud of the engine which by degrees began to form words in Winstanley's fever-heated imagination—meaningless words which seemed to pierce his brain with painful sharpness: "Oh, won't you come across," rose and fell the oily melody, keeping time with the action of the piston-rods of the engine, "Oh, won't you come across," repeated the walls, and "Oh, won't you come across," clattered the water-bottle over in the wooden rack. Again and again Winstanley said the words to himself in an everlasting, dull repetition.

Longstreet looked at him compassionately, and murmured: "Another attack of fever." Then he got up, and bending over his comrade, looked out of the porthole.

Water everywhere; nothing but sparkling, glistening water, broad, blue, rolling waves to be seen as far as the eye could reach. Not a sign of a ship anywhere.

"Oh, won't you come across," repeated Longstreet, listlessly joining in the rhythm of the engines. Then he stretched himself and sank back on his chair in a somnolent state, thinking over the experiences of the night.

So this was all that was left of the Pacific Fleet—a hospital ship with a few hundred wounded officers and men, all that remained of Admiral Crane's fleet, which had been attacked with torpedo boats by Admiral Kamimura at three o'clock on the night of May eighth, after Togo had destroyed Perry's squadron.

It had been a horrible surprise. The enemy must have intercepted the signals between the squadron and the scouts, but as the Japanese had not employed their wireless telegraph at all, none of the American reconnoitering cruisers had had its suspicions aroused. Then the wireless apparatus had suddenly got out of order and all further intercommunication among the American ships was cut off, while a few minutes later came the first torpedo explosions, followed by fountains of foam, the dazzling light of the searchlights and sparks from the falling shells. The Americans could not reply to the hostile fire until much, much later, and then it was almost over. When the gray light of dawn spread over the surface of the water, it only lighted up a few drifting, sinking wrecks, the irrecognizable ruins of Admiral Crane's proud squadron, which were soon completely destroyed by the enemy's torpedoes.

Kamimura had already disappeared beyond the horizon with his ships, not being interested in his enemy's remains.

"Oh, won't you come across," groaned and wailed the engine quite loudly as a door to the engine-room was opened. Longstreet jumped up with a start, and then climbed wearily and heavily up the stairs. The entire deck had been turned into a hospital, and the few doctors were hurrying from one patient to another.

Longstreet went up to a lieutenant in a torn uniform who was leaning against the railing with his head between his hands, staring across the water. "Where are we going, Harry?" asked Longstreet.

"I don't know; somewhere or other; it doesn't matter much where."

Longstreet left him and climbed up to the bridge. Here he shook hands in silence with a few comrades and then asked the captain of the Ontario where they were going.

"If possible, to San Francisco," was the answer. "But I'm afraid the Japanese will be attacking the coast-batteries by this time, and besides that chap over there seems to have his eyes on us," he added, pointing to port.

Longstreet looked in the direction indicated and saw a gray cruiser with three high funnels making straight for the Ontario. At this moment a signalman delivered a wireless message to the captain: "The cruiser yonder wants to know our name and destination."

"Signal back: United States hospital ship Ontario making for San Francisco," said the captain. This signal was followed by the dull boom of a shot across the water; but the Ontario continued on her course.

Then a flash was seen from a forward gun of the cruiser and a shell splashed into the water about one hundred yards in front of the Ontario, bursting with a deafening noise.

The captain hesitated a second, then he ordered the engines to stop, turned over the command on the bridge to the first officer and went himself to the signaling apparatus to send the following message: "United States hospital ship Ontario with five hundred wounded on board relies on protection of ambulance-flag."

A quarter of an hour later, the Japanese armored cruiser Idzumo stopped close to the Ontario and lowered a cutter, which took several Japanese officers and two doctors over to the Ontario.

While a Japanese officer of high rank was received by the captain in his cabin in order to discuss the best method of providing for the wounded, Longstreet went down to Winstanley.

"Well, old man, how are you?" he asked.

"Pretty miserable, Longstreet; what's going to become of us?"

Longstreet hesitated, but Winstanley insisted: "Tell me, old chap, tell me the truth. Where are we bound to—what's going to become of us?"

"We're going to San Francisco," said Longstreet evasively.

"And the enemy?"

Longstreet remained silent again.

"But the enemy, Longstreet, where's the enemy? We mustn't fall into his hands!"

"Brace up, Winstanley," said Longstreet, "we're in the hands of the Japanese now."

Winstanley started up from his bed, but sank back exhausted by the terrible pain in his right arm which had been badly wounded.

"No, no, anything but that! I'd rather be thrown overboard than fall into the hands of the Japanese! It's all over, there's no use struggling any more!"

"Longstreet," he cried, with eyes burning with fever, "Longstreet, promise me that you'll throw me overboard rather than give me up to the Japanese!"

"No, Winstanley, no; think of our country, remember that it is in sore need of men, of men to restore the honor of the Stars and Stripes, of men to drive the enemy from the field and conquer them in the end."

At this moment the door opened and a Japanese lieutenant entered, carrying a small note-book in his hand.

At sight of him Winstanley shouted: "Longstreet, hand me a weapon of some sort; that fellow——"

The Jap saluted and said: "Gentlemen, I am sorry for the circumstances which compel me to ask you to give me your names and ships. Rest assured that a wounded enemy may safely rely on Japanese chivalry. If you will follow the example of all the other officers and give your word of honor not to escape, you will receive all possible care and attention in the hospital at San Francisco without any irksome guard. Will you be so good as to give me your names?"

"Lieutenant Longstreet of the Nebraska."

"Thank you."

"Captain Winstanley, commander of the Georgia," added Longstreet for Winstanley.

"Will you give me your word of honor?"

Longstreet gave his, but Winstanley shook his head and said: "You can do what you like with me; I refuse to give my word of honor."

The Jap shrugged his shoulders and disappeared.

"Longstreet, nursed in San Francisco, is that what the Jap said? Then San Francisco must be in their hands." At these words the wounded captain of the Georgia burst into bitter tears and sobs shook the body of the poor man, who in his ravings fancied himself back on board his ship giving orders for the big guns to fire at the enemy. Longstreet held his friend's hand and stared in silence at the white ceiling upon which the sunbeams painted myriads of quivering lines and circles.

At one o'clock the Ontario came in sight of the Golden Gate, where the white banner with its crimson sun was seen to be waving above all the fortifications.

* * * * *

While the Japanese were attacking San Francisco early on the morning of May seventh, their fleet was stationed off San Diego on the lookout for the two American maneuvering fleets. The intercepted orders from the Navy Department had informed the enemy that Admiral Perry, with his blue squadron of six battleships of the Connecticut class, intended to attack San Francisco and the other ports and naval-stations on the Pacific, and that the yellow fleet, under command of Admiral Crane, was to carry out the defense. The latter had drawn up his squadron in front of San Francisco on May second, and on May fifth Admiral Perry had left Magdalen Bay. From this time on every report sent by wireless was read by harmless looking Japanese trading-vessels sailing under the English flag.

The first thing to be done on the morning of the seventh was to render Magdalen Bay useless, in order to prevent all communication with distant ships. A trick put the station in the enemy's possession. Here, too, there were several Japanese shopkeepers who did good business with their stores along the Bay. Early on Sunday morning these busy yellow tradesmen were suddenly transformed into a company of troops who soon overpowered the weak garrison in charge of the signal-station. The Japanese cruiser Yakumo, approaching from the North, had been painted white like the American cruisers, and this is why she had been taken, as the reader will remember, for the armored cruiser New York, which was actually lying off San Francisco assigned to Admiral Crane's yellow fleet. The Yakumo was to prevent the two destroyers Hull and Hopkins from escaping from the Bay, and both boats were literally shot to pieces when they made the attempt. This action hopelessly isolated the maneuvering fleets.

By eight o'clock in the morning Togo's squadron, consisting of the flag-ships Satsuma, the Aki, Katou, Kashimi, Mikasa and Akahi, and forming the backbone of the Japanese battle-fleet, had succeeded in locating Admiral Perry's squadron, thanks to intercepted wireless dispatches. The Japanese refrained from using their wireless apparatus, so as to avoid attracting the attention of the American squadron. The unfinished message sent at nine o'clock from Magdalen Bay told Togo that the surprise there had been successful, and a little later the order to strengthen the American advance, sent in the same way, enabled him to ascertain the exact position of both the main group of cruisers and the scouts and lookout ships. Similarly it was learned that the latter were extremely weak, and accordingly Togo detached four armored cruisers, the huge new 25-knot Tokio and Osaka, and the Ibuki and Kurama, to destroy the American van, and this he succeeded in accomplishing after a short engagement which took place at the same time as the attack on Perry's armored ships.

The Denver and Chattanooga were soon put out of business by a few shells which entered their unprotected hulls, and the five destroyers, which were unable to use their torpedoes in such a heavy sea, were likewise soon done for.

Under cover of a torrent of rain, Togo came in sight of the American ships when the distance between the two squadrons was only 5,500 yards.

At the moment when Admiral Perry's ships emerged out of the rain, Admiral Togo opened the battle by sending the following signal from the Satsuma:

"To-day must avenge Kanagawa. As Commodore Perry then knocked with his sword at the gate of Nippon, so will we to-day burst open San Francisco's Golden Gate."[1]

The signal was greeted with enthusiasm and loud cries of "Banzai!" on board all the ships. Then the battle began, and by the time the sun had reached its zenith, Admiral Perry's squadron had disappeared in the waves of the Pacific. The first eleven minutes, before the Americans could bring their guns into action, had determined the outcome of the battle. The ultimate outcome of the battle had, of course, been accelerated by the fact that the first shells had created such fearful havoc in the fore-parts of three of the American ships, quantities of water pouring in which caused the ships to list and made it necessary to fill the compartments on the opposite side in order to restore the equilibrium.

Admiral Kamimura was less fortunate at first with the second squadron. He was led astray by the wrong interpretation of a wireless signal and did not sight Admiral Crane's fleet till towards evening, and then it was not advisable to begin the attack at once, lest the Americans should escape under cover of darkness. Kamimura, therefore, decided to wait until shortly after midnight, and then to commence operations with his eight destroyers and apply the finishing touches with his heavy guns.

Admiral Crane's squadron consisted of six battleships—the three new battleships Virginia, Nebraska and Georgia, the two older vessels Kearsage and Kentucky, and, lastly, the Iowa. Then there were the two armored cruisers St. Louis and Milwaukee, and the unprotected cruisers Tacoma and Des Moines, which, on account of their speed of 16.5 knots and their lack of any armor, were as useless as cruisers as were their sister ships in Admiral Perry's squadron. One single well-aimed shell would suffice to put them out of action.

It was a terrible surprise when the Japanese destroyers began the attack under cover of the night. Not until dawn did the Americans actually catch sight of their enemy, and that was when Kamimura left the field of battle, which was strewn with sinking American ships, with his six practically unharmed battleships headed in a southwesterly direction to join Togo's fleet, who had already been informed of the victory. The work of cleaning up was left to the destroyers, who sank the badly damaged American ships with their torpedoes. The hospital ship Ontario, attached to the yellow fleet, and a torpedo boat fished up the survivors of this short battle. Then the Ontario started for San Francisco, while the leaking Farragut remained behind.

The Americans had been able to distinguish, with a fair degree of certainty, that Kamimura's squadron consisted of the Shikishima, the battleships Iwami (ex Orel), the Sagami (ex Peresvjet), and Tumo (ex Pobjeda), all three old Russian ships, and of the two new armored cruisers Ikoma and Tsukuba. Then there were the two enormous battleships which were not included in the Japanese Navy List at all, and the two huge cruisers Yokohama and Shimonoseki which, according to Japanese reports, were still building, while in reality they had been finished and added to the fleet long ago.

The circumstances connected with these two battleships were rather peculiar. The report was spread in 1906 that China was going to build a new fleet and that she had ordered two big battleships from the docks at Yokosuka. This rumor was contradicted both at Pekin and at Tokio. The Americans and everybody in Europe wondered who was going to pay for the ships. The trouble is, we ask altogether too many questions, instead of investigating for ourselves. As a matter of fact, the ships were laid down in 1908, though everybody outside the walls of the Japanese shipyard was made to believe that only gunboats were being built. We have probably forgotten how, at the time, a German newspaper called our attention to the fact that not only these two battleships—of the English Dreadnought type—but also the two armored cruisers building at Kure ostensibly for China, would probably never sail under the yellow dragon banner, but in case of war, would either be added directly to Japan's fleet or be bought back from China.

And so it turned out. Just before the outbreak of the war, the Sun Banner was hoisted quietly on the two battleships and they were given the names of Nippon and Hokkaido, respectively; but they were omitted from the official Japanese Navy List and left out of our calculations. How Pekin and Tokio came to terms with regard to these two ships remains one of the many secrets of east Asiatic politics. The generally accepted political belief that China was not financially strong enough to build a new fleet and that Japan, supposedly on the very verge of bankruptcy, could not possibly carry out her postbellum programme, was found to have rested on empty phrases employed by the press on both sides of the ocean merely for the sake of running a story. There has never yet been a time in the history of the world when war was prevented by a lack of funds. How could Prussia, absolutely devoid of resources, have carried on the war it did against Napoleon a hundred years ago, unless this were so?

In the redistribution of our war vessels in the Atlantic and the Pacific after the return of the fleet from its journey round the world, the Navy Department had calculated as follows: Japan had fifteen battleships, six large new ones and nine older ones; in addition she had six large new and eight older armored cruisers. We have one armored cruiser and three cruisers in Manila, and these can take care of at least five Japanese armored cruisers. Japan therefore has fifteen battleships and nine armored cruisers left for making an attack. Now if we keep two squadrons, each consisting of six battleships—the Texas among them—off the Pacific coast and add to these the coast-batteries, the mines and the submarines, we shall possess a naval force which the enemy will never dare attack.

Japan, on the other hand, figured as follows: We have two squadrons, each consisting of six battleships, among which there are six that are superior to any American fighting ship; these with the nine armored cruisers and the advantage of a complete surprise, give us such a handicap that we have nothing to fear. As a reserve, lying off San Francisco, are the ironclads Hizen (ex Retvisan), Tango (ex Poltawa), Iki (ex Nicolai), and the armored cruisers Azuma, Idzumo, Asama, Tokiwa, and Yakumo. Besides these there are the two mortar-boat divisions and the cruisers sent to Seattle, while the armored cruiser Iwate and two destroyers were sent to Magdalen Bay. All that remained in home waters were the fourth squadron, consisting of former Russian ships, and the cruisers which would soon be relieved at the Philippines.

The enemy had figured correctly and we had not. The two battles of the seventh and eighth of May were decided in the first ten minutes, before we had fired a single shot. And would the Japanese calculation have been correct also if Perry had beaten Togo or Crane Kamimura? Most decidedly so, for not a single naval harbor or coaling-station, or repairing-dock on the Pacific coast would have been ready to receive Perry or Crane with their badly damaged squadrons. On the other hand, the remnants of our fleet would have had all the Japanese battleships, all the armored cruisers and a large collection of torpedo-boats continually on their heels, and would thus have been forced to another battle in which, being entirely without a base of operations, they would without a doubt have suffered a complete defeat.

Our mines in the various arsenals and our three submarines at the Mare Island Wharf in San Francisco fell into the enemy's hands like ripe plums. It was quite superfluous for the Japanese to take their steamer for transporting submarines, which had been built for them in England, to San Francisco.

Nothing remained to us but the glory that not one of our ships had surrendered to the enemy—all had sunk with their flags flying. After all, it was one thing to fight against the demoralized fleet of the Czar and quite another to fight against the Stars and Stripes. Our blue-jackets had saved the honor of the white race in the eyes of the yellow race on the waves of the Pacific, even if they had thus far shown them only how brave American sailors die. But the loss of more than half our officers and trained men was even a more severe blow than the sinking of our ships. These could not be replaced at a moment's notice, but months and months of hard work would be required and new squadrons must be found. But from where were they to come?

Only a single vessel of the Pacific fleet escaped from the battle and the pursuing Japanese cruisers: this was the torpedo-destroyer Barry, commanded by Lieutenant-Commander Dayton, who had been in command of the torpedo flotilla attached to Admiral Perry's squadron. He had attempted twice, advancing boldly into the teeth of the gale, to launch a torpedo in the direction of the Satsuma, but the sea was too rough and each time took the torpedo out of its course.

The badly damaged destroyer entered the harbor of Buenaventura on the coast of Colombia on May eleventh, followed closely by the Japanese steamer Iwate, which had been lying off the coast of Panama. Grinding his teeth with rage, Dayton had to look on while a Colombian officer in ragged uniform, plentifully supplied with gilt, who was in the habit of commanding his tiny antediluvian gunboat from the door of a harbor saloon, came on board the Barry and ordered the breeches of the guns and the engine-valves to be removed, at the same time depriving the crew of their arms. The Japanese waiting outside the harbor had categorically demanded this action of the government in Bogota. This humiliating degradation before all the harbor loafers and criminals, before the crowds of exulting Chinese and Japanese coolies, who were only too delighted to see the white man compelled to submit to a handful of marines the entire batch of whom were not worth one American sailor, was far harder to bear than all the days of battle put together. And even now, when Admiral Dayton's fame reaches beyond the seas and the name of James Dayton is in every sailor's mouth as the savior of his people, yes, even now, he will tell you how at the moment when, outside the Straits of Magellan, he crushed the Japanese cruisers with his cruiser-squadron, thereby once again restoring the Star Spangled Banner to its place of honor, the vision of that grinning row of faces exulting in the degradation of a severely damaged American torpedo-boat appeared before him. It is only such men as he, men who experienced the horrors of our downfall to the bitter end, who could lead us to victory—such men as Dayton and Winstanley.

[Footnote 1: Perry, the American commodore, with a fleet of only eight ships, forced Japan to sign the agreement of Kanagawa, opening the chief harbors in Japan to American trading-vessels, in the year 1854.]



Chapter XII

ARE YOU WINSTANLEY?

The bow of the English freighter Port Elizabeth was plowing its way through the broad waves of the Pacific on the evening of the fourteenth of September. The captain and the first mate were keeping a sharp lookout on the bridge, for they were approaching San Francisco. The steamer had taken a cargo of machinery and rails on board at Esquimault for San Francisco, as was duly set forth in the ship's papers. In Esquimault, too, the second mate enlisted, though the captain was not particularly eager to take a man who carried his arm in a sling. Since, however, he could find no one else to take the place of the former second mate, who had gone astray in the harbor saloons of Victoria, the captain engaged the volunteer, who called himself Henry Wilson, and thus far he had had no cause to regret his choice, as Wilson turned out to be a quiet, sober man, thoroughly familiar with the waters along the Pacific coast.

Wilson was in the chart-room, carefully examining the entrance to San Francisco; suddenly he turned and called through the open door to the captain on the bridge: "Captain, we are now eight miles from the Golden Gate; it's a wonder the Japs haven't discovered us yet."

"I should think they would station their cruisers as far out as this," answered the captain.

"After all, why should they?" asked Wilson, "there's nothing more to be done here, and the allies of our illustrious government can scarcely be asked to show much interest in an English steamer with a harmless cargo."

Wilson joined the captain and the first mate on the bridge, and all three leaned against the railing and tried through their glasses to discover the fires of the Golden Gate through the darkness; but not a gleam of light was to be seen.

"I don't believe we'll be allowed to enter the harbor at night," began the first mate again, "more especially as our instructions are to reach the Golden Gate at noon."

"Yes, but if the engines won't work properly, how the devil can they expect us to be punctual!" grumbled the captain.

"Look," cried Wilson, pointing to the blinding flash of a searchlight in front of them, "they've got us at last!" A few minutes later the brilliant bluish white beam of a searchlight was fixed on the Port Elizabeth.

"We'll keep right on our course," said the captain rather hurriedly to the man at the helm, "they'll soon let us know what they want. Wilson, you might get the ship's papers ready, we'll have visitors in a minute."

Scarcely had Wilson reached the captain's cabin when a bell rang sharply in the engine-room, and soon after this the engines began to slow down. When he returned to the bridge, the masts and low funnels of a ship and a thick trailing cloud of smoke could be seen crossing the reflection of the searchlight a few hundred yards away from the Port Elizabeth. Then a long black torpedo-boat with four low funnels emerged from the darkness, turned, and took the same course as the freighter. A boat was lowered and four sailors, a pilot and an officer stepped on board the Port Elizabeth.

The captain welcomed the Japanese lieutenant at the gangway and spoke a few words to him in a low tone, whereupon they both went into the captain's cabin. The Jap must have been satisfied by his examination of the ship's papers, for he returned to the bridge conversing with the captain in a most friendly and animated manner.

"This is my first mate, Hornberg," said the captain.

"An Englishman?" asked the Japanese.

"No, a German."

"A German?" repeated the Jap slowly. "The Germans are friends of Japan, are they not?" he asked, smiling pleasantly at the first mate, who, however, did not appear to have heard the question and turned away to go to the engine-room telephone.

"And this is my second mate, Wilson."

"An Englishman?" asked the Jap again.

"Yes, an Englishman," answered Wilson himself.

The Japanese officer looked at him keenly and said: "I seem to know you."

"It is not impossible," said Wilson, "I have been navigating Japanese waters for several years."

"Indeed?" asked the lieutenant, "may I inquire on which line?"

"On several lines; I know Shanghai, I have been from Hongkong to Yokohama in tramp steamers, and once during the Russian war I got to Nagasaki—also with a cargo of machinery," he added after a pause. "That was a dangerous voyage, for the Russians had just sailed from Vladivostock."

"With a cargo of machinery," repeated the Japanese officer, adding, "and you are familiar with these waters also?"

"Fairly so," said Wilson.

"Have you any relatives in the American Navy?" asked the Jap sharply.

"Not that I know of," answered Wilson, "my family is a large one, and as an Englishman I have relatives in all parts of the world, but none in the American Navy, so far as I know."

"Mr. Wilson, you will please take charge of the ship under the direction of the pilot brought along by the lieutenant. Mr. Hornberg's watch is up," said the captain, and went off with the Jap to his cabin.

Five minutes later the captain sent for the first mate, who returned to the bridge almost directly, saying: "Mr. Wilson, I am to take your place at the helm. The captain would like to see you."

"Certainly," answered Wilson curtly. The captain and the Jap were sitting together in the cabin over a glass of whisky. "The lieutenant," said the captain, "wants to know something about Esquimault; you know the harbor there, don't you?"

"Very slightly," answered Wilson, "I was only there three days."

"Were there any Japanese ships at Esquimault when you were there?"

"Yes, there was a Japanese cruiser in dock."

"What was her name?"

Wilson shrugged his shoulders and answered: "I couldn't say, I don't know the names of the Japanese ships."

"Won't you sit down and join us in a glass of whisky?" said the captain.

"What did you do to your arm?" asked the Japanese.

"I was thrown against the railing in a storm and broke it on the way from Shanghai to Victoria."

A long pause ensued which was at last broken by the Jap, who inquired: "Do you know Lieutenant Longstreet of the American Navy?"

"I know no one of that name in the American Navy."

The Jap scrutinized Wilson's face, but the latter remained perfectly unconcerned.

"You told the captain that you've been in San Francisco often," began the Jap again; "on what line were you?"

"On no line, I was at San Francisco for pleasure."

"When?"

"The last time was two years ago."

"May I see your papers?"

"Certainly," said Wilson, getting up to fetch them from his cabin.

The Japanese studied them closely.

"Curious," he said at last, "I could have sworn that I've seen you before."

Then he glanced again at one of the certificates and looking up at Wilson suddenly, over the edge of the paper, asked sharply: "Why have you two names?"

"I have only one," returned Wilson.

"Winstanley and Wilson," said the Jap with a decided emphasis on both names.

"I'm very sorry," said Wilson, "but I don't know anyone of the name of Winstanley, or whatever you called it. The name cannot very well be in my papers."

"Then I must be mistaken," said the Jap peevishly.

Wilson left the captain's cabin and went up to the bridge, where he drew a deep breath of relief.

The pilot gave directions for the ship's course, and the torpedo-boat steamed along on her port side like a shadow.

"I wonder why we have a wireless apparatus on board?" asked Hornberg.

"It never occurred to me until you mentioned it. I imagine it's merely an experiment of the owners," answered Wilson. Then they both lapsed into silence and only attended to the pilot's directions for the ship's course.

Wilson presently looked at his watch and remarked: "We must be about two miles from the Golden Gate by this time."

"It's possible," said Hornberg, "but as all the ships use shaded lights, it's a difficult thing to determine."

"Can we enter the harbor by night?" he asked of the Japanese pilot.

"Yes, sir, whenever you like, under our pilotage you can enter the harbor by day or night."

"How's that?"

"You'll see directly."

At this moment the torpedo-boat's siren bellowed sharply three times, and immediately the red lights at the masthead and the side of a steamer about half a mile off became visible, and the bright flash of her searchlight was thrown on the Port Elizabeth. The pilot sent a short signal across, which was immediately answered by the Japanese guardship.

"Now you'll see the channel," said the pilot to Wilson, "it's really an American invention, but we were the first to put it to practical use. We can't possibly lose our way now."

"Yes, captain, you'll see something wonderful now," said the lieutenant, as he came on the bridge with the captain. "You'll open your eyes when you see us steering through the mines."

Suddenly a bright circle of light appeared on the surface of the water, which was reflected from some source of light about ten yards below the surface. "It's an anchored light-buoy," explained the lieutenant, "which forms the end of the electric light cable, and there to the right is another one. All we have to do now is to keep a straight course between the two rows of lantern-buoys which are connected with the cable, and in that way we'll be able to steer with perfect safety between the mines into the harbor of San Francisco." And indeed, about a hundred yards ahead a second shining circle of light appeared on the water, and further on a whole chain of round disks was seen to make a turn to the left and then disappear in the distance. The same kind of a line appeared on the right. Half an hour later three bright red reflections, looking like transparent floating balls of light filled with ruby-red, bubbling billows, marked a spot where the helm had to be turned to port in order to bring the ship through a gap in the line of mines. Thus the Port Elizabeth reached San Francisco early in the morning. She did not make fast at the quay, but at the arsenal on Mare Island, her crew then being given shore leave. When the last man had gone, the Port Elizabeth, unloaded her cargo of machinery and rails which, in the hands of the Chinese coolies, was transformed into gun-barrels, ammunition and shells in the most marvelous manner. "Le pavilion couvre la marchandise, especially under the Union Jack," said Hornberg sarcastically, as he watched this metamorphosis, but the captain only looked at him angrily.

That was the second time during the war that Captain Winstanley of the United States Navy, and late commander of the battleship Georgia, saw San Francisco, whence he had escaped by night from the naval hospital two months before. The Japanese lieutenant was the same who had received the word of honor of the officers on board the hospital ship Ontario on May eighth, and to whom Winstanley had refused to give his. Two months after his voyage as second mate on board the Port Elizabeth, which enabled him to gather information concerning the Japanese measures for the defense of San Francisco, Winstanley stood on the bridge of the battleship Delaware as commander of the second Atlantic squadron. And four months later the name of the victor in the naval battle off the Galapagos Islands went the rounds of the world!



Chapter XIII

THE REVENGE FOR PORTSMOUTH

The more one examined the complicated machinery of the Japanese plan of attack, the more one was forced to admire the cleverness and the energy of the Mongolians in preparing for the war, and the more distinctly these were recognized, the clearer became the wide gulf between the Mongolian's and the white man's point of view concerning all these matters.

We might have learned a lesson in 1904, if we had not so carelessly and thoughtlessly looked upon the Russo-Japanese war as a mere episode, instead of regarding it as a war whose roots were firmly embedded in the inner life of a nation that had suddenly come to the surface of a rapid political development. The interference of the European powers in the Peace of Shimonoseki in 1895 robbed Japan of nearly all the fruits of her victory over China. Japan had been forced to vacate the conquered province of Liaotung on the mainland because she was unable to prevail against three European powers, who were for once agreed in maintaining that all Chinese booty belonged to Europe, for they regarded China as a bankrupt estate to be divided among her creditors. When, therefore, after the second Peace of Shimonoseki, Japan was compelled to relinquish all her possessions on the mainland and to console herself for her shattered hopes with a few million taels, every Japanese knew that the lost booty would at some time or other be demanded from Russia at the point of the sword. With the millions paid by China as war indemnity, Japan procured a new military armament, built an armored fleet and slowly but surely taught the nation to prepare for the hour of revenge. Remember Shimonoseki! That was the secret shibboleth, the free-mason's sign, which for nine long years kept the thoughts of the Japanese people continually centered on one object.

"One country, one people, one God!" were words once emphatically pronounced by Kaiser Wilhelm. But with the Japanese such high-sounding words as these are quite unnecessary. In the heart of all, from the Tenno to the lowest rickshaw coolie, there exists a jealous national consciousness, as natural as the beating of the heart itself, which unites the forces of religion, of the political idea and of intellectual culture into one indivisible element, differing in the individual only in intensity and in form of expression. When a citizen of Japan leaves his native land, he nevertheless remains a Japanese from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, and can no more mix with members of another nation than a drop of oil can mix with water: a drop of oil poured on water will remain on its surface as an alien element, and so does a Japanese among another people. While the streams of emigrants passing over the boundaries of Europe into other countries soon adapt themselves to new conditions and eventually adopt not only the outward but also the inward symbols of their environment, until finally they think and feel like those round about them, the Japanese remains a Jap for all time. The former sometimes retain a sentimental memory of their former home, but the Mongolian is never sentimental or romantic. He is sober and sensible, with very little imagination, and his whole energy, all his thoughts and endeavors are directed towards the upholding of the national, intellectual and religious unity of Japan. His country is his conscience, his faith, his deity.

Ordinary nations require hundreds and even thousands of years to inspire their people with a national consciousness, but this was not necessary in Japan, for there patriotism is inborn in the people, among whom an act of treason against the fatherland would be impossible because it is looked upon as spiritual suicide. The inner solidarity of the national character, the positive assurance of the fulfillment of all national duties, and the absolute silence of the people towards strangers—these are the weapons with which Japan enters the arena, clothed in a rattling ready-made steel armor, the like of which her opponents have yet to manufacture. The discretion shown by the Japanese press in all questions relating to foreign policy is regarded as the fulfillment of a patriotic duty just as much as the joyous self-sacrifice of the soldier on the field of battle.

From the moment that Marquis Ito had returned from Portsmouth (in 1905) empty-handed and the Japanese had been sorely disappointed in their hopes through President Roosevelt's instrumentality in bringing about peace, every Japanese knew whose turn would come next. The Japanese people were at first exceedingly angry at the way in which they had been deprived of their expected indemnity, but the government only allowed them to let off steam enough to prevent the boilers from bursting. Here and there, where it could do no harm, they let the excited mob have its way, but very soon both government and press began their new work of turning the people's patriotic passions away from the past to prepare for the future control of the Pacific. When in return for the prohibition of Chinese immigration to the United States, China boycotted our goods, and the ensuing panic in Wall Street forced the government in Washington to grant large concessions, Japan did not attempt to make use of this sharp weapon, for one of their most extensive industries, namely the silk industry, depended upon the export to the United States. Japan continued to place orders in America and treated the American importers with special politeness, even when she saw that the beginning of the boycott gave the gentlemen in Washington a terrible scare, prompting them to collect funds to relieve the famine in China and even renouncing all claim to the war indemnity of 1901 to smooth matters over. But Japan apparently took no notice of all this and continued to be deferential and polite, even when the growing heaps of unsold goods in the warehouses at Shanghai made the Americans ready to sacrifice some of their national pride. Since Japan wished to take the enemy by surprise, she had to be very careful not to arouse suspicions beforehand.

"Never speak of it, but think of it always," was the watchword given out by the little Jewish lawyer in the president's chair of France, when the longing for revenge filled the soul of every Frenchman during the slow retreat of the German army after its victorious campaign; "never speak of it, but think of it always," that was the watchword of the Japanese people also, although never expressed in words. It was nine years before the bill of exchange issued at Shimonoseki was presented on that February night in the roads of Port Arthur; for nine years the Japanese had kept silence and thought about it, had drilled and armed their soldiers, built ships and instructed their crews. The world had seen all this going on, but had no idea of the real reason for these warlike preparations on a tremendous scale. It was not Japan who had deceived the world, for everything went on quite openly, it being impossible to hide an army of over a million men under a bushel basket; but the world had deceived itself. When ships are built and cannon cast in other parts of the world, everyone knows for whom they are intended, and should anyone be ignorant, he will soon be enlightened by the after-dinner speeches of diplomats or indiscreet newspaper articles. The military and naval plans of the old world are common property, and this political indiscretion is characteristic of America as well as of Europe. In striking contrast thereto are the cool calculation, the silent observation and the perfect harmony of the peoples of Asia and Africa, all of whom, without exception, are inspired by a deep and undying hatred of the white race.

You may live for years among disciples of Mohammed, know all in your environment, penetrate into their thoughts and feelings, and still be utterly incapable of judging when the little spark that occasionally glows in their eyes in moments of great enthusiasm, will suddenly develop into an immense flame, when a force will make its appearance of the existence of which you have never dreamed, and which will, without a sign of warning, devastate and destroy all around it. But when this does happen and the corpses of the slain encumber the streets, when the quiet, peaceful, apparently indolent Moslem who for years has worked faithfully for you, is transformed in a few hours into a fanatical hero, whom thousands follow like so many sheep, then, at the sight of the burning ruins you will be forced to admit that the white man will forever be excluded from the thoughts and the national sentiment of the followers of Islam.

You walk across a sandy plain in the heat of the midday sun and you return the same way the next morning after a rainy night—what has happened? The ground which yesterday looked so parched and barren is now covered with millions of tiny blades. Where has this sudden life come from? It was there all the time. There is always latent life beneath the surface, but it is invisible. And as soon as a fertilizing rain comes, it springs up, and everyone perceives what has been slumbering beneath the crust.

In the dense jungles from which the sacred Nile receives its waters, there stands a tent and before it a saddled horse. From the tent steps forth a man with large glowing eyes, dressed all in white, who is greeted by his followers with fanatical cries of Allah, Allah! He mounts his steed, the camels rise, and the long caravan swings slowly out of sight and disappears in the bush. Once more dead silence reigns in the African jungle. Whither are they going? You don't know; you see only a rider dressed in a white burnoose, only a few dozen men hailing a prophet, but in the very same moment in which you see only a sheik riding off, millions know that the Caliph, the Blessed of Allah, has started on his journey through the lands whose inhabitants he intends to lead either to victory or to destruction. In the same moment millions of hearts from Mogador to Cape Guardafui, from Tripoli to the burning salt deserts of Kalahari, rejoice in the thought that the hour of deliverance has come for the peoples of Islam. A victorious feeling of buoyant hope arises in the hearts of the Faithful simply because a plain Arabian sheik has started on the road pointed out by Allah. How they happen to know it and all at the same time, will forever remain a mystery to the white man, as much of a mystery as the secret inner life of the yellow races of Asia.

"Never speak of it, but think of it always," had been the watchword, and everything that had transpired, even the apparently inconsistent and senseless things, had been ruled by it. The world could not be deceived about the things that were plainly visible; all the Japanese had to do was to make sure that the world would deceive itself as it had done during the preparations for Port Arthur. A perfectly equipped army could be seen by all on the fields of Nippon, Hokkaido and Kiushiu, and the fleet was surely not hidden from view. It was the world's own fault that it could not interpret what it saw, that it imagined the little yellow monkey would never dare attack the clumsy polar-bear. Because the diplomatic quill-drivers would only see what fitted into their schemes, because they were capable only of moving in a circle about their own ideas, they could not understand the thoughts of others, and the few warning voices died away unheeded. It was not Japan's fault that the roads at Port Arthur roused the world out of its slumber. What business had the world to be asleep?

"Never speak of it, but think of it always"—the adversary must be put to sleep again, he must be lulled into security and his thoughts directed towards the points where there was nothing to be seen, where no preparations were in progress. He must be kept in the dark about the true nature of the preparations, and on the other hand put on as many false scents as possible, so that he might not get the faintest idea of the real plan.

This is the reason why all those things were done, why the quarrel over the admission of Japanese children to the public schools of San Francisco was cooked up, why so much national anger was exhibited, why the Japanese press took up the quarrel like a hungry dog pouncing upon a bone, why so much noise was made about it at public meetings that one would have thought the fate of Japan hung on the result. And then, as soon as Washington began to back down, the dogs were whipped back to their kennels and the "national anger" died out as soon as Japan had "saved her face." The Americans were allowed to doze off again, fully persuaded that the school question was settled once and for all and that there was nothing further to fear in that direction. Then, too, Japan apparently yielded in the vexed question of Japanese immigration to the United States, but instead of sending the immigrants to San Francisco and Seattle, as she had done hitherto, they were simply dispatched across the Mexican frontier, where it was impossible to exercise control over such things, for no one could be expected to patrol the sandy deserts of Arizona and New Mexico merely to watch whether a few Japs slipped across the border now and then. It was therefore impossible to keep track of the number of Japanese who entered the country in this way, more especially as the official emigration figures issued at Tokio were purposely inaccurate, so as to confuse the statistics still more.

"Never speak of it, but think of it always!" That is why a Japanese photographer was sent to San Diego to photograph the walls of Fort Rosecrans. He was to get himself arrested. But of course we had to let the fellow go when he proved that better and more accurate photos than he had taken could be purchased in almost any store in San Diego. The object of this game was the same as that practiced in Manila, where we were induced to arrest a spy who was ostentatiously taking photographs. Both of these little maneuvers were intended to persuade us that Japan was densely ignorant with regard to these forts which as a matter of fact would play no role at all in her plan of attack; America was to be led to believe that Japan's system of espionage was in its infancy, while in reality the government at Tokio was in possession of the exact diagram of every fort, was thoroughly familiar with every beam of our warships—thanks to the Japanese stewards who had been employed by the Navy Department up to a few years ago—knew the peculiarities of every one of our commanders and their hobbies in maneuvers, and finally was informed down to the smallest detail of our plans of mobilization, and of the location of our war headquarters and of our armories and ammunition depots.

For the same reason the Japanese press, and the English press in Eastern Asia which was inspired by Japan, continually drew attention to the Philippines, as though that archipelago were to be the first point of attack. For this reason, too, the English-Chinese press published at the beginning of the year the well-known plans for Japan's offensive naval attack and the transport of two of her army corps to the Philippines. And the ruse proved successful. Just as Russia had been taken completely by surprise because she would persist in her theory that Japan would begin by marching upon Manchuria, so now the idea that Japan would first try to capture the Philippines and Hawaii had become an American and an international dogma. The world had allowed itself to be deceived a second time, and, convinced that the first blow would be struck at Manila and Hawaii, they spent their time in figuring out how soon the American fleet would be able to arrive on the scene of action in order to save the situation in the Far East.

"Never speak of it, but think of it always!" While Japan was disseminating these false notions as to the probable course of a war, the actual preparations for it were being conducted in an entirely different place, and the adversary was induced to concentrate his strength at a point where there was no intention of making an attack. The Japanese were overjoyed to observe the strengthening of the Philippine garrison when the insurrection inspired by Japanese agents broke out at Mindanao as well as the concentration of the cruiser squadron off that island, for Manila, the naval base, was thus left unprotected. With the same malignant joy they noticed how the United States stationed half of its fleet off the Pacific coast and, relying on her mobile means of defense, provided insufficient garrisons for the coast-defenses, on the supposition that there would be plenty of time to put the garrisons on a war-footing after the outbreak of hostilities.

Japan's next move came in March and April, when she quietly withdrew all the regular troops from the Manchurian garrisons and replaced them with reserve regiments fully able to repulse for a time any attack on the part of Russia. The meaning of this move was not revealed until weeks later, when it became known that the transport ships from Dalny and Gensan, which were supposed to have returned to Japan, were really on their way to San Francisco and Seattle with the second detachment of the invading army.

After the destruction of the Philippine squadron, the Japanese reduced their blockade of the Bay of Manila to a few old cruisers and armed merchant-steamers, at the same time isolating the American garrisons in the archipelago, whose fate was soon decided. The blockading ships could not of course venture near the heavy guns of the Corregidor batteries, but that was not their task. They had merely to see that Manila had no intercourse with the outside world, and this they did most efficiently. The Japanese ships had at first feared an attack by the two little submarines Shark and Porpoise stationed at Cavite; they learned from their spies on land, however, that the government shipyards at Cavite had tried in vain to render the little boats seaworthy: they returned from each diving-trial with defective gasoline-engines. And when, weeks later, they at last reached Corregidor, the four Japanese submarines quickly put an end to them. The strongly fortified city of Manila had thus become a naval base without a fleet and was accordingly overpowered from the land side.

As the far too weak garrison of scarcely more than ten thousand men was insufficient to defend the extensive line of forts and barricades, the unfinished works at Olongapo on Subig Bay were blown up with dynamite and vacated, then the railways were abandoned, and finally only Manila and Cavite were retained. But the repeated attacks of the natives under the leadership of Japanese officers soon depleted the little garrison, which was entirely cut off from outside assistance and dependent absolutely on the supplies left in Manila itself. The only article of which they had more than enough was coal; but you can't bake bread with coal, and so finally, on August twenty-fourth, Manila capitulated. Twenty-eight hundred starving soldiers surrendered their arms while the balance lay either in the hospitals or on the field of battle. Thus the Philippines became a Japanese possession with the loss of a single man, Lieutenant Shirawa. All the rest had been accomplished by the Filipinos and by the climate that was so conducive to the propagation of mosquitoes and scorpions.

Hawaii's fate had been decided even more quickly than that of the Philippines. The sixty thousand Japanese inhabitants of the archipelago were more than enough to put an end to American rule. The half-finished works at Pearl Harbor fell at the first assault, while the three destroyers and the little gunboat were surprised by the enemy. Guam, and Pago-Pago on Tutuila, were also captured, quite incidentally. About the middle of May, a Japanese transport fleet returning from San Francisco appeared at Honolulu and took forty thousand inhabitants to Seattle, where they formed the reserve corps of the Northern Japanese Army.

* * * * *

Japan's rising imperialism, the feeling that the sovereignty of the Pacific rightly belonged to the leading power in yellow Asia had, long before the storms of war swept across the plains of Manchuria, come into conflict with the imperialistic policy of the United States, although invisibly at first. Prior to that time the Asiatic races had looked upon the dominion of the white man as a kind of fate, as an irrevocable universal law, but the fall of Port Arthur had shattered this idol once and for all. And after the days of Mukden and Tsushima had destroyed the belief in the invincibility of the European arms, the Japanese agents found fertile soil everywhere for their seeds of secret political agitation. In India, in Siam, and in China also, the people began to prick their ears when it was quite openly declared that after the destruction of the czar's fleet the Pacific and the lands bordering on it could belong only to the Mongolians. The discovery was made that the white man was not invincible. And beside England, only the United States remained to be considered—the United States who were still hard at work on their Philippine inheritance and could not make up their mind to establish their loudly heralded imperialistic policy on a firm footing by providing the necessary armaments.

Then came the Peace of Portsmouth. Absolutely convinced that his country would have to bear the brunt of the next Asiatic thunder-storm, Theodore Roosevelt gained one of the most momentous victories in the history of the world when he removed the payment of a war indemnity from the conditions of peace. And he did this not because he had any particular love for the Russians, but because he wished to prevent the strengthening of Japan's financial position until after the completion of the Panama Canal. America did exactly what Germany, Russia and France had done at the Peace of Shimonoseki, and we had to be prepared for similar results. But how long did it take the American people, who had helped to celebrate the victories of Oyama, Nogi and Togo, to recognize that a day of vengeance for Portsmouth was bound to come. In those days we regarded the Manchurian campaign merely as a spectacle and applauded the victors. We had no idea that it was only the prelude of the great drama of the struggle for the sovereignty of the Pacific. We wanted imperialism, but took no steps to establish it on a firm basis, and it is foolish to dream of imperial dominion when one is afraid to lay the sword in the scales. We might bluff the enemy for the time being by sending our fleet to the Pacific; but we could not keep him deceived long as to the weakness of our equipment on land and at sea, especially on land.

The wholesale immigration of Mongolians to our Pacific States and to the western shores of South America was clearly understood across the sea. But we looked quietly on while the Japanese overran Chili, Peru and Bolivia, all the harbors on the western coast of South America; and while the yellow man penetrated there unhindered and the decisive events of the future were in process of preparation, we continued to look anxiously eastward from the platform of the Monroe Doctrine and to keep a sharp lookout on the modest remnants of the European colonial dominion in the Caribbean Sea, as if danger could threaten us from that corner. We seemed to think that the Monroe Doctrine had an eastern exposure only, and when we were occasionally reminded that it embraced the entire continent, we allowed our thoughts to be distracted by the London press with its talk of the "German danger" in South America, just as though any European state would think for a moment of seizing three Brazilian provinces overnight, as it were.

We have always tumbled through history as though we were deaf and dumb, regarding those who warned us in time against the Japanese danger as backward people whose intellects were too weak to grasp the victorious march of Japanese culture. Any one who would not acknowledge the undeniable advance of Japan to be the greatest event of the present generation was stamped by us an enemy of civilization. We recognized only two categories of people—Japanophobes and Japanophiles. It never entered our heads that we might recognize the weighty significance of Japan's sudden development into a great political power, but at the same time warn our people most urgently against regarding this development merely as a phase of feuilletonistic culture. Right here lies the basis for all our political mistakes of the last few years. The revenge for Portsmouth came as such a terrible surprise, because, misled by common opinion, we believed the enemy to be breaking down under the weight of his armor and therefore incapable of conducting a new war and, in this way undervaluing our adversary, we neglected all necessary preparations. No diplomatic conflict, not the slightest disturbance of our relations with Japan prepared the way for the great surprise. The world was the richer by one experience—that a war need have no prelude on the diplomatic stage provided enough circumstances have led up to it.



Chapter XIV

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WHIRLPOOL

On the rear deck of a ferry-boat bound for Hoboken on the morning of May 12th stood Randolph Taney, with his hands in his pockets, gazing intently at the foaming waters of the Hudson plowed up by the screw. It was all over: he had speculated in Wall Street, putting his money on Harriman, and had lost every cent he had. What Harriman could safely do with a million, Randolph Taney could not do with a quarter of a million. That's why he had lost. Fortunately only his own money. The whole bundle of papers wasn't worth any more than the copy of the Times tossed about in the swirling water in the wake of the boat.

Randolph Taney kept on thinking. Just why he was going to Hoboken he really didn't know, but it made little difference what he did.

"Halloo, Taney," called out an acquaintance, "where are you going?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? How's that?"

"I'm done for."

"You're not the only one; Wall Street is a dangerous vortex."

"But I'm absolutely cleaned out."

"How so?"

"Do you know what I'm going to do, James Harrison?" asked Taney, with bitter irony in his voice. "I'll apprentice myself to a paperhanger, and learn to paper my rooms with my worthless railway shares. I imagine I can still learn that much."

"Ah, that's the way the wind blows!" cried the other, whistling softly.

"What did you think?"

"It was pretty bad, I suppose?"

"Bad? It was hell——"

"Were you in Wall Street on Monday?"

"Yes, and on Tuesday, too."

"And now you want to learn paperhanging?"

"Yes."

"Does it have to be that?"

"Can you suggest anything else?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

Hubert pointed to the button-hole in the lapel of his coat and said: "Do you see this?"

"What is it?"

"A volunteer button."

Taney looked with interest at the little white button with the American flag, and then said: "Have I got to that point? The last chance, I suppose?" he added after a pause.

"Not the last, but the first!"

"How so?"

"At any rate it's better than paperhanging. Look here, Taney, you'll only worry yourself to death. It would be far more sensible of you to take the bull by the horns and join our ranks. You can at least try to retrieve your fortunes by that means."

The ferry-boat entered the slip at Hoboken and both men left the boat.

"Now, Taney, which is it to be, paperhanging or—," and James Harrison pointed to the button.

"I'll come with you," said Taney indifferently. They went further along the docks towards the Governor's Island ferry-boat.