"I have a friend over there," said Harrison, "a major in the 8th Regulars; he'll be sure to find room for us, and we may be at the front in a month's time."

Taney stuffed his pipe and answered: "In a month? That suits me; I have no affairs to arrange."

The two men looked across in silence at Manhattan Island, where the buildings were piled up in huge terraces. All the color-tones were accentuated in the bright clear morning air. The sky-scrapers of the Empire City, mighty turreted palaces almost reaching into the clouds, stood out like gigantic silhouettes. The dome of the Singer Building glistened and glittered in the sun, crowning a region in which strenuous work was the order of the day, while directly before them stretched the broad waters of the Hudson with its swarm of hurrying ferry-boats. Further on, between the piers and the low warehouses, could be seen a long row of serious-looking ocean-steamers, whose iron lungs emitted little clouds of steam as the cranes fed their huge bodies with nice little morsels.

The two men had seen this picture hundreds of times, but were impressed once again by its grandeur.

"Taney," said Harrison, "isn't that the most beautiful city in the world? I've been around the world twice, but I've never seen anything to equal it. That's our home, and we are going to protect it by shouldering our guns. Come on, old chap, leave everything else behind and come with me!"

"Yes, I'll come, I certainly shall!" came the quick response. Then they took the boat to Governor's Island and Taney enlisted. They promised to make him a lieutenant when the troops took the field.

When they returned two hours later Randolph Taney also wore the button with the flag in the center: he was a full-fledged volunteer in the United States Army.

On the return trip Taney became communicative, and told the story of the eighth of May, that terrible day in Wall Street when billions melted away like butter, when thousands of persons were tossed about in the whirlpool of the Stock Exchange, when the very foundations of economic life seemed to be slipping away. He described the wild scenes when desperate financiers rushed about like madmen, and told how some of them actually lost their reason during the bitter struggle for existence, when not an inch of ground was vacated without resistance. Men fought for every projecting rock, every piece of wreckage, every straw, as they must have fought in the waves of the Flood, and yet one victim after another was swallowed by the vortex. In the midst of the mad scrimmage on the floor of the Exchange one excited individual, the general manager of a large railroad—with his hair disheveled and the perspiration streaming down his face, one of his sleeves ripped out and his collar torn off—suddenly climbed on a platform and began to preach a confused sermon accompanied by wild gestures; others, whose nerves were utterly unstrung by the terrible strain, joined in vulgar street-songs.

Harrison had read about these things in the papers, but his friend's graphic description brought it all vividly to mind again and caused him to shudder. He seemed to see all the ruined existences, which the maelstrom in Wall Street had dragged down into the depths, staring at him with haggard faces. He thought of his own simple, plain life as compared with the neurasthenic existence of the men on the Stock Exchange, who were now compelled to look on in complete apathy and let things go as they were. The rich man, whom in the bottom of his heart he had often envied, was now poorer than the Italian bootblack standing beside him.

The ferry-boat now turned sharply aside to make room for the giant Mauretania, which was steaming out majestically from its pier into the broad Hudson River.

The thrilling notes of the "Star Spangled Banner" had just died away, and a sea of handkerchiefs fluttered over the railings, which were crowded with passengers waving their last farewells to those left behind. Then the ship's band struck up a new tune, and the enormous steamer plowed through the waves towards the open sea.

"There go the rats who have deserted the sinking ship," said Randolph Taney bitterly, "our leading men of finance are said to have offered fabulous prices for the plainest berths."

The flight of the homeless had begun.



Chapter XV

A RAY OF LIGHT

Only a small Japanese garrison was left at Seattle after the first transports of troops had turned eastward on the seventh and eighth of May, and the northern army under Marshal Nogi had, after a few insignificant skirmishes with small American detachments, taken up its position in, and to the south of, the Blue Mountains. Then, in the beginning of June, the first transport-ships arrived from Hawaii, bringing the reserve corps for the northern army, with orders to occupy the harbors and coast-towns behind the front and to guard the lines of communication to the East.

Communication by rail had been stopped everywhere. No American was allowed to board a train, and only with the greatest difficulty did a few succeed in securing special permission in very urgent cases. The stations had one and all been turned into little forts, being occupied by Japanese detachments who at the same time attended to the Japanese passenger and freight-service.

In all places occupied by the Japanese the press had been silenced, except for one paper in each town, which was allowed to continue its existence because the Japs needed it for the publication of edicts and proclamations issued to the inhabitants, and for the dissemination of news from the seat of war, the latter point being considered of great importance. This entire absence of news from other than Japanese sources gave rise to thousands of rumors, which seemed to circulate more rapidly by word of mouth than the former telegraphic dispatches had through the newspapers.

On the morning of June eighth the news was spread in Tacoma that the city would that day receive a Japanese garrison, as several transport-steamers had arrived at Seattle. Up to that time only one Japanese company had been stationed at Tacoma, and they had occupied the railroad station and the gas and electric works and intrenched themselves in the new waterworks outside the town. Through some strange trick of fortune the gun-depot for the arming of the national guard which had been removed to Tacoma a year ago and which contained about five thousand 1903 Springfield rifles had escaped the notice of the enemy. The guns had been stored provisionally in the cellars of a large grain elevator and it had been possible to keep them concealed from the eyes of the Japs, but it was feared that their hiding-place might be betrayed any day. This danger would of course be greatly increased the moment Tacoma received a stronger garrison.

Martin Engelmann, a German who had immigrated to the great Northwest some twenty years ago, owned a pretty little home in the suburbs of Tacoma. The family had just sat down to dinner when the youngest son, who was employed in a large mercantile establishment in the city, entered hurriedly and called out excitedly:

"They're coming, father, they're in the harbor."

Then he sat down and began to eat his soup in haste.

"They're coming?" asked old Engelmann in a serious tone of voice, "then I fear it is too late."

The old man got up from the table and going over to the window looked out into the street. Not a living thing was to be seen far and wide except a little white poodle gnawing a bone in the middle of the street. Engelmann stared attentively at the poodle, buried in thought.

"How many of them are there?" he asked after a pause.

"At least a whole battalion, I'm told," answered the son, finishing his soup in short order.

"Then it's all over, of course. Just twenty-four hours too soon," sighed Engelmann softly as he watched the poodle, who at that moment was jumping about on the street playing with the gnawed bone.

Engelmann tried hard to control himself, but he did not dare turn his head, for he could hear low, suppressed sobbing behind him. Martha, the faithful companion of his busy life, sat at the table with her face buried in her hands, the tears rolling uninterruptedly down her cheeks, while her two daughters were trying their best to comfort her.

Old Engelmann opened the window and listened.

"Nothing to be heard yet; but they'll have to pass here to get to the waterworks," he said. Then he joined his family, and turning to his wife, said: "Courage, mother! Arthur will do his duty."

"But if anything should happen to him—" sobbed his wife.

"Then it will be for his country, and his death and that of his comrades will give us an example of the sacrifices we must all make until the last of the yellow race has been driven out."

The mother went on crying quietly, her handkerchief up to her eyes: "When was it to be? Tell me!" she cried.

"To-night," said the father, "and they would surely have been successful, for they could easily have overpowered the few men at the station and in the town. Listen, there are the Japs!"

From outside came the regular beat of the drums. Bum—bum—bum, bum, bum they went, and then the shrill squeaking of the fifes could also be heard.

"Yes, there they are, the deuce take 'em," said Engelmann. The sound of the drums became more and more distinct and presently the sound of troops marching in step could be clearly distinguished. Then the steps became firmer, and the window-panes began to rattle as the leader of the battalion appeared on horseback in the middle of the street, followed by the fife and drum corps, and with the little white poodle barking at his heels. It was a Japanese battalion of reserves marching in the direction of the new waterworks outside the town.

"Courage, mother!" comforted the old man. "If they only stay at the waterworks all may yet be well."

"Wouldn't it be possible to warn Arthur?" began the mother again.

"Warn him?" said Engelmann, shrugging his shoulders, "all you have to do is to go to the telegraph office and hand in a telegram to the Japanese official, telling them to remain where they are."

"But couldn't we make it a go after all?" asked the youngest son thoughtfully. "The boxes are all ready, and can be packed in half an hour. We have three hundred men and thirty wagons. The latter were to be loaded at eleven o'clock to-night. And then at them with our revolvers! There aren't more than twenty men at the station," he went on with sparkling eyes. "At eleven o'clock sharp the telegraph-wire to the waterworks will be cut, also the wires to all the stations; then let them telegraph all they like. The minute the train arrives, the engine will be switched to another track and then backed in front of the train. Meanwhile the boxes will be packed in the cars and then we'll be off with the throttle wide open. At each station a car will be dropped, and wagons will be waiting to receive their loads and get away as fast as the horses can pull them. Safe hiding-places have been found for all the boxes, and whatever hasn't been captured by to-morrow morning will certainly never fall into the enemy's hands."

"Where is the telegraph-wire to the waterworks?" asked the father.

"That's my job, to cut the wire just before the arrival of the train," said his son proudly.

"Richard," cried the mother in a horrified voice, "are you in it, too?"

"Yes, mother, you didn't suppose I'd stand and look on while Arthur was risking his life, did you? What would they think of us on the other side if we were to hesitate at such a time as this? 'Germans to the front,' that's our slogan now, and we'll show the people in Washington that the German-Americans treat the duties of their new country seriously."

Old Engelmann laid his hand on his son's shoulder, saying: "Right you are, my boy, and my blessing go with you! So you are to cut the telegraph-wire?"

"Yes, father. We happen to know where it is. The Japs were of course clever enough to lay it underground, but we have discovered it under the paving near Brown & Co.'s store. We dug through to it very carefully from the cellar, and so as to make quite sure in case they should notice anything out of the way at the waterworks, we attached a Morse apparatus to the wire in the cellar. In case they suspect anything at the works and begin to telegraph, I'm to work the keys a little so that they won't know the wire is cut. In addition we laid a wire to the station last night, which will give a loud bell-signal in case any danger threatens."

The young fellow had talked himself into a state of great excitement, and his two sisters, watching him proudly, began to be infected by his enthusiasm.

The shades of night were falling slowly as Richard Engelmann bade a touching farewell to his family and left the house, whistling a lively tune as he walked towards the town.



Chapter XVI

THROUGH FIRE AND SMOKE

A train was always kept in readiness at Centralia on the Northern Pacific Railway, which could get up full steam at a moment's notice in case of necessity. Two Japanese, the engineer and the fireman, were squatting on the floor of the tender in front of the glistening black heaps of coal, over which played the red reflections from the furnace. They had just made their tea with hot water from the boiler and eaten their modest supper. Then the engineer pulled out his pipe and stuffing its little metal bowl with a few crumbs of tobacco, took one or two puffs at it and said, "Akoki, it is time," whereupon the stoker seized his shovel, dug into the heap of coals and threw the black lumps with a sure aim into the open door of the furnace. With a hissing sound the draft rushed into the glowing fire, and the engine sent out masses of black smoke which, mixed with hundreds of tiny sparks, was driven like a pillar of fire over the dark row of cars. The engineer climbed down the little iron steps and examined the steel rods of his engine with clinking knocks from his hammer.

Up and down in front of the dark station walked a Japanese sentinel and each time that he passed beyond the ring of light thrown by the two dimly burning lamps he seemed to be swallowed up in the darkness. Only two little windows at one end of the station were lighted up; they belonged to the Japanese guard-room and had been walled up so that they were no wider than loop-holes. The train which inspected this district regularly between eight and nine o'clock each evening had passed by at 8.30 and proceeded in the direction of Portland. With the exception of the non-commissioned officer and the man in charge of the three arc-lamps on the roof that were to light up the surrounding country in case of a night-attack most of the soldiers had gone to sleep, although a few were engaged in a whispered conversation.

Suddenly the sergeant sprang up as a muffled cry was heard from the outside. "The lamps!" he yelled to the man at the electric instrument. The latter pushed the lever, but everything remained pitch dark outside.

The soldiers were up in a second. The sergeant took a few steps towards the door, but before he could reach it, it was torn open from the outside.

A determined looking man with a rifle slung over his shoulder appeared in the doorway, and the next moment a dark object flew through the air and was dashed against the wall. A deafening report followed, and then the guard-room was filled with yellow light caused by the blinding explosion, while thick black smoke forced its way out through the loop-holes. Armed men were running up and down in front of the station, and when the man who had thrown the bomb and who was only slightly injured but bleeding at the nose and ears from the force of the concussion, was picked up by them, they were able to assure him triumphantly that his work had been successful and that the guard-room had become a coffin for the small Japanese detachment.

Stumbling over the dead body of the sentinel lying on the platform, the leader of the attacking party rushed towards the engine, out of the discharge-valves of which clouds of boiling steam poured forth. With one bound he was up in the cab, where he found the Japanese fireman killed by a blow from an ax. Other dark figures climbed up from the opposite side bumping into their comrades.

"Halloo, Dick, I call that a good job!" And then it began to liven up along the row of cars. Wild looking men with rifles over their shoulders and revolvers in their right hands tore open the carriage doors and rushed quickly through the whole train.

"Dick, where's Forster?"

"Here," answered a rough voice.

"Off to the engine! Into the cars, quick! Are you ready? Is anyone missing? Arthur! Where's Arthur?"

"Here, Dick!"

"Good work, Arthur, that's what I call good work," said the leader; "well done, my boys! We're all right so far! Now for the rest of it."

Fighting Dick distributed his men among the different cars and then he and Forster, formerly an engineer on the Northern Pacific, climbed into the cab.

"They've made it easy for us," said Forster, "they've only just put fresh coal on! We can start at once! And if it isn't my old engine at that! I only hope we won't have to give her up! The Japs shan't have her again, anyhow, even if she has to swallow some dynamite and cough a little to prevent it."

"We're off," shouted Fighting Dick, whose fame as a desperado had spread far beyond the borders of the State of Washington. With such men as these we were destined to win back our native land. They were a wild lot, but each of them was a hero: farmers, hunters, workmen from shop and factory, numerous tramps and half-blooded Indian horse-thieves made up the company. Only a few days ago Fighting Dick's band had had a regular battle in the mountains with a troop of Japanese cavalry, and in the woods of Tacoma more than one Japanese patrol had never found its way back to the city. These little encounters were no doubt also responsible for the strengthening of the Japanese garrison at Tacoma.

The thing to do now was to get the five thousand guns and ammunition cases out of Tacoma by surprising the enemy.

Thus far, nothing but the explosion of the bomb at the Centralia station could have betrayed the plot. It is true that the distant mountains had sent the echoes of the detonation far and wide, but a single shot didn't have much significance at a time like this when our country resounded with the thunder of cannon day in day out!

The train rushed through the darkness at full speed. A misplaced switch, a loose rail, might at any moment turn the whole train into a heap of ruins and stop the beating of a hundred brave American hearts. The headlight of Forster's engine lighted up the long rows of shining rails, and in the silent woods on both sides of the track, beneath the branches of the huge trees, lights could be seen here and there in the windows of the houses, where the dwellers were anxiously awaiting the return of the train from Tacoma! And now a hollow roll of thunder came up from below.

"The bridges?" asked Fighting Dick.

"Yes, the bridges," said Forster, nodding.

Then a faint light appeared in the distance. The train was nearing Tacoma.

Houses began to spring up more frequently out of the darkness, now to the right and now to the left; dancing lights popped up and disappeared. Tall, black buildings near the tracks gave out a thundering noise like the crash of hammers and accompanied the roar of the passing train. A beam of light is suddenly thrown across the rails, green and red lanterns slip by with the speed of lightning, and then the brakes squeak and the train runs noisily into the dark station.

A few figures hurry across the platform. Shots ring out from all sides. A mortally-wounded Jap is leaning against a post, breathing heavily.

The wheels groan beneath the pressure of the brakes and then, with a mighty jerk that shakes everybody up, the train comes to a stand-still. Down from the cars! Fighting Dick in the lead, revolver in hand, and the others right on his heels. They entered the station only to find every Jap dead—the men of Tacoma had done their duty.

Now the clatter of hoofs was heard out in the street. The heavy wagons with their heaps of rifles and long tin boxes full of cartridges were driven up at a mad pace. A wild tumult ensued as the boxes were rushed to the train—two men to a box—and the doors slammed to. Then the empty wagons rattled back through the silent streets. Meanwhile Forster ran his engine on the turntable, where it was quickly reversed, and in a few moments it stood, puffing and snorting, at the other end of the train.

All this consumed less than half an hour. Suddenly shots rang out in the neighboring streets, but as no detachment of hostile troops appeared, the Americans concluded that they had been fired by a patrol which was coming from the electric-works to see what the noise at the station was about. Several rockets with their blinding magnesium light appeared in the dark sky and illumined the roofs of the houses. Was it a warning signal?

All at once the electric gongs near the station which were connected with Brown & Co.'s cellar began to ring, a sign that something suspicious had been noticed at the waterworks. Forster was waiting impatiently in his engine for the signal of departure and could not imagine why Fighting Dick was postponing it so long. He was standing in the doorway of the station and now called out: "Where is Arthur Engelmann?"

"Not here," came the answer from the train.

"Where can he be?"

The name was called out several times, but no one answered. The train was ready to start and the men were distributing the boxes carefully inside the cars, so as to be able to unload them without loss of time at their respective destinations. And now, at last, Arthur Engelmann came running into the station.

"Hurry up!" called Fighting Dick.

"No, wait a minute! We'll have to take this fellow along," cried Engelmann, pointing to a wounded man, who was being carried by two comrades.

"Put him down! We'll have to be off! We've got plenty of men, but not enough guns."

"You must take him!"

"No, we're off!"

"You'll wait," said Arthur Engelmann, seizing Dick's arm; "it's my brother."

"I can't help it, you'll have to leave him behind."

"Then I'll stay too!"

"Go ahead, if you want to."

At this moment shrill bugle-calls resounded from one of the nearby streets.

"The Japanese!" roared Fighting Dick; "come on, Arthur!"

But Arthur snatched his wounded brother from the two men who were carrying him and lifted him across his own shoulder, while the others, led by Fighting Dick, rushed past him and jumped on the train.

Bullets were whizzing past and several had entered the walls of the station when Fighting Dick's voice gave the command: "Let her go, Forster! Let her go!"

Puffing and snorting, and with the pistons turning the high wheels, which could not get a hold on the slippery rails, at lightning speed, the engine started just as the Japanese soldiers ran into the station, from the windows of which they commenced to fire blindly at the departing train. The bullets poured into the rear cars like hail-stones, smashing the wooden walls and window-panes.

Fighting Dick, standing beside Forster, looked back and saw the station full of soldiers. The two Germans must have fallen into their hands, he thought.

But they must hustle with the train now, for although the telegraph wires had been cut all along the line, they still had light-signals to fear! And even as this thought occurred to him, a glare appeared in the sky in the direction of the waterworks, then went out and appeared again at regular intervals. Those silent signs certainly had some meaning. Perhaps it was a signal to the nearest watch to pull up the rails in front of the approaching train? With his teeth set and his hand on the throttle, Forster stood in his engine while the fireman kept shoveling coals into the furnace.

"Forster," said Dick suddenly, "what's that in front of us? Heavens, it's burning!"

"The bridges are burning, Fighting Dick!"

"That's just what I thought, the damned yellow monkeys! Never mind, we'll have to go on. Do you think you can get the engine across?"

"The bridges will hold us all right. It would take half a day to burn the wood through and we'll be there in ten minutes."

Now fluttering little flames could be seen running along the rails and licking the blood-red beams of the long wooden bridges, giant monuments of American extravagance in the use of wood. Clouds of smoke crept towards the train, hiding the rails from view, and soon the engine rolled into a veritable sea of flames and smoke. Forster screamed to his companion: "They've poured petroleum over the wood."

"We'll have to get across," answered Fighting Dick, "even if we all burn to death."

Biting smoke and the burning breath of the fiery sea almost suffocated the two men. The air was quivering with heat, and all clearly defined lines disappeared as the angry flames now arose on both sides.

"Press hard against the front," screamed Forster; "that's the only way to get a little air, otherwise we'll suffocate."

The high-pressure steam of the speeding locomotive hissed out of all the valves, shaking the mighty steel frame with all its force; the heat of the flames cracked the windows, and wherever the hand sought support, pieces of skin were left on the red-hot spots. A few shots were fired from the outside.

"One minute more," yelled Forster, "and we'll be over."

Fighting Dick collapsed under the influence of the poisonous gases and fainted away on the floor of the cab. And now the flames grew smaller and smaller and gradually became hidden in clouds of smoke.

"Hurrah!" cried Forster; "there's a clear stretch ahead of us!" Then he leaned out of the cab-window to look at the train behind him and saw that the last two cars were in flames. He blew the whistle as a signal that the last car was to be uncoupled and left where it was, for he had just noticed a man standing near the track, swinging his bicycle lamp high above his head.

"Perhaps they'll be able to unload the car after all," he said to Fighting Dick, who was slowly coming to. But the sound of the explosion of some of the boxes of cartridges in the uncoupled car made it fairly certain that there wouldn't be much left to unload.

Five minutes later, after they had passed a dark station, the same signal was noticed, and another car was uncoupled, and similarly one car after another was left on the track. The guns and ammunition-boxes were unloaded as expeditiously as possible and transferred to the wagons that were waiting to receive them. The moment they were ready, the horses galloped off as fast as they could go and disappeared in the darkness, leaving the burning cars behind as a shining beacon.

When, on the morning of June ninth, a Japanese military train from Portland traveled slowly along the line, it came first upon the ruins of an engine which had been blown up by dynamite, and after that it was as much as the Japanese could do to clear away the remnants of the various ruined cars by the end of the day. The bridge, which had been set on fire by a Japanese detachment with the help of several barrels of petroleum, was completely burned down.

But the plot had been successful and Fighting Dick's fame resounded from one ocean to the other, and proved to the nations across the sea that the old energy of the American people had been revived and that the war of extermination against the yellow race had begun, though as yet only on a small scale. And the Japanese troops, too, began to appreciate that the same irresistible force—a patriotic self-sacrifice that swept everything before it—which had in one generation raised Japan to the heights of political power, was now being directed against the foreign invader.

Half the town had known of the plan for removing the rifles and ammunition from Tacoma, but a strong self-control had taken the place of the thoughtless garrulousness of former times. Not a sign, not a word had betrayed the plot to the enemy; every man controlled his feverish emotion and wore an air of stolid indifference. We had learned a lesson from the enemy.

Fourteen Americans were captured with weapons in hand, and in addition about twenty-eight badly wounded. The Japanese commander of Tacoma issued a proclamation the following evening that all the prisoners, without exception, would be tried by court-martial in the course of the next day and condemned to death—the penalty that had been threatened in case of insurrection. The Japanese court-martial arrived in the city on June ninth with a regiment from Seattle. The Tacoma board of aldermen were invited to send two of their number to be present at the trial, but the offer being promptly refused, the Japanese pronounced judgment on the prisoners alone. As had been expected, they were all condemned to death by hanging, but at the earnest pleading of the mayor of Tacoma, the sentence was afterwards mitigated to death by shooting.

Old Martin Engelmann tried in vain to secure permission to see his sons once more; his request was brusquely refused.

In the light of early dawn on June eleventh the condemned men were led out to the waterworks to be executed, the wounded being conveyed in wagons. Thousands of the inhabitants took part in this funeral procession—in dead silence.

Old Engelmann was standing, drawn up to his full height, at the window of his home, and mutely he caught the farewell glances of his two sons as they passed by, the one marching in the midst of his comrades, the other lying in the first wagon among the wounded. Frau Martha had summoned sufficient courage to stand beside her husband, but the moment the procession had passed, she burst into bitter tears. Her life was bereft of all hope and the future stretched out dark and melancholy before her.

Suddenly a gentle hand was laid on her white head. "Mother," said one of her daughters, "do you hear it? I heard it yesterday. They're singing the song of Fighting Dick and of our dear boys. No one knows who composed it, it seems to have sprung up of itself. They were singing it on the street last night, the song of Arthur Engelmann, who sacrificed his life for his brother."

"Yes," said the father, "it's true, mother, they are singing of our lads; be brave, mother, and remember that those who are taken from us to-day will live forever in the hearts of the American people."

And louder and louder rang out the notes of that proud song of the citizens of Tacoma—the first paean of victory in those sad days.



Chapter XVII

WHAT HAPPENED AT CORPUS CHRISTI

The attitude of the European press left no room for doubt as to the honest indignation of the Old World at the treacherous attack on our country. But what good could this scathing denunciation of the Japanese policy do us? A newspaper article wouldn't hurt a single Japanese soldier, and what good could all the resolutions passed at enthusiastic public meetings in Germany and France do us, or the daily cablegrams giving us the assurance of their sympathy and good-will?

These expressions of public opinion did, however, prove that the Old World realized at last that the yellow danger was of universal interest, that it was not merely forcing a single country to the wall, casually as it were, but that it was of deep and immediate concern to every European nation without exception. They began to look beyond the wisdom of the pulpit orators who preached about the wonderful growth of culture in Japan, and to recognize that if the United States did not succeed in conquering Japan and driving the enemy out of the country, the victorious Japanese would not hesitate a moment to take the next step and knock loudly and peremptorily at Europe's door, and this would put an end once and for all to every single European colonial empire.

But while European authorities on international law were busily parading their paper wisdom, and wondering how a war without a declaration of war and without a diplomatic prelude could fit into the political scheme of the world's history, at least one real item of assistance was at hand.

The American press, it is true, still suffered from the delusion that our militia—consisting of hundreds of thousands of men—and our volunteers would be prepared to take the field in three or four weeks, but the indescribable confusion existing in all the military camps told a different story. What was needed most were capable officers. The sad experiences of the Spanish-American campaign were repeated, only on a greatly magnified scale. We possessed splendid material in the matter of men and plenty of good-will, but we lacked completely the practical experience necessary for adapting the military apparatus of our small force of regular soldiers to the requirements of a great national army. We felt that we could with the aid of money and common-sense transform a large group of able-bodied men accustomed to healthy exercise into a serviceable and even a victorious army, but we made a great mistake. The commissariat and sanitary service and especially the military train-corps would have to be created out of nothing. When in June the governor of one State reported that his infantry regiment was formed and only waiting for rifles, uniforms and the necessary military wagons, and when another declared that his two regiments of cavalry and six batteries were ready to leave for the front as soon as horses, guns, ammunition-carts and harness could be procured, it showed with horrible distinctness how utterly ridiculous our methods of mobilization were.

The London diplomats went around like whipped curs, for all the early enthusiasm for the Japanese alliance disappeared as soon as the English merchants began to have such unpleasant experiences with the unscrupulousness of the Japanese in business matters. As a matter of fact the alliance had fulfilled its object as soon as Japan had fought England's war with Russia for her. But the cabinet of St. James adhered to the treaty, because they feared that if they let go of the hawser, a word from Tokio would incite India to revolt. The soil there had for years been prepared for this very contingency, and London, therefore, turned a deaf ear to the indignation expressed by the rest of the world at Japan's treacherous violation of peace.

At last at the end of July the transportation of troops to the West began. But when the police kept a sharp lookout for Japanese or Chinese spies at the stations where the troops were boarding the trains, they were looking in the wrong place, for the enemy was smart enough not to expose himself unnecessarily or to send spies who, as Mongolians, would at once have fallen victims to the rage of the people if seen anywhere near the camps.

Besides, such a system of espionage was rendered unnecessary by the American press, which, instead of benefiting by past experience, took good care to keep the Japanese well informed concerning the military measures of the government, and even discussed the organization of the army and the possibilities of the strategical advance in a way that seemed particularly reprehensible in the light of the fearful reverses of the last few months. The government warnings were disregarded especially by the large dailies, who seemed to find it absolutely impossible to regard the events of the day in any other light than that of sensational news to be eagerly competed for.

This competition for news from the seat of war and from the camps had first to lead to a real catastrophe, before strict discipline could be enforced in this respect. A few patriotic editors, to be sure, refused to make use of the material offered them; but the cable dispatches sent to Europe, the news forwarded triumphantly as a proof that the Americans were now in a position "to toss the yellow monkeys into the Pacific," quite sufficed to enable the Japanese to adopt preventive measures in time.

While the American Army of the North was advancing on Nogi's forces in the Blue Mountains, the Army of the South was to attack the Japanese position in Arizona by way of Texas. For this purpose the three brigades stationed in the mountains of New Mexico were to be reenforced by the troops from Cuba and Porto Rico and the two Florida regiments. All of these forces were to be transported to Corpus Christi by water, as it was hoped in this way to keep the movement concealed from the enemy, in order that the attack in the South might come as far as possible in the nature of a surprise, and thus prevent the sending of reenforcements to the North where, at the foot of the Blue Mountains, the main battle was to be fought. But unfortunately our plan of attack did not remain secret. Before a single soldier had set foot on the transport ships which had been lying for weeks in the harbors of Havana and Tampa, the Japanese news bureaus in Kingston (Jamaica) and Havana had been fully informed as to where the blow was to fall, partly by West Indian half-breed spies and partly by the obliging American press. One regiment of cavalry had already arrived at Corpus Christi from Tampa on July 30th, and the Cuban troops were expected on the following day.

* * * * *

Two American naval officers were standing on the small gallery of the white light-house situated at the extreme end of the narrow tongue of land lying before the lagoon of Corpus Christi, gazing through their glasses at the boundless expanse of blue water glittering with myriads of spots in the rays of the midday sun. Out in the roads lay seven large freight steamers whose cargoes of horses and baggage, belonging to the 2d Florida Cavalry Regiment, were being transferred to lighters. A small tug, throwing up two glittering streaks of spray with its broad bow, was towing three barges through the narrow opening of the lagoon to Corpus Christi, whose docks showed signs of unusual bustle. Short-winded engines were pulling long freight-trains over the tracks that ran along the docks, ringing their bells uninterruptedly. From the camps outside the town the low murmur of drums and long bugle-calls could be heard through the drowsy noon heat. A long gray snake, spotted with the dull glitter of bright metal, wound its way between the white tents: a detachment of troops marching to the station. Beyond the town one could follow the silver rails through the green plantations for miles, as plainly as on a map, until they finally disappeared on the horizon.

Now the whistle of the tug sounded shrilly, blowing scattered flakes of white steam into the air. The quick, clear tolling of church-bells rang over the roofs of the bright houses of the city. It was twelve o'clock and the sun's rays were scorching hot.

One of the naval officers pulled out his watch to see if it were correct, and then said: "Shall we go down and get something to eat first, Ben?"

"The steamers from Havana ought really to be in sight by this time," answered Ben Wood; "they left on the twenty-sixth."

"Well, yes, on the twenty-sixth. But some of those transport-ships palmed off on us are the limit and can't even make ten knots an hour. Their rickety engines set the pace for the fleet, and unless the Olympia wishes to abandon the shaky old hulks to their fate, she must keep step with them."

Lieutenant Gibson Spencer swept the horizon once more with his marine-glass and stopped searchingly at one spot. "If that's not the Flying Dutchman, they're ships," he remarked, "probably our ships."

The light-house keeper, a slender Mexican, came on the gallery, saying: "Ships are coming over there, sir," as he pointed in the direction which Spencer had indicated. Lieutenant Ben Wood stepped to the stationary telescope in the light-room below the place for the lamps, and started to adjust the screws, but the heat of the metal, which had become red-hot beneath the burning rays of the sun, made him start: "Hot hole," he swore under his breath.

Lieutenant Spencer conversed a moment with the keeper and then looked again through his glass at Corpus Christi, where the tug was just making fast to the pier. The third barge knocked violently against the piles, so that a whole shower of splinters fell into the water.

"Gibson," cried Lieutenant Wood suddenly from his place in the light-room, his voice sounding muffled on account of the small space, "those are not our ships."

Spencer looked through the telescope and arrived at the same conclusion. "No," he said; "we have no ships like that, but they're coming nearer and we'll soon be able to make out what they are!"

"Those ships certainly don't belong to our fleet," he repeated after another long look at the vessels slowly growing larger on the horizon. They had two enormous funnels and only one mast and even the arched roofs of their turrets could now be clearly distinguished.

"If I didn't know that our English friends owned the only ships of that caliber, and that our own are unhappily still in process of equipment at Newport News, I should say that those were two Dreadnoughts."

"I guess you've had a sunstroke," rang out the answer.

"Sunstroke or no sunstroke, those are two Dreadnoughts."

"But where can they come from?"

The three men examined the horizon in silence, till Lieutenant Wood suddenly broke it by exclaiming: "There, do you see, to the left, just appearing on the horizon, that's our transport fleet—eight—ten ships; the one in front is probably the Olympia."

"Twelve ships," counted the keeper, "and if I may be allowed to say so, the two in front are battleships."

"There they are then," said Ben Wood, "and now we'll get something to eat in a jiffy, for we'll have our work cut out for us in an hour!"

"Where shall we eat?" asked Spencer, "I'll gladly dispense with the grub at Signor Morrosini's to-day."

"I'll tell you what," said the other, "we'll go across to one of the transport-steamers; or, better still, we'll go to the captain of the Marietta—we'll be sure to get something decent to eat there."

"Right you are!" said Spencer, peering down over the edge of the railing. "Our cutter is down there," he added.

At the foot of the light-house lay a small, white cutter with its brass appointments glittering in the sunlight. Her crew, consisting of three men, had crept into the little cabin, while the black stoker was resting on a bench near the boiler.

"Ho, Dodge!" shouted Spencer, "get up steam. We're going over to the transport-ships in ten minutes."

The firemen threw several shovels of coal into the furnace, whereupon a cloud of smoke poured out of the funnel straight up along the light-house. Lieutenant Wood telephoned over to Corpus Christi that the transports with the troops on board had been sighted and that they would probably arrive in the roads in about two hours.

"We're going over to one of the transport-ships meanwhile," he added, "and will await the arrival of the squadron out there."

While Lieutenant Spencer was climbing down the narrow staircase, Lieutenant Wood once more examined the horizon and suddenly started. The thunder of a shot boomed across the water. Boom—came the sound of another one!

The lieutenant clapped his marine-glasses to his eyes. Yes, there were two Dreadnoughts out there, evidently saluting. But why at such a distance?

"Gibson," he called down the staircase.

"Come on, Ben!" came the impatient answer from below.

"I can't, I wish you'd come up again for a minute, I'm sure something's wrong!"

The gun-shots were booming loudly across the water as Lieutenant Spencer reached the gallery, covered with perspiration.

"I suppose they're saluting," exclaimed Spencer somewhat uncertainly.

Ben Wood said nothing, but with a quick jerk turned the telescope to the right and began examining the transport-ships.

"Heavens," he shouted, "they mean business. I can see shells splashing into the water in front of the Olympia—no, there in the middle—away back there, too— One of the transports listed. What can it mean? Can they be Japanese?"

Again the roar of guns rolled across the quiet waters.

"Now the Olympia is beginning to shoot," cried Ben Wood. "Oh, that shot struck the turret. Great, that must have done some good work! But what in Heaven's name are we going to do?"

Lieutenant Spencer answered by pushing the light-house keeper, who was in abject fear, aside, and rushing to the telephone. Trembling with excitement, he stamped his foot and swore loudly when no notice was taken of his ring.

"All asleep over there as usual! Ah, at last!"

"Halloo! what's up?"

"This is the light-house. Notify the commander at Corpus Christi at once that the Japanese are in the roads and are attacking the transports."

Over in Corpus Christi people began to collect on the piers, the bells stopped ringing, but the sound of bugles could still be heard coming from the encampments.

Now the light-house telephone rang madly and Spencer seized the receiver. "They are, I tell you. Can't you hear the shots?" he shouted into the instrument. "There are two large Japanese ships out in the roads shooting at the Olympia and the transports. Impossible or not, it's a fact!"

Suddenly a thick column of smoke began to ascend from the funnel of the little American gunboat Marietta, which was lying among the transports out in the roads. The whistles and bugle-calls could be heard distinctly, and the crew could be seen on deck busy at the guns. The steam-winch rattled and began to haul up the anchor, while the water whirled at the stern as the vessel made a turn. Even before the anchor appeared at the surface the gunboat had put to sea with her course set towards the ships on the horizon, which were enveloped in clouds of black smoke.

"There's nothing for us to do," said Spencer despairingly, "but stand here helplessly and look on. There isn't a single torpedo-boat, not a single submarine here! For Heaven's sake, Ben, tell us what's happening out there!"

"It's awful!" answered Wood; "two of the transport-ships are in flames, two seem to have been sunk, and some of those further back have listed badly. The Olympia is heading straight for the enemy, but she seems to be damaged and is burning aft. There are two more cruisers in the background, but they are hidden by the smoke from the burning steamers; I can't see them any more."

"Where on earth have the Japanese ships come from? I thought their whole fleet was stationed in the Pacific. Not one of their ships has ever come around Cape Horn or through the Straits of Magellan; if they had, our cruisers off the Argentine coast would have seen them. And besides it would be utter madness to send just two battleships to the Atlantic. But where else can they have come from?"

"There's no use asking where they come from," cried Wood excitedly, "the chief point is, they're there!"

He gave up his place at the telescope to his comrade, thought for a moment, and then went to the telephone.

His orders into town were short and decisive: "Send all the tugs out to sea immediately. Have them hoist the ambulance-flag and try to rescue the men of the transports."

"And you, Spencer," he continued, "take the cutter and hurry over to the transport-steamers in the roads and have them hoist the Red Cross flag and get to sea as quickly as possible to help in the work of rescue. That's the only thing left for us to do. I'll take command of the President Cleveland and you take charge of the Swedish steamer Olsen. And now let's get to work! Signor Alvares can play the role of idle onlooker better than we can. Our place is out there!"

Both officers rushed down the stairs and jumped into the cutter, which steamed off at full speed and took them to their ships.

Three-quarters of an hour later the tug mentioned in the beginning of the chapter appeared again at the entrance to the lagoon. Several men could be seen in the stern holding a large white sheet upon which a man was painting a large red cross, and when the symbol of human love and assistance was finished, the sheet was hoisted at the flagstaff. Two other tugs followed the example of the first one.

But could the enemy have taken the three little tugs for torpedo-boats? It seemed so, for suddenly a shell, which touched the surface of the water twice, whizzed past and hit the first steamer amidships just below the funnel. And while the little vessel was still enveloped by the black smoke caused by the bursting of the shell, her bow and stern rose high out of the water and she sank immediately, torn in two. The thunder of the shot sounded far over the water and found an echo among the houses at Corpus Christi.

"Now they're even shooting at the ambulance flag," roared Ben Wood, who was rushing about on the deck of the President Cleveland and exhorting the crew to hoist the anchor as fast as possible so as to get out to the field of battle. But as the boiler-fires were low, this seemed to take an eternity.

At last, about three o'clock in the afternoon, they succeeded in reaching a spot where a few hundred men were clinging to the floating wreckage. The rest had been attended to by the enemy's shots, the sea and the sharks.

The enemy had wasted only a few shots on the transport-steamers, as a single well-aimed explosive shell was quite sufficient to entirely destroy one of the merchant-vessels, and the battle with the Olympia had lasted only a very short time, as the distance had evidently been too great to enable the American shots to reach the enemy. That was the end of the Olympia, Admiral Dewey's flag-ship at Cavite! The two smaller cruisers had been shot to pieces just as rapidly.

The results of this unexpected setback were terribly disheartening, since all idea of a flank attack on the Japanese positions in the South had to be abandoned.

* * * * *

But where had the two Dreadnoughts come from? They had not been seen by a living soul until they had appeared in the roads of Corpus Christi. They had risen from the sea for a few hours, like an incarnation of the ghostly rumors of flying squadrons of Japanese cruisers, and they had disappeared from the field of action just as suddenly as they had come. If it had not been for the cruel reality of the destruction of the transport fleet, no one would soon have believed in the existence of these phantom ships. But the frenzied fear of the inhabitants of the coast-towns cannot well take the form of iron and steel, and nightmares, no matter how vivid, cannot produce ships whose shells sweep an American squadron off the face of the sea.

It had been known for years that two monster ships of the Dreadnought type were being built for Brazil in the English shipyards. No one knew where Brazil was going to get the money to pay for the battleships or what the Brazilian fleet wanted with such huge ships, but they continued to be built. It was generally supposed that England was building them as a sort of reserve for her own fleet; but once again was public opinion mistaken. Only those who years before had raised a warning protest and been ridiculed for seeing ghosts, proved to be right. They had prophesied long ago that these ships were not intended for England, but for her ally, Japan.

The vessels were finished by the end of June and during the last days of the month the Brazilian flag was openly hoisted on board the San Paulo and Minas Geraes, as they were called, the English shipbuilders having indignantly refused to sell them to the United States on the plea of feeling bound to observe strict neutrality. The two armored battleships started on their voyage across the Atlantic with Brazilian crews on board; but when they arrived at a spot in the wide ocean where no spectators were to be feared, they were met by six transport-steamers conveying the Japanese crews for the two warships, no others than the thousand Japs who had been landed at Rio de Janeiro as coolies for the Brazilian coffee plantations in the summer of 1908. They had been followed in November by four hundred more.

We were greatly puzzled at the time over this striking exception to the Japanese political programme of concentrating streams of immigrants on our Pacific coasts. Without a word of warning a thousand Japanese coolies were shipped to Brazil, where they accepted starvation wages greatly to the disgust and indignation of the German and Italian workmen—not to speak of the lazy Brazilians themselves. This isolated advance of the Japs into Brazil struck observers as a dissipation of energy, but the Government in Tokio continued to carry out its plans, undisturbed by our expressions of astonishment. Silently, but no less surely, the diligent hands of the coolies and the industrious spirit of Japanese merchants in Brazil created funds with which the two warships were paid at least in part. The public interpreted it as an act of commendable patriotism when, in June, the one thousand four hundred Japs turned their backs on their new home, in order to defend their country's flag. They left Rio in six transport-steamers.

Brazil thereupon sold her two battleships to a Greek inn-keeper at Santos, named Petrokakos, and he turned them over to the merchant Pietro Alvares Cortes di Mendoza at Bahia. This noble Don was on board one of the transport-steamers with the Japanese "volunteers," and on board this Glasgow steamer, the Kirkwall, the bill of sale was signed on July 14th, by the terms of which the "armed steamers" Kure and Sasebo passed into the possession of Japan. The Brazilian crews and some English engineers went on board the transports and were landed quietly two weeks later at various Brazilian ports.

These one thousand four hundred Japanese plantation-laborers, traders, artisans, and engineers—in reality they were trained men belonging to the naval reserve—at once took over the management of the two mighty ships, and set out immediately in the direction of the West Indies. At Kingston (Jamaica) a friendly steamer supplied them with the latest news of the departure of the American transports from Cuba, and the latter met their fate, as we saw, in the roads of Corpus Christi.

A terrible panic seized all our cities on the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic coast, as the Japanese monsters were heard from, now here, now there. For example, several shells exploded suddenly in the middle of the night in the harbor of Galveston when not a warship had been observed in the neighborhood, and again several American merchant-vessels were sent to the bottom by the mysterious ships, which began constantly to assume more gigantic proportions in the reports of the sailors. At last a squadron was dispatched from Newport News to seek and destroy the enemy, whereupon the phantom-ships disappeared as suddenly as they had come. Not until Admiral Dayton ferreted out the Japanese cruisers at the Falkland Islands did our sailors again set eyes on the two battleships.



Chapter XVIII

THE BATTLE OF THE BLUE MOUNTAINS

It had been found expedient to send a few militia regiments to the front in May, and these regiments, together with what still remained of our regular army, made a brave stand against the Japanese outposts in the mountains. Insufficiently trained and poorly fed as they were, they nevertheless accomplished some excellent work under the guidance of efficient officers; but the continual engagements with the enemy soon thinned their ranks. These regiments got to know what it means to face a brave, trained enemy of over half a million soldiers with a small force of fifty thousand; they learned what it means to be always in the minority on the field of battle, and thus constant experience on the battle-field soon transformed these men into splendid soldiers. Especially the rough-riders from the prairies and the mountains, from which the cavalry regiments were largely recruited, and the exceedingly useful Indian and half-breed scouts, to whom all the tricks of earlier days seemed to return instinctively, kept the Japanese outposts busy. Their machine-guns, which were conveyed from place to place on the backs of horses, proved a very handy weapon. But their numbers were few, and although this sort of skirmishing might tire the enemy, it could not effectually break up his strong positions.

Ever on the track of the enemy, surprising their sentries and bivouacs, rushing upon the unsuspecting Japs like a whirlwind and then pursuing them across scorching plains and through the dark, rocky defiles of the Rockies, always avoiding large detachments and attacking their commissariat and ammunition columns from the rear, popping up here, there and everywhere on their indefatigable horses and disappearing with the speed of lightning, this is how those weather-beaten rough-riders in their torn uniforms kept up the war and stood faithful guard! Brave fellows they were, ever ready to push on vigorously, even when the blood from their torn feet dyed the rocks a deep red! No matter how weary they were, the sound of the bugle never failed to endow their limbs with renewed energy, and they could be depended on to the last man to do whatever was required of them.

It was on these endless marches, these reckless rides through rocky wastes and silent forests—to the accompaniment of the tramp of horses, the creaking of saddles and the rush and roar of rolling stones on lonely mountain-trails—that those strange, weird rhythms and melodies arose, which lived on long afterwards in the minds and hearts of the people.

By the end of July affairs had reached the stage where it was possible for the Northern army, commanded by General MacArthur and consisting of one hundred and ten thousand men, to start for the Blue Mountains in the eastern part of Oregon, and the Pacific army of almost equal strength to set out for Granger on the Union Pacific Railway. The troops from Cuba and Florida, together with the three brigades stationed at New Mexico, were to have advanced against the extreme right wing of the Japanese army, but the grievous disaster at Corpus Christi had completely frustrated this plan.

The German and Irish volunteer regiments were formed into special brigades in the Northern and Pacific armies, whereas the other militia and volunteer regiments were attached to the various divisions promiscuously. General MacArthur's corps was composed of three divisions, commanded by Fowler, Longworth and Wood, respectively, each consisting of thirty thousand men. To these must be added one German and one Irish brigade of three regiments each, about sixteen thousand men altogether, so that the Northern army numbered about one hundred and ten thousand men and one hundred and forty guns.

Wood's division left the encampment near Omaha the last week of July. They went by rail to Monida, where the Oregon Short Line crosses the boundary of Montana and Idaho. The same picture of utter confusion was presented at all the stops and all the stations on the way. Soldiers of all arms, exasperated staff-officers, excited station officials, guns waiting for their horses and horses waiting for their guns, cavalry-men whose horses had been sent on the wrong train, freight-cars full of ammunition intended for no one knew whom, wagons loaded with camp equipment where food was wanted and with canned goods where forage was needed, long military trains blocking the line between stations, and engines being switched about aimlessly: perfect chaos reigned, and the shortness of the station platforms only added to the confusion and the waste of precious time. If it had not been for the Americans' strongly developed sense of humor, which served as an antidote for all the anger and worry, this execrably handled army apparatus must have broken down altogether. But as it was, everybody made the best of the situation and thanked the Lord that each revolution of the wheels brought the troops nearer to the enemy. The worst of it was that the trains had to stop at the stations time and time again in order to allow the empty trains returning from the front to pass.

The 28th Regiment of Wisconsin Volunteers, under command of Colonel Katterfeld, had at last, after what seemed to both officers and soldiers an endless journey, reached the foothills of the Rocky Mountains on the twenty-second of July via the Northern Pacific Railway. A warm meal had been prepared for the regiment at a little station; then the roll was called once more and the three long trains transporting the regiment started off again.

Colonel Katterfeld had soon won the affection of his men. He was a thin little man with grizzly hair and beard; a soldier of fortune, who had an eventful life behind him, having seen war on three continents. But he never spoke of his experiences. His commands were short and decisive, and each man felt instinctively that he was facing an able officer. He had given up his practice as a physician in Milwaukee, and when, at the outbreak of the war, he had offered his services to the Governor of Wisconsin, the latter was at once convinced that here was a man upon whom he could rely, and it had not taken Colonel Katterfeld long to establish the correctness of the Governor's judgment. He succeeded in being the first to raise the full complement of men for his regiment in Wisconsin, and was therefore the first to leave for the front. The rush for officers' commissions was tremendous and the staff of officers was therefore excellent. One day an officer, named Walter Lange, presented himself at the recruiting office of the regiment. When the colonel heard the name, he glanced up from his writing, and looking inquiringly at the newcomer, asked in an off-hand fashion: "Will you take command of the Seventh Company as captain?"

"Sir?"

"Yes, I know, you were at Elandslaagte and afterwards at Cronstadt, were you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"We need some officers like you who can keep their men together when under fire. Do you accept or not?"

"Certainly, but——"

"We'll have no buts."

And so the two became war-comrades for the second time, Captain Lange taking command of the Seventh Company.

In thousands of ways the colonel gave proof of his practical experience; above all else he possessed the knack of putting the right people in the right place, and his just praise and blame aroused the ambition of officers and men to such an extent, that the 28th Militia Regiment soon became conspicuous for its excellence. But no one, not even his comrade from Elandslaagte, succeeded in getting nearer to the colonel's heart. Colonel Katterfeld was a reticent man, whom no one dared bother with questions.

In order to make the best possible use of what little room there was in the cars, the colonel had ordered two-hour watches to be kept. Half the men slept on the seats and on blankets on the floor, while the other half had to stand until the order, Relieve watch! rang out at the end of two hours.

Captain Lange was standing at the window looking out at the moonlit landscape through which the train was rushing. Wide valleys, rugged mountain peaks and steep, rocky bastions flew past. A whistle—a low rumble in the distance—the sound of approaching wheels—a flash of light on the track—and then the hot breath of the speeding engine sweeps across the captain's face, as a long row of black cars belonging to an empty train returning from the mountains tears past on its way to the encampments.

And then on and on, over bridges and viaducts, where the rolling wheels awaken echo after echo, on into the narrow ravine, above the forest-crowned edges of which the quiet light of the stars twinkles and gleams in the purple sky of night.

The captain was thinking of the colonel. He could not remember having met him on any of the South African battle-fields, and he had never heard the name of Katterfeld. And yet he was positive he had seen those penetrating blue eyes beneath their bushy brows before. No one who had once seen it could ever forget that glance. But he racked his brain in vain. He looked at the time and found that the present watch still had a whole hour to run. The soldiers were leaning sleepily against the sides of the car, and loud snores came from the seats and the floor. Suddenly a rifle fell to the ground with a clatter and several men woke up and swore at the noise. On went the train, and the monotonous melody of the rolling wheels gradually lulled the weary thoughts to sleep.

Captain Lange thought of Elandslaagte again and of Colonel Schiel and Dinizulu, the Kafir chief, and of the story the colonel had told, as they bivouacked round the fire, of the latter's royal anointment with castor-oil. They had made the fire with the covers of "Mellin's Food" boxes—Mellin's Food—a fine chap, Mellin—Mellin?— Wasn't that the name of the captain with whom he had once sailed to Baltimore? And Daisy Wilford had been on board with her two cats—cats— My, how he used to chase cats when he was a boy—it was a regular hunt— No, it hadn't been his fault, but Walter Wells'— But he had been caught and shut up in the attic, where his father gave him a chance to recollect that it is cruel to torment animals—but it really had been Walter's fault, only he wasn't going to tell on him—and then, after he had been alone, he had knocked his head against the wall in his rage at the injustice of the world—always—knocked—his—head—against—the—wall—always—knocked——

Bang! went the captain's head against the window-frame and he woke up with a start and put his hand up to his aching forehead. Where under the sun was he? Ah, of course—there were the soldiers snoring all around him and tossing about in their sleep. He felt dead tired. Had he been asleep? He looked at the time again—still fifty-five minutes to the next watch.

The roaring and clattering of the wheels came to his ears on the fresh night air as he again looked out of the window. The train had just rounded a curve, and the other two trains could be seen coming on behind. Now they were passing through a gorge between bright rocky banks, which gleamed like snow in the moonlight. Whirling, foaming waters rushed down the mountain-side to join the dark river far below. Then on into a dark snowshed where the hurrying beat of the revolving wheels resounded shrilly and produced a meaningless rhythm in his thoughts. Kat—ter—feld, Kat—ter—feld, Kat—ter—feld, came the echo from the black beams of the shed. Katter—feld, Kat—ter—feld, Kat—ter—feld, came the reply from the other side. Then the rattling noise spreads over a wider area. There is a final echo and the beams of the shed disappear in the distance, and on they go in the silent night until the sergeant on duty pulls out his watch and awakens the sleepers with the unwelcome call, Relieve the guard!

Two days later the regiment arrived at Monida, where they had to leave the train. The line running from there to Baker City was only to be used for the transportation of baggage, while the troops had to march the rest of the way—about two hundred and fifty miles. While the field-kitchen wagons were being used for the first time near Monida, the men received new boots, for the two pairs of shoes which each had received in camp had turned out such marvels of American manufacture, that they were absolutely worn out in less than no time. It was thought wiser, in consideration of the long marches before the soldiers, to do away with shoes altogether and to provide strong boots in their stead. The hard leather of which the latter were made gave the soldiers no end of trouble, and the strange foot-gear caused a good deal of grumbling and discomfort.

It was here that the experience of the old troopers was of value. The old devices of former campaigns were revived. An old, gray-bearded sergeant, who had been in the Manchurian campaign against the Japanese, advised his comrades to burn a piece of paper in their boots, as the hot air would enable them to slip the boots on much more easily. Captain Lange employed a more drastic method. He made his company march through a brook until the leather had become wet and soft, and as a result his men suffered least from sore feet on the march.

During the ten days' march to Baker City, officers and men became thoroughly acquainted with one another, and the many obstacles they had had to overcome in common cemented the regiments into real living organisms. And when, on the tenth of August, the different columns reached Baker City, the Northern Army had firmly established its marching ability. The transport-service, too, had got over its first difficulties. From the front, where small detachments were continually skirmishing with the enemy, came the news that the Japanese had retreated from Baker City after pulling up the rails. On the evening of the eleventh of August the 28th Militia Regiment was bivouacking a few miles east of Baker City. The outposts towards the enemy on the other side of the town were composed of a battalion of Regulars.

Every stone still burned with the glowing heat of the day, which spread over the warm ground in trembling waves. The dust raised by the marching columns filled the air like brown smoke.

The last glimmer of the August day died down on the western horizon in a crimson glow, and a pale gleam of light surrounded the dark silhouettes of the mountains, throwing bluish gray shadows on their sides. Then all the colors died out and only the stars twinkled in the dark blue heavens. Far away in the mountains the white flashes of signal-lanterns could occasionally be seen, telling of the nearness of the enemy. Colonel Katterfeld had ordered the officers of his regiment to come to his quarters in a farm-house lying near the road, and a captain of Regulars was asked to report on the number of skirmishes which had taken place in the last few days and on the enemy's position. It was learned that Marshal Nogi had retreated from Baker City and had withdrawn his troops to the Blue Mountains, taking up his central position at the point of the pass crossed by the railroad. It had not been possible to ascertain how far the wings of the Japanese army extended to the North or South. It was certain that the enemy maintained strong lines of communication in both directions, but it was difficult to determine just how far their lines penetrated into the wooded slopes and valleys.

* * * * *

When the guard was relieved at 5 o'clock in the morning, one of the non-commissioned officers was struck by a curiously-shaped bright cloud the size of a hand, which hung like a ball over the mountains in the west in the early morning light.

"It must be an air-ship!" said some one.

"It evidently is; it's moving!" said the sergeant, and he at once gave orders to awaken Captain Lange.

The captain, who had gone to sleep with the telephone beside him, jumped up and could not at first make out where the voice came from: "A Japanese air-ship has been sighted over the mountains." He was up in a second and looking through his glasses! Sure enough! It was an air-ship!

Its light-colored body hovered above the mountains in the pale-blue sky like a small silver-gray tube.

"Spread the report at once!" called the captain to the telephone operator; and bustle ensued on all sides.

"What shall we do?" asked a lieutenant. "There's no use in shooting at it; by the time it gets within range we should shoot our own men."

The air-ship came slowly nearer, and at last it was directly over the American line of outposts.

"They can see our whole position!" said Captain Lange, "they can see all our arrangements from up there."

Boom! came the sound of a shot from the right.

"That probably won't do much good."

A few hundred yards below the air-ship a little flame burst out. The smoke from a shrapnel hung in the air for a moment like a ball of cotton, and then that, too, disappeared. Boom! it went again.

"We shall never reach it with shrapnel," said the lieutenant, "there's no use trying to beat it except on its own ground."

"We have some newly constructed shrapnel," answered the captain, "the bullets of which are connected with spiral wires that tear the envelope of the balloon."

Now two shots went off at the same time.

"Those seem to be the balloon-guns," said the lieutenant.

Far below the air-ship hovered the clouds of two shrapnel shots.

"They're getting our air-ship ready over there," cried the captain; "that's the only sensible thing to do." He pointed to a spot far off where a large, yellow motor-balloon could be seen hanging in the air like a large bubble.

It went up in a slanting direction, and then, after describing several uncertain curves, steered straight for the enemy's balloon, which also began to rise at once.

Hundreds of thousands of eyes were following the course of those two little yellow dots up in the clear, early morning air, as the mountain edges began to be tipped with pink. The Japanese air-ship had reached a position a little to one side of that occupied by the 28th Regiment, when a tiny black speck was seen to leave it and to gain in size as it fell with increasing velocity. When it reached the ground a vivid red flame shot up. Tremendous clouds of smoke followed, mixed with dark objects, and the distant mountains resounded with loud peals of thunder which died away amid the angry rumblings in the gorges.

"That was a big bomb," said the captain, "and it seems to have done considerable mischief."

Now a little puff of white smoke issued from the American air-ship and ten seconds later an explosive body of some sort burst against a wall of rock.

"If they keep on like that they'll only hit our own men," said the lieutenant.

"The Jap is ascending," cried some one, and again all the field-glasses were directed towards the two ships.

Now both were seen to rise.

"The Japs are throwing down everything they've got in the way of explosives," cried the captain. A whole row of black spots came rushing down and again came the thunder caused by the bursting of several bombs one after the other.

The Jap went up rapidly and then crossed the path of the American balloon about two hundred yards above it.

Suddenly the yellow envelope of the American air-ship burst into flames, lost its shape and shrunk together, and the ship fell rapidly among the valleys to the left, looking like the skeleton of an umbrella that has been out in a gale of wind.

"All over," said the lieutenant with a sigh. "What a shame! We might just as well have done that ourselves."

High up in the blue ether hovered the Japanese air-ship; then it described a curve to the left, went straight ahead and then seemed suddenly to be swallowed up in the morning light. But soon it appeared again as a gray speck against the clear blue sky, and turning to the right once more, got bigger and bigger, came nearer, and finally steered back straight for the Blue Mountains. And then the thunder of cannon was heard from the right.

* * * * *

The assault on Hilgard, the center of the Japanese position in the broad valley of the Blue Mountains, had failed; two regiments had bled to death on the wire barricades outside the little town, and then all was over. It would be necessary to break up the enemy's position by flank movements from both sides before another attack on their center could be attempted. For two long days the artillery contest waged; then Longworth's division on our right wing gained a little ground, and when the sun sank to rest behind the Blue Mountains on August 14th, we had reason to be satisfied with our day's work, for we had succeeded, at a great sacrifice, it is true, in wresting from the enemy several important positions on the sides of the mountains.

Towards evening six fresh batteries were sent forward to the captured positions, whence they were to push on towards the left wing of the Japanese center the next morning. Telephone messages to headquarters from the front reported the mountain-pass leading to Walla Walla free from the enemy, so that a transport of ammunition could be sent that way in the evening to replenish the sadly diminished store for the decisive battle to be fought the next day.

While the newspapers all over the East were spreading the news of this first victory of the American arms, Lieutenant Esher was commanded by General Longworth to carry the orders for the next day to the officer in charge of the Tenth Brigade, which had taken up its position before the mountain-pass on the right wing. For safety's sake General Longworth had decided to send his orders by word of mouth, only giving instructions that the receipt of each message should be reported to headquarters by each detachment either by field-telegraph or telephone.

Lieutenant Esher, on his motor-cycle, passed an endless chain of ammunition wagons on his way. For a long time he could make only slow progress on account of the numerous ambulances and other vehicles which the temporary field-hospitals were beginning to send back from the front; but after a time the road gradually became clear.

The motor rattled on loudly through the silent night, which was disturbed only now and then by the echo of a shot. Here and there along the road a sentry challenged the solitary traveler, who gave the password and puffed on.

He had been informed that the quickest way to reach General Lawrence would be by way of the narrow mountain-path that turned off to the left of the road, which had now become absolutely impassable again on account of innumerable transports. It was a dangerous ride, for any moment the bicycle might smash into some unseen obstacle and topple over into the abyss on the right, into which stones and loose earth were continually falling as the cycle pushed them to one side.

Lieutenant Esher therefore got off his wheel and pushed it along. At the edge of a wood he stopped for a moment to study his map by the light of an electric pocket-lamp, when he heard a sharp call just above him. He could not quite make it out, but gave the password, and two shots rang out simultaneously close to him.—When Lieutenant Esher came to, he found a Japanese army doctor bending over him.

He had an uncertain feeling of having been carried over a rocky desert, and when he at last succeeded in collecting his thoughts, he came to the conclusion that he must have strayed from the path and run straight into the enemy's arms.

He tried to raise his head to see where he was, but a violent pain in his shoulder forced him to lie still. The noises all around made it clear to him, however, that he was among Japanese outposts. The doctor exchanged a few words with an officer who had just come up, but they spoke Japanese and Esher could not understand a word they said.

"Am I wounded?" he asked of the ambulance soldier beside him. The latter pointed to the doctor, who said, "You will soon be all right again."

"Where am I wounded?"

"In the right thigh," answered the doctor, sitting down on a stone near Esher. The doctor didn't seem to have much work to do.

The stinging pain in his right shoulder robbed Esher of his senses for a moment, but he soon came to again and remembered his orders to Lawrence's brigade. Thank God he had no written message on his person. As it was, the enemy had succeeded in capturing only a broken motor-cycle and a wounded, unimportant officer. The division staff would soon discover by telephoning that General Lawrence had not received his orders and then repeat the message.

Esher managed to turn his head, and watched the Japanese officer copying an order by the light of a bicycle lamp. The order had just been delivered by a mounted messenger, who sat immovable as a statue on his exhausted and panting steed.

Suddenly the Japanese cavalryman seemed to grow enormous bats' wings, which spread out until they obscured the whole sky. The ghostly figure resembled a wild creature of fable, born of the weird fancy of a Dore, or an avenging angel of the Apocalypse. Then the rider shrank together again and seemed to be bouncing up and down on the back of his horse like a little grinning monkey.

The wounded man rubbed his eyes. What was that? Was he awake or had he been dreaming?

He asked the ambulance soldier for a drink, and the latter at once handed him some water in a tin cup. Now a real Japanese cavalryman was once more sitting up there on his horse, while the officer was still writing. Then the officer's arm began to grow longer and longer, until at last he was writing on the sky with a fiery pencil:

"In case there is no Japanese attack on August 15th, the Tenth Brigade under General Lawrence is to retain its present positions until the attack of our center——"

Good Lord, what was that? Yes, those were the very words of the message he was to have delivered to the Tenth Brigade, and not only were the words identical, but the hand-writing was the same, for the flaming letters had burnt themselves into his memory stroke for stroke and word for word and line for line.

He tried to get up, but could not. The lieutenant kept on writing, while the horseman stood beside him. The horse was brushing off the flies with his tail.

Then the awful, maddening thought came to him: This must be the beginning of wound-fever. If it kept up and he began to get delirious, he might betray his orders for Lawrence's brigade to the enemy.

And he saw hundreds of Japanese standing around him, all stretching their necks to catch his words, and more and more came from over the mountain ridges like a swarm of ants, and they all wanted to hear the secrets that he was trying to keep in his aching head, while the officer waved his note-book over him like a fluttering flag. Then the doctor seized him, and arm in arm they hopped to and fro—to and fro—to and fro.

Yes, he was certainly delirious. Lieutenant Esher thought of his home. He saw his little house on 148th Street. He came home from business, he walked through the garden, hung up his coat on the rack, opened the door, his young wife welcomed him, she nodded to him—Eveline—groaned the lieutenant, and then his thoughts turned to God.

Then the writing officer again, the rider on his horse, and the dark night-sky, in which the stars were dancing like silver gnats. Collecting his whole willpower, he succeeded in getting into a sitting posture, and the Japanese soldier attending him awoke out of a doze only to find his revolver in the American's hands. But it was too late, for a shot resounded at the same moment. Lieutenant Esher had brought his weary brain to rest; his head toppled over and landed hard on the rocky ground.

Thus died a real hero, and those were hard times when men of stout heart and iron courage were sorely needed.

* * * * *

Opposite Hilgard, the center of the enemy's position in the Blue Mountains, trenches had been thrown up, and the 28th Militia Regiment had occupied them in the night of August 13th-14th. The Japanese were apparently not aware of their presence, as the regiment had taken no part in the fighting on the fourteenth. On the evening of the same day, the 32d Regiment was pushed forward to the same position, while the searchlights were playing over the plain and on the mountain sides, and dazzling the eyes of the sentries who were keeping a sharp lookout for the enemy from various ambushes. And whenever the beam of light landed on dark shadows, which jumped quickly aside, flames shot out on the opposite side and flashes of fire from bursting shrapnel drew trembling streaks across the sky and lighted up the immediate neighborhood.

The wires which connected the headquarters with all the sentries and outposts vibrated perpetually with the thoughts and commands of a single individual, who managed this whole apparatus from a little schoolroom in Baker City far behind the front, allowing himself scarcely a moment for much-needed night-rest.

The 28th Regiment had thrown up trenches the height of a man in the hard ground opposite the little town of Hilgard on the night of August 13th-14th. Now a company of pioneers was busy widening them and building stands for the troops where they would be safe from splinters, for it was highly probable that the assault on Hilgard would be undertaken from here on the following evening. The covering for these stands was made of thick boards and planks taken from a saw-mill near by, and over these the dug up earth was spread. The enemy's attention seemed to be directed elsewhere, for the reflections from the searchlights were continually crossing one another over to the right. In this direction music could be distinctly heard coming from Longworth's Division—a lively march waking the echoes of the night with its clear full tones.

Music? Those who were swearing at the stupidity of allowing the band to play in the very face of the enemy, did not know that the troops over there on their way to quarters had marched over forty miles that day, and that only the inspiring power of music could help the stumbling men to gather their remaining strength and press forward.

The cheerful melody of the old Scotch song,

"Gin a body, meet a body, Comin' thro' the rye,"

rang out in common time across the silent battle-field, fifes squeaking and drums rolling, while the silent searchlights continued flashing in the dark sky.

"Gin a body, meet a body, Comin' thro' the rye."

Meanwhile the picks and spades were kept going in the trenches of the 28th Regiment. The earth and stones flew with a rattle over the top of the breastworks, making them stronger and stronger, pioneers and infantry working side by side in the dark, hollow space. The battalion on guard kept strict watch in the direction of the enemy, continually expecting to see creeping figures suddenly pop up out of the darkness.

"Didn't you hear something, captain?" asked one of the men on watch.

"No, where?"

A curious purring sound like the whizzing of a small dynamo became audible.

Some one gave a low whistle, and the pioneers stopped work, and leaned on their spades. All the men listened intently, but no one could make out whence the strange sound came.

Suddenly some one spoke quite loudly and another voice replied. Up in the air—that's where it was! A black shadow swept across the sky. "An air-ship!" cried one of the men in the trench, and sure enough the whirring of the screw of a motor balloon could be distinctly heard. Bang—bang—bang, went a few shots into the air.

"Stop the fire!" called a commanding voice from above.

"Stop! It is our own balloon!"

"No, it's a Japanese one!"

Bang—bang, it went again. From the rear came the deep bass of a big gun and close by sounded the sharp bang—bang—bang of a little balloon-gun in the second trench. There was a burst of flame up in the air, followed by a hail of metal splinters. "Cut that out. You're shooting at us!" roared Captain Lange across to the battery.

"Stop firing!" came a quick order from there. A few cannon shots were heard coming from the rear.

Suddenly a bright light appeared up in the air and a white magnesium cluster descended slowly, lighting up all the trenches in a sudden blaze which made the pioneers look like ghosts peering over the black brink of the pits. Then the light went out, and the eyes trying in vain to pierce the darkness saw nothing but glittering fiery red circles. The Japanese batteries on the other side opened fire. The air-ship had entirely disappeared, and no one knew whether the uncanny night-bird had been friend or foe.

* * * * *

The assault on Hilgard was to be begun by the 28th and 32d Volunteers: General MacArthur had originally planned to have the attempt made at dawn on August 15th; but as one brigade of Wood's Division had not yet arrived, he postponed the attack for twenty-four hours, to the sixteenth of August, while the fifteenth was to be taken up with heavy firing on the enemy's position, which seemed to have been somewhat weakened. As soon, therefore, as day broke, the Americans opened fire, and all the time that almost sixty American guns were bombarding Hilgard and sending shell after shell over the town, and the white flakes of cotton from the bursting shrapnels hovered over the houses and almost obscured the view of the mountains and the shells tore up the ground, sowing iron seed in the furrows, the 28th and 32d Volunteers lay in the trenches without firing a single shot.

The commander of the 16th Brigade, to which the two regiments belonged, was in the first trench during the morning, and, in company with Colonel Katterfeld, inspected the results of the bombardment through his telescope, which had been set up in the trench. A shrapnel had just destroyed the top of the copper church tower, which the Japanese were using as a lookout.

Although the American shells had already created a great deal of havoc in Hilgard, the walls of the houses offered considerable resistance to the hail of bullets from the shrapnels. The brigadier-general therefore sent orders to the battery stationed behind and to the right of the trenches to shell the houses on both sides of the street leading into Hilgard.

"Shell the houses on both sides of the street leading into Hilgard! Shell the houses on both sides of the street leading into Hilgard—Shell—Hilgard," was the command which was passed along from mouth to mouth through the trenches, until it reached the battery amid the roar of battle.