AFTER THE BATTLE.
The battle was over, and in the courtyard of a Manchurian house sat
victor and vanquished. It was a strange and moving picture, such as
Verestchagin might have painted. In the dark quadrangle flickered
the embers of a wood fire, and around it were seated a prince and a
soldier and his captives. The flame threw into relief the face of the
soldier--a strong, clear-cut face--European rather than Oriental, over
which a smile came readily. Between the firm-set lips glowed the red
end of a cigar, without which General Kuroki is seldom seen. He sat at
his ease, with cap pushed well over his forehead, and slippered feet
crossed. The prince at his side was in full uniform, correct in every
detail from spurs to sabretache, and his dark, immobile features wore
an expression of intense solemnity. In the front of these two on the
other side of the fire were seated three Russian officers--tall blonde
men of Teutonic type, with fierce moustache, and the air of soldiers
who know how to face death. They smoked and drank, and talked like
comrades who had fought side by side and were telling to friendly
ears the story of the passage of the Yalu. One of them--the fiercest
of all--had taken the cigarette from his lips and paused with glass in
hand to speak.
“_Complêtement detruit_,” were the words he said.
Around the circle of illuminated faces stood a group of soldiers in
dark blue uniform. Some had rifles, that showed them to be the guard,
but most of them had the intent look of men gazing at a spectacle that
held thought in suspense. In the background, moving like shadows in
the night, were armed men, whose faces bore the marks of exposure and
fatigue. One little group stood near the low wall of a house examining
the long line of Russian rifles that rested against the building.
The stock of one had the deep dark stain of blood; the bayonet point
of another was bent and broken, and the hands that gripped them that
morning doubtless lay cold and stiff on the hills beyond. Officers came
and went with lighted candles in their hands, leaving the darkness more
intense as they passed hurriedly into houses that hummed like hives
with the sound of voice and footfall.
Into this ever-changing throng came presently two battle-stained
soldiers bearing a wounded man, with another limping by his side. They
laid their groaning burden on the ground, and a figure stirred under
the red blanket. The hand of the wounded soldier rested on his breast
where the shirt was crimson.
“_Meine liebe_,” were the whispered words from white dry lips.
He was thinking of the dear ones at home on the far-away German
frontier, and the tongue of his fireside came back to him. We raised
his head, and put water to his parched and feverish lips, and the
soldier sank back upon his bier muttering the prayer that is the common
heritage of Christendom: “_Unser Vater._” God grant his prayer
passed upward with his soul.
[Illustration: On the Line of Retreat.]
Not a word did the Japanese soldiers understand, but wounds and death
have a tongue that speaks to humanity, if not to men, and that the
Japanese understand as well as any nation in the world. No woman could
have been more gentle than the dark visaged warriors who motioned to
the limping survivor of the fight to rest upon the ground. There he
reclined, like an automoton, smoking the cigarette put into his hand,
and uttering not a sound--the weary and hopeless figure of the soldier
who has fought and lost.
While we looked pitifully on this picture of war the scene around the
fire had changed. The Russian officers had risen and saluted their
captors, and had passed with their armed escort into the darkness.
Another circle had taken their place. Prone upon the ground lay the
body of a man, naked to the waist, and over him bent the surgeon, whose
skilful hand staunched the red blood that welled from a gaping wound in
the breast.
The flickering light fell upon the white skin, and upon the crimson
stain, and upon the drawn face. This is the realism of war--not its
romance--as the heights about the Yalu testified that day.
How I came upon this scene is a story that I tell only because of
certain incidents that illustrate some of the phases of a battle. When
the fight ended, General Kuroki and his staff moved to the Conical
Hill, East of Chiu-lien-cheng, and despatched the reserves in pursuit
of the enemy. They then advanced to the village where Head Quarters
were established for the night. Meanwhile we had returned to our camp,
two miles South of Wiju, and awaited orders. None came, and it was
necessary to find Head Quarters in order to have our messages censored.
Three miles from camp we came to the river, over which an unbroken line
of carts and horses and men was passing. The bridge was flimsy to look
upon, and shook under our horses feet, yet it had served the purpose of
an army, and was now bearing the burden of heavy transport. The stream
of stores and munitions of war rolled onward unceasingly with the dull
roar of the ocean. By devious paths we approached the second affluent
of the Yalu, and crossed over a pontoon bridge under which the current
raced like a mill stream, keeping men busy with ropes and stanchions to
prevent the boats from changing position in the line. Thus we landed on
the second island--a plain of sand and scrub--the extent of which gave
us our first true idea of the front across which the Japanese had to
pass before they approached the hills beyond. Our only guide was the
field wire, which rested now on the branch of a tree, now on a bare
stick with a beer bottle for insulator, and now on the ground. In due
time we came to the main stream of the Yalu, and crossed over to the
Northern delta formed by the Ai-ho, which flows from the Ever White
Mountain and joins the Yalu at Chiu-lien-cheng. The pontoon groaned
under the weight of hurrying transport, as heavily laden carts, pack
animals and coolies in the white dress of Korea hastened in the wake
of the army. In the middle of the plain crouched Tiger Hill, like a
huge beast of prey resting in the desert. From Wiju the hill is the
outline of a tiger with his head to the East and his tail to the West.
The reverse slope has no such shape; it is a range of mountains in
miniature with broad flat summits and gentle inclines--a fortress in
the plain giving command of the hill.
[Illustration: The Day after the Retreat.]
Riding across the level country we drew near to the hills on the North,
and began to realise better the task that the Japanese had performed so
brilliantly. Near Chiu-lien-cheng the hills descend to a sandy flat,
through which runs the river Ai, which the soldiers forded up to their
necks. We passed over at a shallower place where coolies were wading
through three feet of water, and animals were rolling over with their
packs. Here the river approaches very close to the foothills, but makes
a bold sweep as it draws near to Chiu-lien-cheng. In this arc of a
sandy circle we happened upon the field hospital. Around the white bell
tent, over which floated the Red Cross, were gathered the wounded and
the dying. Upon the ground lay an officer shot through the chest; there
was blood also on his brow; his hands moved convulsively, and in his
eyes was the look of death.
The work of saving the living was too urgent to spare precious moments
upon those for whom there could be no hope, and the soldier calmly
awaited release from suffering. Stretched upon the dissecting table
was another officer with blond beard and blue eyes. The surgeon was
dressing a wound in the thigh, while Colonel Hagino lighted a cigarette
for the patient. The operating room of a London hospital could not
have been more orderly or more clean than this field hospital to which
wounded Japanese and Russians were borne upon stretchers. It was,
however, a scene on which I did not care to dwell and I rode onward to
Chiu-lien-cheng. Passing the base of the Conical Hill where the Russian
guns fought so bravely on the previous day, and where the Russian
General was mortally wounded, I came to the foot of the pass through
which the enemy had retreated. Here along the base and slopes were
the Russian sungars--very primitive in construction and affording no
protection whatever against shell fire.
Chiu-lien-cheng is a very small village which owes its existence to its
position on the Imperial Pekin Road. It consists of little more than a
street of houses with stone walls and tiled roofs, yet you no sooner
enter it from Korea than you breathe a cleaner and a freer atmosphere.
The filth and lethargy of Korea are most oppressive, and after a few
weeks experience of the people and their dwellings even China is a
white man’s Paradise.
[Illustration: Abandoned Russian Field Kitchen.]
It was dark when we turned our backs upon Chiu-lien-cheng and set out
for camp. The distance by way of the pontoons was ten miles, whereas it
was little more than five if we crossed the islands direct. We decided
to take the short cut, believing that the rivers in our line of march
had been pontooned for the artillery that passed us on the way. At
the first stream we found no bridge, but were directed to a ford by a
soldier who kept watch by the bivouac fire on the bank of the river.
For a hundred yards or so the water was shallow enough, but it grew
deeper and deeper, until two of our horses were swimming and another
was struggling on the edge of quicksand. There was nothing for it save
to turn back and seek the aid of pontoon boats in which guns and horses
were being transported. As we rode along the bank our horses shied at
several dark objects on the sand. They were dead soldiers, who lay as
they had fallen in the fight of that morning.
The boats took us to the other side, and we felt that our troubles
were over. They had, however, only begun, for at the main stream,
which is several feet in depth, and four hundred yards wide, there
was no pontoon, and the boats were carrying soldiers. It looked as if
we must retrace our steps or remain on the island all night. Long and
diligent search was made for an officer who would give us authority
to commandeer a boat, but none could be found. For an hour or more
we stood helpless in the shadow of the temple, where a sergeant was
sorting official papers by the feeble light of a Chinese lantern.
At last we determined to take a boat and row ourselves across. Our
craft was made of two pontoon boats held together by a platform that
gave room for four horses, and was propelled by heavy sculls. In due
time, and without great difficulty, we landed half our party on the
south island, and some rode away, leaving others to return for their
comrades. I remained to take charge of the horses, and was looking
anxiously over the dark river when two soldiers approached very
cautiously, and with their rifles ready. Halting about twenty paces
distant they spoke, but what they said I could not understand.
“_Akokojin_,” I replied. “Englishman.” Whereupon they came up and
went through a little pantomime, which I have no doubt was intended to
convince me that I had come very near being shot for a Cossack. With a
soldier for guide we reached at last the bridge that spanned the south
stream, and at four o’clock in the morning were in camp. It had taken
twelve hours to get those messages censored, and they had still to
be carried hundreds of miles on foot through Korea before they could
arrive at a telegraph office.