War
Just before sundown on Saturday, February 5, I entered Mukden by the
south gate, in a covered Peking cart drawn by three tired mules. That
day I had travelled over forty miles across country, arriving by way
of Ma-tsian-tsia, and it was my intention to remain in the city over
Sunday and continue my journey towards Kirin as early in the week as
circumstances allowed. I put up at the Russian guest-house--a dreary,
dirty building. That same evening, tired though I was by the constant
jolting of the springless vehicles in which I had been lying, sitting,
squatting and tumbling--mostly tumbling--for fourteen consecutive
hours, I started out to make inquiries as to the Russian troops
quartered there and their exact location. I learned also that Mr.
Bennet Burleigh and other war correspondents had been in the town very
recently.
I noticed that the Sikh watchmen--and there were many of them in
Mukden--invariably saluted me, although they never acknowledged any of
the Russian civilians. As I was wearing Russian clothes, from fur cap
to high boots and overshoes, and had on me enough Russian leather to
proclaim my presence for half a _li_ around, the Englishman must have
been sticking out of me very prominently somewhere, or the Sikhs have a
special faculty for recognizing people of the only race for which they
have any regard.
That same evening the news of the departure of the Russian and Japanese
Ministers had been sent to Manchuria, but no one in Mukden knew of it.
The only news current of the world’s affairs was derived from Harbin
and Port Arthur journals, neither of them well informed and both two
days old by the time they reached Mukden.
The next morning I was astir early. I went through and round the
town, interviewed British, American and foreign missionaries, all
of whom, though they thought war probable, did not believe it to be
imminent. Some had been warned by their consuls to send the women and
children into China, and to be prepared for an outbreak of hostilities
themselves. The news promulgated from the Russo-Chinese Bank was of a
reassuring character: war, if war there should be, was still apparently
for future months.
In the afternoon I visited the Russian settlement and the railway
station, and saw the south-bound train pass through. On board there
was a Japanese tradesman with his wife and family. That was the only
disquieting indication I observed. Less than a fortnight before, when
in Port Arthur, I recognized that the Japanese merchants were selling
off their stocks at reduced prices and leaving the port--but there
seemed no immediate hurry. This fresh evidence of the continuous
withdrawal of the trading Japanese from Manchuria aroused my
suspicions, and caused me to doubt whether it were wise just then to
travel into the wilds of north-eastern Manchuria, where I should be cut
off from all news for days and possibly weeks together, and leave Port
Arthur uncovered, for I knew that no other _Times_ correspondent was
likely to be there for some time.
The evening I spent with one of the European staff of Messrs. Bush
Brothers, of Newchwang, who was in Mukden on business, and would leave
on the morrow. We had the usual Chinese dinner of chopped chicken and
rice, sharks’ fins, sea-snails, giblets, frogs’ chitterlings, bean
sprouts, sugar cane and monkey nuts. We talked of the probability
of war, and of the Chinese of Fengtien province, who--according to
my informant, and he of all men was most likely to know--showed no
apprehension of war commencing at an early date, and were concerned
chiefly with local happenings, such as Hunghus raids and highway
robberies, the usual concomitants of commerce in that neighbourhood.
He said nothing to alarm me, but before I reached my inn I had resolved
to start on the morrow for Port Arthur instead of going in the directly
opposite direction towards Kirin, as I had been ordered to do.
Next morning I sought everywhere for evidence which would be enough to
convince any one that I was warranted in adopting the course I intended
to pursue, but I found nothing. On Monday no news of a disquieting
nature reached Mukden; there were no indications that the usual course
of things would not continue always. The little world of Mukden, with
its swarming population, its Russian Commissary and executive, its
Tartar General and Russian garrison, was totally absorbed with its
local affairs. There was no moving of troops, no indication of change.
I took the post-train south. On board were a missionary and his family
returning to England at the end of his term; another missionary and his
wife from the south on a social visit to Newchwang; the usual Russian
officers and Russian immigrants; the wives and children of Russian
officers stationed at Port Arthur, going thither to take up their
residence; a sprinkling of adventurers; some local European and Chinese
travellers, and two Japanese families on their way back to their own
country. The passengers were such as one expected to meet, the same
classes as had been represented on every post-train south for weeks
past, and the train, like all trains in Manchuria, was crowded. Some
were bound for Newchwang, more for Dalny, but most, as myself, were
going through to Port Arthur.
About midnight all the British travellers but myself left the train
at Tashichiao. The train rolled on slowly through the darkness; the
Cossacks patrolled the line, the riflemen guards played cards; the
soldiers and gendarmes at the small stations talked with the conductors
and brakesmen; the passengers slept. War had already begun at Port
Arthur, but none of us knew.
I was early astir, and at the first stop got off to take tea. The train
was late--we had lost hours during the night. The day broke cold and
clear. There was a brisk, biting wind, which now and again drove clouds
of dust before it. First to the right, then to the left, then to the
right again, the blue sea could be seen beyond the white fringe of ice
which clung about the coast.
The train was late and I sought the cause. It was of little use asking
an official, for Russian officials invariably say they know nothing,
and as often as not they are right. There is a somewhat true story
told of me in Manchuria, to the effect that one morning when I was
standing on a railway platform, a traveller asked the station-master
if that day there was an express train to Harbin, and he replied in
the negative. Whereupon I interrupted, “Excuse me, but there is, and
here it comes.” Then the express drew up at the station. As a matter
of fact, as soon as I got into Manchuria, I secured a station-master’s
time-table of _all_ the trains running over the Eastern Chinese
Railway. This gave the days and the time of all arrivals and
departures; showed, not only the passenger service, but the connexions
of military, freight and construction trains. It was easily understood
by any one who could use a _Bradshaw_. From an American passenger who
had come from Newchwang and joined the train at Tashichiao, I learned
how much we were behind time there; from the brakesman I ascertained
that there had not been a breakdown; there was nothing so severe in the
weather that the train could have been delayed through its inclemency,
consequently a freight train out of Port Arthur was the most probable
cause of our slow running.
Of course, the freight train might have been delayed by one of hundreds
of causes other than war, but it was of war, and war alone, that I
was apprehensive. The American, who but on Monday evening had left
Newchwang, where telegraphic news is received without intermission,
informed me that there was no change in the political situation, but
that he was sure there would not be war, because the Japanese were not
ready, and the Russians did not want more trouble--there would be peace
for years.
At the next station my suspicions were increased, for on the door of
the booking office was a written notice stating that telegrams could
not be accepted for transmission. The reason for this order was not
stated. If it were due to the cutting of the wires by the enemy, war
was meant--but it was improbable that the wires would have been cut
both north and south of that station, and the same reason applied if
there had been an accidental breakdown on the lines of communication.
Moreover, the trains were running, and they are run on a telegraphic
check system, so this proved that the wires were intact. It was clearly
only a peremptory discontinuance of a public service, and due either to
war, or to some calamity or occurrence which had necessitated the use
of the public, the railway and the government wires for State messages.
I felt as certain that a state of war existed as I should have done
had I heard the rifle bullets whizzing over my head and the booming of
distant artillery.
The irony of the position was that although I was confident hostilities
had commenced, I was precluded by the very order which had given me the
news from sending out any information by telegram, and there was no
train north until our own returned from Port Arthur.
My theory was confirmed soon afterwards by seeing a Russian military
officer receive a telegram at the railway station. At Nangalin junction
I should have to change trains, and, pre-supposing that a state of war
already existed in the fortress of Port Arthur, it was unlikely that
I should be allowed to continue my journey there if recognized as a
foreigner, so I kept as much as possible to my compartment. But I need
not have had any fear on that point. The news itself so astonished
the officials, both railway and military, that they failed to act,
and merely performed their routine work in a perfunctory manner.
They neither thought nor realized in what way the outbreak of war
affected the train and its passengers. Without definite instructions
from some high authority, they would not act in any way different to
their ordinary mode. No one took notice of anybody; women with babies,
children, Japanese, were neither informed that war had begun, nor
warned to remain outside the sphere of military operations, and all,
at their ease and unsuspecting, ran right into the fortress during the
bombardment.
My first verbal confirmation of the news I received from one of the
Riflemen. Our carriage, like those of all the through trains on the
Eastern Chinese Railway was constructed of armour-plate, and the
internal fittings were so arranged that at short notice they could
be differently fixed in order to convert the train into practically a
covered and protected moving rifle-trench. The officer who had received
the telegram was closeted with four others in one of the compartments,
and suddenly came out, stared at the two Japanese at the other end of
the corridor, shook his clenched fist at them, then went in, grasped
hands with his brother officers, all talking very rapidly and together.
A Rifleman came, hoping to borrow a light for his cigarette, but they
had retired and drawn the door close. I tendered him a box of matches
and asked him if there was any news. He informed me _sotto voce_ that
his captain had received a telegram to the effect that the Japanese had
attacked the Russian fleet that morning, that three ships were struck
by torpedoes and that one was already sunk. More he did not know.
Outside patches of snow covered the red-brown hills, and ice clung
to the rugged sides of the gullies through which tiny streams still
trickled. Slowly, very slowly, the train rolled into the station at
Inchentze, and there waited long, but no one alighted, no one spoke
of war, none who knew of it wished to turn back. Then the train
started, crawling along the few versts of valley to the port, and
everywhere watched--but without particular interest--by the Cossack
sentries patrolling the track. At last the outskirts of the town came
into view, to disappear again behind Signal Hill, and the passengers
commenced to get their packages together as the train wound its way to
the terminus on the harbour brink.
As we bustled about the corridor, reaching down bundles, and passing
along bags to their owners, I overheard part of the conversation of the
army officers: “It is war now;” “I’m glad of it;” “_Da_, I also,--we
shall show them;” “They will be sorry;” “Certainly--they must be mad.”
It was indeed a relief from the uncertainty that had prevailed for
months. There was now a clear course open; no doubt as to the issue.
But it was only a brief respite, the uncertainty of peace was soon
succeeded by the more dreadful and paralyzing uncertainty as to which
side would emerge victors after the conflict.
At the terminus a deathly stillness reigned in place of the usual
clamour and turmoil which accompanied the arrival of the post-train.
Slowly, more slowly than customary if that be possible, the train
rolled to its point. The place was deserted. Not an official was to be
seen. There were no carriages in waiting, no jinrickshas, not a porter,
a gendarme, a policeman--not even a coolie! Far, far away behind, up at
the cross-points, a solitary soldier stood sentinel with bayonet fixed,
hugging himself in his great-coat and turning his back to the cold
wind.
I hauled my baggage on to the platform. The American was the only
passenger who followed me, the others stood huddled in the vestibules
not knowing what to do, scarcely daring to move, and the army officers
called half-heartedly for assistance. I went into the empty shelter,
and crossed to the deserted station-buildings and buffet. Not a
man, woman or child could I see. Then I went into the quarry, where
a station site is being excavated, and from a cleft drew a Chinese
_gamin_ of the coolie class; making him shoulder my bags and walk
before me, I wended my way into the town.
I have no recollection of passing or meeting any one _en route_. The
road was deserted, so too were the quays, the steps to the railway
buildings and the terraces on the cliffs. As we proceeded I heard the
booming of guns and bursting of shells.
In the harbour some of the warships were snugly moored, a number of
torpedo-boat destroyers lay alongside the wharves on the Tiger’s
Tail. In the entrance to the harbour I saw the _Retvizan_, nose down
and heeling over; the _Tesarevich_, with tugs and launches fussing
round her, all down by the stern and with a heavy list to starboard,
another vessel lay farther out in the narrows, and right away at sea,
just discernible as specks near the horizon were the warships of the
enemy’s fleet bombarding Port Arthur. The many _sampans_ and other
small craft which ordinarily plied from shore to shore were absent and
the port seemed almost as lifeless as the town.
The busy wharves under the terraces were deserted but for the Sikhs
watching the immense stores of _vodka_ and other provisions. The
Field Telegraph Office on the Bund was wrecked and the Bund looked
as lonesome as other parts of the town, the only human creatures in
evidence being the Sikhs before Ginsburg’s offices and the premises
of the Russo-Chinese bank. I turned up the Pushkinskaya, passing the
unoccupied premises of the _Novy Krai_, and it was not until I reached
the post office that the first group of people appeared--they stood
talking nervously, and looking first one way and then the other, as
though shells might take the direction of vehicular traffic along the
streets. Of carriages, jinrickshas, carts, Chinese, and troops I saw no
sign whatever.
Turning into Efimoff’s I found everything in confusion. Neither
proprietor nor manager was to be found; the cook had disappeared,
the two Chinese boys remaining were too scared to answer a question.
Ascertaining myself from the register that the inn was full, I went
along the Artilleriskaya to Nikobadze’s, where the confusion was
even worse than at the other inn. Leaving the boy to take care of my
baggage, I went farther into the town in search of quarters. Everywhere
the people were hurrying--for the most part in directions away from the
harbour and town. In the Strielkova I had noticed an inn which had been
newly painted, so presumably was less dirty than any of the many second
and third rate hostels in the old town. It was closed, and I knocked
loudly and long before any one opened. I learned at length that there
was a room vacant, and that the house belonged to a soldier, a young
non-commissioned officer in an infantry regiment. Having established
myself and belongings there I went out to see what was happening, and
to find out how I could get messages out of the town, now that the
telegraph was closed to us.
Arriving at the Bund I saw some of the havoc already wrought by the
bursting shells. Goods had been hurled hither and thither by the force
of the explosions; the double glass windows of the buildings along the
water-front had scarcely a whole pane remaining. On the Bund near the
water-edge a shell had burrowed a hole large enough to hold an omnibus
and team, the gravel and earth had been scattered everywhere and mixed
with a heap of coal dust being discharged from lighters. Walls were
down here, the plastering from house sides there, and in the garden of
a house built on a terrace cut into the hill side a spent 13-inch live
shell had dropped and was now guarded by a sentry. The shells had all
been directed from the maximum range at the ships in the harbour. Some
had struck the parapet below Golden Hill fort, but most had dropped in
or near the harbour. The maximum lateral deviation--that is from north
to south--was less than fifty yards, and the elevation was good. It was
in fact excellent shooting considering that the range was never less
than eight, and sometimes over twelve miles. Very few shells failed
to explode, some fell innocuously in the deep water of the harbour.
Two of the last fired burst right amongst the merchant shipping and
caused great consternation, and some slight injuries to those on board
the steamers at anchor. The bombardment which commenced about an hour
before noon, lasted scarcely two hours, and was slack after mid-day.
In this bombardment the townspeople, but not the naval authorities,
were taken by surprise. About 8 a.m. the enemy’s squadron was sighted
to the south-east of Liaotishan, and reported. Vice-Admiral Stark’s
flag-ship, the _Petropavlovsk_, the _Poltava_, the _Sevastopol_, and
the _Peresviet_, the flag-ship of Rear-Admiral Prince Ukhtomsky, with a
number of cruisers, were under steam. The cruiser _Boyarin_ went out
to scout, and at about 10.30 a.m. returned to report having sighted the
enemy approaching, and shortly afterwards a fleet of twelve sail were
descried on the horizon. A few minutes later the enemy opened fire from
12- and 13-inch guns. The Russian fleet thereupon formed into parallel
lines, the cruiser _Askold_ leading one south towards Liaotishan and
the _Boyarin_, the other north towards the Lutin point.
I cannot state that the glimpse I had of the naval battle impressed me
deeply. As a matter of fact it did not come up to my expectations, and
in appearance was less effective and less theatrical than some naval
manœuvres I have seen. Upon the vessels engaged it must have been much
more exciting, particularly to those on ships which were made the aim
of the enemy’s fire. I doubt very much whether the conditions on board
a battleship are either so terrible, or so dangerous, as imaginative
writers have pictured them. A modern warship, anything of a class
superior to a small cruiser, is not to be sunk by a single shot, and
though she may sink as the result of a torpedo attack, yet she will
not sink immediately. If the shell fire is very hot, then indeed some
alarm may be felt, but there are so many places of comparative safety
on board an armoured vessel, and the result of one bursting shell is
so local in its effect, that not only can the majority of the crew be
kept unharmed through a long fight, but a well fought ship will last
long after she has been struck before she is put out of action by the
aggregation of damages sustained. In one instance only during the war
has a shell struck a vulnerable part; that was when a shell entered
between the sides and the cover of a conning tower. The Russian forts
opened fire on the enemy’s fleet, the chief part being taken by the
Golden Hill fort, and by the Electric battery on the crag below it. The
firing was from 10-inch guns, and fell short, and was watched by the
Viceroy from Golden Hill.
The fleets approached each other, the distance varying from six to as
close as three miles, and the Japanese in turning again to the south
were engaged by the cruisers _Askold_, _Novik_ and _Diana_, who, it was
stated, inflicted some injury on the enemy and themselves sustained
some slight damage. The Japanese, having made a reconnaissance in
force, to ascertain the result of the torpedo-boat attack which had
been made in the darkness, again headed south and disappeared behind
the Liaotishan peninsula.
The Russian official account of the losses was: on the fleet--Killed,
21 men; wounded, 4 officers, 97 men; on the forts--killed, 1 man; 1
man severely and 3 men slightly wounded. The losses from the torpedo
attack were announced as: killed, 2; drowned, 5; wounded, 8--in all
only 142 casualties for three engagements.
The immediate effect of the firing upon the town was general
consternation. At first, when the enemy was approaching and their fire
was directed upon the ships outside, some of the inhabitants went up
on to Signal Hill to have a better view of the latter. A party of
ladies and gentlemen gathered on the terrace before the Mayor’s house
for the same purpose. A shell fell immediately below that terrace and
scattered the party. One little company of foreigners on Signal Hill
was also dispersed by a shell which burst within a quarter of a mile
of them. Two Americans made for the nearest hollow, where one, to use
his phrase, “was sick to death;” a third ran, and ran, until, hatless
and breathless, he was stopped by a sentry miles from the water-front
and taken to the guard house and detained, until some of his friends
promised to take care of him.
Doubtless the first effect of shell fire upon a civilian population is
terrorizing in the extreme, and especially is this the case when it
is unexpected. Imagine yourself looking at a fire-work display from
the terrace of the Crystal Palace; you hear, as it were, the _shhh!_
of an enormous rocket; there is a blaze of light, a bang, a clatter,
a deafening noise such as would be caused by the instant and entire
collapse of the immense iron and glass buildings behind you. For a
moment you are dazed; then you feel that as if by a miracle you had
escaped instant annihilation; you hear a roar as of a near clap of
thunder, see a slight cloud of yellowish smoke, and are sufficiently
recovered to know that a shell has burst, and able to look for the
effects of the explosion.
Individual experiences vary greatly. Personally I was merely excited by
the first series of bursting shells, but then I was elated at finding
myself in the midst of the fighting instead of being jolted in a Peking
cart over desolate country in North Manchuria, where easily I might
have been. As each successive shell burst I felt more and more glad; I
grew bigger and bigger, and walked on air. As for the danger and the
risk--no thought of either even occurred to me. I was seeing a fight,
seeing as much of it as I could, and wanting badly to see more. I think
I would willingly have changed a pair of legs for an extra pair of
eyes just then. That feeling of general elation was long in passing,
it lasted hours after the last shell had been fired; it never recurred
with the same intensity. Subsequently the roar of cannon, the noise and
nearness of approaching battle failed to rouse me--the din became a
nuisance, especially when it disturbed my slumber, and the trouble of
hunting for views of the fighting even grew irksome.
On the whole I think the few English people in Port Arthur were less
visibly excited by the bombardment than were the people of other
nationalities. The Americans were less phlegmatic; some were just
bundles of nerves, others as ready to go off as a handful of fireworks.
I remember one, the manager of a large business, coming into the office
with a rush, his tie flying, his hat half-off and his hands wildly
waving, “Boys, I’m off! I shan’t stand for this! Take my sticks, divide
them as you like. I’m going!”--and he went, that was the last the
office and staff saw of their manager.
Whilst the firing was on men ran anywhere for shelter. The business
centre of the town was quite forsaken, and it was not until hours
later that people congregated in small groups to recount their own
experiences, compare impressions, and discuss plans. That same evening
saw the first rush for the railway station, and crowding to the
passenger steamers in the harbour. The hurried exodus of all classes
continued without intermission for days.
Loss of life and limb was not much in evidence. A few civilians were
taken to the hospital in carriages; more were seen with bleeding faces
resulting from broken glass and scoriation from the earth scattered
by the shells which struck the Bund and the rocks. It was late in the
afternoon before the lines of stretcher bearers made their appearance
conveying the wounded from the port to the lazaret, and that night
the harbour, forts, and town were in total darkness. Not the glimmer
of a light through the shutters was permitted, not the smallest,
dullest lantern in the streets. That night there was no performance
at the circus, no public at the music-halls, and no house parties for
pleasure. Even the Saratoff closed before the usual hour for supper.
Port Arthur had then been frightened into realizing the seriousness of
war.