FOR two days the fleet carrying the flags of four foreign nations had
bombarded Mori’s intrenchments on the heights of Shimonoseki. Towards
the evening of the second day, Mori cast up the results.
Guns dismounted by the foreign fire lay in heaps of débris, the dead and
the wounded impeded the steps of the living, and fully half of the guns
were out of action. Yet steadily and fiercely the foreign vessels,
sweeping across the fort’s line of fire in a wide circle, one by one
emptied their guns into the fortress. Only a third of the garrison now
remained to Mori.
Again the Prince drew from his breast Jiro’s brief letter, sent to him
by Oguri, in charge of the Choshui fortress, whither it had gone from
Kioto.
“My lord,” wrote Jiro, “your honorable family, together with the two
cadet families of Nagate and Suwo, has been stripped of all its titles.
An order has been issued for every loyal clan to march against you in
your southern stronghold. They are sending a vast army against you. Be
warned. It has already departed for your province. Yet a little cheer—a
small light appears to me. The Shogun’s troops, my lord, are garbed in
Japanese fighting attire. They are, moreover, far from being a united or
happy body of men. There is sore dissatisfaction and unrest among them.
Many dislike the prospect of the long journey to your province, many are
secretly opposed to the chastisement, many Kioto men are entirely unfit
for service. If you will permit your insignificant vassal to suggest, I
would remark that it will be well for your highness now to avail
yourself of your many years of labor in the perfection of the training
of your troops in the arts of Western warfare. When the shogunate troops
finally reach the south, take advantage of their weakness.”
It was the month following Mori’s disastrous expedition to Kioto, and
the letter was now many days old. As Mori bent his head in restoring the
letter to its place, a dull impact shook the fortress. A shell from a
heavy foreign gun, striking the long cannon erected by the youth Jiro at
the previous bombardment, bursting, rolled the bronze tube from the
carriage and swept it into a little knot of pioneers, crushing and
killing the majority of them outright.
A bitter smile, torn from the heart of the commander, curled his lips.
“Having defied the ‘civilized’ world, I little fear the shogunate,” he
said; “and yet I cannot spend more time here. Our guns are dismantled.
That is an omen for retreat. It was Jiro’s gun, and here is Jiro’s
letter.”
Summoning his officers, the Prince gave the order to evacuate the works.
Horses were attached to such of the guns as were worth saving. Then,
with these in the rear, the remnant of the Shimonoseki garrison began
the march to the Choshui fortress.
Upon rejoining his chief in the latter’s private apartment, Oguri had
news to impart.
“It is a strange army, truly,” he said, “that the Shogun has sent
against us. They are encamped near the highway, a good day’s journey
north of us.”
“A strange army, you say?” inquired Mori, mindful of Jiro’s letter.
“Ay. Though all the clans were ordered to march against us, but few have
done so, and they are sick, silly fellows, growling at having to leave
the court and its pleasures.”
“How are they armed? With rifles?”
“Some.”
“Artillery?”
“The pieces taken from us in Kioto.”
Mori was lost in reflection for some moments. Then:
“Let all retire to rest at once.”
It was the middle of the afternoon.
Mori added, without pausing to explain to his puzzled chief lieutenant
the reason of his strange order: “At dusk report to me.”
However large an army the Shogun might have sent against the men of
Choshui, the fortress defenders with its attendant army went to their
unaccustomed rest without the slightest fear. The fortress might now
well be considered impregnable. In addition to its regular defensive
works, constructed immediately upon the return of Mori from his
melancholy wedding-day, there were now a deep moat of great width
constructed about the whole region of the fortress, gun-factories, and
the works built by the Prince of Satsuma.
All that afternoon the army of Mori slept. The first hour of darkness
saw a departure from the fortress. First rode six companies of horsemen,
from whose body scouts were thrown out. Next marched two thousand
infantry, all with rifles. They wore no heavy armor, and as their
company commanders gave their orders, their tactics were seen to be
modelled upon European forms. Finally, in the rear lumbered sixty
field-pieces. Oguri rode with the cavalry, directing the route of the
army. Close behind him was Toro, who, since the affair of Kioto, was on
intimate terms of good-fellowship with the chief lieutenant.
Mori, attended at a distance by his staff, rode in the centre of the
infantry division. The entire direction of the current routine he left
to his subordinates, riding moodily apart from all. The men marched with
firm and light step. On their own soil they were more assured and
hopeful of the issue.
“Oguri,” asked Toro, as in perfect quiet they advanced with their
cavalry—“Oguri, how may I atone for Kioto?”
“By following my orders closely,” answered the serious Oguri. “You, with
the cavalry, are upon no account to charge before cannonading begins.”
“I swear by the god of war I will not,” promised Toro.
“You must move to the west at least four miles, throwing out your scouts
regularly.”
“I will. Only give me the chance. Was not I responsible for the failure
at Kioto?” said Toro, his face quivering in spite of himself.
“Yes and no,” said Oguri; “but, at all events, his highness has not held
it against you. He told me that after-events justified you, since the
enemy had artillery at your gate.”
“But he allowed me no chance to explain that I ordered the pioneers back
when I heard their artillery being brought up. I wanted to check them at
once.”
“The Prince has nothing but affection for you,” said Oguri.
“Ah!” cried Toro, in delight.
The other smiled, half paternally, half reprovingly, at the enthusiasm
of youth.
“But you must restrain yourself during the first half of your manœuvre,”
said the chief lieutenant; “during the latter part you may give free
rein to your impetuosity.”
As the first sharp light of the September day began to make visible
objects along the highway, Oguri held out his hand to Toro.
“Now go,” he said, “and remember all I have said to you. Now is your
opportunity.”
Toro dashed a sleeve to his face. Then, turning to his cavalry, he
raised his sword in command.
“Forward!”
Sharply turning, the six companies wheeled due east, to disappear in the
distance. The main body advanced for two hours. Then Oguri saw that Toro
had reached the spot settled upon in their plan of battle.
Mori, leaving the centre, came briskly up with his staff, to assume the
ordering of the formation. The infantry were set out in two close ranks.
Back of them, in the centre, the sixty field-pieces were assembled,
their horses tethered close by.
“Scouts!” called Mori to Oguri.
Scouts and skirmishers were thrown out. All rested upon their arms.
The place was a broad and level plateau, through whose middle the
highway ran. Back of Mori’s artillery rose a steady height which the
army had crossed. Facing the force, resting upon its arms, the plateau
stretched out for a mile until a sharp descent came into view. Up this
the army of the bakufu must climb, since the great highway was also
there.
It was a time of idleness for Mori’s troops, until towards noon, when
the outposts reported to the main body:
“The enemy is approaching.”
Mori issued a number of orders, the effect of which was instantly seen.
The artillery horses were attached to the guns, the infantry closed
ranks. All stood at arms.
Oguri approached the Prince.
“Shall I send the guns to sweep them down before they can gain the
plateau?” he asked, in excitement, as the natural advantages of the
place seized upon him.
“No, let them reach the plain and form in their best order. I wish to
crush them completely.”
Even when the first ranks of the enemy appeared, Mori remained inactive.
They formed quickly and advanced. Still Mori remained impassive.
When the bakufu troops had advanced half of the mile separating the two
armies, Mori, turning upon the little eminence, whispered in the ear of
his youngest lieutenant. The young man rode off at full speed to the
artillery.
A moment more and the lines of infantry split apart to allow the passage
of forty guns. At full gallop they rushed towards the enemy, sending up
great clouds of dust from the dry plain as they sped on. Their carriages
swayed from side to side without disturbing the pose of the impassive
men seated there. The postilions lashed their horses.
Mori faced his staff. He smiled with a quiet smile.
“Now we shall see, my lords, how the line holds.”
The officers addressed, thinking he referred to the cannonading, looked
for an unexpected fire from the batteries. None came. Straight and true
towards the heart of the enemy’s lines, the artillery, drawn by foaming
horses, rushed. The enemy’s lines held. But a hundred yards separated
them. It held at eighty; it wavered; at sixty—it broke.
As if in answer to his unheard command, his flying batteries whirled in
irregular curves, stopped, unlimbered, fired, then with the speed of
wings were off again, this time in retreat.
Again Mori’s infantry lines parted. Out went the twenty remaining guns,
straight for the enemy.
Mori’s lips poured out a stream of orders. His staff flew over the
ground. The whole army advanced to support the artillery attack, while
the boomerang batteries were recovered.
“To the left wing,” cried Mori to Oguri.
Oguri placed himself to the left of the centre, while Mori took the
right. Still in one compactly joined front, the infantry advanced.
“Now, now,” moaned Oguri. “Toro—where is Toro?”
As the line advanced, the artillery, having reloaded, bore down again
upon the enemy’s centre, pounding it.
The infantry neared the bakufu. Mori despatched an officer to silence
the batteries.
Now was the crucial moment. Broken and scattered like a herd of
untrained cattle was the bakufu’s centre.
A cheer sounded in the enemy’s rear. Just at the proper moment Toro’s
cavalry charged the rear, dashing through the centre.
Now a movement of division took place in the forces of Mori. Oguri’s
left divided on the centre and swung to the west, while Mori’s right
swung eastward. The artillery became two corps, one for each of the
divisions; the cavalry, divided, also followed the direction of the two
leaders.
Mori’s forces had sundered the centre of the bakufu and were rolling up
on either side, driving in two opposite directions the immense army of
the shogunate.
As panic and fear spread through the poor-spirited forces of the bakufu,
the cavalry withdrew to pursue fugitives. Mori’s infantry in its two
divisions was now sufficient for the isolating and destroying of the two
segments of the enemy.
At last it was done. The forces of the shogunate were routed or
destroyed at the first battle.
With every mark of his favor, Mori received Toro into his circle of
officers. Toro’s face, black and grimy from the smoke of cannon and the
dust of action and the road, nevertheless was shining.
“My lords,” said Mori, “we are now at the crucial time in our career. We
must advance instantly upon the capital. This time no small force will
be sufficient. The entire army must accompany us to Kioto. Oguri, you
take the cavalry. You know the country well. Ride forward to Kioto at
full speed. Then throw out a long skirmish line and capture every
fugitive from the bakufu, that the news of our advance may not reach
Kioto. We shall give the depleted army of the shogunate now in Kioto a
noble surprise.”
Mori drew Toro to him.
“Return thou, Toro, to the fortress. Take every available man, leave
only the company of the governor of the fortress, and march speedily to
join me on the highway.”
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[Illustration: Decoration]