THE WAR WITH JAPAN
After the Coronation Nicholas II. and his Consort began the usual
accession visits to foreign Courts required from them by the custom in
vogue among Sovereigns in such cases. They went to Berlin, or rather to
Breslau, the German capital being avoided by them for some particular
reason which was not disclosed, and they preferred to meet the Emperor
William and the Empress in Silesia. They also paid their respects to the
old Austrian monarch; they stayed for some days with Queen Victoria at
Balmoral; and last, but not least, they went to Paris, where they were
received with an enthusiasm such as France had not witnessed for many a
day.
Their arrival on the banks of the Seine was an official recognition of
the Republic such as no Sovereign had accorded to it until that day, and
which in Russia had been merely tolerated, but never treated on a
footing of equality by official circles. Great preparations were made in
Paris to receive the Russian Imperial pair, and certainly that visit was
the occasion of a great social triumph for the Empress. She was greatly
admired, as was to be expected, and her beauty appealed by its
perfection to the crowds, who found in her the type of what an Empress
should be--polite, though not familiar; and though, perhaps, too calm
and slightly disdainful, yet condescending and kind. She produced an
immense sensation at the Opera, and for the first time since the
long-forgotten days of the Empire, the cry of “_Vive l’Impératrice!_”
was heard again in the streets of Paris. As for Nicholas II., one could
see also that he was immensely pleased at the reception accorded to him.
Russia at that moment was on the eve of a great industrial development
which, unfortunately, was stopped by the war with Japan, at least for a
while, and money was wanted in consequence.
All the Ministers of the Tsar knew this--no one better than M.
Witte--and that the best means to obtain the money needed from the
French Republic was to flatter its citizens by this visit. It was a
purely sordid affair.
The extraordinary enthusiasm with which he was greeted in Paris gave
Nicholas II. a wrong impression as to the influence which he wielded, or
thought he wielded, in the European concert, and unfortunately it made
him take an unjustifiable view of the probable attitude of Europe in
regard to his relations with Japan; he fully believed that when the war
came he could count upon the support and deep admiration of Europe.
Unfortunately, too, French people--who in their turn were dupes in this
comedy of errors, just as were the Russians--had imagined that this
demonstration of friendship, coming as it did from the representative of
an autocracy that had never before condescended to shake hands with the
rulers of a republic, meant the realisation of their dreams of a
_revanche_ and a defensive alliance against Germany.
When the Emperor and Empress returned to Russia they found discontent
rife. Things had gone from bad to worse.
Had the war not taken place, the renewed activity of the anarchists
might have required more time to develop into something tangible, but
the disasters of the Japanese campaign gave them the impulse which had
been wanting for them to become effective and formidable.
The war in itself was not popular, as I have already said. And the
enthusiasm with which it was begun was only on the surface--an
enthusiasm engineered by the numerous class of Government officials
eager to please the Sovereign. These folk fondly thought that they would
impress the Japanese as to the strength of Russia by the various
ovations with which generals were sent off to the seat of war. No one
believed the Japanese could resist; the idea was that they were
miserable little beings whose efforts at serious warfare were nothing
else but ridiculous. It was in vain that people who knew better reminded
the public that these little fellows for years had been training
themselves in the best military schools in Europe; that they had in the
space of a few short years completely remodelled their customs, their
habits, their system of government, and could now compare with Europeans
in the realms of education and capability. All these warnings were not
only disregarded but laughed at; the possibility of a defeat never
entered anyone’s mind.
In Russia no one was prepared for the dangers of the war which was begun
with such a light heart. The troops in Siberia with whom General
Kouropatkine believed he could win the campaign were not only totally
inferior in numbers, but also insufficiently equipped and clothed.
Sanitary arrangements were not thought of at all, and until the first
detachments of the Red Cross Brigade arrived on the field of action the
wounded were but scantily attended to. Commissariat also was in a state
of complete disorganisation; and as for adequate armaments, practically
none existed. As the best example of this, Port Arthur may well be
mentioned. Though on paper this fortress had been entirely rebuilt
during the previous five years, in reality the only work done had been
the digging of a few ditches and trenches, and even these were not
where they were really required.
Other abuses were rife. The commissariat, though costing enormous sums,
yet failed to supply soldiers as well as officers with the most
necessary things. The men had warm clothes in summer and no furs in
winter. Shoes were for the most part of so abominable a quality that the
infantry preferred to walk barefooted. The means of transport were such
as to cause the most dreadful tortures for the victims destined to
travel for weeks on a railway line badly built, and in carriages devoid
of the most elementary comforts. The trucks in which the army was
forwarded to Manchuria were so old that one can only wonder by what
miracle they did not fall to pieces on the road. Yet, according to the
reports presented by the War Office, everything possible had been done
to transport the troops quickly to the field of action.
The Emperor was assured that his army was ready, and that the Japanese
army was in a most weak condition, quite unprepared for a struggle of
any serious kind. It has even been maintained by some that this report
constitutes one of those crimes which no nation can ever forgive to its
author. The then War Minister had gone to Manchuria with the avowed
purpose of examining for himself what chances of success there were for
an aggressive policy on the part of Russia. He was given the utmost
freedom for his own ideas; he had been told to study carefully the
resources of Japan, its desires, and its aims. He had been well received
by the Mikado and by his Ministers, and with true Slav laziness had
believed all that he had been told, and only looked at what had been
shown to him. Warnings had not failed him; officers whose duties lay on
that distant Manchurian frontier had reported to him the enormous
preparations made by Japan, and drawn his attention to the care with
which all our armaments had been studied by competent Japanese officers.
Their misgivings had not been entertained by Kouropatkine, who upon his
return to Russia addressed a long report to the Emperor, in which, among
other things, was said:
“Japan at the present moment is reorganising its army and navy, and
proceeding very slowly with this task. Japanese officers, though
they have studied at our academy as well as in military schools in
Germany, have not mastered the various workings of European
tactics. They are still savage and untrained, and their army could
not very well at present engage in any conflict with us. It is true
that they are ambitious, and that the annexation of Korea is their
earnest desire, but they have no means of satisfying that ambition.
If we want to strike at their military or naval organisation, we
could not select a more favourable moment than the present one,
when everything is still in a state of chaos, and when Japan,
having ceased to be an Asiatic nation, is nevertheless far from
resembling a European one. As regards ourselves, we are perfectly
ready, and could in the space of thirteen days have four hundred
thousand men on the Japanese frontier, which is three times as many
as would be needed to repulse the army of our adversary. The war
would be a simple military promenade, and no necessity could even
arise of moving any of our troops from the German or Austrian
frontier or to diminish the garrisons in Poland.”
This report is one which Russia will not soon forgive. Mistakes of
tactics and strategy were not of such importance that they could not be
condoned, for there were terrible difficulties to be faced, and perhaps
no one could have done better than the responsible Minister. Yet not to
have been able to appreciate the strength of the enemy he knew he would
be called upon to fight, not to notice his preparations, not to pay
attention to the warnings which he received was a fault impossible to
justify to posterity or history, even though dozens of books be written
in the attempt. Critics consider that a Minister of War ought to have
known the condition of the army of which he was the head; and as a
responsible adviser of his Sovereign he ought, before telling him things
which it is difficult to credit that he believed himself, to have
seriously considered whether he had the right, in order to please that
Sovereign, to sacrifice the dignity of his country and the prestige of
its troops. The battle of Liao Yang was certainly a terrible misfortune;
the retreat that followed upon it was perhaps a disgraceful incident,
but it cannot be gainsaid that the initial blunder out of which all
these calamities arose was the report of General Kouropatkine.
A further calamity was that the Commander-in-Chief was not liked by the
troops in his charge, his personality did not inspire them with
enthusiasm. He had little moral authority over his troops, who were
equally indifferent to his praise or to his blame. One caustic writer
said, “He was a nonentity until the moment when he became useless.”
The quick way in which Japan took the offensive at the beginning of the
war is still fresh in people’s minds. At first this unexpected movement
with which the campaign opened, and which involved the destruction of
two war vessels, struck consternation throughout the whole of Russia.
Then a reaction came; the press tried to quieten people’s apprehensions,
and to persuade the public that this meant nothing, and that the reverse
was because war not having been yet officially declared, our officers
were not on their guard. So everyone tried to make the best of bad
circumstances, and to hope for news of a victory, a culmination in which
everybody, beginning with the Emperor, firmly believed.
Alas, victory never came; and though individual acts of courage were not
rare during these sad months, yet upon the whole no success of any
magnitude attended Russian arms. Several incidents in that disastrous
campaign struck home to the whole country, and opened its eyes to the
deplorable nature of the situation. Even St. Petersburg Society, usually
so impassive, became excited, and brilliant officers of the Guards,
moved to indignation at the turn things were taking, asked as a favour
permission to go to the front. Such permission was grudgingly granted;
people of independent opinions might then see for themselves what was
happening and make public the tragedy which was taking place in those
far-away Manchurian plains. Circumstances, however, grew too strong for
him, and finally Kouropatkine allowed these volunteers on the field of
operations, to observe the disasters which his misplaced self-confidence
had brought about.
When the _Petropavlosk_ went down in the Pacific with its load of human
beings and the brave Admiral Makaroff, together with his staff,
consternation prevailed in St. Petersburg. The Emperor called a council
of war to deliberate over what ought to be done in order to redeem the
lost, or at least seriously impaired, prestige of the country. Someone
suggested that the best course would be to conclude peace before events
became too strong for the country, since the situation might become such
that would cause the Japanese to demand terms which would be quite
unacceptable to Russian honour and pride; but this suggestion was very
quickly overruled, and it was decided to reinforce the Manchurian army,
and to send the Baltic fleet over the seas to make a naval demonstration
before Japanese ports.
This last suggestion was made by the Emperor himself. It was received
with consternation by those who heard it, but no one dared to contradict
it. One officer alone tried to expose the dangers attending such a
resolution. His arguments were eloquent, and should have been
convincing, but he was not listened to. Nicholas II. declared that it
was his wish the fleet should start, and added that he felt convinced it
would not be called upon to fight, because the very fact of its being
sent would frighten the Japanese into asking for peace. He would not
take into consideration the fact, in the first place, that Russians are
not naturally sailors, the dangers of the voyage, the difficulty the
ships would find in coaling, and the rotten state that several of the
vessels sent on this adventurous excursion were in. He would not believe
that the men-of-war composing this famous fleet were old and no longer
seaworthy, that their armaments were singularly out of date, and that
their crews were all more or less in a condition of rebellion against
the Government, whom they accused of having been the principal cause of
the present disasters. He simply said: “I want the fleet to start, and
it must do so as quickly as possible.”
It was a sad day when this decision of the Tsar became public--sad for
Russia and sad for the men sent to die. None of the officers of that
ill-fated squadron believed he would return alive from this senseless
expedition, and the farewells exchanged with the dear ones left at home
were more than mournful. All these men knew they were about to die, and
that the months left to them would be one long agony at the thought of
the fate to meet which they were starting. And one bleak, rainy morning,
amidst tears and sobs of bereaved wives and mothers, the Baltic fleet
sailed away towards distant Tsushima. Nicholas II. had come to bid it
good-bye, as if in order to hear the famous words, “_Ave, Cæsar!
morituri te salutant!_”