MUKDEN AND TSUSHIMA
I will not speak of the opening episodes of the war, nor of the early
battles which one after another, in sad succession, were lost by the
Russian troops. I will not even say much about the siege of Port Arthur
and the sequel, which added shameful pages to the mournful ones of its
defence and surrender. There, also, irreparable mistakes were made, and
stupidities crowded on the top of each other. Whilst the siege lasted,
people were loud in the praise of General Stössel and his bravery,
notwithstanding that it was very well known he was unequal to the
mission imposed on him. It was an open secret in St. Petersburg that it
was owing to the efforts of General Kondratenko, the head of his staff,
that the fortress had ever held out so long against the Japanese forces.
It was another open secret that the most disgraceful financial jobbery
and money-making were charged against the Commander of Port Arthur, and
in these accusations his wife was involved. It was generally believed
that they sold the milk and other provisions to the sick and wounded at
extortionate prices, and that they engaged in the most shameful bargains
in regard to the stores over which the General held authority. All this
was common talk and common knowledge, and yet the public was full of
admiration, a commanded admiration, for General Stössel and the brave
defence which he made.
Perhaps this was just as well, because it would have been of no use to
attempt to blame him whilst he was in charge of a responsible post from
which it was not even possible to remove him. But then, why, when all
was over, when the legend that had accumulated round his head had
transformed him into a hero, why deny this very legend? Or, after having
covered the General with honours, allowing him even to accept foreign
distinctions such as the decoration _Pour le Mérite_ given to him by the
German Emperor, why tear from his shoulders the epaulettes that, rightly
or wrongly, had been given to him? Why enlighten the world as to the
shameful story of that siege, and the way the defence of the town was
conducted? Why begin that counterfeit court-martial which told Europe
that instead of a hero General Stössel was a coward and a traitor?
The stupidity of such a course of action is evident even to the veriest
outsider. It would have been far better to have let the legend remain
undisturbed, to throw a veil of oblivion over what could not be changed
or mended, and not to break the hearts of those who had done their duty,
and done it well, too--the officers and soldiers composing the garrison
of Port Arthur, who found themselves mixed up in this deplorable affair,
and upon whose innocent shoulders was thrown the burden of having been
connected with a story of sordidness, cupidity, and cowardice for which
they were not responsible, but the shade of which was to darken their
lives for ever.
Only to rehabilitate them in the world’s sight do I reopen the sad and
shameful story of their betrayal and Russia’s.
There is an episode of the siege of Port Arthur which is very little
known and which deserves special mention. When the news of General
Kondratenko’s death was brought to the Commander of Port Arthur, his
first words were, “Has he left any special letters or instructions, or
have any reports been found among his papers?” It seems that the day
before he was so tragically killed, Kondratenko had had a heated
discussion with General Stössel. The latter was upholding the necessity
of a prompt surrender of the town, but the former strongly opposed the
suggestion, using many arguments, amongst which the principal was that
some of the forts still held could hold on for about three weeks longer,
and that it would be time to talk of surrender when these had fallen or
been destroyed. Stössel then said that a quantity of valuable property
was locked up in these forts, and that it would be useless to allow it
to be wasted. Now the property about which the Commander-in-Chief was so
anxious belonged almost entirely to himself and to his wife, and had
been removed for better safety to the very forts which the Chief of the
Staff proposed to sacrifice before surrendering to the enemy.
Kondratenko was known to possess a violent temper, and he turned upon
his chief, and, calling him traitor and other words of the same
character, declared that he would at once send a report to St.
Petersburg concerning this incident, and denouncing Stössel as failing
in his duty because of personal cupidity. A few hours later Kondratenko
was killed, and, as has been told, the first words of Stössel upon
hearing of it were to inquire what had become of his papers, in which he
evidently feared to find a confirmation of the threats the dead man had
made.
Kondratenko was excessively popular among the troops. He was known to be
extremely brave, and mindful of the soldiers confided to his care. His
death was deeply deplored, and it completely discouraged the garrison of
the besieged town, so that when General Stössel immediately thereafter
formally proposed to surrender, scarcely a voice was raised in
opposition, and it was felt that the sad end of this memorable siege
being inevitable, the sooner it took place the better.
One officer alone proposed to try to communicate once more with the
Commander-in-Chief, and to ask for his instructions. Upon that General
Stössel took from his portfolio a letter from General Kouropatkine,
telling him that he left him free to do what he thought best without
referring to anyone. Stössel declared that this letter was sufficient to
safeguard his responsibility, and that he took it upon himself to send
an envoy to General Nogi.
Later on, when the General was tried, a friend both of his and of
General Kouropatkine came to see him, and begged him not to produce this
letter during the trial; it was promised in return to so arrange matters
that even if he were condemned an Imperial pardon would follow upon the
verdict. What interest was involved in the concealment of this
document--which in a certain measure would have explained General
Stössel’s course of action, even if it would not have justified it--has
never been known to this day. Some people affirm that in writing thus
General Kouropatkine had for his excuse political reasons upon which it
was unnecessary to enlighten the public.
When Port Arthur had fallen it was felt that the first part of the war
was over, and that unless a decisive battle turned the tables upon the
Japanese their success was an accomplished fact. That battle was
expected with eagerness by the whole of Russia, where existed still a
vague hope that when Kouropatkine should have enough troops at his
disposal he would be able to attack the enemy successfully,
notwithstanding the unfavourable conditions in which he as well as his
army found themselves placed. Everyone urged him to attempt a supreme
effort which was to avenge all the disasters of the past. But instead,
Kouropatkine, who had now lost his nerve, continued slowly to withdraw
his forces, retiring no one knew why or whither.
He had a friend, General Gripenberg, who was in command of one of the
three army corps that were to operate simultaneously against the enemy.
That officer, however, found himself differing so entirely from the
Commander-in-Chief as to the tactics which ought to be pursued, that
Gripenberg asked Kouropatkine point-blank what object he had in avoiding
with such manifest care a battle that would at least have the advantage
of clearing the air and giving some new energy to the demoralised
troops. The latter replied that he thought that by drawing the Japanese
army into the interior of the country he would tire it, and thus by
sapping its _moral_ render it the more easily to be beaten.
It is said that Gripenberg laughed outright at this plan, and the two
friends at once became bitter enemies. The Commander-in-Chief tried in
vain to reason with his former comrade; he implored him not to abandon
him at such a critical moment, and not to give their common foe the
satisfaction of witnessing the dissensions which divided them.
Gripenberg remained inflexible: “Once more,” he said, “I ask you, will
you or will you not change your decision and attack the Japanese?” “I
cannot do so,” replied Kouropatkine. “Then I cannot stay here, or obey
your orders, and I shall leave for St. Petersburg, and myself report to
the Emperor all that is being done here, and the incapacity of which you
give new proofs every day.” In this way the two generals parted.
Gripenberg, as he threatened, went to St. Petersburg. He saw the
Emperor, with whom he had a long talk, and was rewarded for his journey
by being appointed an aide-de-camp general to the Sovereign. It was
felt that by conferring this dignity upon him Nicholas II. was blaming
Kouropatkine for his inaction, but nevertheless no change of
Commander-in-Chief was announced as being in contemplation.
Gossip, however, became more busy than ever concerning the events that
were taking place in Manchuria, and the last hopes anybody had cherished
of a victory died away. It was felt that it would be best to conclude an
honourable peace before a crowning disaster completely wrecked the
reputation of the Russian army and of the generals in command.
Whilst the capital was busy with comments on his course of action,
General Kouropatkine at last made up his mind to attack the Japanese
forces, and did so without apparently taking the least precautions to
ensure the safety of the retreat of his army in case of a defeat.
What induced him to make this desperate attempt no one knows. Perhaps he
felt he had to justify his former inaction; perhaps, also, he thought it
better to end the suspense in which his army as well as his country
existed from day to day. At all events, he did attack the Japanese army,
and thus initiated one of the most disastrous military events of modern
times.
Everybody knows that the Russian forces were defeated; but what is not
so well known, what remains unexplained to this day, was the panic that
followed upon it, as well as the details of the subsequent retreat.
Panic seized the troops, who rushed blindly away from the enemy without
being aware whither they hastened. Their only desire was to get away
from bullets and shells; to flee from a danger which often did not exist
in the vicinity from which they retreated. A disordered troop of frantic
men dragged itself through these vast Manchurian plains in the depth of
winter, with all the horrors of cold, wind, and snow accompanying their
retreat and adding to its poignancy. In that flight no one knew friend
from foe; the soldiers, badly clad, tore from the dead bodies of the
Japanese their winter clothes and shoes, heedless of the danger that
these borrowed garments might bring to them. To understand the
significance of this it is necessary to picture the situation in the
darkness of the night, when it became impossible to distinguish friends
from foes, and when one killed everyone that one met on one’s way for
dread of being killed oneself.
Horrible scenes were enacted in that cold, frozen desert through which
the Russian troops, wearied, famished, and bereft of courage as well as
of strength, had to drag themselves. The few people who found a piece of
bread or a warm piece of clothing were sure to have it snatched from
them by ravenous, half-frozen creatures in whom despair had destroyed
every feeling of humanity; mercy existed no more; every man became a
wild beast. No orders were listened to; indeed, there was no one to give
orders. Officers as well as men had only one thought: to escape from the
terrors of cold and starvation, to forget if only for a moment that
nightmare of hopeless agony through which they had to grope their way
towards a haven which they could neither see nor even believe in.
How many days that delirium of torment lasted no one knows, because no
survivor can tell how long it took to reach a spot where could be
breathed air uncontaminated with fear or with disaster. Some found
shelter; others, with no strength left to go farther, fell on the road
and either died through being buried in the snow or being choked by the
mud of those dreadful plains, which were impassable at that time of the
year; or, still living, were devoured by birds of prey, without the
strength to resist. An officer relates that, whilst trying to rally
some of his men, he was startled by the moans of some creature in agony,
and trudging through the darkness to the spot whence these moans
proceeded he found a soldier weakly struggling with a huge vulture, who
had begun to snap at his arm and was tearing the flesh off in pieces. As
for horses, no sooner had they fallen than eagles and other birds of
prey threw themselves upon their bodies and very quickly tore every
piece of flesh from the bones. These birds were so inhumanly bold and so
sure of the quarry that was awaiting them, that they refused to be
driven away, hovering over the heads of the miserable beings who were
running for their lives. This sinister escort only added to the horror
that had already seized these poor wretches. It was worse than fighting,
worse than hearing the bullets whistling in one’s ears; far worse even
than the screaming of shell fire. It was a ghastly reminder of the
inevitable end. To listen to the noise of the great wings flapping in
every direction seemed as if the angel of death was mockingly and
mercilessly journeying with them, ready any moment to snatch up the
souls of men.
I find it utterly impossible to give an idea of all the terrible things
that occurred during this retreat of Mukden. Even the Japanese, hardened
as they were, were moved to pity by the sufferings of the Russian army,
fighting for its life under such awful conditions. As for the victims,
they became at last quite indifferent to their woes; it all seemed so
endless, so hopeless, that it was better quietly to submit, and to rely
on fate either to save or to kill as might be.
The Red Cross detachments, as usual, behaved heroically, but they also
were left with practically no other resources than their devotion to
their duty. Often it happened that the horses harnessed to the carts
that carried the wounded fell on the way, and instantly these were
seized by hungry soldiers and eaten with relish, even raw. Then the
sisters and doctors transferred their charges to other vehicles, and
often pulled these carts themselves with ropes until they could find
other animals to drag them on. Brave men who had seen other
battlefields, and were used to the horrors of war, became white-haired
and aged during those terrible days, and, when it was all over, never
cared to think of them or hear them mentioned. It was a nightmare, and
worse than a nightmare.
When at last the remnants of that army, to whom so many victories had
been promised, were gathered together, and rallied into something like
order, General Kouropatkine made up his mind to resign the position
which he held and the responsibilities which he had never been able to
understand, because he never realised their moment. He wrote to the
Emperor asking to be relieved from his command, saying that he had been
so unlucky that he feared the army had lost confidence in him. Speaking
thus, he flattered himself. The army had not lost confidence; it had
never had any in his capacity or his ability to lead it. The General’s
resignation was accepted by his Sovereign, and he was allowed to come
back to Russia to “exonerate” himself and to explain in his own way the
causes of the disasters that had accumulated upon his country and upon
himself.
An old officer, whose whole life had been spent on active
service--General Linevitch--was given the responsible post of
Commander-in-Chief. He did the best he could do under the trying and
difficult circumstances in which he found himself placed, but he could
not restore confidence. The troops--among whom the war in the abstract
had never been popular--had only one idea, and that was to return home
and to see peace concluded, no matter under what conditions.
General Linevitch at once asked for reinforcements, and during the
months that followed new troops were sent every day to Manchuria. They
went rebellious and exasperated at the idea of fighting in what they
considered to be a forlorn cause. It has often been made a reproach to
Count Witte that he concluded peace at Portsmouth at the very time when,
the army having been considerably strengthened, a renewal of the
campaign might have brought back victory to the Russian arms.
Nevertheless, all such reproaches were unmerited. The great reason that
made Count Witte sign the famous treaty was his knowledge of the
dissatisfied condition of the bulk of the army, and the conviction that
existed among all who were aware of what was actually going on in
Manchuria, that if they were ordered to march again; the troops very
probably would refuse to obey. Revolution was everywhere in the air, and
by allowing the opportunity given of obtaining more or less favourable
conditions of settlement with Japan to escape, was to incur the far
greater risk of insubordination and revolution. In that awful disaster
everything had perished, even the devotion of the soldier to his flag.
Whilst the tragedy of the Manchurian plains was going on, the Baltic
fleet, under the orders of Admiral Rozhdestvensky, was sailing towards
Vladivostok, and preparing itself to encounter the Japanese squadrons,
which they well knew were far superior to their own, both as regards
numbers and armaments. It was a sad journey; all the men who had been
sent on it, against all warnings suggested by reason and a knowledge of
the conditions under which they were being dispatched, were certain that
they would never return to their country and to those dear ones to whom
they had bade good-bye with an anguish that they dared not express. The
crews also were despondent. As for the vessels themselves, they were,
for the greater part, old ships, unfit to stand such a long voyage, and
neither armed properly nor equipped according to modern requirements. It
was a hopeless enterprise, and all concerned knew it but too well.
Nevertheless, the fleet did its duty. On that grey May morning when the
Japanese men-of-war were first encountered, it desperately prepared to
fight, and at least to try to avert the shame of falling into the
enemy’s hands. But when the first shot fell on the immensity of the sea
and shook its calm, it was as a funeral knell for thousands of lives
about to be destroyed.
Their agony did not last long. It was not like at Mukden, a struggle of
days and weeks, leaving its victims indifferent even to death. At
Tsushima a few short hours saw the end. The Russian vessels were very
quickly silenced; some were taken by the enemy, others sank in the
waves. One ship escaped, forced her way through the Japanese fleet, and
carried to Vladivostok the news of the disaster. Soon it reached Russia,
and terrible was the despair which the tidings caused. It was felt that
after this unprecedented calamity no hope was left to the country, and
that once more the yellow race, immense, implacable, was going to crush
the empire of the Tsars. Scarcely an eye was dry on that memorable day
when one heard in St. Petersburg of the new victory of the Japanese
arms, and few but were not crushed by the shame and humiliation which
the country was undergoing: a shame that nothing could redeem.
One person alone kept cool and calm; it was the Emperor who, when he was
told of the misfortune, read quietly the dispatch describing it, and
after having done so went on with the game of tennis that he had
interrupted in order to peruse it. So ran the story. Here was the whole
of Russia mourning her children, yet--the inference is inevitable--the
event was not of sufficient importance to make Nicholas II. abandon the
healthy exercise he liked to indulge in on bright summer afternoons!