He sat up in bed in bewildered wonder whether it had been an actual
sound, an explosion, that had awakened him, or whether it had been some
particularly realistic bit of dream. Still, there was a peculiarly
dry, rattling clatter, something like hail--and yet the sun was
shining--just as he was trying to shake himself thoroughly awake, the
sound ceased abruptly.
As he swung himself out of bed, Karsten hurried in. "Hallo, time to get
busy, Kent. It has broken loose, the revolution, riot, or whatever it
is, shooting, burning. That was machine-gun fire we just heard, from
the Aoyama barracks, I take it. Breakfast will be ready for you when
you have dressed. You had better make a meal before you start; you're
likely to have a strenuous day."
It was difficult to take time for eating, but Karsten insisted. "Won't
you come along?" asked Kent. "You should see the excitement." But
Karsten shook his head, laughed. "No, to-day, I'm staying home, even if
they burn down all of Tokyo." He smiled to Jun-san. She came over to
him and placed her hand on his shoulder. Happiness, radiated over these
two, made them look younger, an odd appearance of newness, as if they
had been refurbished, brightened. A flash of envious admiration came to
Kent; after all, though modern life smiled at romance, it was the thing
that mattered, woman, affection between the sexes, the one ingredient
that could vitalize humdrum existence with the color, the play and
sparkle of joy of living. From a distance came the reverberation of
a dull boom; from somewhere near the center of the city a great smoke
cloud shot skywards, mushroomed in the still air, dissipated slowly
into a thin pall of bluish haze.
He ran into the street. It seemed like a holiday, with the absence of
the usual bustle of business. Here and there groups of people, mostly
women, chattered excitedly, with a frightened and yet fascinated look
on their faces. It reminded him of the aspect the neighborhood took on
when there was a fire in the quarter. The street cars were not running.
A detachment of police passed him, about a hundred of them, running
with their peculiar stiff trot, each with a gloved hand clamped on his
short sword, in a long double file.
As he came near the square at Toranomon, he ran into a line of
infantrymen, resting stolidly on their rifles, keeping clear the wide
space behind them, the quarter containing the Diet building, Foreign
Office, the Kasumigaseki Palace and, farther back, the General Staff
headquarters. He made his way along a side street hurriedly, avoiding
the crowds which had gathered here and there, wherever temple grounds
or square afforded a convenient space. There was not so much excitement
as he had expected, rather an air of expectancy; they did not appear
like people who were engaged at this moment in overthrowing their
overlords; rather they seemed eager for the staging of some event which
they knew was about to happen, as if they were waiting for a show of
daylight fireworks. Still, here and there might be seen small groups
of men who seemed to have a definite objective, who were intent on
some certain purpose, on going somewhere. It was significant that they
all, even the more stolid ones, ran, or walked, or drifted in the same
general direction,--towards the government building quarter stretching
from the central police station at Hibiya to the War Office in a long
curve following the outer palace moat and centering on the wide street
running from the palace gate at Sakuradamon, near which lay the nerve
centers of the Government, the Navy, War and Judiciary buildings, the
Diet quarters, and the rest.
The whole movement was too vast, too intangible, covered too much
ground to make it possible to handle the story single-handed. They
would know more at the _Japan American_ Office. He found Carew there,
tired-eyed, helping himself to hot, black coffee from a thermos bottle.
"Hallo, Kent," he stretched himself. "Hell, isn't it? Here it is, the
big story, the outbreak that we have all been expecting and waiting
for for years, the demolishment of the last stronghold in the world of
militarism in its old form, perhaps; and here I am, almost idle. There
is news popping every minute, big stuff, and there isn't a thing to
do with it. The boys are out covering the story as best they can, but
what's the use? We can't get out a paper. There is no power for the
machines, and, anyway, I have no linotype men, no press crew. You might
as well take it easy, too. Tokyo is isolated as far as messages are
concerned. The wires are down everywhere. They say the bridges are down
on all sides of the city. Even if they weren't, they would not take
cable messages, of course. I tried to send one of the boys to Yokohama,
hoping he might get a message out by wireless from some steamer, but
he just came back. The Kawasaki bridge has been blown up, one span at
least, and the military are guarding it and won't let any one pass. Go
out and enjoy yourself looking about, but you won't get any news out of
here to-day, anyway."
"But what do you make of it?" Carew's stoicism irritated him. "What do
you know about it? Is it The Revolution?"
"I don't know." Carew shrugged his shoulders. "Call it anything you
please, revolution, riot, overthrow. It is the simultaneous uprising
of all the lower classes, the poorer classes, the working classes.
It is the explosion of the discontent that has been accumulating for
years. It reminds me of a drift of snow that has been growing bigger
and bigger, overhanging some steep slope, waiting but for some impetus
to start it off. The Mito assassination started it; it is on the way,
gathering force every minute, an avalanche that gains growth from
the snow that is waiting to add its volume as it rushes onwards. The
question now is merely whether the Government can hold it; if the
troops will stick by it. That'll tell the whole story."
"Have you any idea how far this is a concerted movement, a planned
general movement? Have you gotten anything from the outside?"
"Sure it is part of a general plan to some extent." Carew handed him
a sheaf of Nippon Dempo news service flimsies. "These kept coming in
until early this morning when everything suddenly stopped. You see how,
the moment the news of the Mito assassination came out, hell broke
loose in various places. Peasants from one end of Japan to the other,
tenant farmers, who have been clamoring at the landlords on account
of exorbitant rents, have been burning village offices and landlords'
houses. At the same time came strikes, rioting, violence in all the
industrial centers,--Osaka, Kobe, Nogoya. At first, when the news began
to trickle in last night, I thought it was just like the rice riots
in 1918, with breaking of some windows and wrecking of some office
buildings and warehouses. But it's bigger. It's a sight bigger. I
fancy no one knows how big it will grow before it stops, or where it
will stop. Go take a look about town, and you'll see they've done a lot
of damage already.
"We had a small riot right here a couple of hours ago. I've known right
along that one of the linotype men is a Socialist leader of sorts;
at least, the police have always come and locked him up whenever the
suffrage bill or anything like that came up in the Diet. But when they
came early this morning as per usual, some three or four of them,
they set upon them, all the printers. They beat the devil out of the
policemen and then they beat it. I fancy that's characteristic of the
whole situation all over Japan. The worm is turning."
Kent went on to his office a few blocks away. Ishii was there, restless
with excitement. "I've been waiting for you, Kent-san. I have a message
for you. She came about an hour ago, Adachi-san. She says that if you
want to see the best part of the excitement, come to Sakuradamon.
She'll probably be there."
Adachi-san! It was like a shock to have her suddenly injected into
his life again after all these months. A short time ago, when she had
vanished, this news would have caused his heart to beat high with
excitement, would have sent him flying to find her--but now, even
though he did feel expectancy at seeing her again, curiosity to learn
why she had disappeared, where she had been, the predominant feeling
was one of uneasiness. That incident, that bit of romance, had been
delightful, pungently sweet when thought of as just that, a delectable,
charming interlude in the humdrum course of existence; but that was
just its main charm, what gave it the subtle flavor of a fanciful
dream, its evanescence, the very fact that it had never crystallized
into a more lasting, definite relationship. It had faded out of his
life now; what he could treasure as a memory, a whimsical recollection,
might be but vitiated, rendered drab and prosaic, should he allow its
reality to inject itself, intrudingly, into his life. And then, of
course, over and above it all, there was Sylvia.
"We had better go right now." Ishii was nervously eager. "You had
better wear your police badge where it can be seen, so we can get
through the lines."
"All right, I'm coming." He fastened his police badge, a disk of wood
bearing the magic formula which allowed him to pass police cordons, on
a string about his neck. Of course, he must see her. After all, it was
pathetic, her thinking of him in the midst of all this excitement. He
wondered how much she really had to do with it all.
As they approached Hibiya Park the crowds became more dense. He
had to display his badge repeatedly to get past lines of police.
Excitement was more evident now, and yet the city seemed oddly quiet.
He realized that it was the absence of the usual noise of traffic, roar
of elevated trains, clatter of street cars. The entire voice of the
city had changed; the volume of sound from hundreds of thousands of
humans, shuffling along in clacking _geta_, talking, shouting, making
an entirely new sound, live, electric, ominous as contrasted with the
usual mechanical rattle.
Just in front of the park the police lines were the most solid,
thousands of officers backed by mounted gendarmes. They would not let
him pass, shrugged shoulders as he tried to argue with them, showing
his pass. He worked his way along the line towards the main entrance,
hoping to find some opening. He found a young official, pleasantly
courteous, who seemed inclined to listen. Suddenly, as he argued, a
dull roar sounded behind him, to his right; a gust of wind, as if a
giant had blown a gigantic breath over him and the rest of the crowd.
The masses behind him surged forward irresistibly. He noted that the
mouth of the young officer had opened, eyes popping, staring as if some
astounding, incredible sight had just appeared. As the crowd pushed
on, carrying him and the police line before it, he managed to turn
and look over the heads of the frantic people milling all about him.
As he was borne on, through the entrance into the park, he caught a
glimpse of the great central police station to the right behind him.
The entire corner was gone, leaving exposed, doll-house rooms in the
interior beyond. The usually meticulous bronze figure of some noted
police official had been knocked askew by the débris into an absurdly
incongruous drunken attitude. Fine dust from the explosion began to
settle over them. The crowds, frantically insistent on getting away,
had broken through the police lines on all sides, along the broad
road between Hibiya Park and the outer moat, and, beyond that, across
Babasakimon bridge, into the great space between the inner and outer
palace moats, surging towards Sakuradamon. But here in Hibiya Park the
police were getting the crowd in hand again, assisted by gendarmes and
soldiers who had come from the other side of the square. The mounted
men rode their horses right into the crowds; sabers were used freely.
The soldiers seemed unenthusiastic, apathetic. Kent noticed that they
belonged to some infantry regiment up in the fifties; probably they
were country recruits, more in sympathy with the mob than against it.
But the others, the police and the gendarmes, were laboring under
hysterical excitement. They had always seemed absurd to him, these
tiny-looking swords, but quite evidently they were dangerous weapons,
viciously sharpened. Some of the superior officers particularly
appeared to have become entirely beside themselves, eyes bloodshot,
mouths foaming, literally crazed for the moment, maniacs insane with
blood lust.
Kent managed to avoid them by taking the smaller paths leading through
shrubbery. The police were all busy raging at the mob, and the
soldiers, seeing his police emblem, shrugged shoulders and let him
pass. As he worked over towards the other side of the park, in the
direction of the navy wireless tower, he became aware of a feeling
of emptiness, as if the space, the atmosphere rather, had in some
strange way changed, as if it were lighter, more spacious. There was a
peculiar acrid tang in the air; he sniffed; yes, that was smoke rising
there over the trees. He climbed a low knoll, usually a favorite place
for lovers, with a summerhouse surrounded by azaleas. Ah, that was
it; where the Diet building had stood, a barn-like, wood and stucco
structure, was now no building at all; only smoldering heaps of débris.
He obtained a moment's amusement by noticing that the cordons of police
and soldiers which had been guarding the Diet all these months were
still there, on all four sides of the great block, solemnly guarding
the smoking ashes.
He swerved to the right, managed to get to the street alongside the
outer moat just ahead of the crowd which had broken through the police
lines down by the central station. Here, inside the space containing
the most important government buildings, were scattered only small
detachments of police and soldiers, who did not attempt to face the
mob; but beyond, up on the high ground by the War Office and the
General Staff headquarters, were sounding bugle calls. Evidently troops
were being summoned to form new cordons to take the places of those
which had been broken.
By this time he was almost running. He must get as far as possible
into this inner area before new lines were formed. Evidently the same
thought possessed the mobs racing behind him. They were surprisingly
silent; the predominating sound was the vast volume of clatter made by
tens of thousands of wooden _geta_. Just as he was about to pass into
the square facing, on its right, the Sakuradamon palace entrance and to
the left a great empty lot above which rose the General Staff building,
he heard his name being called. "Here, Kent-san. Here I am."
There she was, Sadako-san, with a small group of others, at a vantage
point formed by the small space surrounding the pedestal of a statue of
a frock-coated gentleman in bronze, set in a corner of the Judiciary
building grounds. There were two or three other girls and about a dozen
men. He noticed the professor who had been in jail on account of his
writings about Kropotkin.
She had been right in picking this point as the center of events.
Already they were beginning to concentrate on this spot from all sides,
the crowd coming along the Hibiya Park road and that flowing across
the space from Babasakimon reinforced by the student contingent from
Kanda and the laborers from Asakusa and Uyeno, and even from across the
Sumida River, from Honjo and Fukagawa. And apparently they were trying
to come on from the other side of the city, too. Up on the higher
ground, in the direction of the Sanno-dai Temple grounds, a hilly park
often used for demonstrations, came sound of musketry, volley firing.
Bugles still sounded about the General Staff headquarters grounds
and, behind that, on the hill crowned by the War Office. Bugles also
began to sound from across the moat, inside the inner palace grounds.
Still, oddly, there was no sight of soldiers or police; the crowds
continued to surge on into the square, gradually filling it. On the
other side the multitude was evidently being kept in check by some
cordon which they could not see, at Toranomon probably. A few small
groups, individual figures here and there, evidently Foreign Office
officials or men from the Italian or Russian embassies close by, were
moving along rapidly, evidently to see the excitement. Presently Kent
saw Kikuchi. He shouted to him, managed to attract his attention. As
he joined their group, Kent noticed a stir among the others, frowns,
whispers, then shoulder shrugs; but no protest was made.
But he wanted to see Sadako-san, to have a few words with her, at
least. He managed to draw her aside a little, sheltered against the
pedestal of the statue. "Sadako-san, where have you been? That wasn't
the right thing to do, to run away from me like that. You know,
I've----"
"Oh, Kent-san, you must not think that that was what I asked you to
come here for, to talk nonsense, on a day like this--no, not nonsense,
forgive me. I didn't mean that. We'll talk about--about these other
things some other time--yes, I promise--but to-day; don't you see, this
is the day we have all been waiting for so long, the day marking the
birth of a new Japan, when the people of Japan shall break down the
rule of the tyrants, of the wicked, old anachronists over there," she
pointed across the square to the gray, copper-roofed building of the
General Staff. "That's why I asked you to come here, to this spot; for
this is where history is to be made to-day."
It flashed on him that she made a picture as she stood there, exquisite
in her soft-tinted kimono, eyes flashing, cheeks flushed. She seemed
as if she might be emblematic, a figure representative of the new
Japanese idealism, standing side by side with this bronze frock-coated
individual, a nice old respectable bureaucrat no doubt, whoever he
might be; the two, the breathing, pulsating girl and the cold, stiff
bronze man, symbolic of Japan of to-day, the contrast. Still, why did
she insist on taking part in this mad medley of mob passion? How much
happier she would be---- Recollection came to him of some of their
excursions together. But, of course, that could be no longer. The
thought came to him suddenly--it was fortunate that she had refused to
discuss personal topics. That was just like him, saying things without
thinking. He had not intended to recall their affair, matters of
affection; still, of course, he could see now how it must have seemed
to her that he was trying to do so.
The crowd kept surging into the square, which was gradually filling.
It began to become monotonous; nothing happened; it did not look as if
anything was even about to happen; one became impatient, disappointed
with the sense of constantly baffled expectation. Evidently the
"revolution" was about to fizzle and splutter into extinction without
dramatic dénouement. Did it have any intention whatever, this mob? What
was the idea of the whole thing? "What is going to happen, Sadako-san?
What are you people going to do? Is all this disturbance throughout
Japan a planned, concerted movement, or is it just accidental,
spontaneous outbreaks caused by the death of the Premier?"
"Both, in a way." She showed her pleasure at being able to instruct
him. "We have been waiting for many months for this to happen, we
radicals, thousands of us, scattered through all of Japan. Everywhere
where there was dissatisfaction, among the tenant farmers in all the
country districts, among the industrial laborers and all the other poor
people in the cities, in fact, everywhere in Japan we had our leaders,
a few here and a few there; only a few were needed in each place;
conditions have made the people, the whole nation almost, ready to
strike if only some one gave a start. They all knew, we all knew, that
some day the great event would occur which would be the signal for our
men to lead revolts throughout Japan. We all knew that it would happen
some day, to-morrow, in a month, in a year, but when we didn't know, or
possibly only the very few leaders. The police knew, too, that it would
happen sometime; but that was just what baffled them; what prevented
them from making an end to the business, the utter uncertainty of it
all. They could not keep all of us, the thousands and thousands on
their suspect lists, locked up all the time. So we all waited, we and
the police, for the event that would be the signal, and when they
killed that poor fool Mito, we all knew that the time had come. But the
police could not move fast enough. Do you know that all bridges and
wires are down all about Tokyo? They have had to send their best troops
to Korea and Manchuria for their schemes there. They couldn't depend
on most of the army for imperialist schemes, ever since the Siberian
scandal. So now there is in Tokyo only the First Regiment, the Imperial
Guards, who'll be loyal to the General Staff. And do you think that
they can stop us?" She stretched her hand out towards the crowding
thousands in the square before them. "Do you think one regiment can
stop them?"
"But what is it that you are going to do? Why are all these people
coming here? What's the big purpose?"
"Why, overthrow, of course." She almost shouted in her impatience.
"We shall turn them out, the General Staff, the bureaucrats; then we
shall--anyway, we shall overthrow the Government."
He shrugged his shoulders wearily. Always, in beer hall, or public
square, or radical magazine, these students, professors, theorists,
revolutionists, always ranting about the "overthrow" without an
idea of what must follow. Impatience overcame him. It all seemed so
futile, silly, even the big events, the assassination of the Premier,
the burning of the Diet building and the rest, purposeless, childish
destruction, leading nowhere.
"Well, suppose you do overthrow it all, what then? Do you want to be
like Russia?"
"What's the matter with Russia then?" The voice, masculine, faintly
familiar, came from right behind him. He turned resentfully. Who the
devil could this be, eavesdropping? It was Lüttich. He had seen the
Russian only a few times since the days when they were fellow-travelers
on the _Tenyo Maru_. He had supposed that he was teaching the
violin, dancing, French and other polite accomplishments to the
aristocracy. What was he doing here, evidently hand in glove with the
revolutionists? And what the devil business had he to butt in on them?
"The last time I talked politics with you, Lüttich," he spoke with
studied sarcasm, that the others might hear, "you seemed to have lots
to say against the present government of Russia."
"Of course," the other laughed scornfully. "What chance do you think a
Russian would have living in Japan unless he sang just that tune? But,
good Lord, man, did you really think that I'd content myself with that,
with being a dancing master, and in these times. These are the times to
live in, Kent. Think of it, a few years ago, Petrograd, and now here,
to-day, Tokyo! And to have a hand in it all! Did you see the police
station, Kent-san? What did you think of it?"
"I'll tell you what I think of----"
"Look, listen," she had gripped his arm. Across the square, on the hill
of the General Staff building, something was in motion. The Kropotkin
professor had a field glass which was being passed round. Kent, in
his turn, caught a glimpse of the scene in front of the building, a
solitary figure in the middle, and lower down, in front of it, files of
soldiers. He passed the glass on to Kikuchi.
"My God, Kent-san," Kikuchi handed it back to him. "Take another look.
Don't you see, it's him, the Devil himself, General Matsu, chief of the
General Staff."
From the top of the hill the bugle sounded again. A roar, explosions
from all sides, flashes from the other side of the moat, from the
ramparts of the palace grounds, from the top of the hill. Then,
abruptly, a moment of silence, of bewilderment, sudden occurrence and
sudden cessation of the sound having a theatrical effect, as if a
pianist had finished a rather tedious composition with a sudden sweep
of hand crashing across the full stretch of bass octaves. It stunned
them, and the crowd stood dumb, numbed, unbelieving. Then it was as if
at precisely the same instant the full meaning of what had happened
came to all, a revelation of despair; they were surrounded, troops
on all sides, hemmed them in, tens of thousands. From all sides they
crowded, milling against the center, seeking escape. Kent pushed the
girl before him, up towards the top of the pedestal, he and the rest
climbing up its terraced sides to avoid the sea of humanity surging
frantically about them. Whimsically, there came to his mind a picture
from the Doré Bible, a picture of the flood, a group of humans and
animals seeking on an isolated rocky peak escape from the rising waters.
"Damn them, they have some sense yet, these militarists," there was a
note of admiration in the voice of the Russian. "Here they have managed
to trap the best part of the country's radical leaders, half of them at
least. I wonder if----"
From the hill top came the notes of the bugle, clear, unfaltering, like
a maneuver call. Immediately another crash of rifles, just one volley.
They were shooting more accurately this time, or the officers were
compelling the men to do so. All along the edges of the mob they were
falling, men and women, children even, rolling down the steep slopes
into the moat, or falling under the feet of the mass, milling about,
stampeded, driven in upon itself from all sides. Now the multitude had
found its voice, but it was inarticulate, shrieks, cries and groans
mingling into a vast volume of sound, meaningless, inhuman.
Another half minute. Again the bugle, followed by a single volley.
Another half minute, another volley. The crowd was like insane
creatures, those at the edges fighting their way in, those in the
middle struggling frantically to escape, and, every thirty seconds, the
bugle call, and the single sharp volley, with military precision, from
all sides.
"I didn't think they had it in them, that they had that much
imagination," there was open admiration in the Russian's tone now.
"Don't you see it, Kent-san, the devilish cleverness of it all. It's
not the shooting that's the worst; it's the suspense, the waiting, the
bugle call and the knowledge of the death that comes with it. That's
what they will remember to their dying day, all those who escape, if
they let any one escape. That'll take the heart out of them. Such is
life, the life of a revolutionist, Kent-san. They're setting us back
ten years to-day, damn them, but we'll get them in the end."
Time had come for the next bugle call. It seemed overdue, a longer
interval than before. They almost wanted it to come, to have it over
with. Surely the interval was long. They began to glance about, at one
another. Was it possible? Face peered anxiously into face, each seeking
to read confirmation of his own hope. Had the killing really ceased, or
was this but another refinement of cruelty?
"No, it's over; they've finished; the soldiers are retiring." It was
the professor with the field glass. At the same time there came from
in front of them, like a ripple of sound passing rapidly, quaveringly,
through the mob, a whisper, then the rumor spoken aloud but in the
doubting tone of unbelief; finally in shouts: "The Prince Regent, the
Prince Regent. He stopped it. He told the militarists that he would not
have them kill His people. His people. The Prince Regent!"
The emotions of the crowds were still too conflicting to allow definite
united form of expression, joy, sorrow, relief. The cries of the dying
and wounded became audible now to the individuals, who until this had
been concerned only with their own frantic fears, listening for the
death-signaling bugle. Evidently the cordons about Hibiya had been
withdrawn, for the crowd became suddenly augmented. New arrivals who
had not been set trembling by suspense of expectation of death, saw the
dead, raised their hands in wrath. Shouts for vengeance, cries from the
wounded, trembling hysteria of those who had escaped the debacle all
mingled in a chaos of confusion of sound, of movement, of minds.
"Now's the time, you fools," Kent heard the Russian's hoarse whisper to
those about him. "In this moment you win or lose the revolution. All
that's needed now is a leader. Come on, lead them, demolish the General
Staff. Here, take some of these." Kent caught a glimpse of dark
lemon-shaped objects, with crisscross furrows, as they passed from hand
to hand. "I don't suppose you want one," he grinned to Kent. "You don't
know how much history there may be crammed into one of these little
things. Anyway, come along."
The others had already started, making their way through the mob. The
professors and the rest, Sadako-san, Ishii, even Kikuchi. He caught the
young diplomat's arm. "What the devil are you doing in this, Kikuchi?
You had better get back to the Foreign Office where you belong."
"Don't be a fool, Kent, don't be a fool," the young fellow's face
was ecstatic, eyes brilliantly flashing. "Don't you see it, Kent? He
is with us, the Prince Regent, with the people. He must be at the
Kasumigaseki Palace, right across the way from the General Staff
building. He must have seen with his own eyes almost, and he stopped
them. He is with us, the people; what in hell does it matter whether we
be Foreign Office mannikins or proletariat; we all are the people of
Japan, the nation, and we all want just that one thing, the overthrow
of the militarists and of the bureaucrats."
They had reached the edge of the mob at the foot of the wide driveway
leading to the General Staff building. Most of the soldiers had
disappeared; only a thin cordon guarded the approach. Behind them,
scattered in the throng, they could hear voices of leaders shouting.
"To the General Staff; this way; throw them out; to the General Staff!"
The cry was taken up; it became a roar; again the mob took common
direction. Presently they found themselves in the front rank, pressed
steadily forwards by the urge of the multitude behind them. Kent was
pushed upwards with the rest of the group, Sadako-san, Kikuchi, Ishii,
Lüttich and the others, closer and closer to the line of soldiers,
being driven steadily nearer the extended bayonet points. The officer
in charge, a captain, Prussian-mustached, scowling at the advancing
crowd, was directly in front of them. They could see him biting
his lips, finger nervously playing about his automatic, suspense,
indecision, plainly written on his face. A stone thrown by some one in
the crowd whizzed past him. Kent heard him bark out something, some
order; instantly the rifles of the soldiers had leaped into position at
their shoulders. By the gods, they were about to fire!
Those in the front rank of the mob tried to push backwards, but were
held fast by those behind. Instinctively Kent placed his arm about
Sadako, glaring up at the soldiers. Another gruff military order was
barked out, hoarse, unintelligible. The rifles came to rest. The
soldiers began to retreat slowly. "That was Matsu himself gave that
order." Kent heard the excited whisper of Kikuchi right in his ear.
"That's one thing about these militarists, at least. They obey orders.
Look, there he is."
He had come forward, an old man in field uniform with a single great
silver decoration, almost as large as a saucer, below his breast. He
was waving back, impatiently, other officers who evidently wished to
stay with him, barked out some command to them imperiously. Then he
turned, facing the mob, white-haired head erect, hand on sword hilt,
silent, proud, impressive.
"By the gods, they are no cowards, anyway, these militarists," Kent
flung the words back over his shoulder to Kikuchi. "One man against a
nation."
"He accepts the responsibility. What else can he do?" The old Japanese
formula, the gentleman's creed.
Those in the front rank tried to hold back, impressed, awed at this
solitary old man, glaring at them defiantly through steel-rimmed
spectacles. But those behind pressed on. Stones began to fly; suddenly
a shot sounded from the right. The general slumped into a heap; he
tried to raise one hand, collapsed, was quiet.
The captain of the cordon swung about, facing the crowd, face
twitching, teeth bared like a snarling beast. Eyes popping, he waved
his heavy automatic at those in front, yelling at them maniacally.
"Cowards, scum, animals." He was plainly entirely mad. "Yes, and women
too; take that!"
The gun spat directly at Sadako, within a couple of feet of her breast.
Kent felt her become limp suddenly in his arm. As he clung to her, he
sensed something hard worming itself in from behind between him and the
girl. Damn it! He struggled for room in the mob. A dull roar of sound,
powerful, stunned him as if an impact had suddenly pressed against his
side. Dazedly, as through a blur, he saw the figure of the captain reel
backwards, pistol sagging, then tumbling into a heap. A roar went up
from the mob behind them. The surge forward became insistent. A few
of them, Kent, Kikuchi, Ishii, managed to hold up the girl, as the
multitude rushed on past them.
"Here, to the left." Kikuchi was breaking a way. "Let us bring her to
my office. We can take her in through the side gate just across the
way."
They battled their way through the mob slowly, desperately. From above
came the roar of sound, clamor of the crowd, explosions. Just as they
were about to reach the side gate, Lüttich appeared, hatless, wild-eyed.
"Here, there's not time for this." He caught the shoulder of one of the
Japanese, a burly labor leader. "They have fired the General Staff
building; now is the time for a clean sweep. Come on, help lead them to
the palace, the Emperor's palace."
"The palace!" The man stared at the Russian, mouth open, dumbfounded.
"The Emperor!" Then, as realization suddenly dawned on him, he crashed
his fist into the other's face. "Fool, beast!"
The Russian stepped back, bumped into Kent. In his astonishment he did
not seem to notice the physical pain. "And that's the crowd I've been
making bombs for; can you----"
He was swept away by the throng. They managed to gain the Foreign
Office grounds, carried the girl to Kikuchi's office and placed her on
a lounge. Kent pulled away the _eri_ neckband and the upper part of
the kimono. There it was, in the left breast, blue-black against the
whiteness, a small spot, a few drops of blood. She seemed unconscious,
groaned but a little.
"Here, Ishii." Kikuchi took charge. "There should be a doctor at the
American Embassy on a day like this. Get out through the entrance on
the other side, across the tennis court and through Sannencho Lane. If
any one stops you, show them this Foreign Office seal on the envelope.
Here," he turned to Kent. "Sign this. I'm asking them to send a doctor
over here."
Apparently all the Foreign Office people had gathered in the main
building. In this wing it was quiet, but with a roaring background of
sound, as of surf pounding on rocks, the clamor of the mob outside. The
girl stirred, opened her eyes. "Hugh-san," her hand faltered towards
him. "It's good you're here, Hugh-san."
"What's that; so she's a friend of yours, Kent." But Kikuchi received
no answer. He looked at the other, who had thrown himself in front of
the couch, leaning over the girl; then he tiptoed out of the room.
The girl had fallen into a stupor again. From outside a roaring crackle
became louder and louder. The windows crimsoned with vitreous red
glitter.
"Hugh-san," she was trying to raise her head, the voice faint, dreamy.
"See, sunrise over the mountains again; but I want to sleep some more,
I'm tired." Poor little girl, evidently her mind was back in Hakone.
"Hugh-san, sing some more," her hand falteringly sought his. "Sing the
'rock-a-by baby' song again."
"Yes, yes, go to sleep, dear. You'll be all right presently; but now
you must just sleep." He smoothed her hair.
"Yes, I'll sleep; but you must sing to me, Hugh-san." The weak voice
was insistent.
Sing! Must this damned grotesque inspiration pursue him even into
the shadow of death! It was monstrous, impossible, this necessity of
drooling nursery nonsense in the very shadow of racking tragedy. He
cleared his voice, contrived a croaking sound, choked, tried again,
managed it. Leaning forward over her, he intoned his miserable ditty.
"Rock-a-by, baby----" he began even to find a sort of comfort in it,
the monotonous repetition of the meaningless stanzas; kept droning
them mechanically, endlessly,--"when the wind blows the cradle will
rock----" The impression of a large, white hand on the girl's breast
just before him took form in his mind. He looked up. It was the new
doctor from St. Luke's.
"Unless you are singing for your own edification, Mr. Kent, you might
as well stop." The voice was cold, registered the young man's intense
disapproval. "This girl is dead, stone dead."
He stared. It was, of course, what he had expected; still the
announcement, the definite irrevocableness thereof stunned him. A
new figure, a woman's, came into the field of his vision. Sylvia. He
stretched out his hand to her.
They stood there, hand in hand, he and Sylvia, gazing at the dead girl.
"The poor, dear little thing." There were tears in the girl's voice.
"How beautiful she is."
"Beautiful." The thought came to him of the peculiarly luminous
radiance of her eyes. "That's just what makes me so sick of this
whole thing, Sylvia, the wanton waste and destruction of the process
of compelling the grace and beauty of Japan into the cramping forms
of our civilization: that it is these women, these girls who must
suffer. What do I care for the men, even the young boys, who have been
slaughtered to-day! That's part of the game, man's price for that which
we call progress of civilization. That's all right. But these girls,
these infinitely delicate and beautiful beings, made for sunlight, and
fragrance, and flowers; but they are drawn, attracted into the whirl
and whirr of the wheels of our civilization, and they hurt them, tear
and mangle them, in mind, in spirit, or in body, and cast them forth."
He stared misty-eyed at the figure before them, with its bright crimson
_obi_ band, delicately tinted kimono sleeve drooping outspread towards
the floor. "Like that, dead, crushed--broken butterflies."
Outside, the tumult and clamor of the mob was increasing. All were
facing the palace gate at Sakuradamon. "_Banzai._" The cry came from
those on the bridge. "_Banzai._ Long live the Emperor. Long live
Japan. _Banzai._" The roar was taken up by the other thousands, rose
heavenwards, about the rumble and crackle from the flaming furnace of
the General Staff building.
Kikuchi slammed open the window. "Come on," he turned to Kent,
ecstatic, strident-voiced. "We have won. The tyrants are finished.
Now we shall build up Japan, make it a great nation, the Emperor and
the people together. _Banzai._" He threw his arm around the shoulder
of Ishii. Together they leaned far out of the window, aristocrat and
office boy, their voices blending with the thunderous pæan of the
multitude:
"_Banzai, banzai._"
END