Chapter IV: 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.