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CHAPTER VIII.
A BATCH OF LETTERS
[Dick Scupp to his Mother.]
"On board the 'Osprey.'"December 20, 1903.
"Dear Mother:
"I take my pen in hand to inform you that I am well and hope you are the same. We left Manila two weeks ago and came to this place, which is Chefoo. It sounds like a sneeze, doesn't it? It is a Chinese port on Shantung Peninsula, pretty nearly opposite Port Arthur, which as you know is occupied by the Russians. I wish I could be home next Friday, which is Christmas. Tell Katy to think of me and I will bring home something in my box for her. I am sorry to say I have lost that pair of stockings you knit for me. I forgot and left them on the deck instead of putting them in my bag and Jimmy Legs got them when he came round, and popped them into the lucky-bag. I might have gone up to the mast the next day and claimed them, but a lot of us were going ashore (it was when we were at Shanghai) and I didn't want my liberty stopped, so I let them go, and Sam Bolles bought them at the auction afterward for nineteen cents. That is all I have to say at present.
"From your loving son,"Richard."
[From Oto Owari to O-Hana-San.]
Translated
"Sasebo, January 2, 1904.
"The exalted letter which you augustly condescended to send me on the 13th day of the 10th moon filled me with great felicity, to know that you are in ever-increasing august robustness, as you were tormented with light fever when I worshipped your eyebrow1 a short time before. I do not know where I shall go next. I see Oshima almost daily at the barracks. A new ship is fitting out at the docks, the Fujiyama, and it may be that I shall have an appointment to her, or it may be that I shall have to go under the water. You will understand later. I am now awaiting orders. Although the war-cloud in the west is dark, the people in Tokio celebrated New Year's Day with rejoicing and festivity, as usual. The houses and shops, Oshima told me, were covered with fruits and flowers, and the streets decorated with flags and lanterns. Many bands of men marched through the city singing old war-songs of the Samurai. All the fairs were crowded. Pray condescend to take august care of your exalted health. I knock my head against the floor.
"Remembrance and respectful veneration.
"Oto.
"To O-Hana-San."
[Hallie to Lieut. Com. David Rexdale, U. S. N.]
Extracts
"Boston, November 15, 1903.
"Dear Dave:
"You can't tell how anxious I am to hear from you. Your last letter, mailed at Suez, was a very short one. You told me you had a despatch from Washington ordering you to Shanghai instead of Hongkong, and I ought to have received a letter from that city; but I haven't and I'm worried about you. If it didn't cost so much I would cable instead of writing. Do write to me at once. If anything should happen to you2…
"In September I had a little visit with the Holmes. Norman has been detached from the Brooklyn Yard and appointed to the Vulture, which probably will join the Asiatic squadron this winter or in the early spring. Our old friend Tickerson has received his commission as lieutenant (first grade) and his wife writes me gleefully on the increase of pay as well as glory. Do you remember when you introduced me to her, at Annapolis? They say 'Girlie' is just as proud of her as he was in the old days, when the other cadets (all but you, of course, Dave!) used to envy him as he walked down 'Lover's' with her.
"You would be interested in the football situation this fall, if you were here. O, if only…
"Well, as I was about to say, Harvard is of course straining every nerve to get into condition for Yale. The game comes off in about ten days, and I'm going over to Cambridge to see it. Who do you suppose is going to take me? Why, dear old Uncle Richard, who happens to be spending a few weeks East, on business. Little Hallie Holmes is the dearest baby in the world. Wasn't it lovely in Anemone to insist on naming her for me? Aunt Letitia is tremendously interested in two things – anti-vivisection and the Russo-Japanese trouble. She has attended several hearings at the State House, and at one of them she spoke her mind out so forcibly that old Jed, bless his heart, made a great racket pounding on the floor and set everybody applauding. He had sneaked in without Aunt's knowing it, and on reaching home was heard to express a strong desire to 'keelhaul them doctors.' He takes great delight in his lofty 'cabin' and regularly goes out 'on deck' at the top of the house every night, to have a last smoke and a 'look at the weather,' like Captain Cuttle, before turning in. Aunt Letitia reads every scrap she can find in the papers about Russia and Japan, and so, for that matter, do I. Sometimes my sympathies are with one nation and sometimes with the other. Of course Japan is ever so much the smaller of the two, and her people are so quick and bright that nearly everybody takes their side and hopes that if there is a war she will win. But then Russia sometimes seems to me less like a bear than a great Newfoundland dog, and, as somebody has said, it's fairly pathetic to see how she has been trying all these years to get to the water; that is, to the open ocean, where she can have a navy, big and well trained, like other nations. Her ships in the Baltic seem like boats in a tub. Anyway I do hope and pray that there won't be any war, after all. Surely we humans know enough, have got evolutionised enough, in this twentieth century, to settle a dispute without fighting like savages.
"I miss you every day… Write to me as soon as you can…
"Your loving wife,"Hallie."
[From Fred Larkin to Lieutenant Staples.]
"San Francisco, December 29, 1903.
"My dear Lieutenant:
"'If you get there before I do,
Tell them I am coming too!'
"As I expected, the Bulletin doesn't propose to get left on any unpleasantness in the Extreme East, nor even to take its chances in a syndicate. It wants real news, straight from the front, and, naturally, it hits upon Yours Truly to pick it up. I wrote to Rexdale just before leaving Boston, so it is probably no surprise to you that I have crossed the continent and am about to embark for Yokohama. Indeed I may make my bow to you on the quarter-deck of the Osprey before you receive this letter! The papers are full of correspondence and abstracts of diplomatic papers from St. Petersburg and Tokio. The language of these communications between the State Departments of the two countries is bland and meek as the coo of a dove or the baa of a lamb; but mark my words, my boy – there's going to be a war, and a big one. There must be, to justify my going out to report it! Do you remember how a reporter in Havana in 1897 is said to have cabled to the home office of a certain 'yellow' journal not unknown to fame, 'No war here. What shall I do?' And the editor of the newspaper cabled back, 'Stay where you are, and send full reports. I'll provide war.' Well, our venerable and sagacious friend Marquis Ito, together with the amiable but distracted Ruler of all the Russias, will 'provide war' for me to write up, and that before many days. And the little Japs will strike first, see if they don't! Tell Rexdale, please, that I'm on my way. If anything good happens before I see you, 'make a note on,' and give it to me for a Bulletin story.
"Yours ever,"Larkin."
[From Lieutenant Commander Rexdale to Hallie.]
Extract
"Cavite, P. I., December 2, 1903.
" … From Shanghai we were ordered to this port, where we have been lying for nearly a month, doing guard duty. Next Thursday we sail for Chefoo, the Chinese seaport not far from Wei-hai-wei, where Pechili Strait opens into the Yellow Sea. At that station we shall be quite near Korea and Port Arthur, and if there is any trouble we shall be spectators, though almost certainly not participants, so you need not worry when you see by the naval despatches at home that we are on the outskirts of the Debatable Land. It is hard, I've no doubt, for you to realise how the war-fever is growing, out here. I am told that the Japanese have been steadily preparing for this final trial of her strength with Russia for years past. You may be interested in the make-up of the Jap. army. Under the present law all males are subject to conscription at the age of twenty. There is no distinction of class, and there are no exemptions except for physical disabilities, or because the conscript is the sole support of indigent parents, a student in certain schools, or a member of certain branches of civil service.
"The first term of service is between the ages of twenty and twenty-three. Then the soldier enters the first reserve, where he serves between the ages of twenty-three and twenty-six. After that he goes to the second reserve, where his service is between the ages of twenty-six and thirty-one; and then to the general national reserve, which includes all males between the ages of seventeen and forty not already in active service.
" … I was called off, yesterday afternoon, from my writing, and later in the day I learned that there is trouble in Seoul, the capital of Korea. There are lots of Japanese and Russians there, and, with the Korean natives hating all foreigners, there is material for a good deal of disturbance. Several riots have occurred in the streets, and it is said that our minister has cabled to Washington asking for a war-ship at Chemulpo, the port of Seoul. If the Department assents, the talk is that either the Wilmington or the Osprey will be detailed for that duty. I must say I hope it will be our little ship, and so do all our officers. Midshipman Starr puts it very well: 'When I was a boy, I always liked to get right up against the ropes at a fire!' He isn't much more than a boy now, but he's a fine fellow, and I'd trust him to do his part in an emergency…
"Later.– The Vicksburg is the lucky ship, after all. She has sailed for Chemulpo, and a party of marines will be landed and sent up to Seoul to protect our Minister and all other Americans and their interests in the city. The gunboat is commanded by Com. W. A. Marshall, whom you will remember meeting in Washington at the ball three years ago. His ship is about the size of the Osprey, and carries six guns.
"I hear that the Japanese fleet at Nagasaki is removing all superfluous wood-work, filling its bunkers with hard steam coal, and preparing, in general, for business. We sail for Chefoo at 9 A.M. to-morrow…
"Your loving husband,"Dave."
CHAPTER IX.
AT THE CZAR'S COMMAND
Ivan Ivanovitch lived on the outskirts of a small village about one hundred miles north-east of Moscow. Like his father and grandfather and many generations before, he was a moujik, a peasant, with this difference: they had been serfs; Ivan was freeborn. His father now owned the hut in which he lived with his family of wife and three children – two girls, besides Ivan; he also owned a small patch of land, and an acre or two of tillable soil had been allotted to him when the serfs were emancipated, with a condition of slow payment to the Government, a few roubles at a time.
Up to the autumn of 1903 Ivan worked in the fields, bare-headed and blue-bloused, beside his father. The girls worked, too, for the father was lame and needed all the help he could get. He had leaned upon Ivan more and more as the years went by and his son grew from boyhood to sturdy young manhood. Every evening the family knelt before the crucifix on the wall of the living-room, and prayed for themselves, their country, and their "Little Father," the Czar, who spent all his time in far-off St. Petersburg, they were sure, in thinking of his "children," the people of the great Empire, and loving them and planning for their good. In return they almost worshipped him, as they did the figure on the crucifix.
"Soon you will have to serve as a soldier, Ivan," said his father one day. The older man had a great tawny beard and mane of hair like a lion's; Ivan resembled him more and more.
"That is true, my father."
"You are nearly of age."
"True, my father."
"But," put in his mother anxiously, "surely our boy will not have to fight?"
"Nay, Matouschka," said Ivan tenderly but manfully, "if the Czar commands, my life is his!"
Two months later he reported at the barracks at Moscow, and was duly enrolled in the 11th Regiment of Infantry, Third Division, First Reserves, of the Imperial Army.
At first the novelty was amusing, and Ivan enjoyed the companionship of his comrades in the ranks, the smart uniform and big fur cap, the music of the band, when they paraded in the great square and the crowds gathered to see. But the drill, drill, drill became tedious, and it was with rather a sense of relief that in the latter part of the following January he heard that the regiment was to leave Moscow for the Far East.
There was no time to say good-bye to his parents, nor could he have paid his fare to and from the village had permission been given. So Ivan took out his little brass cross, his "ikon," which, like every other Russian soldier, he carried in his bosom, and murmured a prayer for father and sisters and the little mother. Then he buckled on his belt, adjusted his clumsy cap, shouldered his musket and was ready.
"Where are we going, comrade?" he asked of his next neighbour in the ranks, as they marched to the railway station.
"I do not know. They say there is to be war."
"War – against whom?"
"The Japanese."
"Japanese? Who are they? Are they savages or white like us?"
"I can't tell you, Ivan. We shall know when we see them."
"Why do we fight against them? Where do they live?"
But his comrade could only shrug his shoulders. He had not the least idea of the answer to either question; nor had any man in the company, only a half-dozen of whom could read or write.
"It is the Czar's command."
Silently they plodded on, the snow whirling about them as they marched. Here and there a knot of people cheered them. This was pleasant. Ivan felt that he was really a soldier. When a lump came into his throat at the thought of the little hut in the lonely white waste far to the north, he gulped it down and broke into a hoarse laugh which brought down a reprimand from the nearest officer.
The troops were packed into a long transport train like cattle. When the cars stopped or started suddenly they fell against each other. Some swore and even struck out, but most were as mild and phlegmatic as the cows and sheep whose places they had taken. Ivan was of this sort.
"Never mind," he said to a man who trod upon his foot; "it is nothing. My foot is iron"; and when he was thrown against a neighbour: "Ah, what a blockhead I am! Will you not hit me, to pay the score?"
Most of the soldiers said nothing. As verst after verst of desolate snowy landscape was left behind they stood or squatted in the cars, silent, uncomplaining. Why should they find fault with cold and hunger and fatigue? It was the Czar's command. The Little Father in his palace was caring for them. It was theirs not to complain, but to obey.
There were many delays on the ill-constructed, overcrowded Siberian Railway, the black cord that stretched across a continent to Port Arthur and Vladivostok, seven thousand miles away. But whether it was seventy miles or seven thousand the rank and file of the army hardly knew or cared. Cold, hungry, stiff from constrained position, they bore all privations with calmness and even a sort of jovial good-humour. At night every soldier fumbled under his furs and heavy winter coat for his ikon, and his bearded lips murmured the sacred Name.
At length the rugged shores of Lake Baikal were reached, in Farther Siberia. Here there was another halt, for the railway itself came to an end, and the troops were ordered out of the train at early dawn.
"How can we go on?" asked Ivan stupidly. Before him a white plain stretched away to the horizon line. To the right were mountains; to the left, mountains. The ice-bound surface of the lake was swept by a bitter gale, which heaped up huge drifts and flung them away again, like a child at play. Behind the regiment of fur-capped soldiers, huddled on the frozen shore, was home; before them, what seemed an Arctic sea. The snow fell heavily, and drifted around their feet. "How can we go on?" asked Ivan; and a subaltern, breathing through his icy moustache, replied: "I do not know, private, but we must advance. It is the Czar's command."
When Russia, determined to establish a port on the open sea, though it were thousands of miles from her capital, built the great Trans-Siberian Railway, she progressed rapidly with her fragile, light-rail, single-track road until she came to Lake Baikal. Here Nature had placed what might well be deemed an impossible obstruction: a huge inland lake four hundred miles in length, eighteen hundred feet deep, bordered with mountains, whose sheer granite cliffs rose from the water to a height of fifteen hundred feet, and in their turn were overshadowed by snow-capped peaks. The lake at this point is forty miles wide. No bridge could span its storm-swept surface, no tunnel could be driven beneath its sombre depths. How was the obstacle to be surmounted? A weaker nation would have given up the task, as the French tired of working at the Panama Canal; Russia, ponderous, tireless, determined, almost irresistible, moved on. In the science of Physics, the momentum of a moving body is thus analysed and expressed: M = m × v. In other words, it equals the mass of the body multiplied by its velocity. If either factor be increased, the momentum becomes correspondingly greater. When Russia moves, the velocity is slight, but the mass is enormous. When the soldier, in the time-worn anecdote, tried to stop with his foot the slowly rolling spent cannon-ball, it snapped his leg like a pipe-stem. The nation that opposes Russia must itself be of iron mould, or it will snap. Lake Baikal was a trifle, a mere incident to the civil engineers who laid out the Trans-Siberian Railway.
In the summer-time huge steam ferry-boats plied from shore to shore, transferring passengers and freight from the western to the eastern or Trans-Baikal section. From November to April the lake is frozen over, but during at least half of that time enormous ice-breakers, like the heaviest ocean-going tug-boats, crashed through the ice and kept open a canal from side to side.
These were temporary expedients. The engineers meanwhile had not been idle. They attacked the cliffs bordering the southern end of the lake, and began cutting a path through the solid rock for advancing Russia. Twenty-seven tunnels were to be bored, and have since been completed. While Ivan waited by the shore a dull boom came now and then to his ear, from the blasting. It was the relentless, unfaltering tread of Russia's iron heel.
But other means had to be provided, in that terrible winter of 1903, for the passage of troops and supplies, for although the great mass of soldiers did not understand, their leaders and the counsellors of state in St. Petersburg knew there was urgent need. A railroad was begun upon the ice itself, and before March was in actual operation. A thousand feet of water gloomed beneath the thin ice bridge. Once or twice there was an accident – a locomotive went through, or a few cars, and, incidentally, a few human beings. This was nothing. "Forward, my men! It is the Czar's command!"
The ice railway not yet being complete, there was but one way to cross Lake Baikal – by horse-power or on foot. High officials and favoured travellers secured sledges; the main body of infantry, including Ivan's regiment, having hastily swallowed a breakfast of army rations, set out on the march across the forty miles of ice plain, at "fatigue step." The bands were forbidden to play, lest the rhythmic tread of the soldiers, instinctively keeping time to the music, should bring too great and concentrated strain upon the ice.
Before they were half a league from shore the wind pounced upon its new playthings; it blew upon their sides, their backs, and their faces. It pelted them with ice-drops, with whirling masses of snow. They leaned forward and plodded on, unmurmuring. It roared like a cataract, and howled like wolf-packs; the air was so filled with drift that each man simply followed his file-leader, with no idea of the direction of the march, the van being guided by telegraph-poles set in the ice at short intervals of space. Hands and feet became numb; beards were fringed with icicles; the men in the disordered ranks slipped and stumbled against one another. With the mercury 23° below zero, and a northerly gale, hurled down the entire four hundred miles of unbroken expanse of the lake, the cold was frightful.
Ivan turned his head stiffly to mumble something to his neighbour in the ranks. He was no longer there. The subaltern who had answered him on the shore was also missing. Like scores of others he had wandered off the line of march, to fall and die unseen.
Ivan bent his head to a fierce blast, muttering "Courage, comrades!" No one replied to him as he staggered uncertainly onward. "Courage, comrades!" shouted Ivan again. His voice was lost in the ceaseless roar of the gale. Ivan peered out from under the mask of ice which had formed across his eyes, from his shaggy brows to his moustache. No one was near him. He was alone with the storm.
It seemed an easy thing to lie down in the snow and go to sleep. It would be a joy merely to drop the heavy musket. Nobody knew where he was; the lake would swallow him up, and who would be the wiser? Ivan halted a moment, pondering in his dull way. Suddenly he remembered. That would be disobedience of orders. His officer had said, "It is the Czar's command!" What madness, to think of disobeying the Little Father at St. Petersburg! The peasant-soldier gripped his breast, where the ikon lay, and, taking his course as well as he could from the direction of the wind, staggered on.
Whether it was five minutes or an hour he could not tell; but now he saw dim figures around him, plodding silently onward. Whether they were comrades of his own regiment he neither knew nor cared. He was once more, after that moment of individuality, a part of the Russian army, and moved mechanically forward with it.
The men huddled together like sheep, as they marched. When one of their number staggered aside and disappeared they closed the gap; when one fell, they stepped stiffly over him.
"Halt!"
Each man stopped by stumbling abruptly against the one before him. They asked no questions. They remained standing, as they had moved, by sheer inertia, letting the butts of their muskets rest on the ice.
The column had halted by a rest-house, marking half-way across the lake. A few officials of highest rank, a newspaper man or two, half a dozen merchant travellers with special passes, refreshed themselves with soup and steaming tea. A steady stream of open sleighs passed slowly by the silent, immovable column. The troops were fed where they stood, without shelter from the fierce blast and whirling snow.
Soon the order came down the line, "Forward!"
Once more the fearful march across the ice was resumed. At long intervals there were more halts, when tea was served; but the cold increased. The men now began to suffer less. Some of them hoarsely roared out a snatch of song; these soon dropped or wandered away. When the winter storm of Siberia first assaults it is brutal in its blows, its piercing thrusts, its agonising rack-torment of cold. Gradually it becomes less rude and more dangerous. Its wild shriek of rage becomes a crooning cradle-song; it strokes away the anguish from the knotted joints of hand and foot and limb. It no longer repels, it invites.
When the long column of staggering, ice-covered forms reached the eastern shore of the lake its numbers had lessened by five hundred, who would never face the unknown enemies of the Far East. Ivan was among the survivors. His huge frame, his iron constitution, his allegiance to the Czar, had carried him through.
He found his company half a verst ahead, and as night fell he joined a group of grim figures around a blazing camp-fire. Tea was made and served out, with regular army rations. The men's drawn faces relaxed. They warmed their half-frozen limbs. Rough jokes passed. The terrors of the lake-crossing were forgotten. "On to Harbin!" they roared out in chorus, as their colonel passed. "Long live the Czar!"
