"We shall never reach it with shrapnel," said the lieutenant, "there's no use trying to beat it except on its own ground."
"We have some newly constructed shrapnel," answered the captain, "the bullets of which are connected with spiral wires that tear the envelope of the balloon."
Now two shots went off at the same time.
"Those seem to be the balloon-guns," said the lieutenant.
Far below the air-ship hovered the clouds of two shrapnel shots.
"They're getting our air-ship ready over there," cried the captain; "that's the only sensible thing to do." He pointed to a spot far off where a large, yellow motor-balloon could be seen hanging in the air like a large bubble.
It went up in a slanting direction, and then, after describing several uncertain curves, steered straight for the enemy's balloon, which also began to rise at once.
Hundreds of thousands of eyes were following the course of those two little yellow dots up in the clear, early morning air, as the mountain edges began to be tipped with pink. The Japanese air-ship had reached a position a little to one side of that occupied by the 28th Regiment, when a tiny black speck was seen to leave it and to gain in size as it fell with increasing velocity. When it reached the ground a vivid red flame shot up. Tremendous clouds of smoke followed, mixed with dark objects, and the distant mountains resounded with loud peals of thunder which died away amid the angry rumblings in the gorges.
"That was a big bomb," said the captain, "and it seems to have done considerable mischief."
Now a little puff of white smoke issued from the American air-ship and ten seconds later an explosive body of some sort burst against a wall of rock.
"If they keep on like that they'll only hit our own men," said the lieutenant.
"The Jap is ascending," cried some one, and again all the field-glasses were directed towards the two ships.
Now both were seen to rise.
"The Japs are throwing down everything they've got in the way of explosives," cried the captain. A whole row of black spots came rushing down and again came the thunder caused by the bursting of several bombs one after the other.
The Jap went up rapidly and then crossed the path of the American balloon about two hundred yards above it.
Suddenly the yellow envelope of the American air-ship burst into flames, lost its shape and shrunk together, and the ship fell rapidly among the valleys to the left, looking like the skeleton of an umbrella that has been out in a gale of wind.
"All over," said the lieutenant with a sigh. "What a shame! We might just as well have done that ourselves."
High up in the blue ether hovered the Japanese air-ship; then it described a curve to the left, went straight ahead and then seemed suddenly to be swallowed up in the morning light. But soon it appeared again as a gray speck against the clear blue sky, and turning to the right once more, got bigger and bigger, came nearer, and finally steered back straight for the Blue Mountains. And then the thunder of cannon was heard from the right.
The assault on Hilgard, the center of the Japanese position in the broad valley of the Blue Mountains, had failed; two regiments had bled to death on the wire barricades outside the little town, and then all was over. It would be necessary to break up the enemy's position by flank movements from both sides before another attack on their center could be attempted. For two long days the artillery contest waged; then Longworth's division on our right wing gained a little ground, and when the sun sank to rest behind the Blue Mountains on August 14th, we had reason to be satisfied with our day's work, for we had succeeded, at a great sacrifice, it is true, in wresting from the enemy several important positions on the sides of the mountains.
Towards evening six fresh batteries were sent forward to the captured positions, whence they were to push on towards the left wing of the Japanese center the next morning. Telephone messages to headquarters from the front reported the mountain-pass leading to Walla Walla free from the enemy, so that a transport of ammunition could be sent that way in the evening to replenish the sadly diminished store for the decisive battle to be fought the next day.
While the newspapers all over the East were spreading the news of this first victory of the American arms, Lieutenant Esher was commanded by General Longworth to carry the orders for the next day to the officer in charge of the Tenth Brigade, which had taken up its position before the mountain-pass on the right wing. For safety's sake General Longworth had decided to send his orders by word of mouth, only giving instructions that the receipt of each message should be reported to headquarters by each detachment either by field-telegraph or telephone.
Lieutenant Esher, on his motor-cycle, passed an endless chain of ammunition wagons on his way. For a long time he could make only slow progress on account of the numerous ambulances and other vehicles which the temporary field-hospitals were beginning to send back from the front; but after a time the road gradually became clear.
The motor rattled on loudly through the silent night, which was disturbed only now and then by the echo of a shot. Here and there along the road a sentry challenged the solitary traveler, who gave the password and puffed on.
He had been informed that the quickest way to reach General Lawrence would be by way of the narrow mountain-path that turned off to the left of the road, which had now become absolutely impassable again on account of innumerable transports. It was a dangerous ride, for any moment the bicycle might smash into some unseen obstacle and topple over into the abyss on the right, into which stones and loose earth were continually falling as the cycle pushed them to one side.
Lieutenant Esher therefore got off his wheel and pushed it along. At the edge of a wood he stopped for a moment to study his map by the light of an electric pocket-lamp, when he heard a sharp call just above him. He could not quite make it out, but gave the password, and two shots rang out simultaneously close to him.—When Lieutenant Esher came to, he found a Japanese army doctor bending over him.
He had an uncertain feeling of having been carried over a rocky desert, and when he at last succeeded in collecting his thoughts, he came to the conclusion that he must have strayed from the path and run straight into the enemy's arms.
He tried to raise his head to see where he was, but a violent pain in his shoulder forced him to lie still. The noises all around made it clear to him, however, that he was among Japanese outposts. The doctor exchanged a few words with an officer who had just come up, but they spoke Japanese and Esher could not understand a word they said.
"Am I wounded?" he asked of the ambulance soldier beside him. The latter pointed to the doctor, who said, "You will soon be all right again."
"Where am I wounded?"
"In the right thigh," answered the doctor, sitting down on a stone near Esher. The doctor didn't seem to have much work to do.
The stinging pain in his right shoulder robbed Esher of his senses for a moment, but he soon came to again and remembered his orders to Lawrence's brigade. Thank God he had no written message on his person. As it was, the enemy had succeeded in capturing only a broken motor-cycle and a wounded, unimportant officer. The division staff would soon discover by telephoning that General Lawrence had not received his orders and then repeat the message.
Esher managed to turn his head, and watched the Japanese officer copying an order by the light of a bicycle lamp. The order had just been delivered by a mounted messenger, who sat immovable as a statue on his exhausted and panting steed.
Suddenly the Japanese cavalryman seemed to grow enormous bats' wings, which spread out until they obscured the whole sky. The ghostly figure resembled a wild creature of fable, born of the weird fancy of a Doré, or an avenging angel of the Apocalypse. Then the rider shrank together again and seemed to be bouncing up and down on the back of his horse like a little grinning monkey.
The wounded man rubbed his eyes. What was that? Was he awake or had he been dreaming?
He asked the ambulance soldier for a drink, and the latter at once handed him some water in a tin cup. Now a real Japanese cavalryman was once more sitting up there on his horse, while the officer was still writing. Then the officer's arm began to grow longer and longer, until at last he was writing on the sky with a fiery pencil:
"In case there is no Japanese attack on August 15th, the Tenth Brigade under General Lawrence is to retain its present positions until the attack of our center——"
Good Lord, what was that? Yes, those were the very words of the message he was to have delivered to the Tenth Brigade, and not only were the words identical, but the hand-writing was the same, for the flaming letters had burnt themselves into his memory stroke for stroke and word for word and line for line.
He tried to get up, but could not. The lieutenant kept on writing, while the horseman stood beside him. The horse was brushing off the flies with his tail.
Then the awful, maddening thought came to him: This must be the beginning of wound-fever. If it kept up and he began to get delirious, he might betray his orders for Lawrence's brigade to the enemy.
And he saw hundreds of Japanese standing around him, all stretching their necks to catch his words, and more and more came from over the mountain ridges like a swarm of ants, and they all wanted to hear the secrets that he was trying to keep in his aching head, while the officer waved his note-book over him like a fluttering flag. Then the doctor seized him, and arm in arm they hopped to and fro—to and fro—to and fro.
Yes, he was certainly delirious. Lieutenant Esher thought of his home. He saw his little house on 148th Street. He came home from business, he walked through the garden, hung up his coat on the rack, opened the door, his young wife welcomed him, she nodded to him—Eveline—groaned the lieutenant, and then his thoughts turned to God.
Then the writing officer again, the rider on his horse, and the dark night-sky, in which the stars were dancing like silver gnats. Collecting his whole willpower, he succeeded in getting into a sitting posture, and the Japanese soldier attending him awoke out of a doze only to find his revolver in the American's hands. But it was too late, for a shot resounded at the same moment. Lieutenant Esher had brought his weary brain to rest; his head toppled over and landed hard on the rocky ground.
Thus died a real hero, and those were hard times when men of stout heart and iron courage were sorely needed.
Opposite Hilgard, the center of the enemy's position in the Blue Mountains, trenches had been thrown up, and the 28th Militia Regiment had occupied them in the night of August 13th-14th. The Japanese were apparently not aware of their presence, as the regiment had taken no part in the fighting on the fourteenth. On the evening of the same day, the 32d Regiment was pushed forward to the same position, while the searchlights were playing over the plain and on the mountain sides, and dazzling the eyes of the sentries who were keeping a sharp lookout for the enemy from various ambushes. And whenever the beam of light landed on dark shadows, which jumped quickly aside, flames shot out on the opposite side and flashes of fire from bursting shrapnel drew trembling streaks across the sky and lighted up the immediate neighborhood.
The wires which connected the headquarters with all the sentries and outposts vibrated perpetually with the thoughts and commands of a single individual, who managed this whole apparatus from a little schoolroom in Baker City far behind the front, allowing himself scarcely a moment for much-needed night-rest.
The 28th Regiment had thrown up trenches the height of a man in the hard ground opposite the little town of Hilgard on the night of August 13th-14th. Now a company of pioneers was busy widening them and building stands for the troops where they would be safe from splinters, for it was highly probable that the assault on Hilgard would be undertaken from here on the following evening. The covering for these stands was made of thick boards and planks taken from a saw-mill near by, and over these the dug up earth was spread. The enemy's attention seemed to be directed elsewhere, for the reflections from the searchlights were continually crossing one another over to the right. In this direction music could be distinctly heard coming from Longworth's Division—a lively march waking the echoes of the night with its clear full tones.
Music? Those who were swearing at the stupidity of allowing the band to play in the very face of the enemy, did not know that the troops over there on their way to quarters had marched over forty miles that day, and that only the inspiring power of music could help the stumbling men to gather their remaining strength and press forward.
The cheerful melody of the old Scotch song,
"Gin a body, meet a body,Comin' thro' the rye,"
rang out in common time across the silent battle-field, fifes squeaking and drums rolling, while the silent searchlights continued flashing in the dark sky.
"Gin a body, meet a body,Comin' thro' the rye."
Meanwhile the picks and spades were kept going in the trenches of the 28th Regiment. The earth and stones flew with a rattle over the top of the breastworks, making them stronger and stronger, pioneers and infantry working side by side in the dark, hollow space. The battalion on guard kept strict watch in the direction of the enemy, continually expecting to see creeping figures suddenly pop up out of the darkness.
"Didn't you hear something, captain?" asked one of the men on watch.
"No, where?"
A curious purring sound like the whizzing of a small dynamo became audible.
Some one gave a low whistle, and the pioneers stopped work, and leaned on their spades. All the men listened intently, but no one could make out whence the strange sound came.
Suddenly some one spoke quite loudly and another voice replied. Up in the air—that's where it was! A black shadow swept across the sky. "An air-ship!" cried one of the men in the trench, and sure enough the whirring of the screw of a motor balloon could be distinctly heard. Bang—bang—bang, went a few shots into the air.
"Stop the fire!" called a commanding voice from above.
"Stop! It is our own balloon!"
"No, it's a Japanese one!"
Bang—bang, it went again. From the rear came the deep bass of a big gun and close by sounded the sharp bang—bang—bang of a little balloon-gun in the second trench. There was a burst of flame up in the air, followed by a hail of metal splinters. "Cut that out. You're shooting at us!" roared Captain Lange across to the battery.
"Stop firing!" came a quick order from there. A few cannon shots were heard coming from the rear.
Suddenly a bright light appeared up in the air and a white magnesium cluster descended slowly, lighting up all the trenches in a sudden blaze which made the pioneers look like ghosts peering over the black brink of the pits. Then the light went out, and the eyes trying in vain to pierce the darkness saw nothing but glittering fiery red circles. The Japanese batteries on the other side opened fire. The air-ship had entirely disappeared, and no one knew whether the uncanny night-bird had been friend or foe.
The assault on Hilgard was to be begun by the 28th and 32d Volunteers: General MacArthur had originally planned to have the attempt made at dawn on August 15th; but as one brigade of Wood's Division had not yet arrived, he postponed the attack for twenty-four hours, to the sixteenth of August, while the fifteenth was to be taken up with heavy firing on the enemy's position, which seemed to have been somewhat weakened. As soon, therefore, as day broke, the Americans opened fire, and all the time that almost sixty American guns were bombarding Hilgard and sending shell after shell over the town, and the white flakes of cotton from the bursting shrapnels hovered over the houses and almost obscured the view of the mountains and the shells tore up the ground, sowing iron seed in the furrows, the 28th and 32d Volunteers lay in the trenches without firing a single shot.
The commander of the 16th Brigade, to which the two regiments belonged, was in the first trench during the morning, and, in company with Colonel Katterfeld, inspected the results of the bombardment through his telescope, which had been set up in the trench. A shrapnel had just destroyed the top of the copper church tower, which the Japanese were using as a lookout.
Although the American shells had already created a great deal of havoc in Hilgard, the walls of the houses offered considerable resistance to the hail of bullets from the shrapnels. The brigadier-general therefore sent orders to the battery stationed behind and to the right of the trenches to shell the houses on both sides of the street leading into Hilgard.
"Shell the houses on both sides of the street leading into Hilgard! Shell the houses on both sides of the street leading into Hilgard—Shell—Hilgard," was the command which was passed along from mouth to mouth through the trenches, until it reached the battery amid the roar of battle.
"—Shells—we have no shells—shrapnels—the battery has no shells, only shrapnels—" came back the answer after a while.
"No shells, I might have known it, only those everlasting shrapnels. How on earth can I shoot a town to pieces with shrapnel!" growled the brigadier-general, going into the protected stand where the telephone had been set up.
"Send two hundred shells immediately by automobile from Union to the 8th Battery Volunteers stationed before Hilgard," ordered the general through the telephone— "What, there aren't any shells at Union? The last have been forwarded to Longworth's Division?— But I must have at least a hundred; have them brought back at once from the right wing— No automobile, either?" It was a wonder that the telephone didn't burst with righteous indignation at the vigorous curses the brigadier-general roared into it.
But unfortunately the statement made at Union, where the field railway built from Monida for the transport service terminated, was correct. Just as in most European armies, the number of shells provided was out of all proportion to the shrapnel, and the supply of shells was consequently low at all times. Besides, most of the ammunition-motors had been put out of commission early in the game. The advantage of higher speed possessed by the automobiles was more than offset by their greater conspicuousness the moment they came within range of the enemy's guns. The clouds of dust which they threw up at once showed the enemy in which direction they were going, and as they were obliged to keep to the main road, the Japanese had only to make a target of the highway and do a little figuring to make short work of these modern vehicles. The great number of wrecked motor cars strewn along the road proved rather conclusively that the horse has not yet outlived its usefulness in modern warfare.
The officers, including the generals, had willingly dispensed with such a dangerous mode of locomotion after the first fatal experiences, for the staring fiery eyes of the motor betrayed its whereabouts by night, and the clouds of dust betrayed it by day. The moment an auto came puffing along, the enemy's shots began to fall to the right and left of it, and it was only natural, therefore, that the horse came into its own again, both because the rider was not bound to the main road and because he did not offer such a conspicuous target for the enemy's shots.
Towards noon the Japanese batteries entrenched before Hilgard began bombarding the 28th Regiment with shrapnel. Colonel Katterfeld therefore ordered half his men to seek protection under the stands.
The howling and crashing of the bursting shrapnel of course had its effect on those troops who were here under fire for the first time. But the shrapnel bullets rained on the wooden roofs without being able to penetrate them, and after half an hour this fact imbued the men in their retreats with a certain feeling of security. The enemy soon stopped this ineffective fire from his field-guns, however, and on the basis of careful observations made from a captive balloon behind Hilgard, the Japanese began using explosive shells in place of the shrapnel.
The very first shots produced terrible devastation. The long planks were tossed about like matches in the smoke of the bursting Shimose shells, and the slaughter when one of them landed right in the midst of the closely packed men in one of these subterranean mole-holes was absolutely indescribable. Back into the trenches, therefore! But the enemy had observed this change of position from his balloon, and the shots began to rain unceasingly into the trenches. And so perfect was the Japanese marksmanship that the position of the long line of trenches could easily be recognized by the parallel line of little white clouds of smoke up above them. There was nothing more to be concealed, and accordingly Colonel Katterfeld ordered his regiment to open fire on Hilgard and on the hostile artillery entrenched before the town.
Captain Lange lay with his nose pressed against the breastworks, carefully observing the effect of the fire through his field glasses. Although this was not his first campaign, he had nevertheless had some trouble in ridding himself of that miserable feeling with which every novice has to contend, the feeling that every single hostile gun and cannon is pointed straight at him. But the moment the first men of his company fell and he was obliged to arrange for the removal of the wounded to the rear, his self-possession returned at once. It was his bounden duty, moreover, to set an example of cool-headed courage to his men, so he calmly and with some fuss lighted a cigarette, yet in spite of the apparent indifference with which he puffed at it, it moved up and down rather suspiciously between his lips.
A volunteer by the name of Singley, the war-correspondent of theNew York Herald, worked with much greater equanimity, but then he had been through five battles before he gained permission to join the 7th Company for the purpose of making pencil sketches and taking photographs of the incidents of the battle.
He now arranged a regular rest for his kodak in the breastwork of the trench and stooped down behind the apparatus, which was directed towards the six Japanese guns to the left in front of the houses at Hilgard, the position of which could only be recognized by the clouds of smoke which ascended after each shot was fired. Just then he heard the order being passed along to the 8th battery to give these guns a broadside of shrapnel, and as it would probably take a few minutes before this order could be carried out, Singley pulled out his note-book and glanced over the entries made during the last hour:
Then he put his note-book down beside him and crept under his kodak again, carefully fixing the object-glass on the battery opposite. Now then! A streak of solid lightning flashed in front of the second gun, and a black funnel of smoke shot up. Click!
Singley exchanged the film for a new one, and then looked about for another subject for his camera. He took off his cap and peeped carefully over the edge of the trench. Could he be mistaken? He saw a little black speck making straight for the spot where he was. "A shell" rushed through his thoughts like a flash, and he threw himself flat on the bottom of the trench.
With a whirring noise the heavy shell struck the back wall of the trench. "An explosive shell!" shouted Captain Lange, "everybody down!"
The air shook with a tremendous detonation; sand and stones flew all around, and the suffocating powder-gas took everybody's breath away; but gradually the soldiers began to recognize one another through the dust and smoke, thankful at finding themselves uninjured.
"Captain!" called a weak voice from the bottom of the trench, "Captain Lange, I'm wounded." The captain bent down to assist the war-correspondent, who was almost buried under a pile of earth.
"Oh, my legs," groaned Singley. Two soldiers took hold of him and placed him with his back against the wall of earth. The lower part of both his thighs had been smashed by pieces from the shell. "Will you please do me a last service?" he asked of Captain Lange.
"Of course, Singley, what is it?"
"Please take my kodak!"
Singley himself arranged the exposure and handed the camera to the captain, saying: "There, it is set at one twentieth of a second. Now please take my picture— Thank you, that's all right! And now you can have me removed to the hospital!"
Before the men came to fetch him, Singley managed to add to his list:
Then he closed his book and put it in his breast pocket. Five minutes later two ambulance men carried him off to have his wounds attended to, and in the evening he was conveyed to the hospital.
A week later Captain Lange's snapshot of the war-correspondent was paraded in theNew York Heraldas the dramatic close of Singley's journalistic career. In his way he, too, had been a hero. He died in the hospital at Salubria.
He could claim the credit of having made the war plain to those at home. Or was that not the war after all? Were the black shadows on the photographic plate anything more than what is left of a flower after the botanist has pressed the faded semblance of its former self between the leaves of his collection? Certainly not much more.
No, that is not war. Just a bursting—silently bursting shell, the scattering of a company—that is not war.
Thousands of bursting shells, the howls of the whizzing bullets, the constant nerve-racking crashing and roaring overhead, the deafening cracking of splitting iron everywhere—that is war. And accompanying it all the hopeless sensation that this will never, never stop, that it will go on like this forever, until one's thoughts are dulled by some terrible, cruel, incomprehensible, demoralizing force. Those bounding puffs of smoke everywhere on the ground, rifle shots which have been aimed too short and every one of which— That abominable sharp singing as of a swarm of mosquitoes, buzz, buzz, like the buzzing of angry hornets continually knocking their heads against a window-pane. Bang! That hit a stone. Bang! two inches nearer, then—"Aim carefully, fire slowly!" calls the lieutenant in a hoarse, dry voice. You aim carefully and fire slowly and reload. Buzz— And then you fume with a fierce uncontrollable rage because you must aim carefully and fire slowly. And the whole space in front of the trenches is covered with infantry bullets glittering in the sunlight. Will it ever stop? Never! A day like that has a hundred hours—two hundred. And if you had been there all by yourself, you would never have dreamed of shooting over the edge of the trenches—you would most probably have been crouching down in the pit. But as you happen not to be alone, this can't be done. Will the enemy's ammunition never give out? It's awful the way he keeps on shooting.
And that terrible thirst! Your throat is parched and your teeth feel blunt from grinding the grains of sand which fly into your face whenever an impudent little puff of smoke jumps up directly in front of you. Sssst. The mosquitoes keep on singing, and the bees buzz perpetually. Those dogs over there, those wretches, those— Buzz, buzz, buzz—it never stops, never. Over there to the right somebody cracks a joke and several soldiers laugh. "Aim carefully, fire slowly!" sounds the warning voice of the lieutenant. And it's all done on an empty stomach—a perfectly empty stomach.
Just as the field-kitchen wagon had arrived this morning, a shell had exploded in the road and it was all over with the kitchen-wagon. How long ago that seemed! And the bees keep on humming. Bang! that hit the sergeant right in the middle of the forehead. Is this never going to stop? Never? You chew sand, you breathe sand, burning dry sand, which passes through your intestines like fire. And then that horrible, faint, sickening feeling in the stomach when you feel the ambulance men creeping up behind to take away another one of your comrades! How terrible he looks, how he screams! You are quite incensed to think that anybody can yell like that! What a fool! "Aim carefully, fire slowly," warns the lieutenant. Bouncing puffs of smoke again! And sand in your mouth and fire in your intestines. You think continually of water, beautiful, clear, ice-cold water, never-ending streams of water— A roaring, howling and crashing overhead, the clatter of splinters, a sharp pain in your brain and a horrible feeling in your stomach and all the time it goes buzz, buzz, buzz—ssst—ssst—buzz, buzz, buzz——
That is war, not the pictures that people see at home, all those lucky people who have lots of water, who can go where they like and are not forced to stay where the bees keep up a continual buzz, buzz, buzz——
Colonel Katterfeld was kneeling on the ground examining the map of Hilgard and marking several positions with a pencil. He could overhear the conversation of the soldiers under the board-covering next to his own.
"Do you think all this is on account of the Philippines?" asked one.
"The Philippines? Not much. It would have come sooner or later anyhow. The Japs want the whole Pacific to themselves. We wouldn't be here if it were only for the Philippines."
"We wouldn't? It's on account of imperialism, then, is it?"
"Don't talk foolish. We know very well what the Japs want, imperialism or no imperialism."
"Well, why are the papers always talking so much about imperialism?"
"They write from their own standpoint. Imperialism simply means that we wish to rule wherever the Stars and Stripes are waving."
The colonel peeped into the adjacent cover. It was Sergeant Benting who was speaking.
"Right you are, Benting," said the colonel, "imperialism is the desire for power. Imperialism means looking at the world from a great altitude. And the nation which is without it will never inherit the earth."
Then the colonel gave the order to fire at a house on the right side of the street, in which a bursting shrapnel had just effected a breach and out of which a detachment of infantry was seen to run.
Once again, just before twilight, the battle burst out on both sides with tremendous fury. The whole valley was hidden in clouds of smoke and dust, and flashes of fire and puffs of smoke flew up from the ground on all sides. Then evening came and, bit by bit, it grew more quiet as one battery after the other ceased firing. The shrill whistle of an engine came from the mountain-pass. And now, from far away, the Japanese bugle-call sounded through the silent starry night and was echoed softly by the mountain-sides, warming the hearts of all who heard it:
music
It was three o'clock in the morning. Only from the left wing of Fowler's Division was the booming of cannon occasionally heard. From the mountain-pass above came the noise of passing trains, the clash of colliding cars and the dull rumble of wheels. On the right all was still.
A low whistle went through all the trenches! And then the regiments intended for the assault on Hilgard crept slowly and carefully out of the long furrows. The front ranks carried mattresses, straw-bags, planks and sacks of earth to bridge the barbed wire barricades in case they should not succeed in chopping down the posts to which the wires were fastened. A few American batteries behind La Grande began firing. The other side continued silent.
Suddenly two red rockets rose quickly one after the other on the right near the mountain, and they were followed directly by two blue ones; they went out noiselessly high up in the air. Was it a signal of friend or foe? The regiments came to a halt for a moment, but nothing further happened, except that the two searchlights beyond Hilgard kept their eyes fixed on the spot where the rockets had ascended. A dog barked in the town, but was choked off in the middle of a howl. Then death-like stillness reigned in front once more, but several cannon thundered in the rear and a few isolated shots rang out from the wooded valleys on the left.
The front ranks had reached the wire barricades. Suddenly a sharp cry of pain broke the silence and red flames shot forth from the ground, lighting up the posts and the network of wires. Several soldiers were seen to be caught in the wires, which were apparently charged with electricity. Now was the time! The pioneers provided with rubber gloves to protect them against the charged wires went at it with a vengeance, and were soon hacking away with their axes. Loud curses and cries of pain were heard here and there. "Shut up, you cowards!" yelled some one in a subdued voice. The black silhouettes of the men, who were tossing long boards and bags of earth on top of the wires, stood out sharply against the light of the explosives with which the Americans were attempting to loosen the supporting posts.
battle
Diagram of the Battle of Hilgard
The light of the dancing flames fell on swaying, leaping figures. Shots rang out constantly, millions of sparks flew all around and through all the din could be distinguished the short, sharp rattatattatt—rrrrr—rattatattatt of the machine-guns, sounding more like cobble-stones being emptied out of a cart than anything else.
Hell had meanwhile broken loose on the other side. The attacking regiments were exposed to a perfectly terrific rifle-fire from the houses and streets of Hilgard, which was accompanied by a destructive cannonade. But on they went! Over the corpses of the slain who had breathed their last jammed in among the deadly wires, over the swaying planks and through the gaps made by the exploding bombs, the battalions swept on with loud shouts of Hurrah! What mattered it that the machine-guns, which they had brought along, were sometimes dragged through furrows of blood! On they went! The field-batteries to the right and left of the first houses and two of the enemy's machine-guns just in front of the barricade were in the hands of the 28th Regiment, and now they advanced against the houses themselves. But it was utterly impossible to get a foot further. A whole battalion was sacrificed before the high barricade at the entrance to the main street, but still they went on! There were no storming-ladders, and after all they were hardly needed, for human pyramids were speedily run up against the walls, and up these soldiers scrambled, assisted from below, until at last they were high enough to shoot into the loop-holes. Others aided in the work with axes and the butt-ends of their guns, and before long the Americans had gained possession of several houses. All of the enemy's searchlights concentrated their glare on the town, so that the fighting was done in a brilliant light. The white top of the church-tower seemed strangely near, while reddish-gold reflections played on the torn copper roof.
But no reënforcements came from the rear, and it was no wonder, for a furious fire from the enemy's artillery and machine-guns swept across the space in front of Hilgard, raining bullets and balls upon the trenches, out of which new battalions climbed again and again; the shots plowed up the land into glowing furrows and created an impassable fire-zone between the trenches and the nearest houses of Hilgard, whence shrieking bugle-calls begged for immediate assistance. If the enemy should succeed in throwing reënforcements into Hilgard, he would have no difficulty in dislodging the Americans from the positions they had won. Suddenly an attack from the wooded valley on the left at last brought relief. It was the Irish brigade under General O'Brien that came on like a whirlwind, quite unexpectedly, and joined in the fight.
This attack threw back the advancing Japanese reënforcements. The regiments could be seen retreating in the pale light of dawn, and then they were seen to form in line on the rising ground behind. Between them and the rear of the town lay the Irish sharpshooters, who went forward by leaps and bounds. But the furious artillery fire from the enemy brought the fighting temporarily to a stand-still.
Wild confusion reigned on all sides as dawn broke. The 17th Japanese Infantry Regiment was still battling with the two American regiments for the possession of the front houses of Hilgard, and the two Japanese battalions in the rear of the town directed their fire on the compact columns of the Third Irish Regiment, which had not yet been formed into line for shooting. It was a critical moment, and everything depended upon the rapidity with which the Japanese resistance in Hilgard could be overcome.
In the houses and on the illuminated streets a furious hand-to-hand encounter was going on, the men rushing at one another with bayonets and the butt-ends of their guns. No effort was made to keep the men or regiments together. Where the weapons had been destroyed or lost in the mad scramble, the soldiers fought like gorillas, tearing one another's flesh with teeth and nails. On all sides houses were on fire, and the falling beams and walls, the bursting flames, the showers of descending sparks, and the bursting shrapnels killing friend and foe alike, created an indescribable jumble.
At last reënforcements arrived in the shape of a regiment which had lost more than half its men in passing through the fire-zone in front of Hilgard.
"Where is Colonel Johnson?"
"Over there, on the other side of the street."
"A prisoner?" asked some one.
"I guess not, they're not making prisoners and we aren't either."
Slowly it grew lighter.
The Irish in the rear of Hilgard had hard work to maintain their position. To dislodge the enemy, it was absolutely necessary to turn his flank; otherwise there was no chance of advancing further. Each line of sharpshooters that leaped forward was partially mowed down by the terrible machine-guns. The enemy didn't budge an inch.
General O'Brien had already dispatched five orderlies to Fowler's division with instructions to attack the enemy from the left, but all five had been shot down the moment they left their cover. Something had to be done at once, or the entire brigade would be destroyed.
Suddenly Corporal Freeman, who had crept up along the ground, appeared beside the General.
"Here, sir," he cried, his face beaming, "here's the connection for you." And he shoved a telephone apparatus towards O'Brien. He had dragged the connecting wire behind him through the entire fire-zone.
"You must be a wizard!" cried the General, and then seizing the instrument he called: "Throw all the troops you can possibly get hold of against the right wing of the Japanese in front of us! The enemy's position is weakened, but we can't attack the ridge in the front from here."
Several minutes passed—minutes pregnant with destruction. The bursting shells thinned the ranks terribly, while the infantry fire continued to sweep along the ground, but worst of all, the ammunition of the Irish regiments was getting low. Several batteries were planted between the ruins of the houses in Hilgard, but even then the enemy did not budge.
Then came a great rush from the left: Cavalry, Indian scouts, regular cavalry, cavalry militia, volunteer regiments, and behind them all the machine-guns and the field-artillery—a perfect avalanche of human beings and horses wrapped in thick clouds of smoke from which showers of sparks descended.
That was our salvation. A wild shout of joy from the Irishmen rose above the din of battle, and after that there was no restraining them. The front ranks of the cavalry were mown down like sheaves of corn by the bullets of the enemy's machine-guns; but that made no difference, on they went, on, ever on! Whole regiments were cut to pieces. Hundreds of saddles were emptied, but the riders came on just the same, and even before they had reached the Irish sharpshooters, every man who wore the green was headed for the ridge almost without waiting for the word of command!
It was an assault the enemy could not possibly repulse. The Irish and the cavalry were right among their firing lines; a battery galloped up into the hostile ranks, crushing dead and wounded beneath its wheels. Bloody shreds of flesh were sticking to the gun-barrels, and torn limbs and even whole bodies were whirled round and round in the spokes of the wheels.
Shrill bugle-calls resounded. The horses were wheeled around and the battery unlimbered. A hostile shell suddenly struck the shaft of the gun-carriage, and in a second the horses were a bloody mass of legs wildly beating the air and of writhing, groaning bodies.
But the gun was in position. And now out with the ammunition! Bang! went the first shot, which had been in the barrel, and then everybody lent a hand; an Indian scout, bleeding at the shoulder, and an engineer helped pass the shells, while a mortally wounded gunner shoved the cartridge into the barrel.
"Aim up there to the left, near the two detached pine-trees, six hundred yards," roared a lieutenant, whose blood-covered shirt could be seen beneath his open uniform.
"The two pines to the left," answered the gunner, lying across the bracket-trail. Bang! off went the shot, and a line of Japanese sharpshooters rose like a flock of quail.
More cannon, more machine-guns, more ammunition-carts rushed up in mad haste; the batteries kept up a continual fire.
The battle moved on farther to the front. The houses of Hilgard were all in flames; only the white top of the church-tower still projected above the ruins. On the right of the town one column after another marched past to the strains of regimental music.
An orderly galloped past, and some one called out to him: "How are things in front?" "Fine, fine, we're winning!" came the answer, which was greeted with jubilant cheers. Gradually the enemy's shots became scarcer as the battle advanced up the slopes.
Engineers were hard at work getting the streets of Hilgard cleared so as to save the troops the detour round the outside of the town. The burning houses were blown up with dynamite, and a temporary hospital was established near the city, to which the wounded were brought from all parts of the battle-field.
By noon Hilgard was sufficiently cleared to allow the 36th Militia Regiment (Nebraska) to pass through. On both sides of the streets were smoking ruins filled with dead and dying and charred remains. The steps of the battalion sounded strangely hollow as the first company turned into the square where the white church still stood almost intact in the midst of the ruins. A wounded soldier was calling loudly for water.
What was that? Were the bells tolling? The soldiers involuntarily softened their step when they heard it. Yes, the bells were tolling, slowly at first and low, but then the peals rang out louder and louder until a great volume of sound burst through the little windows in the white church-spire. Ding—dong, ding—dong——
The flag-bearer of the first company lowered his flag and the soldiers marched past in silence. The captain rode over to the entrance to the tower and looked in. A little boy, about ten years old, was tugging and straining at the heavy bell-ropes. There seemed to be a number of wounded soldiers in the church, as loud groans could be heard through the half-open door.
The captain looked about him in astonishment. Near a post he saw two Japanese, presenting a fearful spectacle in the convulsions of death. Close to them lay an American foot-soldier, writhing with pain from a bayonet-wound in the abdomen; and over in the farther corner he could distinguish a woman, dressed in black, lying on a ragged mattress. Ding—dong, ding—dong, rang the bells up above, but the noise of battle did not penetrate here.
"What are you doing, sonny?" asked the captain.
"I'm ringing the bells for mother," said the little fellow.
"For mother?"
"General," called a weak voice from the corner, "please let the boy alone. I want to hear our bells just once more before I die."
"What's the matter, are you wounded?" asked the captain.
"I feel that I'm dying," was the answer; "a bullet has entered my lung; I think it's the lung."
"I'll send you a doctor," said the captain, "although we——"
"Don't bother, general; it wouldn't do any good."
"How did you get here?"
"My husband," came the answer in a weak voice, "is lying across the street in our burning home. He was the minister here in Hilgard. These last days have been fearful, general; you have no idea how fearful. First they shot my husband, and then our little Elly was killed by a piece of shell when I was running across the street to the church with her and the boy." She paused a moment, and then continued with growing agitation: "It's enough to make one lose faith in the wisdom of the Lord to see this butchery—all the heartrending sorrow that's created in the world when men begin to murder one another like this. You don't realize it in the midst of the battle, but here— And as God has seen fit to spare His church in the battle, I asked the boy to ring the bells once more, for I thought it might be a comfort to some of those dying out there to hear a voice from above proclaiming peace after these awful days. Let him keep on ringing, general, won't you?"
"Can I help you in any way?" asked the captain.
"No, only I should like some water."
The captain knelt down by the side of the poor, deserted woman and handed her his flask.
She drank greedily, and then thanked him and began to sob softly. "What will become of my boy? My poor husband——"
"My good woman," said the captain, forcing himself to speak bluntly, "it's not a question of this boy, or of a single individual who has fallen in battle, but rather of a great people which has just defeated the enemy. The widows and orphans will be taken care of by the survivors, now that the Lord has given us the victory. Those who are lying outside the town and those here have surrendered their lives for their country, and the country will not forget them."
Ding—dong, ding—dong, went the bells as the captain left the church, deeply affected. Ding—dong, ding—dong. Thousands out on the battle-field in the throes of death, and the many unfortunates lying with broken limbs in the burning houses and watching the flames creeping towards them, heard that last call from on high, like a call from God, Who seemed to have turned away from our people.
And then evening came, the evening of the sixteenth of August, which is recorded with bloody letters on the pages of our country's history. Soon all the reserves were engaged in battle. Our splendid regiments could not be checked, so eager were they to push forward, and they succeeded in storming one of the enemy's positions after the other along the mountain-side. At last the enemy began to retreat, and the thunder of the cannon was again and again drowned in the frenzied cheers. General MacArthur was continually receiving at his headquarters reports of fresh victories in the front and on both wings.
The telegraph wires had long ago spread the glad tidings over the length and breadth of the land. Great joy reigned in every town, the Stars and Stripes waved proudly from all the houses, and the people's hearts were fluttering with exultation.
General MacArthur, whose headquarters were located near Hilgard, was waiting for news of Fowler's Division, which had orders to advance on the pass through the valleys on the left wing. They were to try and outflank the enemy's right wing, but word was sent that they had met with unexpected resistance. It appeared, therefore, that the enemy had not yet begun to retreat at that point.
On the other hand, things were going better in the center. But what was the good of this reckless advance, of this bold rush, which built bridges of human bodies across the enemy's trenches and formed living ladders composed of whole companies before the enemy's earthworks—what was the good of all this heroic courage in the face of Marshal Nogi's relentless calculations? He was overjoyed to see regiment after regiment storm towards him, while from his tent he gave directions for the sharp tongs of the Japanese flanks to close in the rear of General MacArthur's army.
About seven o'clock in the evening the surprising news came from the right wing that the batteries which had begun firing on the enemy's lines retreating along the railway line were suddenly being shelled from the rear, and begged for reënforcements. But there were no reserves left; the last battalion, the last man had been pushed to the front! How did the enemy manage to outflank us?
Imploringly, eagerly, the telephone begged for reënforcements, for batteries, for machine-guns, for ammunition. The transport section of the army service corps had been exhausted long ago, and all the ammunition we had was in front, while a wide chasm yawned between the fighting troops and the depots far away in the blue distance. General MacArthur had nothing left to send.
And now from Indian Valley came the request for more machine-guns, but there wasn't one left. General MacArthur telegraphed to Union, the terminus of the field-railway, but the answer came that no assistance could be given for several hours, as the roadbed had first to be repaired. From Toll Gate, too, came stormy demands for more ammunition—all in vain.
And then, at eight o'clock, when the sun had sunk like a ball of fire in the west, and the Blue Mountains, above which hovered puffs of smoke from the bursting shrapnel, were bathed in the golden evening light and the valley became gradually veiled in darkness, the crushing news came from Baker City that large, compact bodies of Japanese troops had been seen on the stretch of broken-down railroad near Sumpter. Soon afterwards Union reported the interruption of railway communication with the rear and an attack with machine-guns by Japanese dismounted cavalry, while Wood's division in the front continued to report the capture of Japanese positions.
With relentless accuracy the arms of the gigantic tongs with which Nogi threatened to surround the entire Army of the North began to close. The American troops attacking both flanks had not noticed the Japanese reserves, which had been held concealed in the depressions and shallow valleys under cover of the woods. Two miles more to the right and left, and our cavalry would have come upon the steel teeth of the huge tongs, but there was the rub: they hadn't gone far enough.
About ten o'clock in the evening Baker City, which was in flames, was stormed by the Japanese, Indian Valley having already fallen into their hands. The attack in front, high up in the mountains, began to waver, then to stop; a few captured positions had to be abandoned, and down in the valley near La Grande, whence the field-hospitals were being removed to the rear, the ambulances and Red Cross transports encountered the troops streaming back from Baker City. One retreating force caught up with the other, and then night came—that terrible night of destruction. Again the cannon thundered across the valley, again the machine-guns joined in the tumult, while the infantry fire surged to and fro.
You may be able to urge an exhausted or famished troop on to a final assault, you may even gain the victory with their last vestige of energy, their last bit of strength, provided you can inspire them with sufficient enthusiasm; but it is impossible to save a lost cause with troops who have been hunted up and down for twenty-four hours and whose nerves are positively blunt from the strain of the prolonged battle.
The exhausted regiments went back, back into the basin of the Blue Mountains, into a flaming pit that hid death and destruction in its midst. The headquarters, too, had to be moved back. General MacArthur lost his way in the darkness, and, accompanied by a single officer, rode across the bloody battle-field right through the enemy's line of fire.
He soon ran across a cavalry brigade belonging to Longworth's division, and at once placed himself at its head and led an onslaught on a Japanese regiment. A wildmêléeensued in the darkness, and, although only a few hundred riders remained in their saddles, the attack had cleared the atmosphere and the wavering battalions gained new courage.
General MacArthur ordered a retreat by way of Union, employing Wood's division, which was slowly making its way back to Hilgard, to cover the retreat. Regiment after regiment threatened to become disbanded, and only the determined action of the officers prevented a general rout. The decimated regiments of Wood's division stood like a wall before the ruins of Hilgard; they formed a rock against which the enemy's troops dashed themselves in vain. In this way Fowler's and Longworth's divisions succeeded in making a fair retreat, especially as the enemy's strength was beginning to become exhausted. The uncertainty of a night attack, when the fighting is done with bandaged eyes, as it were, and it becomes impossible to control the effect of one's own firing, contributed also towards weakening the Japanese attacks. The thin lines of hostile troops from Baker City and from the north, which had threatened to surround our army, were pierced by the determined assaults of the American regiments; and although our entire transport service and numerous guns remained in possession of the enemy, our retreat by way of Union was open.
At dawn on the seventeenth of August the remains of Wood's division began to leave Hilgard, which they had so bravely and stubbornly defended, the heroes retreating step by step in face of the enemy's artillery fire.
General MacArthur stopped just outside of Union and watched the regiments—often consisting only of a single company—pass in silence. He frowned with displeasure when he saw Colonel Smeaton riding alone in the middle of the road, followed by two foot-soldiers. The colonel was bleeding from a wound in his forehead.
General MacArthur gave spurs to his horse and rode towards the colonel, saying: "Colonel, how can you desert your regiment?"
Colonel Smeaton raised himself in his stirrups, saluted, and said: "I have the honor to report that only these two, Dan Woodlark and Abraham Bent, are left of my regiment. They are brave men, general, and I herewith recommend them for promotion."
The general's eyes grew moist, and, stifling a sigh, he held out his hand to Colonel Smeaton: "Forgive me," he said simply, "I did not intend to hurt your feelings."
"Nonsense!" cried the colonel. "We'll begin over again, general, we'll simply start all over again. As long as we don't lose faith in ourselves, nothing is lost."
Those were significant words spoken that seventeenth day of August.
The attitude towards the war in Australia was entirely different from that of Europe. Everyone realized that this was not an ordinary war, but a war upon which the future of Australia depended. If the Japanese succeeded in conquering a foot of land in North America, if a single star was extinguished on the blue field of the American flag, it would mean that the whole continent lying in Asia's shadow would also fall a prey to the yellow race.
The early reports from the Philippines and from San Francisco, and the crushing news of the destruction of the Pacific fleet, swept like a whirlwind through the streets of Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide, Wellington and Auckland, and gave rise to tremendous public demonstrations. Business came to a stand-still, for the Australian people had ears only for the far-off thunder of cannon, and their thoughts were occupied with the future. Huge open-air mass-meetings and innumerable demonstrations before the American consulates bore witness to Australia's honest sympathy. The time had arrived for the fifth continent to establish its political status in the council of nations.
In Sydney the mob had smashed the windows of the Japanese consulate. Satisfaction was at once categorically demanded from London, where the government trembled at the bare idea of a hostile demonstration against its ally. The apology was to take the form of a salute to the Japanese flag on the consulate by a coast battery, etc. But the Australian government refused point blank to do this, and contented itself with a simple declaration of regret; and as there was no other course open to him, the Japanese Consul had to be satisfied. But in Tokio this affair was entered on the credit side of the Anglo-Japanese ledger, offsetting the debt of gratitude for August 10, 1904, when the English fleet constituted the shifting scenery behind Togo's battleships.
A great many of the Japanese located in Australia had left the country before the outbreak of the war to join the army of invasion, and those who remained behind soon recognized that there was no work for them anywhere on the continent. When they refused to take this hint and make themselves scarce, Australian fists began to remind them that the period of Anglo-Mongolian brotherhood was a thing of the past. The last of the Japanese settlers were put aboard an English steamer at Sydney and told to shift for themselves. The Chinese, too, began to leave the country, and wherever they did not go of their own accord, they were told in pretty plain language that the yellow man's day in Australia was ended.
Australia, up to this time merely an appendage of the Old World, a colony which had received its blood from the heart of the British Empire and its ideas from the nerve-center in Downing Street, which had hitherto led a purely dependent existence, now awoke and began to develop a political life of its own. And this development, born of the outbreak of Mongolian hostilities, could not be restrained. The time had passed when the European nations could say: The world's history is created by us, other nations are of no account.
Once before Australia had taken an active part in politics. That was when the Union Jack was threatened, when British regiments were melting away before the rifles of a peasant people at Magersfontein, Colenso and Graspan, when Ladysmith was being besieged, and Downing Street trembled for the safety of the empire. Then, in the hour of dire need, a cry for help went out to all the peoples dwelling beneath the Union Jack, whose flagstaff was being shaken by sturdy peasant hands. And the colonial troops heard the call and responded nobly. Australian and Canadian heroism was ushered into being on the grassy plains and kopjes of the Transvaal. They may not have been good to look at and their manners were not those of the drawing-room, but England opened her arms to those splendid fellows from the Australian bush and was glad to use them in her hour of need—but afterwards she forgot them. But those days were not so soon forgotten in Australia; there are too many men still going around with one arm or a wooden leg. The gentlemen in Downing Street, however, have short memories, and the debt of thanks they owed the colonies quickly slipped their minds.
For the sake of her bales of cotton, her export lists, and her Indian possessions, the London government threw all the traditions of the British world empire overboard and forgot that Old England's problem of civilization was the conquest of the world for the Anglo-Saxon race. For the sake of her London merchants, Old England betrayed Greater Britain, which in the calculations of the London statesmen was only a geographical conception, while the nations without credulously accepted the decisions of English politics as the gospel of British power.
England offered the hand of fellowship to the Japanese parvenu simply because she wanted some one to hold her Russian rival in check.
What the Manchurian campaign cost England can be figured out exactly, to the pound and shilling. She simply purchased the downfall of Russia with the loan of a few hundred millions to Japan—an excellent bargain.
But Sir Charles Dilke was beginning to open the people's eyes. "Another Japanese loan," he cried, "will slip a sharp dagger into the hand of our greatest commercial rival."
England, however, would not listen, and after the war she only drew the bonds of the alliance closer for fear of the Japanese ants who were creeping secretly into India and whispering into the people's ears that the dominion of a few hundred thousand white men over three hundred million Indians was based solely on the legend of the superiority of the white race, a legend which Mukden and Tsushima had completely nullified.
After all, London was at liberty to adopt any policy it liked; but in this particular case the colonies were expected to bear the entire costs. And this was the gratitude for the aid given in South Africa for customs favors extended to English goods at Ottawa, Cape Town, and Melbourne. Deliberately disregarding the warnings of Sir Wilfred Laurier, of Seddon, and of Deakin, who clearly recognized the proximity of the danger, the gentlemen in London insisted upon unrestricted Japanese immigration into the colonies, although Hawaii furnished an eloquent example of how quickly coolie immigrants can transform an Anglo-Saxon colony into a Japanese one.
In South Africa, too, England was sowing trouble with Mongolian miners, until the Africanders took it upon themselves to rid their country of this yellow plague.
In consideration of the existing alliance with Japan, Downing Street demanded of Canada and Australia that the Japanese settlers should be granted equal privileges with the white man. New Zealand's prime minister, Seddon, a resolute man whose greatness is not appreciated in Europe, brought his fist down on the table with a vengeance at the last Colonial Conference in London and appealed to Old England's conscience in the face of the yellow danger. All in vain. Although he persisted in proclaiming New Zealand's right to adhere to her exclusive immigration laws, it was several years before Australia and Canada awoke to a realization of the dangers which the influx of Japanese coolies held in store for them, and before they began to prepare for an energetic resistance.
Then, in August, 1908, came the American fleet. Great was the rejoicing in all the Australian coast towns, and the welcome extended to the American sailors and marines proved to the world that hearts were beating in unison here in the fear of future catastrophes. Never has the feeling of the homogeneousness of the white race, of the Anglo-Saxon race, celebrated such festivals, and when the Australians and Americans shook hands at parting, the former realized that a brother was leaving with whom they would one day fight side by side—when the crisis came and the die was cast which was to decide whether the Pacific should be ruled by the Anglo-Saxon or the Mongolian race.
And now the danger that had been regarded as likely to make itself felt decades hence had become a terrible reality in less than no time. The joint Japanese foe was actually on American soil, the American dominion over the Philippines and Hawaii had been swept away at the first onset, and the great brother nation of the United States was struggling for its existence as a nation and for the future of the white race.
What had become of Great Britain's imperialism, of the All-British idea, for the sake of which Australia, Canada, and New Zealand had sent their sons to South Africa? England, whose grand mission it was to protect the palladium of Anglo-Saxon dominion, stood aloof in this conflict.
The cabinet of St. James had sent a warning to Ottawa not to permit Canadian volunteers to enter the United States, and similar instructions had been forwarded to Melbourne and Wellington.
But when England, at Japan's instigation, tried to persuade the European powers to compel Mexico to prevent American volunteer regiments from crossing the frontier by concentrating her army opposite El Paso, Germany frustrated this plan by declaring that the acknowledgment of the Monroe Doctrine as a political principle in 1903 rendered it impossible for her to meddle in America's political affairs. In spite of this failure, the cabinet of St. James continued to play the rôle of international watchman, and employed the influence secured byententesin previous years to carefully prevent other European governments from violating the laws of neutrality towards Japan. It was, of course, the worry over India which made the English government, generally very elastic in its views regarding neutrality, all at once so extremely virtuous.
London felt very uncomfortable when, in July, a Canadian paper published an alleged conversation between a Japanese and an English diplomatist. "What will Great Britain do in case of war?" the Japanese is said to have asked, whereupon he received the ambiguous answer: "Her duty." Then, with the daring candor assumed by these people when they feel that they are masters of the situation, the Japanese had declared: "The London government must bear in mind that the continuation of British rule in India depends absolutely on the wishes of Japan; that England, in other words, can support the United States only at the price of an Indian insurrection."
This conversation, which was published by a curious act of indiscretion, and of course at once denied in London, nevertheless threw a flood of light on England's political situation. Japan did not directly ask for military aid, which, as a matter of fact, she had no right to expect under the terms of the second Anglo-Japanese agreement, but she did demand favorable neutrality on the part of Great Britain as the guardian of the mobile forces of the Anglo-Saxon world-empire; in other words, Japan insisted that England should betray her own race for the sake of India.
This political trick of the Japanese government was the yellow man's revenge for the half promises with which England had driven Japan into the conflict with Russia, and then; after the outbreak of the war, had offered only meager messages of sympathy instead of furnishing the expected military assistance.
England's destiny now hung in the balance; the threads reaching from Ottawa, Cape Town, Melbourne, and Wellington to Downing Street were becoming severed, not by a sword-cut, but by England's own policy.
If imperialism should leave no room for a "white" policy, then Australia and Canada must throw off the burdensome fetters which threatened to hand over the white man under the Union Jack, bound hand and foot, to the Mongolians.
It was not easy to come to such a decision, and it was months before it was finally reached. But one day, towards the end of August, the entire Australian press advertised for volunteers for the American army. Thousands responded, and no one asked where the large sums of money came from with which these men were provided with arms and uniforms.
A vehement Japanese protest, sent by way of London, only elicited the reply that the Australian government had received no official notification of the enlistment of volunteers for the United States, and was therefore not in a position to interfere in any such movement.
A feeling of joyous confidence reigned among the volunteers; they were going to take the field and fight for their big brother. The racial feeling, so strong in every white man, had been aroused and could withstand any Mongolian attack. By October the first steamers of volunteers left for America. As there were no Japanese or Chinese spies left, and as the government kept a strict watch on the entire news and telegraph service, the departure of the steamers remained concealed from the enemy. As Japanese ships were cruising in the Straits of Magellan, the route via Suez was chosen, and in due course the steamers arrived safely at Hampton Roads.
Wherever the conscience of the Anglo-Saxon race was not wrapped in bales of cotton and in stock quotations, wherever the feeling of Anglo-Saxon solidarity still inspired the people, there was a stir. And so the objections of the London government were not heeded in the colonies.
Why should the citizen of Canada, of British Columbia, care for Downing Street's consideration for India, when he was suffering commercially from the yellow invasion just as much as the citizen of the United States, and when he realized that he would surely be the next victim if the Japanese should be victorious this time?
In this epoch-making hour of the world's history, England had neglected her bounden duty, because she was indissolubly bound to Japan. By the same right with which George Washington had once raised the flag, crowds of men streamed across the frontier from Canada and British Columbia, and by that same right Ottawa now categorically demanded the removal of the Japanese ships from the harbor of Esquimault. "They must either lower their flag and disarm, or they must leave the harbor!" wrote the Canadian papers, and the Canadian Secretary of State, William Mackenzie, couched the protest which he sent to London in similar terms. It was recognized in London that threats were no longer of avail in the face of this spontaneous enthusiasm. England had staked much and lost.
Canadian and Australian regiments were soon found fighting side by side with their American brothers. And now at last, with the united good-will of two continents behind us, there was a fair prospect of the early realization of the boastful words uttered by the American press at the beginning of the war: "We'll drive the yellow monkeys into the Pacific."
Autumn had come, and all was serene at the seat of war, except for a few insignificant skirmishes. Slowly, far more slowly than the impatience of our people could stand, the new bodies of troops were prepared for action, and before we could possibly think of again assuming the offensive, winter was at the door.
In the middle of November, three Japanese orderlies, bearing a white flag of truce, rode up to our outposts, and a few days later it was learned from Washington that the enemy had offered to make peace, the terms of which, however, remained a mystery for a short time, until they were ultimately published in the capital.