The Japanese would have acted differently. They would not have parted from them with answers only. Everything drops into our hands, and we neglect it. How the Japanese and their friends must jeer at us! And they are right.
It is hot here. At Vladivostok it is cold. When we arrive there the sharp change of temperature will hardly be conducive to health. There will probably be much catarrh, and even here at Kamranh it is easy to go down with the local fever. A cold wind comes from the hills.
The colliers should arrive soon, bringing the old mails. I count on receiving letters from December 13th to January 21st.
Where has that respected institution called the Naval General Staff sent our letters now? Probably they are pigeon-holed in Petersburg. We have not yet entered the bay, but are lying near it. In the depths of my heart flutters a hope that the Orel brings your answering telegram. The last one was a month and half ago.
We shall evidently receive nothing from Kamranh, neither provisions nor stores. It is beginning to be doubtful if we shall be able to send a mail. It is supposed that our stay here will not be long. We shall take in coal and stores, and move on.
The distance from here to Vladivostok as the crow flies, i.e. in a straight line, is little more than 3,000 versts. Of course, our journey will be considerably longer. I reckon that if nothing happens we can do it in fifteen days. Trying days they will be. Perhaps the course we choose will be round about, in which case we shall toss on the sea a long time.
11 p.m.—The transports and some of the torpedo-boats have entered the bay; the other torpedo-boats and warships will remain at sea, cruising round Kamranh with lights. Probably we shall go into the bay to-morrow. There are signs that we shall wait here for the third fleet. If you could but imagine what is going on! If it were possible for me to tell you all about it, you would be amazed. Should I live, I will tell you afterwards. No, there is no use our fighting. Things have come to such a pass that I can only wring my hands and feel assured that no one can escape his fate, for this is the only possible assurance.
The weather has begun to grow cooler. The engines and boilers of all the ships are worn, especially the boilers. It is not surprising, considering that for thirty days we have not let go an anchor. Everything has its limits.
April 1st.—Kamranh Bay. We have only just begun to enter the bay, having spent thirty days at sea.
The hospital-ship Orel has not returned, nor have the colliers come. Have they fallen into the hands of the Japanese?