When the night has well fallen, when the “white” clad masses in Söul’s market-place can no longer see the outlines of the hill, four great lights break out upon that hill’s crest. To all in Söul those lights cry out, “All’s well. In all Korea, all’s well.” Each light represents two of the eight provinces into which Korea is divided. If in any Korean province or county there is war, or threatening of war, a supplementary light burns near the light that indicates that province. If the war-light is placed on the left, war or invasion threatens one province, if the war light is placed on the right, war or worse threatens another province.
The bonfire signal service of the Korean War Office is complicated and elaborated. One extra fire means that an enemy has been sighted off some part of the sandy Korean coast. Two lights mean that the enemy have landed; three mean the enemy are moving inland; four mean they are pushing toward the capital; five—! Well, when five such fires flare up, the citizens of Söul can only pray—or run and drown themselves in the rapid rushing river that leaves Söul as the condemned leave it—because those five bonfires mean that the enemy draw near the city’s gate.
Telegraphy—as Edison knows it—is unknown in Korea. But the Koreans have a weird but vivid telegraphy of their own.
At short intervals upon their rocky, sandy coast huge cranes are built. Each crane is tended by a trusted official of the Korean king. When dusk begins to fall, the attendant of the crane lights in it a great bonfire, if all is well. That bonfire’s light is seen by the attendant of a fire some miles more inland—some miles nearer Söul—and so from every pace of Korea’s boundary, the faithful servants of Korea’s king flash to Korea’s capital the message, “All is well.” A hundred lines of message-light meet upon that queer hill, the “Cock’s Comb” of Söul.
Many a night of late, unless the wires have lied to us, there must have been a great confusion among those signal fires, and vast confusion in poor frightened Söul.
A certain light will mean “China has pounced upon us.” Another light will mean “Japan has stabbed us.” And a score of other lights will mean a score of dire facts which only the heads of the Korean War Department could translate for us, if they would.
Curfew shall not ring to-night. “Ah! how often,” said Helen, when this Chino-Japanese war was first declared, “I have seen those four placid bonfires tell the gentle Koreans that no Lion of England nor of India had roared, that no Eagle of Russia (not to needlessly mention Austria or America) had swooped, no dragon of China or Japan had belched destroying fire! To-night, if those fires burn, they flash a message of dire distress to Söul’s shrinking, blue-robed men, and hidden, unseen women, unless happily they are unconscious what an excuse for war their isolated peninsula has become.”
Poor Korea! what has she done? Nothing unwomanly. But womanlike she has been unfortunately situated.
China has just suffered a plague.
Japan has just suffered an earthquake. For very many years China and Japan have thought it expedient to soothe national heart-ache (resultant upon national disaster) with the potent mustard plaster of war.