The North Pacific: A Story of the Russo-Japanese War

by Willis Boyd Allen

Under shelter of the island off Fusan, on the east coast of Korea, lay sixty or more grey ships, their fires banked, smoke slowly floating from their stacks. They had lain thus for weeks, waiting for that message. The instant it was received the decks of every vessel became alive with nimble sailors. Cables were slipped, fires scattered and heaped high with coal, ammunition-hoists handled, and garments flung aside as the men stripped for action. The fleet slowly moved eastward over the waters of the Japan Sea, which roughened under the wind that gathered force as day broadened. Eagerly the small brown fighting men sprang to quarters and pointed to the east, where the sky grew golden with the emblem of their nation, the Rising Sun.

Before noon wireless messages brought news that the Russian fleet had chosen the eastern passage of the Straits, between the Tsu Islands and Japan. At two o'clock the smoke of Rojestvensky's flagship blurred the southern horizon. Instantly a line of signal flags fluttered to the yard-arm of the Japanese battle-ship Mikasa: "The destiny of an empire depends upon this action. You are all expected to do your uttermost."

Straight on, with superb courage, came the armada of the White Czar. In the double column the weaker ships held the port positions, thus offering the least resistance to attack on that side, and at the same time blanketing the fire of the heavier turret guns of their own first-class battle-ships.

A roll of smoke burst from the bows of the Kniaz Souvaroff, followed almost instantly by a roar from the huge twelve-inch guns of the Mikasa. The greatest naval battle in the history of the world had begun.

The action became general. The Russian ships at the opening of the fight changed their course and endeavoured to break through the enveloping line of their foe, but were driven back at every point. The old tactics of Oyama at Liaoyang and Moukden were repeated by Togo on the sea. Once more the fatal horse-shoe front closed in. To starboard, to port, ahead, and astern the thunders of the Japanese guns dismayed the untrained sailors of the Baltic fleet. Within less than an hour the Borodino was seen to be on fire. Five Japanese war-ships bore down upon her. To rescue, to save? To pour a deadlier storm of shot and shell into the doomed ship; to pierce its wounds anew, to sweep its struggling, bleeding, shrieking crew from its decks and send ship and men to the bottom. Through and through the barbette, and the hull itself, plunged and exploded the steel projectiles. Dead and dying men lay in heaps everywhere about the decks; the ammunition hoists were wrecked and the steering-gear disabled, so that the great, tortured battle-ship could only stagger over the water round and round in a circle, her remaining guns still firing at intervals, until the merciful waves swept over her, and with all on board, living and dead, she went down.

The flagship bearing Admiral Rojestvensky was early singled out for attack. When the ship was in flames and in momentary danger of sinking the admiral was transferred to a destroyer, from which he was soon after taken by the Japanese and sent ashore, a prisoner, severely wounded.

So the battle raged, and vessel after vessel, bearing the Russian flag, was battered to pieces and sent to the bottom, while Togo's fleet seemed to bear a charmed life. At last the merciful night, that so often has laid its quieting hand of peace upon maddened, struggling combatants by land and sea, brooded over the waters of the Sea of Japan. The few ships from the Baltic that could still move under control crept northward in the vain hope of reaching safety. There was no longer any dream of victory; escape, escape from this horrible, relentless foe, was the only thought.

But while the heavier ships had been dealing deadly blows that fair May afternoon, the pack of smaller craft, the torpedo-boats and destroyers, had been for the most part held back under the lee of the islands; held back with difficulty, for their crews and officers were wild to enter the engagement. In the conning-tower of the Fujiyama Commander Oto Owari chafed and fretted over the forced inaction, his dark eyes blazing and hands twitching. Before midnight the signal came down the line to advance.

Silently, like wolves gathering about a wounded herd, crouching low to the ground, the pack gathered around the ill-fated, shattered fleet. Then the word was given, and they rushed upon their prey. Searchlights flashed from the beleaguered ships, as they bravely turned at bay. Again and again the wolves were driven back. More than one of the fierce assailants never returned to the charge; but the rest closed the gaps, and cutting out one after another of the Russians, set their teeth of steel into her ribs until with a great cry she succumbed.