Chapter 21

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 wild _mêlée_ ensued 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.

_Chapter XX_

A FRIEND IN NEED

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.