Part 7

"We were afraid to leave Tokio for fear of not getting to the front."

"Shall we see much fighting?"

"I think so--from a high place. You cannot see in the valleys--the kow-liang is too high to see over even on horseback. Yes, you will see the fight."

Then we shook hands again, saluted the staff and departed.

The Japanese soldier had Fuji behind a tree--and he was smiling.

"Warui desu!" he said, and he looked at me with approval that I dared ride him; for Fuji was Japanese and bad, and Japanese are not good horsemen. At any rate, he followed me to the gate and held Fuji twice more before we finally got away. On the way back to captivity Laguerié turned a somersault over his white donkey's head. He rose, spluttering, between the donkey's forelegs. It looked for a moment as though the donkey were riding Laguerié.

* * * * *

At sunset, next day, the Irishman said:

"Come with me," and I followed unquestioning, because questioning was useless. Out the compound we went, through narrow streets and up a rocky little hill in the centre of the village, where we could look over the low tiled roofs--here and there a tree was growing up through them--over the mud-enclosures, the high-notched city walls, the stretch of white sand beyond, a broader stretch of green still farther on, slit with the one flashing cimeter-like sweep of the river--and then over the low misty hills to the tender after-glow, above which wisp-like, darkening clouds hung motionless.

"Greatest people in the world," said the Irishman with an all-encompassing sweep of his right arm. "All happy--all peaceful. The soldier lowest here in the social scale--in Japan, the highest. Home the unit. Tilled the same soil for countless generations--always plenty to eat. We forced opium on 'em with war in '52. To think they've got to be cursed with our blasted, blasting materialism."

I had been through all that with the Irishman many times before, so we went on. From a gateway a cur barked viciously at us. An old man came out to call him in and the Irishman took the Chinaman by the arm and pointed to a walled enclosure on the extreme summit.

"I want to get in there." How, on sight, he wins the confidence of these people--men, women, and children--how he makes himself understood, not knowing a word of Chinese, I don't know. Straightway the old fellow went with us, the Irishman clinging to his arm, pounded on the heavy door and left us.

"What is it?"

"A monastery," said the Irishman.

An ancient opened the portal, by and by, and we went in--through an alley-way to a court-yard, stone-flagged--and I almost gasped. Temples age-worn, old gardens tangled and unkempt and trees unpruned, dropped in terraces below us; and with them in terraces dropped, too, the notched gray walls that shut in the hushed silence of the spot from the noise of the outside world. Black-and-white magpies flew noiselessly about among the trees. Somewhere pigeons cooed and butterflies were fluttering everywhere. It was a deserted Confucian monastery--gone to wreck and ruin with only one priest to guard it, but untouched by the hand of Russian or Japanese. Both use temples only when they must, and it seems that Occidentals have much to learn from Tartar and heathen in reverence for the things that concern the universal soul. To escape that compound, we should have pitched our tents there, I suppose, had we been allowed. But it was a place of peaceful refuge open to us all. An Irishman had found it, and sharing the discovery we sat there and dreamed in silence until the after-glow was gone.

... It is pretty mournful this morning--rainy, muddy, dreary, dark. We have established a policing system--each man taking turn; but the mud in the court-yard deepens and the smells fade not at all. We have flies, mosquitoes, night-bugs that are homelike in species and scorpions that are not. Every man shakes his shoes in the morning for a hiding scorpion. A soldier brought in a dead one to-day, that yesterday had bitten him on the hand. He was bandaged to the shoulder, and but for quick treatment might have lost his arm. It can't be healthy in here, but only Dean Prior and two others have been ill. What a game Dean it is, by the way! He laughs at his sickness, laughs when that big white horse with the weak back goes down in a river or mud-hole with him, and never complains at all. I have never seen such forbearance and patience and good-humor among any set of men. If a man wakes up cross and in an ill-humor--that day is his. He may kick somebody's water-pail over the wall, storm at his servant, curse out the food, and be a general irritable nuisance; but the rest forbear, look down at their plates, and nobody says a word, for each knows that the next day may be his. This forbearance is one benefit anyhow that we are getting out of this campaign, which is a sad, sad waste thus far. But Reggie appears at the door. As he marches past us we rise and sing the Marseillaise; when he marches back, we sing it again, and that smile of his is reward enough. There is good news--_we_ are to go out on a reconnaissance to-morrow, ourselves.

* * * * *

Holy Moses! but that reconnaissance was a terrifying experience. We went out past the station where the last fight was, along a dusty road and up a little hill, left our horses under its protecting bulk, sneaked over the top, and boldly stood upright on the slant of the other side. Below us was a big rude cross over a Russian grave. Things were pointed out to us.

"You see that big camel-backed mountain there," said one of the Three Guardsmen. We levelled glasses. "Well, that's where the main body of the Russians are."

"How far away is that camel-back?" somebody asked innocently. The Guardsman had turned and was beckoning violently to the Italian (who was on top of the little hill, some thirty feet above us) to come down. Then he said:

"About ten miles."

"So desuka!" (truly) said the same voice, lapsing with awe into Japanese.

"So desu!"--which is "truly" in response,--said the Guardsman with satisfaction, and we had a thrill. The Italian now had blithely drawn near. He seemed unafraid, but perhaps he had been unaware of his peril on the skyline only ten miles from a Russian gun.

Then we cautiously advanced along the road for another half a mile to an empty trench in a little camp near which there must have been all of twenty Japanese soldiers. One correspondent stepped across the trench and was gesticulated back with some warmth. Davis sat down on the trench and was politely asked to get up and move back--not that he would hurt the trench, but because he was sitting on the half of it that was next the ten-mile-away enemy--and apparently the Guardsman had orders that we must not cross a carefully marked line. Davis got up like a shot and hurriedly went away back to sit down.

The major of the post there gave us tea and beer at his quarters near by. He was a big fellow and was most kind and courteous. He had been a professor in a war-college and had asked the privilege of death at the front. He got it, poor fellow, and later I saw a picture of his body being burned after the fight at Liao-Yang.

We are getting pretty restless now. The Irishman and I were denied admittance at the monastery yesterday by the order of the Imperial Highness whom we met the other day. However, he relaxed it in our favor. Dean Prior started to go up on the city wall to-day to sketch, and was stopped by a sentry, who put a naked bayonet within two feet of his breast. He came back raging, and wrote a scathing letter which I don't think he will send.

* * * * *

This morning _Wong_ came.

At ten o'clock the Irishman appeared at the entrance of the compound, leading by the hand a little Chinese boy some eight or ten years old. He was the dirtiest little wretch I ever saw, but he smiled--and never saw I such teeth or such a winsome smile. The Irishman said simply and gravely:

"This is Wong," and no more. He led the boy behind the paling that enclosed our bathing-quarters, plucking, as he walked, a sponge and a cake of soap, which happened to be mine. Then I heard:

"Take it off!" And again: "Take it off, I say!"

Apparently he was obeyed. Then:

"Take that off, too; yes, that, too!" Evidently the boy had but two garments on, for considerable splashing took the place of peremptory commands. By and by they came out together and, still hand in hand, passed out of the compound. In half an hour the Irishman came back.

"I've just taken Wong down to Poole's," he said, still gravely, "to get him a new suit of clothes."

"The trousers were too long, and Wong objected. Poole told him that trousers were worn long this season, and Wong compromised by rolling them up. He'll be here by and by."

By and by Wong came back resplendent in new blouse, new trousers, new shoes and socks. On his breast was sewed a big white piece of cotton in the shape of a shamrock, and on the shamrock was printed this:

WONG _Cup-bearer and Page in Waiting_ to ---- ----, _Esquire_.

Straightway was Wong an habitué of the compound and straightway his education began. Wong was quick to learn.

"Attention, Wong!" the Irishman would say, and Wong would spring to his feet and dash for a bottle of--Tansan.

"Make ready!" Wong would poise the bottle. "Aim--fire!" Wong would fire, and then would come the command, "When!" which meant "cease firing!" and Wong, perfect little soldier that he was, would cease, though his genial hospitality and genuine concern for the happiness of everybody made ceasing very hard. If his master ordered a bottle of wine at the table, Wong would pass it to every man. He was equally hospitable in the matter of cigarettes--anybody's; for he could never see that what belonged to one man did not belong to all. Essentially, in that crowd, he was right. But it was rather expensive for the Irishman, until one day he told Wong always to take the chits to "that fat man"--who was not Reggie--and thereafter the fat man got them.

Wong had caught the military salute from the Japanese soldiers, and every morning, when he came in, he would go around to each of us in turn, clicking his heels, hand at his forehead, and always with that radiant smile flashing from his gentle eyes and his beautiful teeth. The Irishman always slept late. One morning he was awakened by an insistent little voice outside his mosquito-net, saying, over and over:

"Hello, George; wake up! Hello, George; wake up!" Somebody had taught him that; but he saw straightway that it was not respectful, and we could never get him to do it again.

After his second bath he went around pulling his shirt open to show how clean his yellow little body was. Indeed, he got such a passion for cleanliness that one morning he näively held out his exquisite hands to Lewis to be manicured--Lewis did it. Again, when Tansan spouted into his face, he reached out, pulled a silk handkerchief from a man's pocket and mopped his face. All of us got to love that boy, and when we went away there was a consultation. We would make up a fund and educate him. His father was called in and an interpreter explained our design. Wong burst into tears and wept bitterly. There were answering drops in the Irishman's eyes.

"I tell you, all the blood shed in this miserable war is not worth those few precious tears. Greatest people on earth! Why should he want to leave them?"

Lovable little Wong! The first word the Irishman said when he came back through that town on our way home was spoken to a group of boys on the street.

"Wong!" he said simply, and they raised a shout of comprehension and dashed away, the Irishman after them. Half an hour later he joined me in a restaurant. Wong was not in town, he said gravely; he had bought a place outside of town with the money we had given him, and had taken his family into the country for the hot season. Anyhow, we saw Wong the gentle, Wong the winning, no more.

* * * * *

A major came this morning to give us a lecture on the battle of Tehlitzu--to while away the tedium, said one of the Guardsmen. The Major is smooth-shaven and very broad between the cheek-bones. His hair is clipped short, his eyes are large, and his face is strong. He must have been a professor in a war-college, for he stood up and drew mountains, hills, valleys, positions, trenches, trees, and made figures--all with wonderful rapidity and skill--backward. That is, he made them for us standing in front of him to look at. A certain division, he said, of a certain regiment, at a certain time had done a certain thing. It was a perfect lecture except that all the really essential facts were skilfully suppressed.

The Major had been present only as an observer--a student--but at one hot place on which he put his finger, he had "lost many friends there," he said impassively.

At that place a young Russian officer led a charge, and his men refused to follow him. The officer drew a dagger and smilingly killed himself.

"We all speak much of that man," said the Major.

At another place the ammunition gave out on both sides, and Japanese and Russians fought with stones--men on both sides being severely wounded. While this was going on some Russian officers advanced, sword in hand, from another point, but they had no followers. One of them started forward and gave challenge. A Japanese officer sprang to meet him, and a duel was fought while soldiers of both armies looked on. "The Japanese was fortunate enough to despatch the Russian," said the Major modestly and dispassionately, "and we buried him with much ceremony and put a barrier over him. It was an interesting study--this battle--as to whether it is better to fight a defensive or an offensive enemy."

"Well, I'd rather have seen that rock-fight," said a correspondent, "and that duel than the whole battle."

The Major looked puzzled and shocked, and went on to tell how they had captured a fat Russian colonel--whose horse was wounded and whose coat was gone.

"He said our artillery fire was--" the Major paused, used a Russian word, and turned to the interpreter helplessly--and the interpreter said:

"Ungodly."

"Yes," said the Major, and he smiled. "The first thing the Russian asked for was a bottle of soda-water, which made us laugh. We do not carry such things in the fields. I gave him ten cigarettes."

"How many men did the Japanese have in that fight?" asked a correspondent.

"Just as many as they have now," was the illuminating answer.

I wonder if anybody but the Japanese knows how many men they have really had in any fight, and whether in consequence their victories have been due to astonishing skill or overwhelming numbers. There is rumor of one lost Japanese division, the whereabouts of which nobody--but the Japanese--knows. It could have been in every fight thus far and nobody--but the Japanese--could know.

We are getting mighty tired now. Several of us concluded up at the monastery to-day that we would go home pretty soon unless there was a change. There we took pictures of temples, monoliths, stone-turtles. The Irishman appeared suddenly--coming down the long steps above us, leading a Chinese child by the hand and carrying a younger one in his arms. How or where he gathers in children the way he does, is a mystery to all of us. Then we took more pictures and four officers came in. We communicated in a Babel of French, German, English, Chinese, and Japanese. They got tea for us from the priest, and were very polite. Later two more came in. Davis and I were writing, and they stood around and looked at us for a while. One approached.

"What are you doing there?"

"Writing," I said.

"Drawing?" he asked suspiciously.

"Yes, drawing," said Davis. "Why do you want to know what we are doing?" I don't think the officer understood--but he understood that something was wrong, and he stood a moment in some awkwardness.

"Good-a-by!" he said.

"Sayonara," we answered.

"I don't think it is anything but curiosity," I said.

"A good deal of it is--because they don't know that they oughtn't to show it. He put us at once in the attitude of being spies. I can't imagine what he thought we were drawing."

"We didn't have our badges on. He might have arrested us."

"That would have been some diversion."

The day has been warm, brilliant--the sky crystalline, deep, and flecked with streamers of wool. At sunset now the rain is sweeping the west like a giant broom, the rush of wind and river is indistinguishable, the silent magpies are flying about, but there is still a mighty peace within these walls. Back now to mud, flies, and fleas.

It's 1 A.M. The fleas won't sleep, and for that reason I can't. Even the drone of school-children chanting Chinese classics--as our little mountaineers chant the alphabet in a "blab-school"--and the barking of dogs have ceased. Somewhere out in the darkness picket-fires are shining where the Sun-children and the White Cubs are soon to lock in a fierce embrace. I like this Manchurian land and I like the Chinaman. Both are human and the country is homelike--with its cornfields, horses, mules, cattle, and sheep and dogs. The striking difference is here, you see no women except very old ones or little girls. Here is the absence of that insistent plague--human manure--that disgusts the sensitive nose in Japan. The "fragrant summer-time" would have been a satire if it had been written in Japan. But there is no charm here as there is everywhere in Nature and Man in Japan. Besides the Chinese, here at least, are filthy in person and in their homes--the smell of the Chinaman is positively acrid--while the Japanese are beyond doubt the very cleanliest people in the world. I wish I could see for myself what they really are in battle. As far as I can make out at long distance, the Japanese army and the individual Japanese soldier seem the best in the world: the soldier for the reason that he cares no more for death than the average Occidental for an afternoon nap--the army for the reason that the Buschido spirit--feudal fealty--having been transferred from Daimio and Samurai to Colonel and General--gives it a discipline that seems perfect. Imagine an army without stragglers or camp-followers, in which one man is as good as another and all boast of but one thing--a willingness to die. It looks as though for the first time in history the fanatical spirit of the Mussulman who believed that he would step, at death, from the battle-field into Paradise, was directed by an acute and world-trained intelligence. As to the soldier, the pivotal point of effectiveness seems to be this: an Occidental and a Japanese quarrel, and they step outside to settle matters. The Occidental thinks not only of killing the Japanese, but of getting out alive. His energies are divided, his concentration of purpose suffers. The Japanese has no such division--he is concerned only with killing his opponent, and he doesn't seem to care whether or not he comes out alive or dead. I'm wondering, though, whether he would fight this way for England--whether he will ever fight again this way for himself.

It has been cold the last two days. The flies have almost disappeared and the fleas are less active--in numbers, anyhow. Two officers came to see us last night and it's the first time we have been honored in this way. One had a long sword 400 years old--the other a short one 500 years old, and both were wonderful blades. Now, the sword of a Samurai was his soul, and the man who even stepped over it did it at the peril of his life. I was rather surprised that they let us handle them so freely.

"We are to leave here very soon," they said.

To-morrow we do leave--toward Liao-Yang.

VII

THE BACKWARD TRAIL OF THE SAXON

Out at the gate of the compound, last night, a barytone voice lifted a pæan of praise to the very stars. We were to leave that wretched enclosure next day, the Three Guardsmen said, and that night the White Slaves listened to the barking of dogs, the droning chorus of school-children chanting Chinese classics and the medley of small noises in streets and compound, and sank to sleep for the last time in Haicheng. As usual, the raucous cries of Dean Prior and Burleigh ushered in the dawn, and the usual awakening and bustle of servants and masters followed. For the last time Little Wong, Cup-bearer and Page-in-Waiting, with his hand at his forehead, clicked his heels before each of us in turn, stirred his master, the Irishman, from slumber deep, and, with a radiant smile and flashing teeth, fired volleys of Tansan right and left. Within half an hour we were gathered under Yokoyama's tent for our last breakfast. For the last time Big Reggie, the Frenchman, marched past us, and for the last time we made him keep step to a ringing Marseillaise. Half an hour later, the compound was full of squealing horses, and soon carts, coolies, the White Slaves of Haicheng, and the Three Guardsmen wound out of the gate, through the narrow streets and under the city wall--on the way to see a battle at last. Two hours we marched, climbed then a little hill, left our horses on the hither side, crawled over the top to where that battle was raging--some ten miles away. Up in the mountains somebody was evidently letting loose giant puffs of cigarette-smoke high in the air. No sound was perceptible, but they were shells, a Guardsman said.

"Whose shells?"

"I don't know," said the Guardsman. As a matter of fact, those shells were so far away that we could not tell whether they were Russian or Japanese, whether they were coming toward us or going away. But we could count them, and, of course, that was great profit and fun. So, while that battle raged, we fearlessly strolled around the hill-side or sat in groups and told stories, and one daredevil of a correspondent, made reckless by the perils we had passed, deliberately turned his back to the fight and calmly read a newspaper.

The Three Guardsmen were justly pained by such a neglect of such an opportunity to study strategy and tactics in a great war, and they did not look happy. Thus for two hours did we not see the battle of Anshantien.

Toward noon the shell-smoke waned and we moved on to another compound, where we were to spend the night. At dusk a Guardsman came in radiant and filled our hearts with fatuous cheer. We were to see another fierce engagement next morning. But we must rise early and travel fast or we should be too late, as the attack would be made before dawn. The Three Guardsmen would come themselves to awaken us at three o'clock so that there could be no mistake. He was so earnest and so sure that we went to bed greatly excited, and nobody slept except the Irishman, who lifted his head from sound slumber, however, when one vagrant beer-bottle was popped to decide a wager, at midnight.

"Don't you think I don't hear you," he said.

"I win the bet," said Brill.

Three hours later, the Guardsmen found us awake. We arose and stumbled in the mud and darkness for a cup of coffee, and started single file through raining blackness toward that ever-vanishing front. Nobody said a word, and the silence and mystery of the march was oppressive as we waded streams and ploughed through mud between walls of dripping corn. Every now and then the Authority on International Law, who led us, would halt the column and get off his horse to look for the trail that had been left for us the day before. At least he did the looking, but it was always Captain James, the Englishman, who found the trail; a more stealing, mysterious, conspirator-like expedition I have never known. It was hard to believe that we were not creeping up to make an attack on something ourselves, or that the Russians might not burst from the corn on either side at any minute.