Under the Mikado's flag

As the big warship came nearer and nearer those on board of the sailboat increased their cries. But the large vessel was doing all in her power to back water, and could do no more. She had been running at her highest rate of speed and her headway was therefore tremendous.

The only thoroughly cool men on the O-Taka were the captain and the steersman, the latter a salt of many years’ experience. The former issued orders with rapidity, and the steersman obeyed “on the jump.” Then the sailors were ordered to shift one of the sails, and just as the warship was almost upon them, the sailboat sheered off sharply to one side; and the danger was over.

“Well, that was a close shave!” muttered Gilbert. “A little closer and we would have been cut in two as if by a knife!”

For several minutes the sailboat continued to rock in the swells created by the larger vessel. In the midst of this came an order through a megaphone to lay-to.

At first sight of the warship all on board of the O-Taka wondered if she was not Russian, in which case it would have fared badly with Captain Toyano and all with him. But now it was seen that it was one attached to the Japanese navy, and was carrying a number of soldiers as well as sailors.

“What ship?” was asked in Japanese.

“The O-Taka, from Nagasaki,” replied Captain Toyano, making a trumpet of his hands.

“Did you come from that port last?”

“No, we came from Port Arthur.”

“Continue to lay-to until we inspect you,” was the short and sharp command.

“I will do so.”

No more was said, and in a few minutes a boat was lowered at the side of the warship and an under-officer entered with eight sailors. In ten minutes the officer was on the deck of the O-Taka, and Captain Toyano greeted him cordially.

“Inspect as you will,” said the captain. And then he told how he had come to pick up those on board and of the escape from the Russians at Port Arthur.

“You were fortunate to get away,” said the Japanese naval officer. “One good shot would have sunk you instantly.” He gazed at Gilbert. “Who is this Englishman?”

“He is an American, a representative of an importing company that was doing business in Manchuria. He wanted to get away, and so we took him along.”

“He is not a spy?”

“I am sure he is not. But you can question him, if you wish.”

“I will.”

Gilbert was called up, and the naval officer put half a dozen pointed questions to him, all of which he answered satisfactorily.

“You consider yourself a non-combatant?” said the officer, at last.

“For the present, yes, but I’m half of a mind to throw in my fortunes with Japan.”

“Indeed. Do you think you would like to fight?”

“Yes, under certain circumstances. I’ve done my share of it. I served in Cuba, Luzon, and at the Boxer uprising in China, first as a volunteer, and then as a lieutenant of the regulars.”

“Is it possible! I am pleased to meet you, Lieutenant Pennington.” The naval officer shook hands. “We have quite a number of Americans in our army and navy.”

“I knew you had some of our gunners on your ships.”

“Yes—more than perhaps you imagine—they flocked in as soon as they heard war was expected.”

“Well, if I ever fight again, it will be as a soldier. I prefer the land.”

“Well, we need soldiers. We are already landing troops in Korea to march against the Russians at the north.” And here the conversation came to a close. Soon the under-officer left and the O-Taka was permitted to proceed once more on her course, while the warship put on full steam and soon disappeared in the swirling snow.

What the under-officer had said about landing troops in Korea was true, and while the O-Taka is speeding on her way we will take a brief glance backward, and see how the first shot in this great war between Russia and Japan came to be fired.

On the west coast of Korea is the harbor and town of Chemulpo, a place of considerable importance, with a valuable shipping interest. About the time when negotiations at St. Petersburg were broken off there were in the harbor two Russian warships, a fine protected cruiser of 6500 tons, named the Varyag, and an old-style gunboat, called the Korietz, of use mainly for coast defense.

On the eighth of February a Russian boat carrying army and navy stores arrived at Chemulpo and reported having sighted a number of warships at a distance. The ships were supposed to be Japanese, and to make certain the commander of the Korietz went out to reconnoiter. The approaching ships proved to be a Japanese squadron under command of Admiral Uriu. The squadron consisted of a battleship, four cruisers, and seven torpedo boats, all of which were acting as a convoy to a number of transports carrying twenty-five hundred Japanese soldiers.

At the sight of the enemy the old Korietz was cleared for action, and a gun fired—whether as a signal to lay-to, or as an opening shot of war, is not definitely settled. But be that as it may, the shot was immediately answered by the Japanese, who discharged two torpedoes at the presumptuous old gunboat. Seeing this, the Korietz lost no time in returning to the protection of Chemulpo harbor.

Night was now coming on, and under cover of the darkness the Japanese transports succeeded in making a landing, and all of the Japanese soldiers went ashore. As soon as they were in a position to resist a possible attack, the Japanese squadron steamed out to sea.

It is possible that those on the Russian warships thought they would be free of their enemy, but early in the morning came a communication from Admiral Uriu, stating that war between the two nations had been declared, and that the Russian ships must either come out on the high seas and fight or be attacked where they lay in the harbor.

“Weak as we are, we will go out and fight them,” said the Russian commander, who must be admired for his great bravery, and not long after this the Varyag steamed out, followed by the old Korietz. Those on board knew that they were going almost to certain doom, yet they put on a brave front, the band playing church hymns and the national anthem, and the jackies singing lustily.

With such an advantage on one side the fight could not long endure, and within half an hour the Varyag, trying in vain to inflict damage on her more numerous enemy, was riddled with shot and shell and set on fire. The old Korietz, hardly noticed by the Japanese warships, was also struck, and at last both steamed back to the harbor, where the wounded and dying were cared for. That neither ship might fall into the possession of the enemy, the Varyag was scuttled, and the Korietz blown up. The Russian transport that had first sighted the enemy was burned.

The coast was now clear for landing all the troops the Mikado cared to send to Korea, and the squadron steamed away to convoy more transports hither. How this work went on we shall learn in the near future.

Instead of abating the snowstorm increased in violence, and by ten o’clock that night the wind was blowing a perfect gale. In that quarter of the Yellow Sea a gale means something, and the O-Taka was tossed about like a feather on the high rolling waves. Many of the women and children on board were sick, and even some of the men suffered.

“Very much bad storm,” sighed Jiru Siko, to Gilbert. “Ship look he would turn down side up—all things go hop-hop in cabin—Jiru Siko go hop-hop inside—he think he going to lose his liver.”

“You’re seasick, Siko,” answered the young American. “You can’t stand the rolling of the ship.”

“Master Pennington not feel hop-hop inside, no turn inside out on his liver?”

“No, I am thankful to say that I don’t feel sick a bit.”

“You strong man—wish Jiru Siko feel dat way—give a yen to feel so!” A yen is a Japanese dollar, worth about fifty-five cents of our money.

The captain had already ordered most of the sails lowered, only keeping up sufficient canvas to make the O-Taka mind her helm. The sea was boiling and foaming on all sides, and the rising and falling wind shrieked dismally through the rigging, now at a high note and then at a low. To stand on the deck without holding fast was impossible, and the little cabin was crowded to suffocation. There it was uncomfortably warm, but outside it was bitter cold, the water forming in sheets of ice on the deck and in long icicles on the sails and rigging.

“How long do you think this blow will last?” asked Gilbert, when Captain Toyano happened to pass him.

“I cannot tell, certainly until morning—perhaps for twenty-four hours longer.”

“Can we weather it, do you think?”

“I have never yet lost a ship, Mr. Pennington.”

This is all the Japanese commander would say. But it was plain to see that he was worried, and with good cause.

Just before the outbreak of the war he had intended to lay the O-Taka up for repairs, for the vessel was rather old, and needed her seams looked after, and a new topmast, as well as some new sails. But the opportunity for making such repairs had been lost, and now the ship was handicapped in a fashion which left her ill-suited to fight out the storm that was raging.

The sailors knew of the trouble, but the captain did not wish to alarm his passengers, and so told them nothing. The O-Taka was already shipping much water, and the pump was kept going continuously.

Sleep for all on board was out of the question, and the most Gilbert could do was to lash himself fast to a railing near the lee of the cabin. Jiru Siko had joined his family, but others of the Japanese refugees were close at hand, doing what they could to keep their blood in circulation, and a few praying to their gods that daybreak might still find them in the land of the living.

It was about three in the morning when the worst of the blow was felt. The wind shrieked with increased fury, and in the midst of this came a report like that of a cannon. The mainmast of the ship had broken off about six feet above deck. Down it came, partly over the bow, carrying a railing, some spars, and a great mass of rigging and canvas with it. At once the ship veered around and came up sideways to the fury of the high-running sea.

But little could be heard in such a wind, yet Captain Toyano made his men understand what was best to do, and while some held life-lines, others chopped away the wreckage with axes. Then the O-Taka gave a sudden lurch, and the broken mast, with spars, rigging, and sails, slipped overboard and out of sight in the darkness. Soon the ship righted herself, and those handling her did what they could to keep her up to the wind.