Then, suddenly, an idea occurred to me. The Kinshiu Maru had in tow a small junk, or lighter, which we had used to facilitate the landing of the soldiers at Iwon. Where was she now?
Crouching low under the cover of the bulwarks, to avoid being seen by those aboard the Rossia, I slipped aft and, cautiously peering over the taffrail, saw that she had drifted right in under the Kinshiu’s counter, where she was momentarily threatening to bilge herself against the steamer’s iron rudder, as the two craft ground against each other on the swell. The forward half of her lay in the deep shadow of the Kinchiu’s stern—a shadow rendered still deeper and more opaque by the vivid brilliance of the searchlight beam that covered the stern-half of her, and it immediately occurred to me that if I could but climb down into her, unobserved, and cut her adrift, I might possibly contrive to avoid entering a Russian prison after all.
No sooner thought of than done; the moment was propitious, the towing hawser lay under my hand, and in another moment I was down upon her tiny forecastle, hacking away at the grass rope with my pocket-knife. The blade was keen, as a sailor’s knife should always be, and with a few vigorous slashes the hawser was severed and I was adrift. Then, taking advantage of the heave of the two craft, I managed to move the junk until she lay entirely in the shadow cast by the Kinshiu’s hull.
At this juncture I heard the gruff voices of Russians overhead, on the transport’s deck, and, thinking discretion the better part of valour under the circumstances, dropped off the junk’s short fore deck into her shallow hold and there concealed myself, lest any inquisitive Russian should peer over the bulwarks, catch sight of me, and order me up on deck again. I don’t know whether it occurred to any of the enemy to look over the side, but I do not think so; at all events, if they did, nobody took the trouble to come down and search the junk; and in a few minutes the voices ceased; I took it that the visitors had gone below to search the ship. If they had, what would happen to them, with over a hundred armed Japanese soldiers down there?
I had not long to wait for an answer to this question. About two minutes of silence succeeded to the sudden cessation of the Russians’ voices on deck, and then the muffled crack of a pistol-shot rang out from the Kinshiu’s interior, instantly followed by a shout of “Banzai Nippon!” and the crack of several rifles; there arose a sudden outburst of yells and execrations in Russian, a stampede of many feet along the deck, the sounds of a scuffling hand-to-hand fight, a volley of orders from the Russian officer in command of the boarding party, a hoarse hail from one of the warships, and then the rattle and splash of oars hastily thrown out. Evidently, the Japanese soldiers had given the intruders a warm reception.
The hurried departure of the boarding party was quickly followed by a rolling volley of rifle-fire from the Kinshiu, apparently directed upon the retreating boats, for I heard cries and groans which seemed to proceed from them. Then, from the Rossia came the sudden, snapping bark of her quick-firers and machine-guns, and a storm of missiles crashed through the transport’s thin bulwarks or flew whining overhead, intermingled with shrieks, groans, and excited shouts from the Japanese soldiers, who had evidently resolved to die fighting, rather than surrender. The sounds awakened the fighting instinct within me; I felt that, let happen what would, I must be among those gallant fellows, doing my share of the work; and I nipped out from under the junk’s short deck, intent upon climbing aboard the Kinshiu again. And then I found that during the short period of my seclusion, the junk had parted company, and was now a good twenty feet distant from the transport. True, I might jump overboard and swim the intervening space, and I was actually poising myself for the dive when the question flashed into my brain: How was I to get aboard, how climb the vessel’s smooth iron side. There were no ropes hanging overboard, save the severed towing hawser, and I had cut through that so high up that even when the steamer’s stern dipped, the end did not reach within a couple of feet of the water. I recognised that whether I would or not, I must now stay where I was, for return to the steamer was impossible. And while I stood there on the junk’s short fore deck, watching the scene with fascinated eyes, that awful, unequal duel went on between the Japanese rifles and the Rossia’s machine-guns; the soldiers frenziedly yelling “Banzai Nippon!” between each volley, while the Russian gunners plied their pieces in grim silence. The Kinshiu’s deck, I knew, must be by this time a veritable shambles, for the Russian cruiser lay close aboard, and her machine-guns could sweep the transport’s decks from stem to stern; moreover, the rapid and ominous slackening of the rifle-fire testified eloquently to the frightful carnage that was proceeding. The cries of “Banzai Nippon!” were no longer thundered forth in a defiant roar, but were raised by a few voices only, which were almost drowned by the dreadful shrieks and moans of the wounded and dying.
Then, suddenly, there occurred a frightful explosion, the Kinshiu Maru was hove up on a mountain of foaming water which belched forth fire and smoke, the air became suddenly full of flying splinters and wreckage, a heavy fragment of which smote me full upon the forehead and knocked me back into the junk’s hold, and as my senses left me I was dimly conscious of a wailing cry, pealing out across the water, of “Sayonara!” (Farewell for ever). It was the last good-bye to Emperor, country, and all who were nearest and dearest to them of that heroic little band of Japanese infantry-men who preferred to die fighting gloriously, rather than win inglorious safety by surrender. The Russians had made an end of the affair by torpedoing the transport, and she must have sunk within a very few minutes.
When I recovered my senses it was broad daylight. For a few moments I knew not where I was, or what had happened to me, but I was conscious of the most splitting headache from which I had ever suffered in my life. The next thing that dawned upon me was that I was lying in the bottom of a small craft of some sort, which was rolling and plunging most atrociously on a short, choppy sea, that I was chilled to the very marrow, and that water was washing about and over me with every motion of the boat. I was wet to the skin and, although shivering with cold, my blood scorched my veins as though it were liquid fire.
I sat up, staring vaguely about me, and then became aware of a curious stiff feeling in the skin of my face. Putting my hands to my head, to still the throbbing smart of it, I found that my hair was all clogged with some sticky kind of liquid which, upon looking at my hands, I found to be blood, evidently my own. This at once explained the curious stiff feeling of my face; it was probably caused by dry caked blood. But, to make sure, I sprang open the case of my watch—the polished surface serving well enough for a mirror—and gravely studied my reflected image. I must have presented a ghastly sight, for my whole face was a mask of blood, out of which my eyes glared feverishly. Then, as I continued to stare at the interior of my watch-case, wondering what it all meant, my memory of the events of the preceding night—I knew it must be the preceding night, because my watch was still going—all came back to me, and I understood where I was.
Scrambling giddily to my feet, I looked about me and saw a bucket rolling to and fro on the junk’s bottom-boards. The sight suggested an idea to me and, taking the bucket and the end of a small line which I bent on to the handle, I somehow managed to hoist myself up on to the small foredeck and, lying prone—for I dared not as yet trust myself to stand—I lowered the bucket, and drew it up again, full of clean, sparkling salt-water. Into this I plunged my head, keeping it immersed as long as my breath would allow, meanwhile removing the blood from my face and hair as well as I could. The contact of the cold salt-water made my lacerated forehead and scalp smart most atrociously, yet it relieved my headache and greatly refreshed me. Then, stripping off my wet shirt, I tore a long strip from it and, thoroughly saturating it in the clean salt-water, bound up my wound as best I could, after which I felt distinctly better.