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

It was a clear, cool afternoon in early September, 1901. In the country the tawny hillsides were warmed to gold by the glow of the autumn sun, while here and there a maple lifted its crimson torch as if the forest were kindling where the rays were the hottest. Brown, golden, and scarlet leaves floated slowly downward to the ground; flocks of dark-winged birds drifted across the sky or flitted silently through the shadows of the deep wood; the call of the harvester to his straining team sounded across the fields for a moment—then all was still again. But for the creak of a waggon, the distant bark of a dog, the fitful whisper and rustle of the wind in the boughs overhead, the whirring chatter of a squirrel, the world seemed lost in a day-dream of peace.

Only a few miles away the air was rent by a clamour of discordant sound. Ponderous hammers beat upon plates of iron and brass; machinery rumbled and shrieked and hissed at its work; a thousand men, labouring as if for their lives, pulled, pushed, lifted, pounded, shouted orders, warnings, replies above the din that beat upon the ear like a blacksmith's blows upon an anvil. From the tall chimneys poured endless volumes of black smoke that were reflected in the blue waters of the river and mimicked by innumerable puffs of steam. The place was like a volcano in the first stages of eruption. A vast upheaval seemed imminent. Yet the countless toilers worked securely and swiftly, fashioning that dread floating citadel of modern warfare, the Battleship.

On this same afternoon, at the outer gate of the Cramp Shipbuilding Works, two strangers applied for admission, presenting to the watchman a properly accredited pass. They were young men, under the average stature, dark-skinned, and almost notably quiet in appearance and manner. Although their dress was that of the American gentleman, a very slight accent in their speech, their jet-black hair, and a trifling obliquity in their eyes, would have at once betrayed their nationality to a careful observer. He would have known that they were of a people famous for their shrewdness, their gentle manners, their bravery, their quick perceptions, and their profound patience and tireless resolution in accomplishing their ends—the "Yankees of the Orient"—the Japanese.

The watchman glanced at them carelessly, rather impressed by the visitors' immaculate attire—both wore silk hats and black coats of correct Broadway cut—and asked if they wanted an attendant to show them about the works. They said, "No, thank you. We shall remain but short time. We can find our ways"; and, bowing, passed into the yard.

Their curiosity seemed very slight, as to the buildings and machinery. With light, quick steps they passed through one or two of the most important shops, then turned to the river-side, and halted beside the huge ship that was on the stocks, almost ready for launching. Here for the first time their whole expression became alert, their eyes keen and flashing. Nobody paid much attention to them as they passed along the walk, scrutinising, it would seem, every individual bolt and plate.