Willis Allen - The North Pacific

As in the preparation of Navy Blue and Cleared for Action , the author has taken great pains to verify the main facts of the present story, so far as they are concerned with the incidents of the great struggle still in progress between the empires of the East and the West. He acknowledges most gratefully the assistance received from the office of the Secretary of the Navy, from ex-Secretary John D. Long, and from Commander W. H. H. Southerland, now commanding the U. S. Cruiser Cleveland , Commander Austin M. Knight, President of the Board on Naval Ordnance, and Chief Engineer Edward Farmer, retired.

Boston, June, 1905.

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.

"A couple o' Dagos!" remarked one workman to another, nodding over his shoulder as he carried his end of a heavy steel bar.

At the gangway the visitors met their first obstacle. A man in undress uniform, with a full beard and stern countenance, waved them back. "No admittance to the deck," he said briefly.

The two Japanese bowed blandly, and spoke a few words together in soft undertones and gutterals, as incomprehensible to a Western ear as the language of the Ojibways. Then they bowed again, smiled and said "Thank you, sir," and moved away. The Russian officer watched them sharply until they disappeared around the bows of the vessel, muttering to himself under his bushy moustache.

Once out of sight the languor and mild indifference of the strangers vanished. They spoke swiftly, with excited, but graceful gestures. Then one of them pointed to the snowy curve of the battleship's prow, above their heads. There, gleaming in the sunset light, shone the word, in gold letters,

"Retvizan," murmured the other; "Retvizan." Adding in his own language, "She will have her trial trip late in October, sailing from Boston. Then – we shall see!"

"We shall see."

" Sayonara, Retvizan! " said the first speaker with just a trace of mockery in his tone, as the two turned toward the gate. As they passed through, on their way out, they bowed and smiled to the gate-keeper. Once more they were suave, languid little gentlemen of fashion, travelling for pleasure.

It was eight o'clock on the morning of October 21st when the last tug-load of "distinguished visitors" scrambled up the steep ladder to the deck of the Retvizan , which had lain all night in President's Roads, Boston Harbour, waiting for her trial trip. In five minutes more the battleship was under way, the smoke rolling from her three huge funnels as she forged ahead slowly, on her way to the open sea.

It was an oddly composed crowd that gathered forward of the great turret from which projected two twelve-inch guns. The crew consisted of Russian "Jackies," in man-of-war rig; but the spectators were the invited guests of the builders from whose control the ship had not yet passed. There were lawyers, naval officers, engineers, and politicians, with one or two officials of the city and State government – all bound to have a good time, whether the Retvizan should prove slow or fast. They buttoned their overcoats up around their throats – for the day was chilly, and the draught made by the vessel as she gathered speed was sharp – and in little knots, here and there, joked, laughed, and sang like boys on a lark.

One young man was constantly moving about, alert and active, interested apparently in everything and everybody on board. Most of the Boston men seemed to know him, and exchanged jokes with him as he passed.

"Hullo, Larkin, you here?" called out one. "Better go ashore while there's time – you'll be sea-sick when we get outside!"

"I never yet was sick of seeing!" retorted the young man. "The Bulletin must have a good story on to-day's trip."

"Why didn't they send a reporter that knew his business?" jested another.

"Don't you say anything, Alderman, or I'll fix up an account of you that will make you turn pale when you read it to-morrow morning," said the jolly reporter; and off he went, followed by a chorus of laughter.

Fred Larkin was one of the most valued reporters on the Boston Daily Bulletin . He had risen to his present position, from that of mere space writer, by sheer determination, pluck, and hard work, which characteristics, backed by fine character and a sunny good-humour, made him a favourite with both his superiors and his comrades on the staff. Three years before this sea-trip Fred had been sent to Cuba as war correspondent for the Bulletin , had performed one or two remarkable feats in journalism, had been captured by the Spaniards, and on the very day when he expected to be executed in Santiago as a spy had been exchanged and set free.