Part 17

Thus it came about that the morning of July 8, 1853, saw a squadron of black-hulled war-ships--the _Mississippi_, _Susquehanna_, _Plymouth_, and _Saratoga_--sailing into the Straits of Uraga and into Japanese history. And on the bridge of the flag-ship, his telescope glued to his eye, was our old friend, Matthew Calbraith Perry. The Straits of Uraga, I should explain, form the entrance to the Bay of Tokio, whose sacred waters had, up to that time, never been desecrated by the hulls of foreign war-ships. But Perry was never worried about lack of precedent. At five in the afternoon his ships steamed in within musket-shot of Uraga, and, at the shrill signal of the boatswains’ pipes, their anchors went rumbling down. A moment later a string of signal-flags fluttered from the flag-ship in a message which read: “Have no communication with the shore, have none from the shore.” Perry, you see, had spent the three preceding years in preparing for this expedition by learning all that he could of the Japanese character and customs, and he had not spent them for naught. He had determined that, when it came to being really snobbish and exclusive, he would make the Japanese, who had theretofore held the record for that sort of thing, look like amateurs. And he did. For when the captain of the port, in his ceremonial dress of hempen cloth and lacquered hat, put off in a twelve-oared barge to inquire the business of the strangers, a marine sentry at the top of the flag-ship’s ladder brusquely motioned him away as though he were of no more importance than a tramp. Then came the vice-governor, flying the trefoil flag and with an escort of armored spearmen, but he met with no more consideration than the port-captain. The American ships were about as hospitable as so many icebergs. Indeed, it was not until he had explained that the governor was prohibited by law from boarding a foreign vessel that the vice-governor was permitted to set foot on the sacred deck-planks of the flag-ship. Even then he was not permitted to see the mighty and illustrious excellency who was in command of the squadron; no, indeed. As befitted his inferior rank, he was received by a very stiff, very haughty, very condescending young lieutenant who interrupted the flowery address of the dazed official by telling him that the Americans considered themselves affronted by the filthy shore boats which hovered about them, and that if they did not depart instantly they would be fired on. After the vice-governor had gone to the rail and motioned the inquisitive boats away, the lieutenant informed him that the illustrious commander of the mighty squadron bore an autograph letter from his Excellency the President of the United States to the Mikado, and that he proposed to steam up to Tokio and deliver it in person. When the vice-governor heard this he nearly fainted. For a fleet of barbarian war-ships to anchor off the sacred city, the capital of the empire, the residence of the son of heaven, was impossible, unthinkable, sacrilegious. The very thought of it paralyzed him with fear. When he carried the news of what the Americans proposed doing to the governor, that official changed his mind about the illegality of his setting foot on a foreign ship, and the following morning, with a retinue which looked like the chorus of a comic opera, he went in state to the flag-ship to expostulate. But the commodore refused to see the governor, just as he had refused to see his subordinate, and that crestfallen official, his feelings sadly ruffled, was forced to content himself with a brief conversation with Commander Buchanan, who told him that, unless arrangements were made at once for delivering the President’s letter to a direct representative of the Mikado, Commodore Perry was unalterably determined on steaming up to Tokio and delivering the letter to the Emperor himself. From beginning to end of the interview, the American officer, who, I expect, enjoyed the performance hugely, resented the slightest lack of ceremony on the governor’s part and did not hesitate to give evidence of his displeasure when that bedeviled official omitted anything which the American thought he ought to do. At length the now deeply impressed Japanese agreed to despatch a messenger to Tokio for further instructions, and to this the Americans, with feigned reluctance, agreed, adding, however, that if an answer was not received within three days they would move up to the capital and learn the reason why.

The appearance of American war-ships in the Bay of Tokio was a mighty shock to the Japanese. What right had a foreign nation to impose on them a commerce which they did not want; a friendship which they did not seek? The alarm-bells clanged throughout the empire. Messengers on reeking horses tore through every town spreading the astounding news. Spears were sharpened, and ancient armor was dragged from dusty chests. Night and day could be heard the clangor of the smiths forging weapons of war. Away with the barbarians! To arms! _Jhoi! Jhoi!_ Buddhists wore away their rosaries invoking Kartikiya, the god of war, and Shinto priests fasted while they called on the sea and the storm to destroy the impious invaders of the Nipponese motherland. The hidebound formality of untold centuries was swept away in this hour of common danger, and for the first time in Japanese history high and low alike were invited to offer suggestions as to what steps should be taken for the protection of the nation and the preservation of the national honor. It didn’t take the wiseheads long, however, to decide that compliance was better than defiance; so, on the last of the three days of grace granted by the Americans, the governor in his gorgeous robes of office once more boarded the _Susquehanna_ and, with many genuflections, informed the officer designated to meet him that the letter from the President would be received a few days later, with all the pomp and ceremony which the Imperial Government knew how to command, in a pavilion which would be erected on the beach near Uraga for the purpose, by two peers of the empire who had been designated by the Mikado as his personal representatives.

On the morning of July 14 the squadron weighed anchor and moved up so as to command the place where the ceremony was to be held. Carpenters, mat makers, tapestry hangers, and decorators sent from the capital had been working night and day, and under their skilful hands a great pavilion, as though by the wave of a magician’s wand, had sprung up on the beach. When all was in readiness the governor and his suite, their silken costumes ablaze with gold embroidery, pulled out to the flag-ship to escort the commodore to the shore. As the Japanese stepped aboard, a signal called fifteen launches and cutters from the other ships of the squadron to the side of the _Susquehanna_. Officers, bluejackets, and marines in all the glory of full dress piled into them, and, led by Commander Buchanan’s gig, they headed for the shore, the oars of the American sailors rising and falling in beautiful unison. As the procession of boats drew out to its full length, the bright flags, the gorgeous banners, the barbaric costumes of the Japanese, the leather shakoes of the marines, and the scarlet tunics of the bandsmen, with the turquoise sea for a foreground and the great white cone of Fujiyama rising up behind, combined to form a never-to-be-forgotten picture. When the boats were half-way to the landing stage, a flourish of bugles sounded from the flag-ship, the marine guard presented arms, and Commodore Perry, resplendent in cocked hat and gold-laced uniform, attended by side boys and followed by a glittering staff, descended the gangway and entered his barge, while the _Susquehanna’s_ guns roared out a salute. On the shore a guard of honor composed of American sailors and marines was drawn up to receive him. As he set foot on the soil of Japan the troops presented arms, the officers saluted, the drums gave the three ruffles, the band burst into the American anthem, and the colors swept the ground. Nothing had been left undone which would be likely to impress the ceremony-loving Japanese, and the effect produced was spectacular enough to have satisfied P. T. Barnum. The land procession was formed with the same attention to ceremonial and display. First came a hundred marines in the picturesque uniform of the period, marching with mechanical precision; after them came a hundred bluejackets with the roll of the sea in their gait, while at the head of the column was a marine band, ablaze with gold and scarlet. Behind the bluejackets walked Commodore Perry, guarded by two gigantic negroes--veritable Jack Johnsons in physique and stature--preceded by two ship’s boys bearing the mahogany caskets containing Perry’s credentials and the President’s letter, the delivery of which was the reason for all this extraordinary display.

As the glittering procession entered the pavilion the two counsellors of the empire who had been designated by the Mikado to receive the letter rose and stood in silence. When the governor of Uraga, acting as master of ceremonies, intimated that all was ready, the two boys advanced and handed their caskets to the negroes. These, opening in succession the rosewood caskets and the envelopes of scarlet cloth, displayed the presidential letter and its accompanying credentials--impressive documents written on vellum, bound in blue velvet, and fringed with seals of gold. Upon the master of ceremonies announcing that the imperial high commissioners were ready to receive the letter, the negroes returned the imposing documents to the boys, who slowly advanced the length of the hall and deposited them in a box of scarlet lacquer which had been brought from Tokio for the purpose. Again a frozen silence pervaded the assemblage. Then Perry, speaking through an interpreter, paid his respects to the immobile functionaries and announced that he would return for an answer to the letter in the following spring. When some of the officials anxiously inquired if he would come with all four ships, he sententiously replied: “With many more.”

Although he had announced that he would not revisit Japan until the spring, when Perry learned that the French and Russians were hastily preparing expeditions to be sent to Tokio for the purpose of counteracting American influence, he decided to advance the date of his return, entering the Bay of Tokio for the second time on February 12, 1854, thus getting ahead of his European rivals. This time he had with him a really imposing armada: the _Susquehanna_, _Mississippi_, _Powhatan_, _Macedonian_, _Southampton_, _Lexington_, _Vandalia_, _Plymouth_, and _Saratoga_. On this occasion he refused to stop at Uraga and, much to the consternation of the Japanese, steamed steadily up the bay and anchored off Yokohama, within sight of the capital itself. The negotiations which ensued occupied several days, during which Perry insisted on the same pomp and ceremony, and took the same high-handed course that characterized his former visit. Noticing that the grounds surrounding the treaty house had been screened in by large mats, he inquired the reason, and upon being informed that it was done so that the Americans might not see the country, he said that he considered that the nation he represented was insulted and ordered that the screens instantly be removed. That was the sort of attitude that the Japanese understood, and thereafter they treated Perry with even more profound respect. The negotiations were brought to a conclusion on the 31st of March, 1854, when the terms of the treaty whereby the empire of Japan was opened to American commerce were finally agreed upon. Thus was recorded one of the greatest diplomatic triumphs in our history. As Washington Irving wrote to Commodore Perry: “You have gained for yourself a lasting name and have done it without shedding a drop of blood or inflicting misery on a human being.”

But Perry’s accomplishment had a sequel, and a bloody one. The treaty which admitted the foreigner precipitated civil war in Japan. Although for two hundred and fifty years the Japanese had been at peace and their sword-blades were rusty from lack of use, the embers of rebellion had long been smouldering, and the act that admitted the alien served to fan them into the flame of open revolt. The trouble was that the tycoon--the viceroy, the mouthpiece of the Mikado, the power behind the throne--had become all-powerful, while the Mikado himself, as the result of a policy of seclusion that had been forced upon him, had become but a puppet, a figurehead. As the treaty with the United States had been signed under the authority of the tycoon, the rebels took up arms in a double-barrelled cause: to restore the Mikado to his old-time authority and to expel the “hairy barbarians,” as the foreigners were pleasantly called. The insurrectionists, who represented the powerful Choshiu and Satsuma clans, induced the Mikado to issue an edict setting June 25, 1863, as a date by which all foreigners should be expelled from the empire. The tycoon, though bound to the United States and the European powers by the most solemn treaties, found himself helpless. He promptly sent in his resignation, but the Mikado, coerced by the rebellious clansmen, refused to accept it and left the unhappy viceroy to wriggle out of the predicament as best he could.

Meanwhile the leaders of the Choshiu clan seized and proceeded to fortify and mine the Straits of Shimonoseki, the great highway of foreign commerce forming the entrance to the inland sea, which at that point narrows down to a channel three miles in length and less than a mile in width, through which the tides run like a mill-race. On June 25, the eventful day fixed for the expulsion of the barbarians from the sacred dominions of the Mikado, the American merchant steamer _Pembroke_, with a pilot furnished by the Tokio government and with the American flag at her peak, was on her way northward through the channel when she was fired on by the clansmen though, as luck would have it, was not hit. But peace which had existed in Japan for nearly two centuries and a half was broken. A few days later a French despatch-boat was hit in seven places, her boat’s crew nearly all killed by a shell, and the vessel saved from sinking only by a lively use of the pumps. On July 11 a Dutch frigate was hit thirty-one times, and nine of its crew were killed or wounded, and a little later a French gunboat was badly hulled as she dashed past the batteries at full speed. It was evident that the Japanese had acquired modern guns in the ten years that had passed since Perry had taught them the blessings of civilization, and it was equally evident that they knew how to use them.

News is magnified as it travels in the East, and by the time word of the _Pembroke_ incident reached Commander David McDougal, who was cruising in Chinese waters in the sloop of war _Wyoming_ in pursuit of the Confederate privateer _Alabama_, it had been exaggerated until he was led to believe that the American vessel had been sunk with all hands. Though possessing neither a chart of the straits nor a map of the batteries, McDougal ordered his ship to be coaled and provisioned at full speed (and how the jackies worked when they got the order!), and on July 16, under a cloudless sky, without a breath of wind, and the sea as smooth as a tank of oil, the _Wyoming_, her ports covered with tarpaulins so as to make her look like an unsuspecting merchantman, but with her crew at quarters and her decks cleared for action, came booming into Shimonoseki Straits. No sooner did she get within range of the batteries than the five eight-inch Dahlgren guns presented to Japan by the United States as a token of friendship, opened on her with a roar. It was not exactly a convincing proof of friendship. The Japanese batteries, splendidly handled, concentrated their fire on the narrowest part of the straits, which they swept with a hail of projectiles, while beyond, in more open water, three heavily armed converted merchantmen--the steamer _Lancefield_, the bark _Daniel Webster_, and the brig _Lanrick_, all, oddly enough, American vessels which had been purchased by the clansmen for use against their former owners--lay directly athwart the channel, prepared to dispute the _Wyoming’s_ passage, should she, by a miracle, succeed in getting past the batteries. As the first Japanese shell screamed angrily overhead, the tarpaulins concealing the _Wyoming’s_ guns disappeared in a twinkling, the stars and stripes broke out at her masthead, and her artillery cut loose. It was a surprise party, right enough, but the surprise was on the Japanese.

As McDougal approached the narrows, sweeping them with his field-glasses, his attention was caught by a line of stakes which, as he rightly suspected, had been placed there by the Japanese to gauge their fire. Accordingly, instead of taking the middle of the channel, as denoted by the line of stakes, he ordered the Japanese pilot, who was paralyzed with terror, to run close under the batteries. It was well that he did so, for no sooner was the _Wyoming_ within range than the Japanese gunners opened a cannonade which would have blown her out of the water had she been in mid-channel, where they confidently expected her to be, but which, as it was, tore through her rigging without doing serious harm. There were six finished batteries, mounting in all thirty guns, and the three converted merchantmen carried eighteen pieces, making forty-eight cannon opposed to the _Wyoming’s_ six.

Clearing the narrows, McDougal, despite the protestations of his pilot, who said that he would certainly go aground, gave orders to go in between the sailing vessels and take the steamer. Just then a masked battery opened on the _Wyoming_, but even in those days the fame of the American gunners was as wide as the seas, and they justified their reputation by placing a single shell so accurately that its explosion tore the whole battery to pieces. Then McDougal, signalling for “full steam ahead,” dashed straight at the _Daniel Webster_, pouring in a broadside as he swept by which left her crowded decks a shambles. Then, opening on the _Lanrick_ with his starboard guns, he fought the two ships at the same time, the action being at such close quarters that the guns of the opponents almost touched. In this, the first battle with modern weapons in which they had ever engaged, the Japanese showed the same indifference to death and the same remarkable ability as fighters and seamen which was to bring about the defeat of the Russians half a century later. So rapidly did the crew of the _Lanrick_ serve their guns that they managed to pour three broadsides into the _Wyoming_ before the latter sent her to the bottom. The _Lanrick_ thus rubbed off the slate, McDougal swept down upon the _Lancefield_, and oblivious of the terrific fire directed upon him by the _Daniel Webster_ and the shore batteries, coolly manœuvred for a fighting position. But during this manœuvre the _Wyoming_ went ashore while at the same moment the heavily manned Japanese steamer bore down with the evident intention of ramming and boarding her while she was helpless in the mud. For a moment it looked as though the jig was up, and it flashed through the mind of every American that, before going into action, McDougal had given orders that the _Wyoming_ was to be blown up with every man on board rather than fall into the hands of the enemy--for those were the days when the Japanese subjected their prisoners to the horrors of the thumb-screws, the dripping water, and the torture cage. But after a few hair-raising moments, during which every American must have held his breath and murmured a little prayer, the powerful engines of the _Wyoming_ succeeded in pulling her off the sand-bar, whereupon, ignoring the bark of the batteries, McDougal manœuvred in the terribly swift current until the American gunners could see the _Lancefield_ along the barrels of their eleven-inch pivot-guns. Then both Dahlgrens spoke together. The accuracy of the American fire was appalling. The first two shells tore apertures as big as barn-doors in the Japanese vessel’s hull, a third ripped through her at the water-line, passed through the boiler, tore out her sides, and burst far away in the town beyond. The frightful explosion which ensued was followed by a rain of ashes, timbers, ironwork, and fragments of human beings, and before the smoke had cleared the _Lancefield_ had sunk from sight. It was now the _Daniel Webster’s_ turn, and in a few minutes the namesake of the great statesman was shattered and sinking. The three vessels thus disposed of, the _Wyoming_ was now free to turn her undivided attention to the shore batteries, her gunners placing shell after shell with as unerring accuracy as Christy Mathewson puts his balls across the plate. Gun after gun was put out of action, battery after battery was silenced, until the whole line of fortifications was a heap of ruins with dismounted cannon lying behind their wrecked embrasures and dead and wounded Japanese strewn everywhere. At twenty minutes past noon firing ceased. Then, his work accomplished, McDougal turned his ship and steamed triumphantly the length of the straits while the hills of Japan echoed and re-echoed the hurrahs of the American sailors.

In this extraordinary action, which lasted an hour and ten minutes, the _Wyoming_ was hulled ten times, her funnel had six holes in it, two masts were injured and her top-hamper badly damaged. Of her crew, five were killed and seven wounded. On the other hand, the lone American, with her six guns, had destroyed six shore batteries mounting thirty improved European cannon and had sent three ships, with eighteen pieces of ordnance, to the bottom, killing upward of a hundred Japanese and wounding probably that many more. It is no exaggeration, I believe, to assert that the history of the American navy contains no achievement of a single commander in a single ship which surpasses that of David McDougal in the _Wyoming_ at Shimonoseki. Dewey’s victory at Manila was but a repetition of the Shimonoseki action on a larger scale.