Chapter XXI

DARK SHADOWS

Autumn had come, and all was serene at the seat of war, except for a few insignificant skirmishes. Slowly, far more slowly than the impatience of our people could stand, the new bodies of troops were prepared for action, and before we could possibly think of again assuming the offensive, winter was at the door.

In the middle of November, three Japanese orderlies, bearing a white flag of truce, rode up to our outposts, and a few days later it was learned from Washington that the enemy had offered to make peace, the terms of which, however, remained a mystery for a short time, until they were ultimately published in the capital.

The States of Washington, Oregon, Nevada, and California were to become Japanese possessions, but at the same time continue as members of the Union. They were to have Japanese garrisons and to permit Japanese immigration; the strength of the garrisons was to be regulated later. In the various State legislatures and in the municipal administration half the members were to be Americans and half Japanese. If these terms were accepted, Japan would relinquish all claim to further immigration of Japanese to the other States of the Union. The United States was to pay Japan a war-indemnity of two billion dollars, in installments, exclusive of the sums previously levied in the Pacific States. San Francisco was to be Japan's naval port on the Pacific coast, and the navy-yard and arsenals located there were to pass into the hands of the Japanese. The Philippines, Hawaii and Guam were to be ceded to Japan.

A universal cry of indignation resounded from the Atlantic to the Rockies in answer to these humiliating terms of peace. To acknowledge defeat and keep the enemy in the country, would be sealing the doom of American honor with a stroke of the pen. No! anything but that! Let us fight on at any price! At thousands of mass meetings the same cry was heard: Let us fight on until the last enemy has been driven out of the country.

But what is public opinion? Nothing more than the naïve feeling of the masses of yesterday, to-day and perhaps the day after to-morrow. The terrible sacrifices claimed by the war had not been without effect. Of course there was no hesitation on the part of the old American citizens nor of the German, Scandinavian and Irish settlers—they would all remain faithful to the Star Spangled Banner. But the others, the thousands and hundreds of thousands of Romanic and Slavonic descent, the Italian and Russian proletariat, and the scum of the peoples of Asia Minor, all these elements, who regarded the United States merely as a promising market for employment and not as a home, were of a different opinion.

And these elements of the population now demanded the reëstablishment of opportunities for profitable employment, insisting upon their rights as naturalized citizens, which had been so readily accorded them. Scarcely had the first storm of indignation passed, when other public meetings began to be held—loud, stormy demonstrations, which usually ended in a grand street row—and to this were added passionate appeals from the Socialist leaders to accept Japan's terms and conclude peace, in order that the idle laborer might once more return to work.

And this feeling spread more and more and gradually became a force in public life and in the press, and unfortunately the agitation was not entirely without effect on those elements of the population whose American citizenship was not yet deeply rooted. However indignant the better elements may have felt at first over this cowardly desertion of the flag, the continual repetition of such arguments evoked faint-hearted considerations of the desirability of peace in ever widening circles.

The fighting of our troops on the plateaus of the Rocky Mountains no longer formed the chief topic of conversation, but rather the proffered terms of peace, which were discussed before the bars, on the street, at meetings, and in the family-circle.

Scarcely a fortnight after the presentation of the Japanese offer of peace, two bitterly hostile parties confronted each other in the Union: the one gathered round the country's flag full of determination and enthusiasm, the other was willing to sacrifice the dollar on the altar of Buddha.

And other forces were also at work. Enthusiastic preachers arose in numerous sects and religious denominations, applying the mysterious revelations of the prophet of Patmos—revelations employed in all ages for the forging of mystic weapons—to the events of the time. In the dim light of evening meetings they spoke of the "beast with the seven heads" to whom was given power "over all kindreds, tongues and nations," and fanatical men and women came after months of infinite misery and hopeless woe to look upon the occupant of the White House as the Antichrist. They conceived it their bounden duty to oppose his will, and quite gradually these evening prayer-meetings began to influence our people to such a degree that the Japanese terms were no longer regarded as insulting, and peace without honor was preferred to a continuance of the fight to the bitter end. Had God really turned the light of his countenance from us?

While the enemy was waiting for an answer to his message, the voices at home became louder and louder in their demands for the conclusion of peace and the acceptance of the enemy's terms. The sound common-sense and the buoyant patriotism of those who had their country's interests close at heart struggled in vain against the selfish doctrine of those who preferred to vegetate peacefully without one brave effort for freedom. Our whole past history, replete with acts of bravery and self-sacrifice, seemed to be disappearing in the horrors of night.

And while the socialist agitators were goading on the starving workmen everywhere to oppose the continuation of the war, while innumerable forces were apparently uniting to retire the God of War, who determines the fate of nations on bloody fields, there remained at least one possibility of clearing the sultry atmosphere: a battle. But how dared we continue the fight before our armies were absolutely prepared to begin the attack, how dared we attempt what would no doubt prove the decisive battle before we were certain of success? The battle of Hilgard furnished an eloquent reply. The War Department said no, it said no with a heavy heart; weeks must pass, weeks must be borne and overcome, before we could assume the offensive once more.

The Japanese terms of peace were therefore declined. At the seat of war skirmishes continued to take place, the soldiers freezing in their thin coats, while restless activity was shown in all the encampments.

Extras were being sold on the streets of Washington, telling of a naval engagement off the Argentine coast. They were eagerly bought and read, but no one believed the news, for we had lost hope and faith. Excited crowds had collected in front of the Army and Navy building in the hope of obtaining more detailed news; but no one could give any information. An automobile suddenly drew up in front of the south side of the long building, before the entrance to the offices of the Committee on Foreign Affairs.

The Secretary of State, who had not been able to get the President by 'phone at the White House but learned that he was somewhere in the naval barracks, had decided to look him up. Scarcely had he entered his car, before he was surrounded by hundreds of people clamoring for verification of the news from Buenos Ayres. He declared again and again that he knew nothing more than what he had just read in the extras, but no one believed him. Several policemen cleared the way in front of the puffing machine, which at last managed to get clear of the crowd, but a few blocks further on the chauffeur was again compelled to stop.

An immense mob was pouring out of a side street, where they had just smashed the windows of the offices of a socialist newspaper, which had supplemented the Argentine dispatch with spiteful comments under the headlines: "Another Patriotic Swindle."

The Secretary of State told the chauffeur to take a different route to the naval barracks, and this order saved his life, for as he bent forward to speak to the chauffeur, the force of an explosion threw him against the front seat. Behind him, on the upper edge of the rear seat, a bomb had exploded with a burst of blinding white light. The secretary, whose coat was torn by some splinters of glass, stood up and showed himself to the multitude.

"Murder, murder," yelled the mob, "down with the assassin." And the secretary saw them seize a degenerate-looking wretch and begin pounding him with their fists. After a little while he was thrown to the ground, but was dragged up again and at last, as the chauffeur was guiding his car backwards through the crowd, the secretary heard a man say:

"Thank God, they've strung him up on a lamp-post!"

The mob had administered quick justice.

Utterly exhausted by this experience, the Secretary of State returned to his home, where he gave orders that the President should be informed at once of what had occurred.

The servant had scarcely left the secretary's study when his wife entered. She threw her arms passionately around his neck and refused to be quieted. "It's all right, Edith, I haven't been scratched."

"But you'll be killed the next time," she sobbed.

"It makes but little difference, Edith, whether I die here on the pavement or out yonder on the battle-field: we must all die at our posts if need be. Death may come to us any day here as well as there, but," and freeing himself from his wife's embrace, he walked to his desk and pointed to a picture of Abraham Lincoln hanging over it, saying, "if I fall as that man fell, there are hundreds who are ready to step into my shoes without the slightest fuss and with the same solemn sense of duty."

A servant entered and announced that the British Ambassador asked to be received by the secretary. "One minute," was the answer, "ask His Excellency to wait one minute."

The sound of many voices could be heard outside. The secretary walked to the window and looked out.

"Look," he said to his wife, "there are some people at least who are glad that the bomb failed to accomplish its purpose." His appearance at the window was a signal for loud cheers from the people on the street. Holding the hand of his faithful wife in his own, he said: "Edith, I know we are on the right road. We can read our destiny only in the stars on our banner. There is only one future for the United States, only one, that beneath the Stars and Stripes, and not a single star must be missing—neither that of Washington, nor that of Oregon, nor that of California. We had a hard fight to establish our independence, and the inheritance of our fathers we must ever cherish as sacred and inviolable. The yellow men have won their place in the world by an inexorable sense of national duty, and we can conquer them only if we employ the same weapons. I know what we have at stake in this war, and I am quite ready to answer to myself and to our people for each life lost on the field of battle. I am only one of many, and if I fall, it will be in the knowledge that I have done my duty. Let the cowardly mob step over my corpse, it won't matter to me nor to my successor if he will only hold our drooping flag with a firm hand. The favor of the people is here to-day and gone to-morrow, and we must not be led astray by it. The blind creatures who inspired that miserable wretch to hurl the bomb regard us, the bearers of responsible posts, with the same feelings as the lions do their tamer when he enters the cage. If he comes out alive, well and good; if he is torn to pieces it makes no difference, for there'll be some one else to take his place the next day. It is my duty to fight against desertion in our own ranks and to shield American citizenship against the foreign elements gathered here who have no fatherland, and to whom the Stars and Stripes have no deeper meaning than a piece of cloth; that is the duty, in the performance of which I shall live or die."

Mad cheers from below induced the secretary to open the window, and immediately the sounds of the "Star Spangled Banner" came floating up from thousands of throats. Suddenly his wife touched his arm saying: "James, here's a telegram."

The secretary turned around and literally tore the telegram out of the servant's hand. He ran his eye over it hurriedly and then drew a deep breath. And with tears in his eyes at the almost incredible news, he said softly to his wife:

"This will deliver us from the dark slough of despair."

Then he returned to the window, but his emotion made it impossible for him to speak; he made a sign with his hand and gradually the noise of the crowd ceased and all became still.

"Fellow Citizens," began the secretary, "I have just this moment received—" Loud cheers interrupted him, but quiet was soon restored, and then in a clear voice he read the following dispatch:

"Bahia Blanca, December 8: The torpedo-destroyer Paul Jones arrived here this morning with the following message from Admiral Dayton: 'On the 4th of December I found the Japanese cruisers Adzuma and Asama and three destroyers coaling in the harbor of Port Stanley (Falkland Islands). I demanded of the British authorities that the Japanese ships be forced to leave the harbor at once, as I should otherwise be obliged to attack them in the harbor on the morning of the following day. On the afternoon of the 4th I opened fire on the Japanese ships four miles outside of Port Stanley. After an hour's fighting all five Japanese ships were sunk. On our side the destroyer Dale was sunk. Total loss, 180 men. Damaged cruiser Maryland sent to Buenos Ayres. Sighted the Japanese cruisers Idzumo, Tokiwa, Jakumo and four destroyers at the entrance to the Straits of Magellan on the morning of December 6th. Pursued them with entire fleet. Battle with the Idzumo and Tokiwa at noon, in which former was sunk. Battle temporarily suspended on account of appearance of two hostile battleships. Destroyers keeping in touch with the Japanese squadron.'

Dayton."

Perfect silence greeted these words; no one seemed able to believe the news of this American victory: the first joyful tidings after almost nine months of constant adversity. But then the enthusiasm of the people broke loose in a perfect hurricane that swept everything before it. In the rear the crowd began to thin out rapidly, for everybody was anxious to spread the glad tidings of victory, but their places were soon taken by others pouring in from all sides to hear the telegram read once more.

And now on the opposite side of 17th Street the American flag suddenly ran up the bare flagstaff on the roof of the Winders Building, unfurling with a rustle in the fresh breeze. The secretary pointed up to it, and at once the jubilant crowd joined once more in the air of the "Star Spangled Banner."

"This is a day," said the secretary, taking his wife's hand, "which our country will never forget. But now I must get to work and then I'm off to the President."

As his wife left the room, he rang the bell and asked the servant who appeared in answer to his summons to show in the British Ambassador.

The man disappeared noiselessly, and the next moment the ambassador entered.

"I must ask Your Excellency's pardon for having kept you waiting," said the secretary, advancing a few steps to meet him. "To what do I owe the honor of this visit——"

"I have come to reply to the protest lodged against us by the United States government for permitting the Japanese to use the harbor of Esquimault as a station for their ships. The British government fully recognizes the justice of the protest, and will see to it that in future only damages that affect a ship's seaworthiness are repaired at Esquimault, and that no other ships are allowed to enter the harbor. The British government is desirous of observing the strictest neutrality and is determined to employ every means in its power to maintain it."

"I thank Your Excellency and thoroughly appreciate the efforts of your government, but regret exceedingly that they are made somewhat late in the day. I am convinced the English government would not consider it within the bounds of strict neutrality for a Japanese squadron to employ an English port as its base of operations——"

"Certainly not," said the ambassador emphatically, "and I am certain such a thing has never happened."

"Indeed?" answered the secretary seriously, "our latest dispatches tell a different story. May I ask Your Excellency to glance over this telegram?"

He handed the telegram from Bahia Blanca to the ambassador, who read it and handed it back.

The two men regarded each other in silence for a few moments. Then the ambassador lowered his eyes, saying, "I have no instructions with regard to this case. It really comes as a great surprise to me," he added, "a very great surprise," and then seizing the secretary's hand he shook it heartily, saying: "Allow me to extend my private but most sincere congratulations on this success of your arms."

"Thank you, Your Excellency. The United States have learned during the past few months to distinguish between correct and friendly relations with other powers. The English government has taken a warm interest in the military successes of its Japanese ally, as is apparently stipulated in their agreement. We are sorry to have been obliged to upset some of England's calculations by turning Japanese ships out of an English harbor. If we succeed in gaining the upper hand, we may perhaps look forward to similar favors being shown us by the English government as have thus far been extended to victorious Japan?"

"That would depend," said the ambassador rather dubiously, "on the extent to which such friendly relations would interfere with our conceptions of neutrality."

At this moment the President was announced and the ambassador took his leave.