Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

But after a little the old inborn pride of race came back to him and he straightened up like a new man. He was one of whom the Emperor had deigned to think; what should he care what others said? What mattered it after all that her father had learned their secret? Nothing but that was changed, and sooner or later that must have come. He had done no wrong. He was not changed. The law that had given him citizenship was still the law. The Emperor’s care was over him. It was his Sovereign’s wish that he was what he was. He took new heart and began to read the letter. His brain was cooler now. In the mental numbness that followed the first shock he had felt only a vague terror of the fury of Kudo. But as he read, the words that had seemed so awful in anticipation lost some of their dreaded force. The wild outburst of rage was not there, but in its place a cool, fine sarcasm that cut as if the Samurai who wrote had wielded his sword instead.

A curious calm possessed him as he finished the letter. The haughty pride of the Samurai, his bitter contempt for the “outcast” who dared presume to think of his daughter, his jeers at the “upstart trader” had lost their sting. It was a soldier of the Empire, a man of the Guards, who folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. With a smiling face he met his father and mother and sat down to supper.

After the meal, when the pipes were brought out, he handed the letter to his father to read. It might as well be told now. His poor little secret, stripped of its veil, seemed very small and miserable. But he was going away to-morrow, and unknown to-morrow might do what it would with him. He listened unmoved while Chobei slowly read aloud the bitter, mocking words of the man for whom he had done so much. O-Koyo covered her face with her kimono sleeves and wept openly; but father and son sat with steady features and gave no sign, save that when the reading was ended the Commoner laid his strong arm across his son’s shoulder in shy, unaccustomed caress, and said:

“My son! My son!” No more.

XI

“The bee stings the weeping face,” they say in Japan, and Soichi proved the truth of the proverb. It was a queer little procession that formed at the house in Azalea Street to escort him to the railroad station whence the train was to bear him away to a soldier’s life. A dismal rain was sifting down from the sodden clouds that seemed to hang just above the housetops. But the banner that set forth his name and the fact of his service was borne none the less proudly by his old schoolmates, and the friend who carried the small bundle of his treasured belongings held his head none the less erect because he strode through muddy streets. Already the Dragon was beginning to roar, and his voice rang from end to end of the land. It was a last farewell these friends were taking of the young soldier, and they honored him and envied the glory he would win. There was nothing to say. In silence the little company walked along. But as they passed the dilapidated old house in Timber Street, where the plum tree stood bare and desolate in the corner of the yard, Soichi, daring a hasty glance, raised his eyes for an instant to the balcony under the gable end. Just for a moment he looked, but that was enough to set his heart a-thumping as it had not done for many a day. For in that instant he caught, at a parting of the _shoji_ (paper windows), a glimpse of a beautiful face and the flash of eyes undimmed by tears, that sent him a message of cheer and hope and constancy. His heart was strangely light as he trudged along behind his banner, and though the rain fell never so hard it was a day of sunshine for him.

Then came the weary miles of railway and the army. In the car he met some others going up to join his regiment, and talk of peace and war beguiled the miles until at last the train pulled into Tokyo and in a few minutes Soichi was in barracks. The proverb of the bee and the weeping face came home to him when he was assigned to the company in which Kudo Kokan was a lieutenant, the old Kokan with the hot heart and ready insolence he knew so well.

“_Shikata-ga-nai_” (it can’t be helped), said Soichi, and set himself to do his work with all his heart, as becomes a member of the Guards.

Fortunately for him there was much to do and not much time which Lieutenant Kudo could devote to personal animosity.

“Ha, the Commoner!” he cried with fine scorn when he first saw Soichi.

The young soldier wondered what would come next, but it was drill hour, and Kokan had no chance for private spleen. He was hampered now by the service, and the near, sure approach of war. It would not have surprised Soichi to see the lieutenant swing his sword in execution of the revenge he doubted not had been cherished all the years since that day at school. But he did not comprehend fully as yet the restrictions that hedged Kokan, and that first taunt of “Commoner” gave no clew. It was strange, he thought, that the lieutenant had not said “Eta,” but the hours of “goose step” and drill that followed left him no time to think of other things. He had been adept at such work in his school, but now he found that the intervening years had cost him much in facility and precision, and it was hard work to be always ready for the sharp command, to make himself again the machine needed for perfection. When it was over and he got back to barracks, he was tired out, ready enough for his rice and fish, and after that for his blankets. When he thought again of Kokan’s taunt, there came to him also the recollection of his defense at the school and he understood. It had been passed over lightly then that he had accused Kokan of insulting the Emperor, but in the army it might not go so easily again. It would be indeed a serious charge for an officer to face. It made the boy smile as he recognized the new bridle on his lieutenant’s insolence.

He understood now, also, that there would be no attempt at actual violence. For himself he did not fear. Man to man, with equal arms, he was ready to meet Kokan at any time. He dreaded disgrace far more than death, and if Kokan should attack him the dishonor would affect also the lieutenant and all his family, and that meant that O-Mitsu would suffer. So he saw with deep relief the bearing of his officer, so different to what he had expected.

In scores of ways, however, the lieutenant found occasion to give Soichi a taste of his quality, and it was apparent that Kokan had been informed how matters stood at home. His first detail to guard duty brought Soichi a test. He had had time to canvass the whole situation and had reached his decision. He was a soldier of the Emperor and war was coming on. He would do his full duty always to the very utmost and no personal distraction or injury should deflect him. He would bear the injustice of Kokan without complaint, hoping only to win release by an honorable death in battle. But if the persecution became more than he could endure he would kill Kokan and himself.

From a course thus deliberately mapped out he was not the man to be easily turned, and so he was ready when Kokan came by, inspecting the posts, and greeted him with:

“So _hinin_!” (not human, outcast).

He brought his rifle sharply to salute, and held his head erect and his eyes steadily front as if he had not heard the insult or the instant correction to “_heimin_” (Commoner) of the cautious lieutenant. With searching eyes Kokan looked him up and down, examined his rifle and equipment, but could find no flaw. Then he demanded the orders and listened intently as Soichi repeated without a slip the instructions he had received. With a sinister smile the baffled officer passed on, and his victim knew that was only the beginning.

There was a different sort of smile on Soichi’s face as he thought how his lieutenant had tried to catch him.

“If he keeps that up,” he said to himself, “it will make me the best soldier in the regiment to be always ready for him.” He nearly laughed aloud at the idea. “I might even win promotion. How angry he would be at that!”

The warning was valuable. Soichi kept himself ever on the alert, but in his heart he began to despise the Samurai. It was a petty, dishonorable trick he had played, saying _hinin_ and then correcting himself. Kudo-san would never do such a thing, he thought, and how O-Mitsu’s pretty lips would curl in scorn if she knew. There was compensation, after all, for what he must endure. If he kept his own honor unstained Kokan could do him no real harm.

The days wore on with many little stratagems of Kokan to catch the Commoner napping. But Soichi, always vigilant, escaped. The endless preparations for active service hurried along and there began to be talk of the regiment being moved to a naval base, ready for transport oversea.

Suddenly from end to end a great hush fell over the land. It was as if the nation were crouching, ready to leap and holding its breath as it waited only the word to spring. War had come, and all men knew. The gossip ceased that had filled minds and mouths, and men went to and fro in solemn, awesome silence. Still there was no outward show, and the stranger who looked on with inexperienced eyes saw only the old round of trade and work and cheerful amusement, with never an indication of the dreadful business at last undertaken.

Then came the first sign. From mouth to mouth the whisper ran—the Reserves were summoned to the colors. From never a house to which the fateful finger pointed came there a sound of grief or dismay. Gladly, quickly, but in silence and in the night the men responded. In twos and threes they took their way to their meeting-places and few they were who saw or heard. Town and city wore their placid air of peace. Even the winds of war, that had blown so roughly over the land, were stilled, as in ghostly stealth the nation answered the call.

In the middle of the night Soichi found himself in full kit marching swiftly to the station. No banners waved, no bands blared, no trumpets sounded. No throngs of eager friends gathered to give the men farewell. No loyal cheers encouraged them and urged them to duty’s task. Through empty, silent streets, between houses barred and darkened, in the hush of a march to the grave, the regiment passed to the waiting trains. Noiselessly the men climbed into the cars and only the hushed, brief orders of the officers broke the stillness. No ring of bell or scream of whistle marked their departure. Morning dawned over a city ignorant of what had been done, and only the Reservists coming to the empty barracks knew that the forward movement had begun.

In the corner of his car Soichi threw off his heavy pack and curled himself up in his great-coat. Near him no man spoke. In silent peace they lay wrapped in their own thoughts or already soundly asleep. Ahead, toward the center of the car, a little group gathered around the glow of their cigarettes and talked in subdued, but excited whispers. So they rumbled off down the road through the darkness, headed toward War.

With a tranquil mind Soichi lay in his comfortable corner and thought of what had happened and what was to come. He had no fear of the future. His only anxiety was lest he should fail unwittingly or his opportunity should not come. He belonged to the Empire. It had made him all he was, and now that it needed him he would give it cheerfully all he had of muscle, brain, or life. He had no expectation of coming back. That day he had written his parents his last good-by. He calmly and fully expected to die on the field, and was concerned only to make his death count for the most he could. He wondered how the end would come, and hoped it would be in the first line of battle.

Yet not all the men would be killed! He knew that in the last war, when he was a boy, only a few, comparatively, died. By far the majority of them came back. What if it should be his fate to go through the dangerous trial and come out unscathed! The human heart within him leaped at the thought, and his mind came back with a start to the letter from O-Mitsu he had received only that afternoon. He smiled now at his surprise in getting it. He had not thought it possible that she could write to him. In his inability to send letters to her it seemed, of course, she could not reach him. He had even thought she did not know where he was. Kokan must have written home about the new member of his company and unconsciously given her the information he, most of all, would have withheld. Soichi laughed at the thought of such a trick for fate to play on the imperious lieutenant.

There the letter was now, safe in his pocket, and he felt again, as he touched it, the thrill with which he had read her good-by; the simple straightforward statement of her unchanging love for him, and how, after her father’s discovery of his letter, there had been a scene of terrible anger; how she had braved him with the point of her dagger at her heart and told him she would never marry. The man for her was a soldier, as befitted the daughter of a Samurai, and now her soldier was going away to die for his country and hers. So then, good-by. He was a soldier and would do a soldier’s duty.

Yes, he would do a soldier’s duty, he had no doubt of that. But suppose after doing it to the utmost limit, life should still remain? Ah, that would be the last crowning stroke of cruel fate. Even her constancy held out no promise to him. The honor he coveted waited in a sable cloak on some unknown battlefield. He shut his heart to other hope.

XII

The winter wind whistled drearily through the rigging as the transport came to anchor, and the men shivered with cold in spite of their heavy, fur-lined coats. The business of war was begun in earnest now, and Soichi and his fellows bustled about the ship making the final preparations for debarkation. At last, with kits tightly packed and every article carefully stowed, so that nothing should be lost, they stumbled down the gangway and into the boats. The transport lay far off from the shallow beach and it was a long hard pull for the shore. A great bonfire was their beacon, for they were landing late at night, and the search lights of the war ships that had convoyed them lighted up their course. With his cap pulled down on his head as far as it would go and the fur collar of his overcoat turned up about his ears, Soichi stood wedged among his mates. The keel touched and into the icy water they plunged waist-deep to wade ashore.

That was but the foretaste. They stood around the fire they soon had blazing, warming their aching feet, drying their clothes, and talking of what was ahead. They had said good-by to transportation. Now the miles they had to cover would be made on their feet, and many a man looked ruefully at the heavy, unaccustomed boots and wondered how he should endure the march. Soichi found his muscles put to a new test. It was one thing to drill for hours in the barracks square and quite another to march for hours along a frozen road carrying his heavy kit.

It was bitter cold, far colder than he had ever known it in Japan, and the big fur-lined overcoat, although it kept his body warm, hampered his legs in walking and made him very weary. It was with the utmost effort, when he went on sentry duty after a hard day on the road, that he could keep awake, and he thought regretfully that he was not doing his full duty, because only the fear that Kokan would catch him kept his eyes from closing.

No, it was not at all like barrack life. There the rice and fish and pickles were always ready when the day’s work was done, but often now they had to wait for hours, far into the night sometimes, for the big kettles to come up and the rice to be boiled. And now there was no sake. Such supplies as that could not keep up with the march, and though occasionally some of his comrades managed to get a bottle of beer or two from some terrified Korean as they passed or camped in a village, Soichi dared not risk it. It was only another chance for Kokan.

That young man busied himself with seemingly increasing vigor, watching to trap his victim in any slip. But day by day he saw Soichi’s own prediction being verified, and the sturdy young fellow becoming always a better soldier, until other officers began to remark it and Kokan was obliged to conceal his wrath under a smiling assent.

They left many weary miles behind, and now excitement began to grow among the men, for each day brought them perceptibly nearer the enemy and the actual clash of arms. Daily the rumors from ahead grew in size and portent. The scouts were in contact with the enemy’s advance. There had been a brush. The first shots had been exchanged, and the sight of two or three wounded men carried by on stretchers set the whole regiment to shouting “_Banzai!_” and put fresh vigor into their steps. They sang the war songs they had learned in barracks back in Tokyo, the precentors striding along at the side of the column chanting the lines, and the whole regiment roaring them out after the leaders.

They were going over the ground from which the men of their regiment, now awaiting their call in the Second Reserves, had helped to drive the scrambling Chinese in the war that had been the forerunner of this one. Every day brought them to some new point of interest that set tongues to wagging with increasing volubility and gave new impetus to the march. Each night the kindly surgeon looked them over and gave a helpful bit of advice here, and a friendly word of warning there, showed how to bathe and bandage the blistered feet or massage the aching limbs, added sober caution about the use of water and told how to avoid taking cold.

So half the long march was covered. Far ahead, they knew, was the wide river where the enemy was expected to make his determined stand. There would be their first battle, and they pressed on toward it eagerly as toward the goal of a life’s ambition. But one morning, when the regiment had the head of the column, all unexpectedly the sound of rifle fire a little ahead drifted back to them, and immediately the order to double brought a roaring cheer as they sprang forward. The enemy had made a dash with cavalry, and the advanced guard was checked. Up they swept with flashing eyes, hot for the fight. Through Soichi’s brain whirled a wild vision of a charge in the face of the foe and the heavy pack grew lighter as he rushed forward. But it was no charge. Deployed under cover of a long stone wall they had barely tasted the joy of using their rifles when the enemy fled, leaving behind only four or five of his dead to mark the place of his defeat. It was hardly a skirmish, but it served to fire the blood of the men, and serenely they promised to wipe out the disappointment when at last the great day should come.

The winter wore away and spring came on. Still they were tramping steadily toward the river. Work was much easier now that they had settled into it, and they made more miles with less waste of energy. The grass turned green in the valleys, and along the streams the first wild flowers put forth their blossoms. Fur-lined greatcoats gave place to wool, and with these rolled on the shoulders instead of flapping about the legs the men stepped along lightly and gayly.

Now they learned a new exercise. Hardly would they get into camp before half of them would be turned out for instruction in field intrenchment. The short-handled shovel Soichi carried strapped to the side of his knapsack was not very large, but he learned how to dig a wide, deep hole with it in remarkably short time. Morning after morning as they moved on toward the north they left beside their camp ground proof of their work in samples of the different kinds of trenches they might come to need in the field.

They saw very little of the enemy. After that one brief clash he seemed unwilling to venture another encounter and kept out of the way, except that now and then a little group of his horsemen appeared for a few minutes on some far-off hill. It was march and dig and sleep, and do it all over again. But all the time they were nearing the river, and at last, when they had been almost two months on the road, they came to the range of bold hills that flanked the stream and concealed the enemy’s country from their view.

Here they camped several days. The scouts and advanced guards had driven the Russians back to the islands in the stream and the near shore was their own. But before they could go over the range and down into the town that lay in the pockets of the hills on the river bank, another kind of work was to be done. In little squads they scoured the near-by country with axes and ropes and brought in great bundles of pine boughs from the scrub-covered hills, and piles of mats and long cornstalks from the huts. Then at night they crossed the hills and flanked the river side of the road with tall screens which shut off the view of the enemy’s scouts on the high cross-river ridges. Where the way led straight toward his camps they built huge arches, whose broad tops made a great curtain that covered the road entirely. Then, sheltered by arches and screens, so that no enemy could tell their strength, they marched on into the town and were quartered once more in comfortable houses. Soichi dropped his pack with strange exaltation. When they left this place it would be to go to battle, and perhaps that fight would bring the opportunity he desired.

XIII

It was ten o’clock the second night in town, and Soichi had been asleep in his warm red blankets two hours or more when the sergeant shook him awake and told him to get up. He was to take rifle and cartridge belt and follow, making no noise. In the darkness he joined a squad of his mates and saw Omori, Ito, and two or three others of his friends, all equipped as he was. Presently an officer came up and Soichi recognized Kokan. He saw the lieutenant give him a sharp look, and heard him mutter something he did not understand. Then without a word Kokan strode away and the sergeant told them to come on. Nothing had been said of the duty, but Soichi knew it was not sentry-go and guessed they were going scouting.

In silence broken only by the muffled footsteps on the soft earth they followed Kokan to the river’s edge. A man with a boat was waiting and they stepped in softly, careful to make no noise. The man stood up, and with his long oar skillfully and silently drove the boat out into the stream.

In a whisper the order was passed to load magazines, but not to fire except to avoid capture. The hard, metallic click of a magazine spring betrayed the haste of one of the men in shoving his cartridge home. In the ghostly stillness it came like the crack of a rifle and brought a sharp whisper from Kokan:

“Kutami, was that you?”

But Soichi had thought of that and muffled his magazine with his blouse so that no sound came from it.

“Even here!” he thought, surprised. “Will he forget his duty to think of me now? Well, he shall have no just complaint.”

Softly the boat came up to the bank of the island, and noiselessly the men made their way to land. Then, while they gathered about him in a ring, Kokan whispered their instructions. They were to spread out and endeavor to get by the Russian outposts concealed in the clumps of willows that dotted the island, to work across to the next stream, note the width of the island and the character of the ground, the number of the outposts of the enemy they saw and their position. They had three hours for the work. At the end of that time they must be back at the boat. Any who did not return would be left to get back to camp as best he could. They must estimate the time, and in no case strike matches to consult watches. Kokan asked each man if he understood, and when all replied that they did he sent them away one by one. Then he himself started straight across the island alone.

Soichi had the downstream end of the line. It was a bad time for such work, one of those blue-black nights when the stars shine with multiplied brilliance, and the white sand of the island was a dangerous background for their dark uniforms. He took a long look at the heavens to select a guide and then pushed away from the bank, and, crouching stealthily, walked with long steps directly toward a single willow that stood a few yards inshore. There he paused and took stock of his situation. Off to his right he saw dimly a dark figure crawling across the sand. It was one of his comrades, and he realized what a telltale his uniform was. With sudden resolve he took it Off, and smiled to see how his gray flannels matched the sand. Then he pulled off his boots, and with only his rifle and shells started on. He walked upright, with the rifle held close by his side, and moved as fast as he could. His soldier’s instinct warned him to avoid the clumps of trees and bushes, and from tree to tree that stood alone he worked his way. A queer fancy struck him to count his steps the better to estimate the distance he traveled, but he soon found that it distracted his attention from his work. So he changed his plan, and at each pause under a bush calculated its distance from the last and mentally kept the sum of the whole. To reckon the time was the hardest, and after a little he gave up guessing at that. He would do his work first and let the time take care of itself.

Suddenly as he sat resting and thinking under cover of a thick willow, he heard a sound that seemed close at his left. With every sense alert he gazed in the direction whence it came, and waited. Presently it was repeated, and now he recognized a man’s voice, husky and guttural from the unsuccessful effort to whisper. He lay face down on the sand to muffle his heart, for it seemed that the enemy surely must hear its beating. Then as he watched he saw a match struck in a clump of willows scarcely forty yards away, and presently caught the glow of a lighted cigarette. Soon another and another appeared, and then their aroma came faintly to him across the night. Three men awake, he thought; did that mean a dozen in the post? He wasted no time in guessing, but flat on his face wriggled away across the sand. He was inside the line of outposts now, and when he had crawled a long distance and put some bushes between himself and the men he had so nearly run into, he rose and walked rapidly forward.

He had advanced what he calculated to be nearly a mile from the boat, and thought he must be nearing the stream he was seeking. The ground became less sandy and there were fewer trees and bushes. He thought it unlikely that the Russians would have more outposts there. He had almost concluded to make a run for it to the river, when a rifle shot to his right and behind him sent him flat to the ground in breathless suspense. Someone had been discovered! Other shots followed, and then a fusillade that sounded like that morning brush when he had first heard fire. He crawled to the nearest bush and lay still.

No bullets whistled his way and he heard no reports from the rifles of his men. The fire was all Russian, and he hoped it was only a scare and that his men had got away. Then he saw that the firing was extending toward the river, and the reports of Japanese rifles mingled in the sound. They were caught back there, and his heart stood still at the thought that the success of the night’s work might depend on him. From the direction in which the firing came he thought the Russians must be near his boat. Perhaps his party were all cut off and killed, or worse than that, captured.

The firing ceased, and he lay under his bush and wondered what to do. He remembered that he had not yet reached the river, and he rose and ran swiftly forward. Soon he caught the gleam of water, and in a moment was at the bank. He lay down and went over his calculation of the distance he had come. Then he looked up at the stars, marked out his course, and started back.

He knew the location of one outpost, and he thought at first his best chance was to go as close to it as he had come. But he reflected that all the sleeping men must have been roused by the firing, and that if they had discovered the boat they would watch to see if any of the scouting party came back to it. No, he must go another way and swim the stream. But he wanted his uniform. He dreaded what would be said to him if he went back without it. How to get it was the question. The aroused Russians were between him and the bush where it lay.

The fire had not extended much to his right and he judged that the line of outposts did not reach far that way. He turned sharply downstream and moved as rapidly as he dared. At times, when the way was open, he ran; but in the bushes it was slow work. At last he ventured to turn back toward his own shore. Cautiously he made his way until the soft lap of the water on the bank caught his ear. Here was the stream. Should he strike in, or try for the uniform? He wondered how long he had been on the island. It might be an hour, it might be two. The night was yet far from spent. A low ridge of sand ran parallel with the bank, shutting the stream from his sight. He moved stealthily to the river side of it and made up his mind to go after his uniform. The ridge would guide him to the bush where it lay, and if worse came to worst a quick leap would take him into the water and he would trust to the darkness to escape the Russian lead.

At first he walked upright, near the water, and traveled rapidly. Then as he approached the point where he judged the Russians might be, he came close under the ridge and crawled on hands and knees. It was ticklish work, and the rifle bothered him badly. Not a sound came to his alert ears. By and by he wriggled to the top of the ridge and peered over. After a time he thought he could make out the willows where the smokers had been. His own bush was not far off now and he crawled on.

A new thought stopped him like a blow. Suppose the Russians had found his clothes and were waiting for him to come for them. That was a matter to be considered, and he pondered it seriously for some time. Then he went on. He would take the chance. Keeping the ridge between himself and it he crawled opposite the bush and lay a long time listening intently. He was so near he thought he could hear the breathing of any man waiting, and knew he would hear a movement. Not a sound came from the bush, and at length he ventured on. It was but an instant’s work to gather up trousers, blouse, and boots and scuttle back over the ridge.

One foot was in a trouser leg when he stopped. The river was wide and swift. It would be hard enough to swim as he was, and the thick uniform would hamper him terribly. He thought it over a moment, then swiftly rolled up blouse and boots and tied them with the trouser legs in a bundle at the back of his neck. Then he slung his rifle across his back and waded in. The water was icy cold, but he moved slowly lest he make a noise and arouse some Russian. He was up to his waist and almost ready to strike out when an unlucky step brought his foot down on a stone that turned and he stumbled forward with a loud splash.

Instantly there came a hoarse, Russian shout from up the stream and he ducked. As he went down he heard the loud report of a rifle and felt the wind of a bullet over his head. He plunged forward and swam rapidly out and downstream. Low in the water, with head as far down as he could keep it, he put all his strength into his strokes. Behind him the Russians along the shore fired as if charged by an army. The bullets sang over his head and hissed in the water beside him. He heard the roar of the rifles and the shouts of the men, and tried to dive, but under water the bundle and rifle held him back, and he gave that up.

Gradually the firing slackened, and when it ceased he judged by the current that he was in mid-stream. He was very tired now, and very cold. He began to fear he could not get across. But the thought of the disgrace of failure after all he had done nerved him for fresh effort. He had the information the party had been sent to get, and it might be that none of the others had secured it. He must go on. In spite of his exertion the cold was agonizing. His bones ached from it, and his heart was bursting with the strain. He had done his best. He could do no more. The bank that seemed so near was yet out of reach. He had taken his last stroke. No, one more, and now another. A third, and his feet struck bottom. He staggered out and fell exhausted on the sand.

How long he lay thus he did not know. Aching from head to foot, shivering with cold and with rattling teeth, he struggled to his feet. Somewhere upstream lay his goal and he reeled toward it. Presently the walking warmed him a little. He unslung the bundle from his shoulders and put on the sodden uniform. Then he thrust his feet into the boots and went on. Dawn was breaking when he stood at his captain’s door and heard the voice of Kokan saying:

“That fool Kutami aroused the Russians and we could not go on. We just barely got away. He spoiled it all, and probably was captured as well.”

Then he went in and reported, and when he finished, heard, like a voice in a dream, his captain’s comment:

“That is the spirit of _Yamato Damashii_!” (the soul of old Japan).

He turned and went out, with Kokan staring after him in speechless amazement.

XIV

There followed a few days of grateful inactivity for Soichi. The surgeon said he must rest and recover from the strain and exposure of his night’s work, and he found it very pleasant to lie in his blankets and smoke and receive the congratulations of his comrades. The story swept through the regiment and every man knew what he had done.

Kokan was not so comfortable. He was suffering from a mental difference with himself which urgently demanded adjustment. But pride stood in his way. He knew he had been wrong and he hated to admit it. His accusing self kept recalling to him the captain’s queer look that morning after Kutami had gone, when he turned to Kokan and said:

“I am inclined to think you are mistaken about him, Lieutenant Kudo;” then added, as if it were an afterthought, “it must have been someone else who alarmed the Russians.”

“_Yamato Damashii_,” the captain had said to Kutami, and it was true. He had acted with the spirit of the _Bushi_, the soldier knights of the old feudal days. With the bitterness of deserved self-accusation Kokan admitted the justice of Captain Minami’s judgment. He, the Samurai, had failed, but Kutami, the Eta, had succeeded.

Soichi was lying on his back rereading O-Mitsu’s letter for the thousandth time, although he knew it already by heart, when Kokan came in without his sword. He sprang to his feet and saluted, then stood at attention. But Kokan said:

“Sit down. I am not here as an officer. I came to talk a little with you.”

Surprised and curious Soichi obeyed, wondering what it could be. His quarters-mates were all away and he and Kokan were alone. For some time they sat silent, the lieutenant uncertain how to begin. He had had a hard struggle with himself, but his sense of right had triumphed. The last of the Kudos would not stain the family honor, kept spotless for so many scores of years.

“I blamed you unjustly,” Kokan said bluntly at last. “It was not you who aroused the Russians.”

“That is nothing,” replied the amazed Soichi, and bowed respectfully. “I am only glad that your expedition was successful.”

He cherished no animosity toward Kokan now, and it distressed him to see his lieutenant humbling himself in this manner. He had forgotten the things that had passed and his mind was set wholly on the future. His only hope was to die gloriously in action. But Kokan had made the plunge and now he was going through.

“I have been unjust to you at other times,” he went on. “It is not becoming the honor of an officer or a Samurai to act meanly, and I have come here to express my regret.”

Soichi was genuinely pained. His ready sympathy understood how hard it must be for the haughty Kokan thus to demean himself, and he responded quickly:

“I beg you not to think of it, or to say such things. I want only to do my duty, and you have helped me to that.”

“I?” exclaimed Kokan, surprised in his turn. “I helped you? Tell me how.”

“Please do not think me rude,” replied Soichi. “It is hard to explain to you. You were born a Samurai and have an inheritance of honor to maintain. It is natural to you. It comes without thought. It is merely to live in the old way. I was born a Commoner, but the son of one who had been despised as an outcast. The Emperor gave us citizenship. It is to him we owe everything. To win honor is our first duty, for surely that is what he meant when he promoted us. Honor lies in his service. To give him true service, therefore, is all my wish, and if sometimes I have felt that you—that someone was watching closely to catch me in failure, it has helped me to be a better soldier, and perhaps brought me nearer to winning honor.”

Kokan sat like one in a dream. This son of an Eta was telling him things he had heard from his father and read in the books of the Samurai of generations long agone. It was the old doctrine of the _Bushi_, but he spoke it as if it were his own discovery.

“You talk like a Samurai,” he said, and rising abruptly, went away.

He had caught a glimpse of the soul of honor and it dazzled him. Here was honor for honor’s sake. No other thought, no consideration of self, no hope of reward, no seeking for gain of any sort, the simple effort of a faithful heart to show in loyal, devoted service its gratitude for a great gift. In comparison with the high standard of his life, the teachings of his long line of soldier gentlemen, it was a thing of wonder and amazement. Many hours he pondered it, and from his meditation rose with a new resolve. The service of the Emperor had profited by that talk with the Commoner.

* * * * *

Spring was full-blown. The sun shone with summer warmth and fields and meadows were clothed with green. The leaves hung thickly on the trees, and masses of rhododendrons robed the slopes of the hills in pink. Through all the army ran the whisper of coming action. In the afternoon the men were in their quarters. In the evening, silently and swiftly they moved out. They bivouacked for the night in the little pockets among the low hills close to the water’s edge, and in the starlight ate cold rice from their ration baskets. Then, rolled up in their blankets, they slept, rifles by their sides.

The bark of a gun heralded the coming of the day, and the men rose to see the battle joined. All day they lay in their hollows and heard the hoarse, angry roaring of the guns and the vicious rush of shells, as if a mighty wind beat through the tops of a forest of pines. Darkness fell and the guns ceased their frightful clamor. Then came the order to move.

All night they toiled. As if by miracle they saw the pontoons thrown across the rushing streams, and the lumbering guns swing forward. In the soft sand of the islands they put their shoulders to the wheels the tired horses could not turn, and on the cannon moved into their new positions. The murky gray of early dawn found the Russian hills ringed in front with Japanese steel. The day had come at last when Kutami Soichi was to meet the test.

Fiercely through the lifting mist rang the challenge of the guns, and over the heads of the Guards, lying far out on the sandy island, screamed the deadly shells, searching the nooks and corners of the Russian lines. Soichi was in the first line. Across his breast hung his boxes of cartridges, and in the blue cloth tied over his shoulder were his two little baskets of rice. His rifle, polished and cleaned with arduous care, was ready.

For half an hour the shells flew over their heads, and then along the line rang a single shrill blast of a whistle. Instantly they were on their feet and surging ahead. One wild “_Banzai!_” rolled from their throats and they settled to their work. Suddenly the silent trenches along the hills leaped into life and the storm of Russian lead beat upon them. Steadily they went forward, not a rifle making answer to the fierce fire from the hilltops. Men went down, but only those stopped who could not go on. Into the last of the three broad streams they plunged, and under that unceasing sweep of bullets forged across. Then on the double they sprang ahead, while above them still hurtled the venomous messengers from their own guns. The earth shook with the concussion of the cannon, and the beautiful day smiled on hill and river red with war. Fairly at the foot of the Russian height they halted, and for a brief breathing space stood still.

At the left of the line, where the Guards were to charge, the enemy held the crest of the ridge with a double line of trenches terminating in a square redoubt. There were the red-mouthed guns belching their hail of iron death. In front, on the slopes, were fences and crisscrosses and tangles of wire, winding in and about among traps and pits and jagged stakes, and swept unceasingly by the murderous fire of the rifles and machine guns in the trenches.

Three things Soichi knew no soldier should remember on the battlefield—his home, his dear ones, and his own body. Calmly he surveyed the terrible ground over which he was about to undertake the desperate rush. Up there, on the heights, were the lines to which some of them must go through to plant the flag of the Rising Sun, as the Emperor wished. He wondered who would be the one to win that coveted honor. As for him, this was the hour in which he was to die his “glorious death.”

Almost before he knew it the whistle shrilled again and they were off, running steadily, in wide open lines, straight up the rugged hillside. They cheered once at the start, a full-throated, rousing “_Banzai! Banzai! Teikoku Banzai!_” but it took too much breath from the running, and they stopped, that the work might not suffer.

Now as he raced along, the young soldier found himself curiously taking note of things occurring around him. His right-hand man went down, and Soichi, seeing him fall, knew that he was dead. There was one, he thought, who had gained the prize of glory. It seemed strange that he, too, was not hit. And there was Lieutenant Kudo, perhaps a pace ahead of the line, running as hard as he could and somehow finding breath to shout to the men. He marveled at it, and with mind bent on that wonder, ran full into a tangled wire that stopped him with a jerk, almost throwing him backward to the ground. It filled him with sudden surprised rage, and he grasped the wire and tugged away at it as if to pull it away by main strength.

All the time he heard the soft voices of the bullets flying close by his head, the little half whisper like the cheep of tired chicks nestling at dark under the protecting feathers of the mother hen. The wire would not yield, though all along its length the men had laid hold as he had, and were putting forth all their might. As he looked, Soichi saw a line of his comrades who had fallen by the fence, struck down on the measured range. He drew back his rifle and brought the sharp bayonet down on the wire with a savage swing, all his weight in the blow. Clean to the ground it went, through all the strands, and the way was open.

On he dashed, not even looking to see whether any followed. Blindly he knew that Kokan was near him, still calling. He was so tired he could hardly lift his feet, and yet he kept on running, running, always running up that death-swept slope. Now the men knew the secret of the wires and there was little delay. Soichi heard the machine guns rattle as he had heard the typhoon rains beat on the iron roof of his father’s warehouse. The Russian guns sent their shells shrieking over the slope and carrying away his mates in groups. He saw men fall into the pits, stumble and throw forward, crumple up and drop, go down all about him. Still the prize was not his. He went on.

Then, without warning, the world came to its end. The whooping and whistling, the shrieking and singing of shells and bullets ceased, and with a far-off, muffled roar, the solid earth rose beneath him and hurled him headlong forward, him and Kokan together. He wondered, curiously, as he was in the air, if it were to be the trick of fate that he and the lieutenant were to win death together. Then he fell, and for an instant neither saw nor heard nor felt nor thought. A voice calling in tones he knew, brought him back to himself and the riot and din of the horrible maelstrom. He struggled to his feet to hear Kokan shouting to him:

“Come on, Kutami! Now show if you can fight!”

The quick blood leaped in him at the challenge and he sprang forward. Over his shoulder, as he turned, he caught a glimpse of the great hole where the mine had exploded, and beyond it, down the slope, he saw men going back, Guardsmen, his own Guards! The horror and shame of it filled him with rage, and he began to run again, on up the hill. Something was the matter with his head, he did not know what, nor did he care. He and Kokan were left, and if all the rest failed they two would go on. He shouted in answer to the lieutenant’s call, and strove to overtake him. With the sword of his fathers flashing over his head the Samurai boy ran, shouted, staggered, went down. Of all the charge Soichi alone was left.

Yet he went on. The Russians in the trenches cheered him and held their fire, too brave themselves to murder the brave. And, in the sudden hush that fell on the awful day, Soichi heard Kokan calling again:

“Come here, Samurai! I am wounded! Take me back!”

Samurai! Kokan had called him Samurai! All in a daze Soichi obeyed, thrust his arms under those of the wounded lieutenant, heaved him up on his back and staggered slowly down the hill. He walked like one in a dream, neither seeing nor caring where he stepped, and yet by miracle not falling. And when some of the men in the trenches, more ruthless than the others, fired again, he shifted Kokan in front of him lest he be thought to shield himself by his burden.

He was halfway down when suddenly the trenches burst into flame once more, and he saw his Guards coming back. The reserves were up! The charge was renewed! Methodically he looked about him, found a pit, carefully laid the wounded officer there out of danger, wheeled and headed the new assault. Oh, how tired he was! How hard it was to keep his legs from doubling under him! And yet he must! This was the day he was to die a glorious death.

Back again by the mine-wrought hollow, the fresh men up with him now, and some of them ahead. One he saw with the colors, the clear white banner with its broad red sun. A bullet hit his rifle and struck it violently from his hands. He paused, confused, and saw the color bearer pitch forward on his face and the colors fall. A voice seemed to shout in his ear:

“It is the Emperor’s wish!”

He sprang forward, grasped the staff and waved the flag over his head. Under the awful fire the line was beginning to falter, but the flag caught their eyes and a cheer rang up the hill behind him. He filled his lungs and shouted “_Banzai!_” It was as if new strength came to him with the call. He dashed on, reached the wall of the redoubt and scrambled up, waving his banner and roaring “_Banzai!_”

He saw his fellows swarming about him and knew they had won. Then something struck him a terrible blow on the shoulder and he fell unconscious on the rampart.

XV