The Battle of Tsushima

Phil Carradice

• Publisher: Pen & Sword History
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN:
  9781526743343
• eBook ISBN:
  9781526743350
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: 20th Century History
• Index: History

The author of The First World War in the Air details the gripping 1905 naval battle during the Russo-Japanese War.

In 1905 Japan and Russia were at war. With the Russian Far East Fleet destroyed, the Czar sent his Baltic Fleet halfway around the world to exact revenge. This mammoth journey took many months and was an amazing feat of seamanship. But, at the end of this adventure, the Russians were totally overwhelmed, and the majority of the fleet was underwater. There was no alternative for the Czar but to sue for an ignominious peace.

The story of the journey and the final battle remain fascinating, the people involved behaving like characters from a novel. Russian Admiral Rozhestvensky was a gunnery expert but had never held active command in a major sea battle. Japanese Admiral Togo had trained in Britain, enlisting as a cadet on the Training Ship  Worcester, even though he was far too old and was forced to lie about his age. Inept generalship on the part of the Russians, combined with brilliant seamanship from Togo, saw the complete destruction of the Russian fleet.

The naval battle of Tsushima is one of the forgotten actions of the twentieth century, but it has a significance that is immense in world history.

"An utterly compelling story, well told by Carradice. We really sympathize with the Russian sailors, trapped on their ironclad warships for months as they battled against the elements, a largely hostile world, and even each other. The result is an excellent book that reminds us of the human cost of these massive naval battles." —History of War

Chapter 1

A Samurai Attack

The street was crowded, the noise and odour of several hundred sweating, jostling bodies rising and hanging above the city in a cloud that was almost touchable. Nicholas had never seen so many men, women and children before, at least not packed into just one tiny area.

This was meant to be the main thoroughfare of Otsu, he reminded himself, not some dark and haunting backwater. Main street or not, the place was narrow with sharp corners that jutted into the walkway like the bows of waiting warships. Houses that overhung the road in a phalanx of wooden cliffs threw out dark and impenetrable shadows, even at the height of day. Exciting and mysterious it might well be, but this was daytime and Nicholas reluctantly admitted to himself that he would not have liked to be here at night.

The thoroughfare was old; a curling, venomous snake hissing and sliding through the town. It was not like the Nevsky Prospect, he decided, the wide and glorious passageway that ran straight as an arrow across the width of St Petersburg. He could not imagine the dignitaries of Otsu parading and promenading along this roadway every Sunday evening as they did back in the imperial capital.

Russia, he concluded, this was definitely not. And yet it had an appeal. Despite the smells and the noise there was a sort of foreign or unknown enchantment to the place. He would not want to live here, to give up the comforts and delights of the Winter Palace and the other Royal residencies around St Petersburg, but it was good to visit, to broaden the mind as his father had so often told him he should do.

The scenery of Japan was wonderful, the towns and cities as compelling as a wild boar hunt out in the depths of a Siberian forest, with the hint of hidden danger lurking behind every tree or bush. He loved the countryside, but above all he liked the people; simple and friendly with no agendas lurking in the recesses of their brains. He thought back to the letter he had sent when his ship first docked in Japan. What had he said? ‘I have been here only a few days and already I am in absolute heaven.’

So far his attitude had not changed except that, if it was possible, he was now even more in love with the country. Only yesterday he had got himself a dragon tattoo on his forearm. God knows how his father, Czar Alexander, would react to that. He touched the tattoo, still a little painful under his jacket sleeve, and decided that he didn’t care. He loved this country and all it stood for, and that included the Japanese people.

Nicholas sighed happily as the rickshaw rolled slowly along, heavy and ponderous like a hearse. Momentarily his eye was drawn to the hunched back and shoulders of his driver as the man strained and grunted at the long pulling shaft. His muscles rippled like tiny wavelets on the Baltic shore. Nicholas shook his head. God knows how he and his fellow drivers did it, he wondered, manoeuvring carriages like this through the town every day and night of the year.

But it was a fleeting thought. The driver could not hold his attention for long. There were far too many other fascinating sights to see. His eager eyes darted to the open-fronted shops at the side of the roadway. They sold everything from richly embroidered kimonos and long, yellow-stemmed pipes to cups and bowls of delicate porcelain that were translucent as the morning mist in Crimea. There were straw hats and parasols, tiny pot-bellied Buddha statues and walking sticks like the one his cousin George had bought only that morning. Whatever you wanted, it seemed, was available here.

Every fourth or fifth shop had chairs or stalls along its front wall. Inside, exotic and fragrant food was being cooked and the townsfolk bustled in and out of the open doorways. Over everything hung the heavy, heady smell of some oriental fragrance that he could not place.

‘Joss sticks,’ called George from the second rickshaw.

They had come to a halt in the most crowded part of the street, waiting for the press of people to clear a little, and George’s driver had brought his rickshaw alongside the lead vehicle. Now George was leaning back against the padded seat of his carriage, yawning and stretching, his giant arms reaching out like the wings of a buzzard.

‘And opium,’ he added.

Nicholas jerked around to stare at George. Older than him by a few years, his cousin was officially Prince George of Greece and Norway and Nicholas had always looked up to him. Well-travelled, experienced in the ways of the world, famous for his strength and size, he was the ideal companion for trips like this to exotic and mysterious Japan.

‘Opium?’ said Nicholas. ‘You mean they sell the stuff here, openly, out in the streets?’

George grinned, ‘Nikki, you must learn not to be so incredulous. I am here, as you know, to show you the world. I am not suggesting we buy opium, merely telling you about the smells.’

He paused, grinned and leaned over the side of his rickshaw. ‘Girls, now, they’re different. Tonight I have a special treat in mind.’

Nicholas grinned back at him as the rickshaw lurched into motion once more. It was slow going and the other rickshaws in the convoy had no trouble keeping pace. Even the guard of policemen – samurai he supposed – were trotting steadily alongside them, arms and legs moving in easy rhythm and their eyes fixed firmly ahead.

It was 11 May 1891 and the twenty-three-year-old Nicholas Alexandrovich Romanov was on the last stage of his grand tour around the eastern world. As the Tsarevich Nicholas, son of the mighty Czar Alexander III, he was heir to the imperial throne of Russia, and this trip was intended to help him understand the mysteries of the East. He was then to officially inaugurate the final stages of Czar Alexander’s long dreamed of Trans-Siberian railway from central Russia to Vladivostok.

So far it had been a reasonably good tour, though he had hated the incessant hand shaking of visits to dignitaries and petty officials. Egypt, India, Siam; they were all the same. They were all necessary, he knew, but they bored the living daylights out of him. This final visit to Japan was less formal and undoubtedly the best part of it all.

Relaxed and happy, he lay back as the rickshaw rolled steadily on, thinking over the events of the day. They had left Kyoto early, visited Lake Biwa and spoken to the crowd. The reception, as always, had been nothing short of magnificent. They had shopped and tasted tea, as custom demanded, and now they were on their way to the governor’s house here in Otsu for an informal but welcome meal.

‘Another wait,’ he heard George call from behind him and looked up as the rickshaw shuddered to a halt. ‘A long one, I suspect.’

Nicholas watched his driver scrambling and pushing with his feet to halt their progress. His sandals slipped and bit at the surface of the greasy roadway. It had been a difficult manoeuvre but the driver made no sound, accepting the stop with a simple shake of the head.

Ahead of them was yet another gathering of locals. They were priests, he thought; they were dressed in white and yellow robes and stretched out in a procession of some sort, all chanting and ringing bells. There were dozens of them, crossing their path without a care in the world. They shuffled forward in a long line, left and right of the main roadway, before disappearing around one of the many corners. As George had predicted, it seemed as if this was going to be a long delay.

Time to stretch the legs, Nicholas decided, and he climbed to his feet. The rickshaw groaned as the weight distribution changed. Quickly but carefully he put one foot on the ground to steady himself and the vehicle.

‘Nikki! Look out!’ He heard George call as a shadow fell across his body. He looked up into the snarling face of one of the samurai guards and a sudden lurch of fear rolled like a boulder in his belly. Instinctively, he threw up his arm to protect himself.

Later he remembered the flash of sunlight on the guard’s sword as it arced through the air, but at the time he could see only his attacker’s face, lips drawn back in an ugly scowl. From the crowd along the pavements he heard a long, thin wail of anguish and then a jolt of pain smashed all rational thought out of his mind. The blow caught him on the forehead and blood spurted upwards. He screamed.

‘Hold on,’ he heard George call, ‘I’m coming.’

Nicholas knew he had to get away before the samurai steadied himself for a second strike. ‘The crowd’, he thought; ‘hide behind the crowd!’ He began to run unsteadily, blood streaming down his face, into his eyes and mouth, then spraying out behind him like a crimson scarf.

‘Help me!’ he screamed, knowing he had to get to the sanctuary of the watchers.

But the crowd was scattering, too; rushing to find safety wherever they could. Desperately, Nicholas looked behind him. The samurai was still there, sword raised and charging towards him. He heard sobbing, suddenly realising it came from him, and threw up his arms to shield himself from the blow he knew had to come.

When nothing happened Nicholas opened his eyes and stared. The samurai was on the ground, George standing over him with his bamboo cane raised.

‘Come on, you bastard!’ George called at the fallen assailant, ‘You’ve got your sword; I’ve only got my bloody walking stick.’

He glanced across at Nicholas, shrugged and smiled. It was only a momentary movement but it gave the samurai enough time to spring to his feet and run. The man barged his way past a group of spectators, sending them sprawling like skittles, and headed for the enveloping darkness of an adjacent alleyway.

‘Stop him!’ George shouted.

He took off in chase but before he had gone five yards two burly figures dived from the convoy of rickshaws and threw themselves at the would-be assassin. All three of them fell to the ground. There was a brief flailing of arms and then the samurai lay still, pinioned by the weight and strength of his captors.

‘Well done, you men,’ George bellowed.

Nicholas staggered out of the road and into a small kimono shop, blood still pumping from his forehead. He felt faint and the fear was like a knotted fist turning and grinding at his innards. He was sure he was going to die. He slumped down on the floor, stained and filthy from the feet of many customers, and tried to breathe as deeply and as normally as possible.

He was safe he kept telling himself, thanks to Cousin George and the two rickshaw drivers. But it did not stop the fear. Where there was one murderer there were bound to be more. And, worse than anything else, the man had been one of his own bodyguards. How could you trust people like that?

How long he sat there Nicholas never knew. He was aware of figures pushing past and, from the corner of his eye, saw guards and policemen hauling the samurai to his feet and dragging him away like the carcass of a dead cow. Then George was there, pushing a handkerchief against his wound and gazing with fear and compassion at the shaking prince.

‘Come on. Let’s get you to a doctor.’

Nicholas allowed himself to be led away. The next hour passed in a blur as his wound was treated. It was not, he was told, too serious, but how in the name of Heaven did they know that? They didn’t feel the pain or remember the fear. ‘Keep your damned platitudes to yourselves’, he whispered; ‘just stitch up the wound and let me get out of here’.

The doctor, a man by the name of Mikao Usui he was informed, was famous in Japan. He had founded Reiki, the Japanese technique for dealing with stress, but as he bent close to examine the wound all Nicholas could see and feel was the sharp touch of the man’s long fingernails. Despite himself he shuddered.

‘I am sorry,’ the doctor whispered, ‘did I hurt you?’

Nicholas looked up into the man’s dark eyes. A shiver of distaste and horror flooded through his body. Who was this man and what was he trying to do? He smelled of unknown scents, something earthy and ancient, and without knowing why, Nicholas was immediately afraid of him.

‘Assassin!’ he shouted, pushing Usui away.

He was shaking now, huge uncontrollable sobs of anguish that flooded his body and mind. He leapt to his feet as George caught his arm. Slowly, carefully, he led Nicholas away. Behind them Dr Mikao Usui stood perplexed and unsure.

‘Get me back to civilisation,’ Nicholas whispered, ‘back to the ship where it’s safe.’

They staggered out to the rickshaws. Nicholas lay on the threadbare cushion of the first vehicle he found, feeling easier now but still wary. All he could think about was the snarling face of his attacker; one of his own guards, one of the samurai employed to keep him safe. As the rickshaw carried him away the sights, sounds and smells of Otsu came crowding in on him.

Suddenly there was nothing attractive or interesting about the streets. And the people, he realised now, how they stank of unwashed bodies and filth. Duplicitous, treacherous, not to be trusted; to think he had once liked this place and these people. Now, at last, he saw them for what they were. No one in the crowd had tried to help him; they had just run away to hide. They were cowards, all of them; cowards and traitors.

The rickshaws trundled on as Nicholas held the bandage to his head and cursed quietly under his breath. One day, he thought, I will get my revenge on every Japanese man and woman from this goddamned country. He suppressed his Christian compassion and fear; they were not worthy of it, these barbarians. He would be revenged. It was just a matter of time.

* * *

The attack on Nicholas Romanov by samurai guard Tsuda Sanzo did more than just leave the Russian prince with a 4-in scar across his face. It gave him a profound feeling of distrust, even hatred, for the Japanese people. Nothing would ever heal that particular wound.

The tragedy of Nicholas and Japan was very real. The relationship could, and should, have been far more propitious, but the coming together of the Russian prince, future ruler of one of the largest territorial empires in the world, and a rapidly growing and developing Asian state was effectively that of an unconquerable force meeting an unconquerable object. Once the battle lines were drawn neither of them would back down.

Nicholas was a man who was easily impressed, but also quickly driven to sudden and furious anger, and did not possess the maturity of most other men his age. He had been protected and cosseted all of his life, as his father, Alexander, belatedly realised. It was another of the reasons the czar had despatched his son on his tour of the Far East, to help him grow into his role and mature.

Like many young men, Nicholas was not really clear about his own feelings. Unfortunately, his position made such indecision not only unhelpful but sometimes downright dangerous. His character was such that he could swing suddenly and violently from one opinion to another, always in the knowledge that he was a Romanov and could not, therefore, ever be wrong. It was a potentially lethal combination.

When he encountered someone with strong opinions and the ability to express them – someone like his future wife, Alexandra – he was simply not equipped to tell good from bad or to separate common sense from flights of sheer fantasy. Invariably he went with the most powerful argument. And so it was with Japan. No one tried to modify his opinions. The one man who might have done so, his cousin George, had been dismissed from the royal entourage soon after the incident in Otsu.

George’s crime was simply that he had written a letter, which was then published in the newspapers, stating that Nicholas had run away, screaming, from the attacker. It was not meant vindictively, nor was it ever intended for public scrutiny. It was as much a throwaway line as anything. But it was criticism that Czar Alexander would not tolerate.

Nicholas made no protest. He simply shrugged his shoulders and turned his back on his cousin and friend. It was not that he had a poor opinion of George, the man who had saved his life, but by this time his...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Acknowledgements
• Introduction
• Prelude/Overture
• Chapter 1 A Samurai Attack
• Chapter 2 War, Terrible War
• Chapter 3 Rozhestvensky
• Chapter 4 Early Disaster
• Chapter 5 On Into the Wastes
• Chapter 6 Felkersam’s Fleet
• Chapter 7 A Stagnant Pause
• Chapter 8 Togo Waits, Mad Dog Moves
• Chapter 9 Towards the Donkey’s Ears
• Chapter 10 Battle at Last
• Chapter 11 Last Acts
• Chapter 12 Aftermath
• Conclusion
• Notes
• Bibliography