Even when Tōgō was faced, not for the first time in his life, with a stern countermand from Tokyo, he refused to give up. Rather than hand Imada over to the Hawaiian authorities – whom neither Tōgō nor Tokyo recognised – he dumped him on Consul Fuji with these words:
I must obey orders, but, as you know, this prisoner is our countryman and, when he needs our protection, I cannot refrain from extending it to him. I am not delivering him to the officials of the de facto government, but to you, another representative of Japan. If you find it necessary to surrender him, do it where I cannot be a witness.21
In later years, Tōgō was occasionally heard to wonder what difference his stand would have made. Would Imada Yasaka have enjoyed a more fortunate fate if he had been permitted to return to Japan? Consul Fuji was not troubled by any such musings and promptly handed Imada over to the Hawaiians again.
The loopholes that Consul Fuji had made for himself were now closed – if Tokyo was ordering Captain Tōgō to hand over Imada, then it would seem that the Provisional Government was recognised after all. As the weeks passed, the news came back from America that Hawaii had been recognised as a Republic, and hence no longer required the ‘protection’ of the American marines. The Stars and Stripes was taken down, the Hawaiian flag raised once more in the government offices and, it was hoped, normality restored.
Captain Tōgō left on 11 May, taking the Naniwa back to Tokyo for two months’ recuperation, followed by an uneventful cruise that took her up to Vladivostok and around the island that had once been called Ezo – now renamed Hokkaido. He was back in Hawaii on 11 November, fast behind the rumours of new troubles brewing. As the guns of American ships in the harbour sounded to mark Tōgō’s return, the British sailors of HMS Champion discovered to their great embarrassment that they did not have a Japanese flag on board. Protocol demanded that they raise the flag of the new arrival and then salute it.
In what must have been a tense wait, while the etiquette-minded Captain Tōgō looked on in bafflement, sailors from Champion launched one of their boats and rowed frantically over to the Philadelphia to borrow the Americans’ flag. Purloining a Rising Sun, the sailors then rowed back, dashed aboard, hoisted the colours and let off their thirteen guns. Although Captain Tōgō surely noted the delay in the British salute, it is not clear that he ever understood the reason behind it; had he known, it would surely have amused him.22
Tōgō arrived back in Honolulu during a brief and unsuccessful attempt by the USA to persuade the Provisional Government to step down in favour of the deposed Queen Liliuokalani. Such machinations would continue for several more years, ending with the election of a new American president who would officially annex Hawaii to the United States. Consequently, while diplomats blew hot and cold over the correct procedure to follow with regard to the the government of Sanford Dole, Tōgō remained stuck amid thorny protocol issues little different from those that he had hoped to have left behind.
A year after the original change in regime, Dole’s officials announced a day of national celebration, scheduled for 17 January 1894. Dole’s Foreign Minister notified the ships in the harbour that he expected to see them decked out in full dress as for a naval gala, and that they should fire a noon salute in recognition of the anniversary of the revolution. Captain Tōgō went aboard the British and American vessels in the harbour and informed them that he would be taking no such action. The foreign captains agreed that it would be inappropriate, leading to the bizarre situation whereby the government of Hawaii celebrated on land, while in the harbour the ships of the rest of the world behaved as if there was nothing special about the day. On that occasion, the British and the Americans joined in with Captain Tōgō’s very Japanese policy, and simply acted as if Dole and his cronies were not there.
6
Sink the Kowshing
Upon Tōgō’s return to Japan in 1894, he spent six weeks at Kure before being reassigned to the Naniwa. It did not take a brilliant military brain to calculate where he would next see action. Tensions already ran high between Japan and Korea, following the assassination of a prominent pro-Japanese Korean revolutionary in Shanghai in March 1894. The crisis point arrived shortly afterwards, with countrywide unrest by conservative rebels calling themselves the Donghak – ‘Eastern Learning’. Like the conservative samurai who had been crushed in Japan, the Donghak were locals who refused to accept foreign incursions. Anti-Japanese and anti-Western agitators joined forces with disaffected peasantry in the countryside, determined to overthrow the old order. As in Japan a generation earlier, this revolt was couched in terms of ‘loyalty’ – in this case to Korea as an old-world, secluded Hermit Kingdom, with no dealings with foreigners. Unlike Japan, the revolt was tinged with elements of class struggle, as if many of the peasants were determined not merely to oust foreigners, but to overturn Korea’s ruling class in favour of a new elite.
Despite early defeats by government troops, by May 1894 the Donghak rebels presented a serious threat to Seoul, causing the government to call for Chinese aid in suppressing them. The decision by the Chinese to send troops brought a critical difference of opinion to light over the wording of the Tianjin Accord. As far as the Chinese were concerned, they were merely obliged to notify the Japanese if they dispatched troops to Korea, which they duly did. Japan strongly protested that the Tianjin Accord meant nothing if both parties could do as they wished, and that notification required consultation and approval.
It was too late: 3,000 Chinese troops were already on their way to Korea. Japanese troops were mobilised in the next of a tense series of moves that threatened to end in an exchange of fire and outright war between China and Japan on Korean soil. Although the Donghak rebels were suppressed, both Chinese and Japanese soldiers remained in Seoul, with their leaders trying to steer the Korean government towards new policies favourable to their own. Chinese and Japanese troops continued to arrive, in a build-up that was sure to end in conflict. The Japanese struck on 23 July, with the sudden arrival of two small detachments of troops in Seoul, who took over the palace, informed the Korean king that he had been ‘rescued’ from the intrigues of the family of Queen Min, and sent for the disgraced former regent, the Daiwongun, with the news that he had been re-appointed to a government position. Two men were killed in the ensuing scuffles, but the day ended with announcements that a new era was dawning in a Korea free from Chinese influence.
Captain Tōgō sailed aboard the Naniwa in July 1894, escorting a Japanese expeditionary force in five troop transports. He reached Chemulpo and successfully navigated its tides and treacherous waters with the aid of the charts he had helped to draw during his previous visit. Tōgō steamed out of Chemulpo harbour on 25 July, heading down the coast towards the site of the Chinese troop landings.
The order of events that followed was a matter of delicate international politics, and excruciatingly tense brinkmanship. As far as the Japanese were concerned, the regime change in Seoul had been a policing action, a minor skirmish involving Japanese military men and Korean rebels. The Korean king was still technically the ruler of his country; there had, on paper, been no coup. Moreover, none of this was considered to be any business of the Chinese.
The Chinese, of course, saw things very differently. Shots had been fired in the Korean capital. The Japanese had seized control of Seoul, and it was incumbent upon the Chinese to come to the rescue of their Korean allies. Considering the relative speeds of the available ships, the Chinese and the Japanese were sure to run into each other first somewhere in the Yellow Sea. And yet, war had not yet been declared. A Sino-Japanese war, although clearly looming, still awaited official sanction from either government.
As Tōgō steamed down the Korean coast in the Naniwa, he spied the smokestacks of two vessels approaching from the south. The new arrivals were sure to be Chinese warships and were getting closer by the minute. Protocol demanded that Tōgō should fire a salute, but the awful prospect remained that the sound of a blank charge might be mistake
n for live fire.
The two smoke columns drew steadily nearer, while Tōgō weighed the situation. He was sure that the approaching commanders would be having similar thoughts. They could fire a salute, and risk being mistaken for belligerents. Or they could take advantage of Tōgō’s politesse, wait until they were at point-blank range, and then let loose with live ammunition. Whoever attacked first would be forever remembered as the instigator of the Sino-Japanese War. The defender, however, would be unlikely to have a chance to retaliate – he would already be dead. The other ships were still mere dots on the horizon, but Tōgō could not afford to take any risks. He ordered his men to load the saluting gun. Then he issued the order for Battle Stations. The Naniwa was prepared for any eventuality.
As the ships drew nearer, Tōgō ’s worst fears were realised. They were the Zhenyuan, one of the twin behemoths that had scared the Japanese a few years earlier, and the Pingyuan, the same vessel which Tōgō had once spied on in the Kure dockyards. Through his binoculars, he saw that the sailors on both vessels had also manned their guns, unsure of whether battle was about to commence.
Neither the Zhenyuan nor the Naniwa would deviate from their course. They were all but head-on, sure to pass within a stone’s throw of one another. Tōgō’s men waited silently by their guns, their hands sweating on the triggers, ready in a split-second order to unleash hell. The noise of the Zhenyuan’s engines thrummed on the water as the ship drew close enough, so close in fact that Tōgō could see the face of his opposite number. There, on the Zhenyuan’s bridge, was the unmistakeable form of Captain Lin Taizeng, the same quiet officer he had met on the earlier goodwill cruise. The two men stared at each other in melancholy recognition, before Tōgō stood sharply to attention and saluted. Captain Lin returned the gesture, and the moment passed along with the ships. The Zhenyuan continued north, the Naniwa continued south, with a salute of sorts given but not a shot fired.1
The tense encounter between the Naniwa and the Zhenyuan is a crucial event in late July 1894, in particular for the impression it gives us of Tōgō’s razor-sharp grasp of protocols and precedents. He was not, as his detractors would soon imply, a trigger-happy captain looking for trouble. Far from it: in his encounter with the Zhenyuan he had done everything possible to avoid bloodshed or political damage. Such considerations are important in the light of events of 25 July, in which Tōgō would twice be accused of firing the first shot of the Sino-Japanese War.
Tōgō was soon back in the area, ordered there in search of Chinese troop transports. One body of Chinese troops would have to march down from Chinese territory, crossing the Yalu River in the north and making the long journey on foot. The Japanese knew that other units would attempt to make a more direct crossing by sea, and sent a handful of warships, the Naniwa included, to sweep the area.
Just after dawn on 25 July, two Chinese vessels came out of the channel leading to Asan – the aging cruiser Qiyuan (‘The Aider’) and a smaller torpedo boat, the Guangyi. This time, there was no waiting for a salute. It is unclear who fired first. The Japanese certainly believed it was the Qiyuan, recording her first shot at eight minutes to eight – a muzzle flash from one of her guns, followed by a plume of water from a stray shell. Other accounts suggested that nervous Japanese sailors saw a torpedo in the water that only existed in their imaginations. Tōgō responded to this attack, real or phantom, with the order to open fire. The other two Japanese vessels followed suit, and answering guns from the Chinese were mere seconds behind.
As the ships closed on each other, the Qiyuan took the worst of it, including a direct hit on her conning tower that threw the ship into chaos. At some point in the proceedings, possibly before battle had even commenced, her steering gear jammed, causing her to execute a series of bizarre manouevres that the Japanese at first mistook for bold tactics. Suddenly, the engineers on the Qiyuan managed to get her steering gear working again, but even then the Qiyuan was sending contradictory signals. A white flag of surrender ran up her mast, followed by a Japanese ensign, but the Qiyuan was plainly turning and running south-west, back towards Weihaiwei. Soon after, the heavily damaged Guangyi ran aground while attempting to avoid the Akitsushima.
Aboard the Naniwa, Tōgō prepared to join another Japanese ship in a cautious pursuit of the Qiyuan – the captains remained unsure whether the white flag was genuine, or a trap designed to lure the Japanese towards other Chinese vessels lurking nearby. However, Tōgō then sighted two other ships out to sea. The first was a Chinese warship, which appeared to be changing course and fleeing after receiving a signal from the Qiyuan. The departing warship had been escorting a tramp steamer, which she was now abandoning to her fate.
While another Japanese vessel pursued the fleeing escort, the Naniwa drew close to the transport ship. She was the Kowshing (‘High Promoted’), a British-registered steamer with a Chinese crew and an English captain, Thomas Galsworthy.2 Although he was not aware of the irony at the time, Captain Galsworthy was a fellow alumnus of the naval training college aboard the Worcester, graduating two years behind Tōgō himself. He had been hired by the Chinese to transport troops the short distance from Tianjin’s sea-port to Asan. He had 1,100 troops aboard his ship, as well as Constantine von Hanneken, a German army major who was travelling as a ‘civilian’ but was actually in Chinese military service. Now, the Kowshing was alone, deserted by her escort, and with no protection available but a few rifles and the British Red Ensign fluttering at the mast.
Captain Galsworthy was already confused. He had understandably mistaken the fleeing Qiyuan for a Japanese ship, as she had been flying a Japanese flag. Unsure why the Qiyuan had steamed right past him without acknowledging any of his own signals, Galsworthy assumed that all Japanese ships in the area were on a mission of their own and would not trouble him.
Aboard the Naniwa, Tōgō ordered a signal raised commanding the Kowshing to shut down her engines. The Kowshing complied, but her captain noticed that the Japanese warships were not changing course. Instead, they were steaming past in pursuit of the Qiyuan. As the Naniwa neared, Captain Galsworthy raised a polite signal flag of enquiry: ‘May I proceed?’ His eagerness to press on may have been the crucial factor that gave him away. Instead of continuing his pursuit of the fleeing warship, Tōgō ordered the Naniwa close to the merchant ship and sent over a lieutenant, Hitomi Zengorō, to ascertain what was going on.
Captain Galsworthy protested to Lieutenant Hitomi that he was the British captain of a British ship and that the Japanese had no right to interfere in his lawful passage. Hitomi begged to differ – regardless of the flag at the masthead, Galsworthy was knowingly transporting over a thousand soldiers to Korea, along with fourteen field guns and their ammunition. Galsworthy confirmed this himself, showing Hitomi his ship’s manifest with the weapons and ammunition aboard; the Kowshing was the third of three transports chartered to help the Chinese war effort. Had he reached Asan the day before, he might have got away with it, but the morning’s exchange of fire between Tōgō and the Chinese amounted to an outbreak of war.3
Galsworthy had not been witness to the morning’s skirmish, but he had seen the Qiyuan running for cover, so must have suspected something. Nevertheless, there had not been an official declaration of war and he still hoped to tough it out. Hitomi, however, was insistent. ‘Your vessel shall follow our warship the Naniwa,’ said Hitomi. ‘She shall,’ replied Galsworthy curtly, disappointed to have been thwarted in his mission, but understanding that the situation had changed and that his cargo was likely to be forfeit.4
Back on the Naniwa, Hitomi reported to Tōgō, noting that Galsworthy understood the situation, but that 1,100 belligerent Chinese might not have such a good command of the laws of the sea. Tōgō signalled for the Kowshing to follow, and prepared to head back towards home, but there was no sign of any movement from the British ship. Instead, after a pregnant pause, the Kowshing signalled: ‘Urgent matter to discuss. Please send boats.’
Tōgō immediately guessed the p
roblem. ‘See if the Chinese troops are unwilling to obey any orders,’ he said to Hitomi, ‘and ask the Europeans what the urgent matter is about. Then, if you find the captain and all the non-combatants anxious to board our ship, take them over in our boat.’
Aboard the Kowshing, the Chinese passengers had become increasingly agitated at the arrival of the Naniwa, her threatening two-shot signal to stop, and the baffling series of coloured flags being used by both vessels in a coded conversation that the Chinese could not follow. Eventually, a British engineer was able to read the signals for the German officer von Hanneken, who passed on the news to the commanders of the Chinese troops. The stiff but amicable conversation between Galsworthy and Lieutenant Hitomi had an unforseen side-effect. To the Japanese, keen to follow a law of the sea that was largely written by the British, it was a textbook exercise in restraint and civility. Galsworthy, while understandably annoyed, still recognised that the Japanese were behaving impeccably. Many Chinese, however, witnessed the ongoing conversation and concluded that if the two men were acting in such a calm manner amid such a threatening situation, that something was amiss. Several among the Chinese assumed the worst – that Galsworthy was not negotiating over the safety of his ship, but of the size of a bribe from the Japanese. Deciding that, as far as they were concerned, their captain was selling them out to the enemy, the Chinese protested to Galsworthy, boasting that they outnumbered the Japanese and were determined to fight to the death.
‘The Chinese generals,’ wrote Galsworthy later, ‘learning the meaning of the signals … objected most emphatically.’
They were told how useless it would be to resist, as one shot would sink them in a short time. The generals then said they would rather die than follow Japanese orders, and as they had 1,100 men against 400 on the Naniwa, they would fight sooner than surrender. They were told that if they decided to fight, the foreign officers would leave the ship. The generals then gave orders to the troops on deck to kill us if we obeyed the orders of the Japanese or attempted to leave the ship. With gestures, they threatened to cut off our heads, to stab, or shoot us; and a lot of men were selected to carry out the order.5
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