One ‘old boy’ elected not to attend. Thomas Galsworthy, former captain of the ill-fated Kowshing, was just as entitled to attend the Worcester’s anniversary banquet as was Admiral Tōgō, but thought it improper to do so. ‘The captain sent me a letter,’ noted Tōgō, ‘stating that he was privileged to welcome me at the dinner, but he thought it best to keep away on account of the Kowshing affair. Then I knew for the first time that the captain was an old ship-mate, and wondered at the strange affinity, and at the same time I was deeply impressed by this feature of the English character which made this man keep silent about this matter while he was on board my ship after the wreck of his own.’17
The news of Tōgō’s uncharacteristic eloquence spread far and wide; by the following day, he was even teased about it by Lord Kitchener, who joked that he hoped Tōgō ‘would not exchange his noted golden silence for silver speech’. Kitchener had arrived to escort Tōgō to Hyde Park to meet Robert Baden-Powell and inspect a troupe of Boy Scouts. Since Tōgō was staying at the Hyde Park Hotel, the party decided to walk there, along a promenade of passers-by who hissed excitedly to each other: ‘Admiral Tōgō! Admiral Tōgō!’18
In the days that followed, there were several naval banquets and a visit to the fabled British Museum, where Tōgō faced another ghost from his past. As the Japanese party climbed the majestic steps at the front of the Museum, a towering old man with a huge white beard pushed forward and greeted Tōgō, offering his hand to shake. In the tense moments that followed, Tōgō asked his companion, Commander Taniguchi, who the pushy stranger was. Taniguchi, luckily, had a better memory for faces than Tōgō.
‘This is Judge Dole, Admiral,’ said Taniguchi, in what was hopefully Japanese impenetrable to any eavesdroppers. ‘The President of Hawaii whom eighteen years ago you declined to salute.’ It was indeed Sanford Dole, who had gone on to become the first US governor of the territory of Hawaii, before resigning to become a district court judge. Politely, if a little gingerly, Tōgō shook his old adversary’s hand, before entering the Museum to look at more widely recognisable relics.19
Before long, the Japanese Prince and Princess had been waved off on the Kamo Maru, leaving Tōgō and Nogi free to carry out more mundane duties in Europe. Tōgō intended to drop in on several shipyards and then return home via America; Nogi wished to travel through Continental Europe on a goodwill trip. Tōgō tried to talk his old friend out of it, not the least because Nogi was determined to visit Russia, where Tōgō very much doubted that the conqueror of Port Arthur would be greeted with quite the same enthusiasm as they had found in Britain. Nogi, however, would have none of it, and set out on his trip through France, Germany and Austria, although he did not make good on his promise to visit the Russians.
For his part, Tōgō set out with Taniguchi for Scotland, where he intended to inspect the shipyards of the River Clyde. The ships in the slips were decked out in celebratory bunting, and in the company of the mayor and lord provost, Tōgō wandered the John Brown and Yarrow shipyards. He was invited to hammer a nail into the Grenada and the rms Aquitania, both under construction, and entertained the crowds with reminiscences about the Asahi, built at John Brown & Co., and a surviving veteran of both Port Arthur, where she struck a mine, and Tsushima. But beyond such chats and merrymaking, Tōgō had other things on his mind.
The Glasgow Herald, unaware of Tōgō’s habit of scouting potential adversaries before hostilities were declared, unwittingly recorded a more ominous development, noting: ‘He seems to have taken great interest in watching the Australia …’20 This battlecruiser, destined to be the flagship of the Australian navy, was the latest addition to the Indefatigable class, and hence afforded Tōgō a view not only of the inner designs of the Australian navy, but of the British ships from which the design had been taken.
Tōgō’s homeward journey featured stopovers in Newcastle, where he was similarly feted by local dignitaries and praised the Armstrong shipyards. According to popular myth, he was also taken to see Newcastle United play a match at home, although the thoughts of the Silent Admiral on this display are not recorded. He finally took his leave at the dockside of Liverpool, where he delivered some final words of thanks:
I feel sad and sorrowful in parting with you, but I feel gratified to think the bond of our friendship has been tied again by my second visit to England. Another fact that should never be forgotten is that the Anglo-Japanese Alliance was renewed during my stay in England. I most firmly believe that this will ensure the peace of the world and the eternal friendship between our two countries.21
The Anglo-Japanese Alliance was that strangely-worded treaty by which each signatory agreed to remain neutral if the other went to war with a single foe, and to come to his aid if there was more than one enemy. The threat of involving the British in an Asian war had been enough to keep all other powers out of the Russo-Japanese war, and left Japan free to seize Russian territory. It was now renewed for a further decade and would be in force in 1914 at the outbreak of the First World War, obligating Japan to pitch in on the side of the British, and to some extent, encouraging the British to look the other way while the Japanese snapped up former German possessions in China. But with the First World War away in the future, Tōgō made a peaceful voyage to New York aboard the Lusitania, arriving on 4 August.
The Americans were even more overwhelming in their reaction, leaving Tōgō taken aback at their enthusiasm and their energy. The pushy welcome began on the night that the Lusitania docked, when Tōgō found a midnight reception committee determined to whisk him onto land before dawn. Soon after, he faced a gesticulating, yelling wall of journalists and photographers from whom his American minders selected a lucky foursome to take his picture. Tōgō stood to attention and stared grumpily into the cameras, only to discover that the paparazzi wanted him in a multiplicity of poses and aspects. He seemed particularly galled by the constant strobing of camera flashes. One single image, it seemed, was not enough, and Tōgō suffered an excruciating fifteen minutes of manhandling and exhortations, until Chandler Hale, the Third Assistant Secretary of State, came to his rescue. ‘I have been beaten by the zeal of those cameramen,’ quipped Tōgō. ‘It is rather easier to fight the world squadrons than meeting those men.’
It was not the last time that Tōgō would complain about the photographers. He wryly noted that more pictures were taken of him on that single day than in the combined years of the rest of his life. Not long after, he was beset by a second riot of newspapermen in Washington. Faced with his customary silence, the American press filled in the blanks for themselves with ruminations on the loneliness of command in the mysterious East or patronising conjecture about what Tōgō might have said had he been in a position to utter more than a few phrases. He was taken on a train to Washington by a welcoming committee that plainly assumed he had never seen a train before, and whose excited fishing for compliments on American railways he found rudely obtuse.
The New York World concentrated on Tōgō’s encounter with local telephone exchange workers, whose place of work he visited on his way to the railway station. Dismissed as ‘Hello Girls’ in the early 20th century, switchboard operators were the subject of contemporary gossip – a woman on the other end of a phone line, ready, in a certain sense, to do one’s bidding, and hence something of an erotic frisson. They were also habitually condescended to as bimbos, hence the World’s scoffing at the New York switchboard operators’ failure to remember to greet Tōgō with the correct cheer, which, the reporter assured his readers, was Banzai: ‘Ten Thousand Years.’ Other American crowds were soon educated by their press as to the expected form of address, and Tōgō was greeted with wild cries of Banzai everywhere he went. This verbal assault did not even escape him when riding in a government limousine, since on one occasion he found himself in an impromptu race with a car full of hysterical (and possibly drunken) flappers, who yelled Banzai at him and waved their handkerchiefs while the Admiral looked on in surprised amusement. At no point did T�
�gō risk shaming his hosts by pointing out the unwelcome truth, which was that Banzai at the time was a military salute more appropriate to the gruff, tough army, whereas the more cultured navy tended to salute with calls of Hōga: ‘Respectful Congratulations.’
The attention was clearly getting to Tōgō, as was the press’s constant demand that he say something, no matter how ill-informed or unfelt. ‘I have been frequently asked what I thought of America,’ he said, with a rare scolding tone. ‘But isn’t it asking me too much? I have landed here only this morning, and I have nothing to tell.’ Delving for serviceable soundbites, reporters urged Tōgō to give his thoughts on whether American women were educated to higher standards than women in Japan. In a pained answer, loaded with contradictory clauses, he mused that women’s suffrage was best not extended to his home country. ‘It is enough,’ he frowned, ‘if a woman is a good wife and a wise mother.’22
Despite such old-fashioned views, the American women seem to have been unable to get enough of Tōgō, whose sojourn in the United States was attended by crowds of excitable ladies keen to see the conquering naval hero. In Washington, the press took the hint and grilled him on more suitable matters for an admiral. He was asked for his predictions for the world’s navies and replied that neither battleships nor naval guns had yet reached their maximum size. He was asked about the Arbitration Treaty, and expressed his hope that it would render international warfare unnecessary; regardless, however, he noted that a nation still required a strong navy, suggesting that he doubted the Arbitration Treaty would do its intended job. When the interrogation got to be too exacting, Tōgō noted that he was uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, and questioning turned once more to trivial matters.
‘He has a strange, soft voice like a woman’s,’ noted the New York Truth indelicately, ‘and he smiles constantly. It makes one almost wonder if this is the hero who fought such brave battles, and whose fame stands high all over the world.’23
The New York Evening Post was more ready to believe the hype, recalling the incident before Port Arthur when Tōgō addressed his men around a bespoke suicide kit in case of failure. Lesser papers insisted on pushing the notion of a Tōgō fashion fad, urging their readers to snap up replicas of the innocuous sun hat worn by Tōgō when in civilian clothes.
Tōgō was back in uniform for Washington, where he was driven in a motorcade, with motorcycle outriders and a cavalry guard of honour, up to the White House to meet President William Howard Taft. He was back there the same evening for a state banquet, where Taft delivered stirring speeches in honour of the Emperor of Japan, and in honour of Tōgō himself. Taft’s enthusiasm about the Anglo-Japanese Agreement was not something that Tōgō really wanted to address, and he limited his reply to taciturn thanks in Japanese, interpreted for him by Commander Taniguchi. Tōgō was then obliged to stand at the door at a ‘Japanese-themed’ reception in his honour – indistinguishable from any other reception, but for the presence of oriental lanterns throughout the halls. On 6 August, Tōgō paid his respects at the tomb of George Washington, before returning by the presidential yacht to Annapolis, where he visited the Naval Academy and was subjected to yet another banquet, this time from the Washington Press Club.
In Baltimore, he was introduced to a six-year-old boy, born on the day of the Battle of Tsushima, who had laboured throughout his life with the unfortunate name of Tōgō Matthews. Mrs Matthews, perhaps regarding the Admiral’s visit as a vindication of her frivolous choice of name, pressed a bouquet of flowers into the Admiral’s hand. By Baltimore, Tōgō had given up speaking English to the Americans, and preferred instead to communicate via an interpreter. But he made an exception for young Master Matthews, bending down to assure the unfortunate child that he would pray for his happiness.24
For Tōgō, at least, the highlight of his visit was a trip to see the former President Theodore Roosevelt, with whom Tōgō had enjoyed an occasional correspondence over the previous six years. In the wake of the Russo-Japanese war and the Treaty of Portsmouth, Tōgō had sent Roosevelt a revolver as a gift. Roosevelt, meanwhile, had been so taken by the speech that Tōgō delivered to the Combined Squadron on the day of its dissolution that he had quoted from it in one of his presidential orders, and sent a copy to Tōgō for his entertainment. Roosevelt had also invited Tōgō to visit him should he ever find himself in the United States; and it was in that capacity, several years on, that Tōgō arrived at Roosevelt’s residence in Sagamore Hill, Oyster Bay, clutching a miniature set of samurai armour that the former President loudly proclaimed to be ‘delightful’. ‘Here at Sagamore Hill,’ noted Roosevelt with obvious enthusiasm, ‘we never received such a great man as you in the past; nor shall we in the future, perhaps.’25
Roosevelt proudly showed Tōgō a sword that had been presented to him by the Meiji Emperor, and Tōgō sternly pronounced that it had not been properly kept. While Roosevelt watched in rapt admiration, Tōgō cleaned the sword and oiled it in a manner suitable for display. Notably, Mrs Roosevelt observed when her husband was out of the room that it was uncharacteristic of Theodore not to boast to visitors of his military achievements. It was, she noted, a sign that Tōgō’s own victories put Roosevelt’s to shame. Returning to the room, Roosevelt caught the tail end of Tōgō’s polite response, that he was sure that the former president was no less loyal than him in serving his country to the best of his ability. An embarrassed Roosevelt confirmed his wife’s suspicions, by noting: ‘Beside his great exploits, mine are not worth mentioning, and I should be ashamed to mention them before Admiral Tōgō.’26
Tōgō was, however, soon called away to race back to New York, where he was expected to entertain Japanese expatriates at Carnegie Hall, and a banquet at the Knickerbocker Hotel, where a scale model of the Mikasa was placed before him on the table, topped with a working wireless receiver that chattered throughout the meal with messages of goodwill from the townsfolk. On 14 August, Tōgō was stuffed once more, this time at a luncheon reception at the Astor, jointly hosted by the Japan Society and the Peace Society. Tōgō had a prepared speech about the importance of peace and amity, playing in a punning fashion on the meanting of his own name – Tōgō Heihachirō, the ‘peaceful man of the East [Village]’. However, he was taken aback by the over-enthusiastic reception, and one Japanese account goes so far as to suggest that the implacable Tōgō was ‘somewhat annoyed’.27 Many diners had arrived significantly ahead of the guest of honour; and the arriving Admiral was veritably mobbed by a scrum of shrieking womenfolk, elbowing each other aside for the pleasure of shaking his hand. Tōgō was clearly troubled by the display, and was rescued again by Chandler Hale. Later on in the day, the millionaire Andrew Carnegie put in an appearance by telegraph, wiring his good wishes to Tōgō from his Scottish castle.
In Boston, the rapid pace of Tōgō’s tour finally caught up with him, and he was left feeling ill after yet another welcoming feast. True to form, the press dressed it up as a military exercise, and used it as an excuse to emphasise Tōgō’s inscrutable Japanese nature:
Tōgō was able to withstand the cannonballs of the Russians, but Boston codfish-balls and a few volleys of beans laid him low. The only criticism that the Admiral had to offer on America was a gentle suggestion that banquets belong to the age of the savage, and he was slightly surprised that we placed so much emphasis on our eating.28
For Tōgō, such a reply was strangely blunt, even rude, but his irascibility hid other concerns. It was in Boston that he first admitted to twinges and pains that were the first signs of gallstones – a condition that would plague him for the rest of his life, despite two operations. ‘It was discovered afterwards,’ recalled his colleague Taniguchi Naomi, ‘that Admiral Tōgō had been bearing up the pain for some time.’ From Boston, Tōgō and the Japanese headed to Niagara, and thence across the continent to the West Coast. Taniguchi, accompanying him, had vainly hoped that the Japanese might travel incognito, but the number of parties of Japanese naval officers in t
he area was predictably low and they were sure to be recognised. Taniguchi was forced to admit defeat:
One time we were at table in the dining room of a hotel, when a strange gentleman suddenly proposed Admiral Tōgō as a toast and the whole room rose to drink to his health. In such cases, my chief kept his quiet attitude, smiling his thanks; but it was myself that got flustered. I felt then that it was impossible for the Admiral to travel incognito.29
From the West Coast, Tōgō gained passage back to Japan on the Tamba Maru, arriving on 15 September 1911 after a long and gruelling circuit of the world. If possible, he left an America even more in love with him than when he arrived, fascinated by the achievements of such an unassuming man from such an distant culture against the Russian bear. At least part of the enthusiasm for Tōgō lay in the assumption that he represented a military order that could never be of direct interest to, or have direct impact on, the people of America. Few took heed of the warnings that Tōgō had uttered to the huddle of reporters, that the future would see nations and their fleets increasing in size, in power, and indeed in range, and hence in proximity to one other.
‘It is fortunate,’ gushed the New York Tribune, with what would prove to be awful irony, ‘that our country is far away from this Japan. The distance makes us feel that war is impossible with a country in the eastern hemisphere.’30
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