ALL was ready for the battle of Port Arthur, and the Japanese army was already moving through the night into position for an attack upon the sixteen great modern forts at daybreak.

Yamaji turned away from the fire, and with a surly nod of the head to his officers mounted his horse. The staff followed his example. I swung myself into the saddle and joined the general as he pushed forward with the right wing of the army across the head of the valley and around the face of the western hills, in preparation for the turning movement which was to be the key of the battle.

We were carried along in the darkness with a horrible sense of universal motion, on the edges of giant earth seams and steep precipices, with the artillery clanging and grinding, and the ponderous siege batteries groaning over the loose stones in the dry river beds; horses plunging and stumbling, with mountain guns strapped on their backs; the swift clatter of the cavalry sweeping backward and forward with news of the enemy, the steady tramp and murmur of the infantry; the crawling lines of coolies attending the fighting men; now and then a horse and rider rolling down over the rocks; frightened steeds shying at camp-fires; a procession of ammunition boxes carried along like black coffins; occasionally a glimpse of a ravine with rivers of bayonets gleaming at the bottom of it; anxious and hungry skirmishers creeping on their bellies along the ridges of the distant peaks -- and yet, a curious hush over it all -- the sense of a secret to be kept.

Not a sign of a flag, the roll of a drum, nor the note of a bugle; nothing but the rush of human feet, the beat of hoofs, the crunching of wheels, and the clank of cold steel.

It made a man grow cold to be near Yamaji and see the gleam in that one eye. There were sounds of voices around him as the swift messengers came and went in the gloom, but it was a strange babble of Asiatic accents, falling weirdly upon the ears of a New York newspaper writer, borne along atomlike in that human torrent.

If ever a man can realize the insignificance of the individual compared with the force of organized society, if ever there can be borne in upon his understanding the fact that his true measure in the world is the five or six feet that span the length of his grave, if ever he can be overwhelmed by a sense of loneliness in the midst of a multitude, it should be in such a scene as this.

Mile after mile we rode in the dark, through valleys and over hills; hour after hour the eager troops moved with us, and just as the faint, cold light appeared in the eastern sky, we reached the head of the right wing of the army, where Yamaji dismounted and was greeted by Noghi.

We climbed to the top of a rocky peak, and saw before us, on a hill, Isuyama, the triple fort which was the key of the fight. It was an oblong quadrangle, with high, thick earthen walls, connected by a strong shelter wall with a still larger and stronger square fort on higher ground, above which ran another wall to a great round redoubt commanding the valley and town of Port Arthur.

Shut in by hills on all sides, we could see nothing but the triple fort with its lines of gay flags, for we had made a detour of eight miles in order to surprise the Chinese by a western attack, instead of advancing straight down the valley. To the left were our mountain batteries, stealthily planted on a ridge the day before.

Below and in front of us was a dark line of Japanese infantry kneeling in a ploughed field, waiting for light enough to storm Isuyama, and in the gully to our right was another battalion of bayonets ready for the signal. Thousands of men were massed in the rear.

Everything was silent and motionless in the dawning light. Yamaji lifted his cap and made a signal. The Japanese mountain batteries began to play upon Isuyama and the kneeling line in the field below us fired volley after volley at the tops of the rough, brown walls.

Shells began to drop from all sides. Even the great sea forts, with their mighty twelve-inch rifles, and all the forts along the valley of Port Arthur, aimed over the hills at us; for Isuyama was the key and, once it should fall, the whole left flank of the Chinese would be exposed. The taking of the triple fort was to be a signal to the rest of the Japanese forces. We could not see the giant forts in the distance, but we could hear the screaming of their shells overhead.

As the Chinese batteries splintered the hillside and sent clouds of earth up out of the ploughed ground, the Japanese line kneeling at the base of the slope in front of Isuyama stood up and advanced in the teeth of the guns, firing continuously as they went. The shock of the cannon explosions made the banners on the walls of the three forts dance. The Chinese stuck to their guns. On, on, pressed the slender, dark line, with trails of fire and smoke running up and down the ranks. The Japanese soldiers moved as precisely as though they were on parade. Then the battalion waiting in the ravine moved forward in column formation on the right, to attack the side of the nearest fort. As the thin skirmish line reached the steep scarp in front of the thundering walls, it suddenly swung around and joined the column on the right, and the united battalions, with fixed bayonets, rushed up the steep slope toward the side wall, while the Chinese shells tore gaps in their ranks.

By this time a mountain battery had been carried up on the dizzy ridge where Yamaji stood, the soldiers pressing their bodies against the horses to keep them from slipping; and five minutes afterward six guns were dropping shells inside of the first fort. The Chinese gunners leaped backward from their batteries.

With a ringing yell the Japanese dashed up to the fort and scaled the ramparts by sticking bayonets in the earthwork, shooting and bayoneting the garrison, and chasing the enemy along the connecting walls.

A cheer went up from the hills and valleys as the victorious troops pushed on into the second fort, and finally captured the great redoubt on top of the hill, while the fugitive Chinese scrambled down into the valley on the other side.

Once in the redoubt the whole battlefield lay stretched before us, with its miles of rolling smoke and roaring guns. At the head of the valley was the comfortable old field-marshal and the reserve centre, with its crashing field-guns and siege battery. We were on the right of the main valley. On the left of the valley, just opposite to our position, were seven strong Chinese forts. The three looking north were the Shoju forts, while the four facing westward were the Nerio or "Two Dragon" forts. At the foot of the valley was the town of Port Arthur, spread about the enclosed harbor and, beyond it, towering up on the sea ridge, were six immense modern forts, powerful masses of masonry, standing alone on separate hilltops, shielded by mighty earthworks, and armed with the heaviest and newest rifles and mortars. No fleet in the world would have dared to attack such a position from the sea. One of these sea forts was Ogunsan. It stood four hundred and fifty feet above the town. To the east of it were the Lo-Leshi forts. The other three sea forts were on a tiny peninsula to the west of the harbor, and were known as the Manjuyama forts. Hasagawa's brigade had moved along the seacoast and was attacking the Shoju and Nerio forts on their eastern sides and harassing the Lo-Leshi forts on the coast.

When we entered the redoubt overlooking this vast scene of conflict, Yamaji's officers tore the white canvas side from a Chinese tent, and, cutting a disk from a red Chinese banner, made a rude Japanese flag and hoisted it on a Manchurian lance. The signal of victory could be seen from every fort. Instantly the redoubt became an artillery target. The ground about it was shaken by the explosion of shells. The air was filled with screaming sounds as great projectiles from the sea forts passed overhead.

But Yamaji stood out on the wall of the redoubt in plain sight, as silent and unmoved as a carved image, while showers of shattered rock and earth fell about him. It was a face to study -- cold, stoical, Asiatic. The battle seemed to bore him; it was too easy. There was not enough bloodshed. His one eye searched the scene like the eye of a machine. Once he smiled and showed his yellow teeth -- a ghastly smile.

Yet only a few days before I saw Yamaji release the little singing birds found in the Talien-Wan forts lest they might starve in their cages -- so strangely is mercy and cruelty compounded in the human heart.

The arsenal in Port Arthur had caught fire and was ripping, roaring, and rattling, vomiting flame and smoke like a volcano, as half an acre of massed shells and cartridges exploded. Miles and miles of red and white banners fluttered on the Chinese walls stretched between the seven forts on the opposite ridge. We could see the Manchurian warriors rushing along these walls, and hear the din of their gongs and trumpets. Two or three Chinese battalions with enormous flags were stationed on the lower hills, out of reach of the Japanese artillery fire, and in a position to resist Yamaji, should he cross the valley. The Shoju and Nerio forts were the prey of Hasagawa, who charged up from the eastern valley, taking advantage of earth seams and irregularities in the ground. Two torpedo mines were exploded in front of his lines, but the Chinese touched the keys too soon. All over the valley were sunken mines connected by wires with the walled camps and forts, but somehow the enemy failed to use them.

Just as the front rank of Hasagawa's brigade was dashing up to the Shoju forts, a Japanese shell set one of them on fire, and with a roar and shock that stopped the battle for a moment, the shells for the heavy guns, piled on the floor of the fort, exploded. The Chinese garrison fled over the ridges, and Hasagawa's men came sweeping around the rough hill to find the fort a mass of flames, heaving and reeling as the fire reached additional stores of shells. That ended all hope of defending the seven forts. The Chinese abandoned one fort after the other, and retreated. Hasagawa was in possession of the Shoju and Nerio hills.

But the most dramatic scene in the battle was yet to come. After taking Isuyama, Yamaji's infantry had clambered down the precipitous face of the bluff into the valley, and, having driven the Chinese out of a fortified barrack, were huddled behind the huge structure. Beyond this lay the smooth naval parade-ground of Port Arthur, and on the other side of it, a shallow stream with a long, narrow, wooden bridge on stilts. At the other end of the bridge were rifle-pits filled with Chinese infantry, defending a road leading into the town between two small hills, on which were three field-guns manned by the only good gunners on the Chinese side.

Hasagawa had captured one side of the valley. Yamaji was in possession of the other side. The town of Port Arthur had yet to be taken. Yamaji was nervous and jealous. It was plain that unless his troops moved quickly, Hasagawa, the only general outside of his division, might have the honor of taking the town itself and the colossal Ogunsan fort, the monarch of the coast.

Every time Yamaji's men attempted to move away from the cover of the barrack walls the Chinese riflemen in the pits beyond the bridge swept the smooth parade-ground with steady volleys from Winchester repeating rifles. Again and again the Japanese started out, only to retreat before the hail of bullets.

Yamaji ground his teeth. His face was livid with rage. In vain his staff officers shouted from the redoubt to the troops below to make a charge across the bridge. In vain the general made fierce gestures. The Japanese had struck good Chinese fighting men for the first time since Tatsumi's troops stormed the northwest heights of Ping Yang.

The little battery on the hill, commanding the bridge and the road to the town, was barking and playing the mischief with the Japanese sharpshooters on the walls of the barracks. Occasionally the great guns of Ogunsan spoke, but the shells went far and wide. The shrill rattle of distant musketry could be heard over the hills where Hasagawa's men were slaughtering the retreating garrisons of the seven forts. Thousands of the enemy were trying to escape eastward. Troops of plumed Manchurians on white horses swept away through the ravines.

From the torn ramparts of the redoubt we could see a line of eight or nine Japanese warships stretched parallel with the coast, with columns of spray jetting up from the badly aimed shells of the sea forts. Torpedo boats darted about the entrance of the harbor, firing upon junks loaded with fugitive inhabitants.

Yamaji stood twitching his hands murderously, and glaring through his one eye at the regiment skulking behind the barrack below. No words can describe the fury of that fearful countenance.

The Japanese army had actually been halted by Chinamen at the threshold of Port Arthur! A half-mile more and the Chinese Empire would be conquered!

Under the cover of this fire a small column dashed over the bullet-swept space, crossed the bridge, drove the Chinese sharpshooters out of their intrenchments, and seized the battery on the hill behind. At the same time the field-marshal ordered the reserve centre to move down the valley from the village of Suishiyeh, and thousands of men came rushing along the roads behind the troops already pressing into the doomed town.

At this point I left Yamaji, and climbing down the face of the bluff into the valley, made my way across the drill-ground and the bridge to the top of a hill on the edge of the town. Here I found the British and American military attachés. We watched the vanguard of Japan as it entered Port Arthur, firing volleys through the town as it advanced.

Not a shot was fired in reply. Even Ogunsan was silent and deserted. The Chinese garrison had escaped. The frightened inhabitants cowered in the streets.

Then began the meaningless and unnecessary massacre which horrified the civilized world and robbed the Japanese victory of its dignity. Up to that time there was not a stain on the Japanese flag.

As the triumphant troops poured into Port Arthur they saw the heads of their slain comrades hanging by cords, with the noses and ears shorn off. There was a rude arch at the entrance to the town decorated with these bloody trophies. It may have been this sight which roused the blood of the conquerors, and banished humanity and mercy from their hearts; or it may have been mere lust of slaughter -- the world can judge for itself. But the Japanese killed everything they saw.

Unarmed men, kneeling in the streets and begging for life, were shot, bayoneted, or beheaded. The town was sacked from end to end, and the inhabitants were butchered in their own houses.

A procession of ponies, donkeys, and camels went out of the western side of Port Arthur with swarms of terrified men and children. The fugitives waded across a shallow inlet, shivering and stumbling in the icy water. A company of infantry was drawn up at the head of the inlet, and poured steady volleys at the dripping victims; but not a bullet hit its mark.

The last to cross the inlet were two men. One of them led two small children. As they staggered out on the opposite shore a squadron of cavalry rode up and cut down one of the men. The other man and the children retreated into the water and were shot like dogs.

All along the streets we could see the pleading storekeepers shot and sabred. Doors were broken down and windows torn out.

The sound of music -- the first we had heard since the invasion began -- drew us back to the drill-ground, where all the Japanese generals were assembled to congratulate the field-marshal -- all save Noghi, who was pursuing the enemy among the hills. What cheering and handshaking! What solemn strains from the band! And all the while we could hear the rattle of volleys in the streets of Port Arthur, and knew that the helpless people were being slain in cold blood, and their homes pillaged.

That was the coldest night we had known. The thermometer suddenly went down to twenty degrees above zero. I found my way up the valley to Suishiyeh, although I was so tired that I twice had to lie down on the roadside. There was nothing to eat in the little house where I slept, but the field-marshal sent me a bottle of Burgundy. For two weeks I had not taken my boots off.

There was one trembling old woman, and only one, in that great scene of carnage, her wrinkled face quivering with fear, and her limbs trembling as she wandered among the slain. Where was she to go? What was she to do? All the men were killed, all the women were off in the frozen hills, and yet not an eye of pity was turned upon her, but she was jostled and laughed at until she turned down a blood-stained alley, to see God knows what new horror.

Port Arthur was a rambling town of small dwellings and shops which grew up about the great modern Chinese naval depot, with its wonderful dry-dock, the largest in Asia.

When Oyama advanced from Kinchow, his chief of staff, Major Cameo, sent a captured spy into Port Arthur with the following letter addressed to General Ju, the Chinese commander who fled with his army from Talien-Wan: --

It is not necessary to describe in detail the pitiless murder of two thousand unarmed inhabitants of Port Arthur which gave the lie to this official promise of Japan. Whatever I may have written of that three days' slaughter at a time when Japan was seeking admission to the family of civilized nations, it is only just to say that the massacre at Port Arthur was the only lapse of the Japanese from the usages of humane warfare. A witness for civilization, I could not remain silent in the presence of such a crime. The humanity and self-control of the Japanese soldiery during the historic march of the allied nations to Peking, seven years later, -- notwithstanding the cruelty and barbarism of some of the European troops, -- have redeemed Japan in the eyes of history. The Japanese have demonstrated to the world that their civilization is substantial.

* * * * *

After crossing the Yellow Sea to Japan, and sending the story of Port Arthur to the New York World -- whose war correspondent I was -- I went to Tokio to attend the national celebration of the Japanese victories. The scene in Uyeno Park was one of strange and never-to-be-forgotten beauty. It was said that four hundred thousand persons were gathered together in that great festival.

Fantastic maskers danced under the shadows of gnarled and twisted pines; thrilling sounds of singing filled the air, and from a thick grove came the long, sweet booming of a hidden bell.

Old Japan, with her top-knotted men and her child-women -- graceful, poetic, innocent Japan -- rustled and glided about in waves of color and life; and high above the heads of the joyous multitudes were the mimic heads of Chinamen swinging from poles -- ghastly reminders of the scenes I had left behind me.

The crown prince was there, and the nobles of Japan, and as the vast processions moved along they sang the new ode written by the Japanese poet, Fukushi: --

* * * * *

In considering the astonishing result of the war between Japan and China, it is important to remember that the most decisive elements in the struggle were the presence of a passionate national sentiment on the one side, and the almost complete absence of patriotism on the other side. This alone explains what is otherwise inexplicable. The Chinese were well armed, and were fighting on their own soil behind great fortresses equipped with every death-dealing device of modern military science. But they were devoid of that pride of country, that fierce love of national glory, which thrilled the Japanese soldiery. So far as the Chinese were concerned, their flag represented a mere abstraction, a distant, invisible, almost unthinkable authority, having no direct relationship to the individual, and manifesting itself in an endless system of squeezing, through the doddering old mandarins and their brutal retainers. To die for such a flag seemed as foolish as the tears of Mark Twain at the grave of Adam. The proclamation of the Chinese Emperor, issued at the most critical stage of the struggle, called upon the inhabitants of Manchuria to resist the invaders -- not because their own manhood and honor would be stained by the conquest of their soil, not because their homes were threatened, not because they were to be enslaved by a foreign government, but for the reason that the tombs of the Emperor's ancestors at Moukden were in danger of desecration.

To the Japanese soldier, the flag of Japan stood for his own honor. His patriotism was simply an extension of his personal pride. Deep in his heart was the feeling that he who served Japan best, served God and the world best. It was that sentiment, that conviction, which developed the soldier spirit.

No man who has seen the two races in the field can doubt that the Chinese and Japanese are equally contemptuous of death. They are all fatalists. But the cold, passionless, abstruse Chinese system of civilization, the mysticism surrounding the throne, the remoteness of the imperial person from all understandable human connection with its subjects, has gradually denationalized China, and robbed the Chinese of any personal inspiration to shed their blood for the sake of their soil.

Since the battles of Port Arthur and Wei-Hai-Wei, the "Boxer movement" has called the attention of statesmen to the fact that a national sentiment is springing up in China, not because of the imperial government, but in spite of it.