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 Advance Praise for
Branding with Powerful Stories

“This book is an invaluable tool for anyone who is trying to tell a

more compelling business story. Based on his experiences as a
reporter and consultant, Stone provides a clever blueprint to help you
describe your products or services with eloquent impact.”
—Francesca Gino, professor, Harvard Business School,
and author, Rebel Talent: Why It Pays to Break
the Rules at Work and in Life

“Greg Stone masterfully explains why persuasive storytelling is

essential for today’s business leaders. He offers readers powerful
tools, techniques, and frameworks to become better storytellers and
better leaders at their organizations.”
—Justin Drake, Senior Manager,
Public Relations, Dunkin’ Brands

“This is such an accessible, beautifully written book offering new,

creative ways for organizations to ensure brighter, happier futures
for themselves. Greg’s use of storytelling, performance, and
characters as sense-making techniques is playful while at the same
time highly impactful. The book is an absolute pleasure to read and
one which will influence my approach to teaching leadership in the
future.”
—Jenny Knight, Senior Lecturer, University of
Brighton Business School, United Kingdom

“Greg Stone articulates the elements of memorable, compelling, and

emotional narratives about people, products, causes, companies, and
services. He interweaves inspiring quotes, relevant anecdotes, keen
observations, and his own experiences as producer, media trainer,
business entrepreneur, communication specialist, and one of the
smartest guys in the land. This is an important and highly readable
book for those of us seeking to craft and improve our stories, to grab
interest and attention, and to change opinions and behavior.”
—John Brodeur, Chairman, Brodeur Partners
“Communicating is the most important thing leaders do. Commu­
nicating well is the most important thing successful leaders do. Greg
Stone’s Branding with Powerful Stories ranges from Greek philosophy
to Hollywood blockbusters to provide an invaluable guide on how to
convey your message powerfully, memorably, and reliably. If you’re a
leader or you want to be one, Branding with Powerful Stories belongs
on your bookshelf.”
—Gautam Mukunda, Research Fellow, Center for
Public Leadership, Harvard Kennedy School, and author,
Indispensable: When Leaders Really Matter

“Greg Stone is the go-to resource for all who want to hone their
presentation skills and public speaking acumen—whether you are
giving a keynote talk for thousands or an update at your book club or
leading a conversation at a dinner party. Stone is a master craftsman
of storytelling with a successful track record of transforming novices
into confident presenters. His book offers both a practical roadmap
and an entertaining narrative that will enlighten, entertain, and
change the way you talk. Branding with Powerful Stories is a
standout, radiating sound advice and commonsense approaches that
will make a difference in your life.”
—Gina Vild, co-author, The Two Most Important
Days: How to Find Your Purpose—and
Live a Happier, Healthier Life

“Greg Stone understands that the most potent language is the language
of story. In this trenchant work, he draws on a wealth of sources—
from Bezos to Bogart to Lear to Degas—to construct a compelling
guide to the storytelling arts. A must-read for anyone who seeks to
engage, inspire, and persuade.”
—Francis Flaherty, former columnist and editor,
New York Times, and author, The Elements of Story:
Field Notes on Nonfiction Writing
 Branding with
Powerful Stories
 Branding with
Powerful Stories
The Villains, Victims,
and Heroes Model

Greg Stone
Copyright © 2019 by Greg Stone
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without prior
permission in writing from the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Stone, Greg J., author.

Title: Branding with powerful stories : the villains, victims, and heroes
model / Greg Stone.
Description: Santa Barbara, California : Praeger, [2019] | Includes
bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018034971 (print) | LCCN 2018037865 (ebook) | ISBN
9781440864780 (eBook) | ISBN 9781440864773 (hardcopy : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Branding (Marketing) | Storytelling.
Classification: LCC HF5415.1255 (ebook) | LCC HF5415.1255 .S76 2019 (print) |
DDC 658.8/27—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018034971

ISBN: 978-1-4408-6477-3 (print)

978-1-4408-6478-0 (ebook)
23 22 21 20 19   1 2 3 4 5
This book is also available as an eBook.
Praeger
An Imprint of ABC-CLIO, LLC
ABC-CLIO, LLC
130 Cremona Drive, P.O. Box 1911
Santa Barbara, California 93116-1911
www.abc-clio.com

This book is printed on acid-free paper

Manufactured in the United States of America

 To my loving family—
my wife, Mary; my daughter, Lauren;
and my son, Jack—whose stories are an indelible part of mine
Contents

Preface ix
Acknowledgments xi

Part One: The Elements of Your Story

ONE Why Bother with Storytelling? The Payoff Is

Executive Presence 3
TWO Find the Villain to Uncover the Story and Make
Your Company the “Hero” 5
THREE Travel to Your Islands: The Key Elements of
Messages 18
FOUR Brand with the Heart: Because Consumers
Often Think Products Have One 32
FIVE Why Stories Resonate: Neuroscience Meets Homer 40
SIX Examples of Great Business Stories: The
Formulas in Action 50

Part Two: How to Tell Your Story

SEVEN The Pictures Are Better on Radio or Podcasts:

Especially with Sound Bites, Rhythm, and Brevity 61
EIGHT How to Compose a Compelling Story, in Person
or on Video: A Dose of Dickens and a Splash of
Casablanca 69
viii Contents

NINE Making Rhetoric Stick: Tips, Signs, and Lies 88

TEN Make Your Words March: Clichés, Writer’s Block,
and Plot Patterns 106
ELEVEN Body Language, Vocal Techniques, and Stage
Fright: Your Body Speaks, Your Voice Gestures 116
TWELVE Social Media Relations: Printing Presses,
Water Coolers, and Crises 129
THIRTEEN More Stories to Emulate: Prevail with a Tale 137
FOURTEEN The End of the Story: My Own Saga 146

Notes 153
Bibliography 177
Index 197
Preface

The great enemy of communication, we find, is the illusion of it.

—William H. Whyte1
As a “thinking manager,” you undoubtedly want to become a better story-
teller or presenter. I wrote this book with you in mind. Whether you are a
newcomer to leadership, a seasoned speaker, a senior executive, or some-
one who wants to rise in prominence or rank, I will help you improve your
ability to tell your customers stories about the benefits that your products
or services bring to their lives. The techniques are also applicable to many
other audiences, including colleagues, suppliers, distributors, job inter-
viewers, and the press.
For many decades I have devoted my full attention to storytelling. In
every article or script I wrote as a print and broadcast journalist, every
commercial video I produced, every consulting session I have ever con-
ducted, I have dedicated myself to improving narrative skills—my own
and, most important, my clients’. Many people envy those who seem “nat-
ural” in front of an audience. They were just born with that innate talent,
right? Wrong. Those who make it look easy work very, very hard behind
the scenes. There is a myth, for instance, that Abraham Lincoln wrote the
Gettysburg Address on the train from Washington to the cemetery in
Pennsylvania. As Garry Wills tells us, however, in an entire book dedi-
cated to the speech, the 16th president was generally a slow writer, honing
sentences to smooth perfection.2 (We’ll revisit this later.) In the modern
era, many regard Bill Clinton (in his prime) as a great orator. Yet we forget
that his speech nominating Michael Dukakis at the Democratic National
Convention in 1988 was so boring and so long-winded that the audi-
ence applauded when he finally said, “And, in closing.” Plus, we must
x Preface

remember that Clinton was elected attorney general of Arkansas at age 30

and that he proceeded to serve five terms as governor of the state. He has
been a public speaker for virtually all of his adult life. The same could be
said of Ronald Reagan, the so-called great communicator, who had a long
apprenticeship as a radio announcer, actor, and president of the Screen
Actors Guild before he entered politics.
Yes, storytelling is a craft, and there are formulas to be learned. You
can and will improve with practice. Think of the process as a constant
refinement of messages. As Rudyard Kipling once wrote:
I keep six honest serving-men
(They taught me all I knew)
Their names are What and Why and When
And How and Where and Who.3
I submit that the two most important characters in this poem are What and
How, as in, “What does your business do?” (the substance of the story) and
“How does it do it?” (the mode or style of operation). The answers will
inevitably lead to your best stories. Accordingly, I have divided the book
into two parts: the first (chapters 1–6) focuses on the essential elements of
successful stories and the second (chapters 7–14) on the techniques of
delivery, with a few details about my own experiences at the end.
If I may digress for a moment, I refer you to Tana French, a wonderful
mystery writer who posted this memorable message to readers on her web-
site: “It’s not just your money that you’re putting on the line; it’s your
time. . . . I’ll do my absolute best not to waste [it].”4 Like her, I have pushed
myself to write a book that I hope will be worthy of your attention.
Note: The genesis of this book was my article “For Better Presentations,
Start with a Villain,” published in Harvard Business Review online on
November 12, 2015.
Acknowledgments

I am grateful to these kind people who shared their insights and experi-
ences: Professor Ethan Rouen of Harvard Business School; Professor
Emerita Mary Jo Hatch of the McIntyre School of Commerce at the Uni-
versity of Virginia; Dr. Steve Schlozman, Assistant Professor of Psychia-
try at Harvard Medical School, also a friend and neighbor; Dr. George
Daley, Dean of Harvard Medical School; Jerry Shanahan from the Salute
Military Golf Association; Jesse Laflamme, CEO of Pete and Gerry’s
Organic Eggs; Sree Sreenivasan, friend and social media expert extraordi-
naire; Marci Schorr Hirsch, friend and frequent advisor; Gale Pryor,
writer; Ian Todreas, friend and neighbor; Lisa May, real estate agent from
Sotheby’s in Cambridge, Massachusetts; Attorney Dan Dwyer, wordsmith
and orator; Debbie Burke, consultant and new friend; Christy McMann,
Assistant Director of Digital Engagement at Harvard Business School; my
fellow entrepreneurs, Suzanne Schalow and Kate Baker, from Craft Beer
Cellar in Belmont, Massachusetts; and my brother-in-law Tony Castro, a
skilled attorney and close friend.
I owe special gratitude to Ken Lizotte, my literary agent and pal, who
has been a loyal coach and confidant. He believed in me from the start and
has always been a man of his word and an all-around smart guy.
The team at Praeger has been outstanding. My editor, Hilary Claggett,
gave me the benefit of the 600 books (!) that she has shepherded. She is
kind, smart, and collaborative. I could not ask for a better partner in this
venture. I echo the praise for Erin Ryan, who reviewed the copy once Hil-
ary was done. She too is kind and supportive. I also salute the wonderful
Michelle Scott and Suchitra Raghavalu, who did a great deal of heavy lift-
ing in the copyediting process. All of these smart women caught many
errors and lapses, though I take full responsibility for any that might remain.
xii Acknowledgments

Helen Zhai created the graphics inside the book. She was efficient,
­flexible, and massively talented.
I also want to acknowledge my best friends, who have supported me
throughout my life in ways I could never repay. I list them in alphabetical
order, along with the years we first met: Ken Bachman (1970), Greg Bauer
(1982), Allen Cypher (1970), Frank Flaherty (1973), Russ Frye (1971), Phil
Landa (2013), Jon Sarkin (1963), Jack Stilwell (1962), and John Strahinich
(1980).
I thank those who wrote kind comments about this book: Frank ­Flaherty
(see above); John Brodeur, a PR maven and long-standing confidant; the
ever-witty Professor Jenny Knight from the University of Brighton Busi-
ness School in the United Kingdom; Justin Drake, a wonderful client from
Dunkin’ Brands; Gina Vild, a friend, comrade in communications and co-
author of the insightful book The Two Most Important Days; Francesca
Gino, friend and Professor at Harvard Business School, and author of the
outstanding book Rebel Talent: Why it Pays to Break the Rules at Work
and in Life; and Gautam Mukunda, friend, research fellow at Harvard’s
Kennedy School, and author of the superb book Indispensable: When
Leaders Really Matter.
And last, I salute my family, to whom this book is dedicated. Without
my wife, Mary; my daughter, Lauren; and my son, Jack, my own story
would have no consequence.
 PART 1

The Elements of Your Story

ONE
Why Bother with Storytelling?
The Payoff Is Executive Presence

Is storytelling really that important?

Communication is a necessary component of the job description for vir-
tually any business leader. It’s not enough to simply do the work. You have
to be able to explain yourself fluently in clear, crisp language. You need to
deliver forceful, colorful, compelling messages, translated into narratives,
with human actors, sensory details, and drama. As I always tell my
­children, now 21 and 26, presentation skills are not just for the podium.
“One day,” I’ll say, “your boss or a colleague will suddenly appear at your
office door and ask, ‘So how’s that project going?’ If you can describe your
work succinctly and, you hope, with nuanced logic, you’ll make a good
impression. If not . . .”
As this is a book about storytelling, let’s begin with a story. A cabinet
official at the Lincoln White House was startled to see the commander in
chief engaged in a rather mundane task: “Mr. President,” he asked, “are
you shining your own shoes?” Without taking a beat, Lincoln replied,
“Whose shoes would I shine?”1 This anecdote reveals that our 16th presi-
dent was at once unpretentious, humble, and quick witted. Those traits
point toward executive presence—an elusive quality that is easy to recog-
nize but hard to describe. One useful definition is the “ability to connect
authentically with the thoughts and feelings of others . . . to motivate and
inspire them toward a desired outcome.”2 To achieve this, you must first
ask yourself a very tough question that will stun a room into silence: “Why
would anyone want to be led by you?”3 Would your colleagues use any of
these words to describe you: inspiring, motivating, commanding, credible,
confident, or compelling? If you’re the boss, you are on stage all the time.
4 Branding with Powerful Stories

Employees will notice if your door is open or closed, whether you stay in
your office all day or walk around, and even how you interact with fellow
passengers in an elevator.4 Above all, remember that a key element of lead-
ership is the ability to tell forceful and persuasive stories that resonate
with the audience. That is at the core of executive presence.
Before we go any further, however, let’s debunk some myths about sto-
rytelling. First, you do not have to be Brad Pitt, Meryl Streep, or Cicero to
hold an audience’s attention. Rather, storytelling is “action oriented—a
force for turning dreams into goals and then into results.”5 Second, you
don’t have to memorize a “script.” In fact, a story “should sound different
each time. Whether you tell it to 2,000 customers at a convention, 500
salespeople at a marketing meeting . . . or three CEOs over drinks, you
should tailor it to the situation.”6 Feel free to improvise.7
Eloquence occupies a special position at the core of management. But
do not be discouraged. Persuasive speaking may be essential, but it is only
part of the equation. Napoleon reportedly believed that half his genius lay
in his ability to inspire his soldiers to die for him and the other half in his
aptitude for calculating “with great accuracy just how long it would take to
transport a herd of elephants from Paris to Cairo.”8 (This book, however,
deals with eloquence and not elephants.) Yet you don’t have to be a creative
writer. Bear in mind that your audience is already familiar with hundreds
of stories or memes, “a culture’s version of genes,” and it is your challenge
to supplant and augment them,9 otherwise the most mundane tales will
dominate. First, you need to choose the right elements. As you are about to
learn, the villain is your best friend.
TWO
Find the Villain to Uncover the
Story and Make Your Company
the “Hero”

In my consulting practice, I have often watched senior executives start

presentations with bland and platitudinous themes with as much pith as a
puff of smoke, for instance, “We have a new focus on customer satisfac-
tion,” or “Our current strategic goals are execution and innovation.”1 Do
these examples sound familiar? Sadly, leaders who utter such drivel might
actually believe they can motivate their staff with vague abstractions. I
call this the “stratosphere syndrome.” It’s not only lacking but lackluster.
Did Shakespeare begin Hamlet by saying, “This is a play about indeci-
sion”? Of course not. Yet most executives like to reside in the stratosphere,
where they can bask in the safety of generalities. A cynic might note that
no one ever gets fired for uttering bromides. Yet by the same token few are
promoted by clichés either. So please, come down to sea level and tell the
audience about the daily experiences of your customers.
Focus on the three principal “players” in any good story: the villain, the
victim, and the hero. There is an old Hollywood adage that great scoun-
drels make great movies. Alfred Hitchcock said it best, “The better the
villain, the better the picture.”2 That’s why so many of his crooks were
attractive, distinguished, well bred, and, yes, evil too. That combination of
conflicting traits is captivating. In the same vein, the hero should be flawed
6 Branding with Powerful Stories

as well as noble, with both kindness and a hint of cruelty, otherwise the
story will be comic-bookish.
“Fair enough,” you may be saying to yourself. “But what does all this
have to do with my business?” The answer: “Everything.”
When you try to tell the story of your company, ask yourself who, or
what, the heroes, villains, and victims may be. And start with the villains.
Often they are not animate. In the mind of the consumer, mere frustration
is a recognizable evil, as is a transaction that is incomplete or unsatisfying
(anything from a faulty product to cold coffee to melted ice cream). It is
important to note that the villain need not have a name, or even an identity
(think of Voldemort in the Harry Potter tales—the one whose name can-
not be spoken), but must be recognizable. The victim, as it were, is the
customer whose problem you’re trying to solve. The hero? Your company
or team.
Table 2.1 provides a few examples.
When you’re telling a story, start with a colorful explanation of your
customers’ difficulties, and be sure to display ample sympathy for their
plight. Be as dramatic as decorum permits. Describe the “villains” in bold
terms, but not from your perspective. It would be crude, if not insulting, to
begin by saying “XYZ organic fertilizer will make your lawn greener and
safer” because you would be speaking from your own point of view.
Instead, cast the customer in the starring role: “You will be happy know-
ing that your children and your puppy will not be harmed when they roll
around on the grass.” Let the audience recognize themselves as the victim,
with your product or service acting as the solution. It would be inappropri-
ate to describe your company as the “hero,” but that message will be con-
veyed implicitly. Again, notice that the “characters” are not necessarily
people. Pollution has no name, but it surely is a villain, is it not?
Let’s take a look at actual stories that illustrate these concepts in action.
Muhammad Yunus is known as the architect of microcredit. The idea for
this innovation came to him in Bangladesh in the 1970s when he was a
young professor of economics. On a field trip to a poor hamlet, he and his
students met a woman who made stools out of bamboo on a muddy patch
of land outside her shabby hut. A local “banker” loaned her money to buy
the raw materials, yet he retained the sole rights to the merchandise at
prices he set. To compound matters, no pun intended, he was charging
unconscionable interest rates, as high as 10 percent per day. Yunus came
to the rescue with a loan of less than $27—enough to free that woman and
41 others from the cruel grip of the moneylender. “If I could make so
 Find the Villain to Uncover the Story and Make Your Company the “Hero” 7

Table 2.1 Applying the Model

Industry “Villain(s)” “Victim(s)” “Hero(es)”
Health care Disease; suffering; Patients and Efficient,
bad outcomes; their families effective, and
death compassionate
care
Software Unreliable Consumers who Technology
programs; slow are frustrated or that works,
processing; blue hacked safely
screens of death;
porous security
Manufacturing High cost; Those who pay Efficiencies
restricted markets; too much for and fairness
unfulfilled inferior goods,
promises; or who are
dangerous products harmed by them
Education High tuition; Students who Affordable
degrees that don’t graduate with a education
lead to useful mountain of providing
employment; debt and no job marketable
irrelevance prospects skills
Lawn care Poisonous Anyone who Organic
chemicals breathes the air products that
or drinks the help plants
water grow without
polluting

many people so happy with such a tiny amount of money,” Yunus said,
“why not do more of it? That is what I have been trying to do ever since.”3
This tale simply works, doesn’t it? It has all the elements: a classic vil-
lain (the greedy moneylender), powerless victims (the people struggling to
escape his clutches), and a hero in the form of humane microbanking (as
evidenced by a tiny loan whose impact far exceeds its paltry dollar value).
Note that the theme comes at the end, as a natural outgrowth of the facts.
The villain-victim-hero paradigm is effective in personal stories as
well. Look at the way Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos described a “villain” he
faced in college:
8 Branding with Powerful Stories

I went to Princeton primarily because I wanted to study physics. . . .

Things went fairly well until I got to quantum mechanics [and] I real-
ized “I’m never going to be a great physicist.” . . . At the same time I
had been studying computer science and was . . . drawn to that more
and more. . . . One of the great things Princeton taught me is that I’m
not smart enough to be a physicist.4
We can recognize ourselves in this anecdote because Bezos casts himself
as the sweating victim of a villain called quantum mechanics, and the uni-
versity becomes the “hero” for showing him a different way forward.
Again, the overarching theme comes at the end. There is no need to explic-
itly identify the roles the “characters” play. We understand the structure
intuitively.
Here is another example. Dateline about 2010, holiday season, Wayne,
Pennsylvania. An 89-year-old retired engineer, snowed in, worries that he
won’t have enough food. His granddaughter calls several grocery stores,
but none will deliver—except Trader Joe’s. Managers tell her they do not
ordinarily deliver, but they make an exception for the elderly man. More-
over, they suggest low-sodium items to help him follow his dietary restric-
tions. The groceries arrive in 30 minutes, free of charge.5 This anecdote is
more powerful than a thousand platitudes about customer service, isn’t it?
The “characters” are the blizzard that shuts down the city (that is, the vil-
lain), the helpless old man (the victim), and the compassionate store that
rescues him (the hero).
In sum, try to emulate Bezos’s personal touch, Yunus’s eloquence, and
Trader Joe’s compassion when you describe your brand’s “heroism,” espe-
cially the way your product or service vanquishes problems. If you depict the
consumer’s predicament in gritty, sympathetic terms, then the “virtue” of
your company should resonate with customers, colleagues, and media alike.
If you haven’t thought about the “villains” your company is fighting, or
if you are deaf to the cris de coeur of your customers (that is their passion-
ate appeals, complaints, or protests), then you need to do some legwork to
add power to your messaging. Here are some suggestions:
• Interview your best customers and ask them what their key problems
are. (In my case, for instance, many of my clients fear public speaking
or have trouble telling their stories.)
• Interview both former and prospective customers. (If you think it’s
awkward to have this conversation yourself, then hire a researcher to
do it for you.)
 Find the Villain to Uncover the Story and Make Your Company the “Hero” 9

• Find out what clients need to resolve their predicaments and the solu-
tions they currently lack.
• Try to discover what your competitors are saying about customer
pain.

GRAPHICS PORTRAY HEROES AND VILLAINS TOO

Power corrupts, and PowerPoint corrupts absolutely. For me, the first
rule is “Don’t use PowerPoint.” If you must, however (and I understand
that in many large corporations the “deck” is a necessary element of any
presentation—so fundamental that its absence could be perceived as a der-
eliction of duty), then by all means use graphics sparingly. Remember this:
you are the presentation, not the slides. If you are simply reading the text
on your PowerPoint, then do us all a favor and e-mail the copy to us and sit
down. We can certainly read faster than you can speak.
In any case, bear in mind that graphics have heroes and villains just as
stories do. For instance, take a look at this bar chart:
10 Branding with Powerful Stories

Without any information about the content of the X and Y axes, we can
immediately see that the second bar from the left is prominent. If it repre-
sents revenues in EMEA (Europe, the Middle East, and Africa) and the
other bars depict the results in other regions, then we instantly compre-
hend that the tallest item is the “hero.” And if we label the vertical axis
clearly as “Sales in Dollars” and tag the bars with the names of the regions,
then we can turn a dull PowerPoint slide into a narrative whose basic story
arc is abundantly clear.
Here’s another example:

Let’s assume that this pie chart represents Cost of Goods Sold. Clearly,
then, the huge segment in the lower right-hand corner is the “villain.” If
we label it “Raw Materials,” then we have already written the first chapter
of our novel and introduced our “scoundrel.” Any sixth grader could
instantly grasp that the money we are paying for those components is
inordinately and disproportionately large, and therein lies the tale. When-
ever I see PowerPoint graphics, I wish that the presenter would just take
the time to simplify the concepts so that I could intuitively grasp the mes-
sage without having to work at all. Here are three simple rules to follow:
1. Always explain what the X and Y axes represent. There is nothing
worse than puzzling over the meaning of the lines and missing the
point. Once we are confused by even one slide, we generally tune out
altogether.
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
Schwab is Shocked—Snapshots—The Coming Battle—To Liao-yang—Schwab's
Opportunity—Carpe Diem—Suobensius—Shimose—Last Wishes—Stackelberg—
Something Accomplished—Rhapsody—Two-Piece Pony

That night Jack shared a tiny room with Hi Lo. The boy had become
accustomed to see his master in Chinese dress, but the situation was
entirely changed now that he had to regard him as an equal and
address him as Sin Foo. Jack impressed on the little fellow that
everything depended on his caution—Jack's own safety, and the
prosecution of his quest; and Hi Lo showed a quite painful anxiety to
behave with discretion and yet with naturalness.
Next day Schwab spent several hours in explaining to Jack, not
too lucidly, the working of the camera; the development of the
negatives he reserved for himself. Then he prepared to sally forth to
make a few experiments. An American correspondent, standing with
his hands in his pockets at the door of the little Chinese hotel,
observed Jack as he passed.
"Hello, Schwab!" he shouted. "Caught a Tartar at last, eh?"
"Yes, Mr. Vanzant—if zat is not a shoke. Zis man is not afraid—
he gif sign of modicum of intelligence; I zink he vill do."
"I guess he will do for your camera; well, so long!"
Walking out of the city, Schwab set Jack to take photographs of
a few prominent objects—the Temple of Earth beyond the eastern
gate, the Tomb of Wen-Hsiang, the statesman who rose from being
a table-boy to the highest official appointments, Dr. Christie's
Hospital, where the little Scots doctor had dispensed the blessings of
Western surgery and medicine to thousands of grateful patients.
Schwab was delighted with Sin Foo's rapid progress; it amazed him.
 "Truly I zink ze Manchu is not such a fool as he look," he said.
"My plenty muchee glad masta likee Sin Fool," said Jack gravely.
"Ach! You do so vell zat to-morrow ve go to take var pictures.
Zere vill soon be a great battle; ze Russians shall at last do goot
business."
In the afternoon they went up to the railway-station to see if
seats could be booked in next morning's train, Jack carrying the
camera in case anything of interest should offer. The station was
crowded. For many days troops had been passing towards the
south; the platform was now thronged with soldiers, surgeons,
nurses, camp-followers. Schwab was amazed, his German sense of
discipline was shocked, to see colonels walking arm in arm with
lieutenants; still more when he noticed a placard stuck up in the
buffet, signed by General Sakharoff, threatening with dire
punishment any officer who should presume to criticise his superiors
or their conduct of the operations. He was disgusted also to observe,
in a siding, a superb dining-room car in which a company of officers
and ladies were eating and drinking with a light-hearted gaiety that
ill matched the occasion, if the rumours of the stupendous battle
approaching were well founded.
"You, Sin Foo," said Schwab, "I tell you zis; zat is not var. Zat is
not ze vay ve Gairmans shall behave ourselves ven ve go to invade
England; zen you vill see var zat is var. You understan'?"
Seeing little probability of obtaining a seat in the train, Schwab
decided to return to the hotel and journey south on ponies.
As they left the station a number of Russian soldiers who had
just marched in were lying dead-beat in a sort of trench parallel with
a siding. A troop train was being slowly made up, doubtless to
convey these and other men southward to the front. Schwab stood
contemplating them for a moment. Then he turned to Jack.
"Boy, upfix ze camera; ve vill take schnapshot of zese men."
"Allo lightee, masta," replied Jack, wondering at the German's
choice of a subject. He was to be enlightened on that point later.
It was late in the day by the time they reached the city. Passing
along the principal street, they saw a crowd of natives hurrying
down a side alley uttering piercing shouts. Jack noticed that two or
three of them had buckets suspended from the ends of a long
bamboo pole carried on the shoulder.
"My tinkey house hab catchee fia."
"A gonflagration in Moukden! Zat vill be ver' interesting to ze
abonnenten of my baber. Ve vill take it on ze hop."
Schwab led the way, his tall bulky form making a path through
the crowd. A pawn-shop was ablaze. The roof had already fallen in.
Siberian infantrymen were trying to keep order in the crowd—
hundreds of Chinamen yelling, jostling each other, going hither and
thither with their buckets, splashing through the mud. Many of them
were laughing uproariously; to the Chinaman a fire is purely a
spectacle, to be enjoyed without any disturbing sympathy for the
victims, whose efforts to save themselves and their goods are
greeted as the most enjoyable farce. Some of the crowd were
waving bright-coloured flags; in the glare from the burning house it
was like a scene from a country fair. Here and there Chinamen were
squirting feeble and futile jets of water on the house from tiny
copper pumps, like the syringes used at home for watering flowers.
An old mandarin in yellow silk forced his way through the press,
paying no heed to the fire, anxious only to get home without soiling
his white socks. But the throng was becoming unwieldy; there was
danger of the whole quarter being set ablaze; and at last a Russian
captain came up with a squad of men at the request of the Chinese
Viceroy himself, and set about clearing the street in a business-like
way. For a few minutes the confusion seemed redoubled; the
Chinamen scampered this way and that as the Russians came at the
double along the street. This moment was seized by Schwab, who
evidently had a keen eye for a tableau. At his bidding Jack took a
snap-shot of the strange scene—a scene that would have been
appropriate to the stage of a comic opera. Then he returned with his
employer to the Green Dragon. The correspondents there—French,
Italian, English, and American—were in the bustle of preparation for
moving out next day to Liao-yang, where a big battle was expected
to take place.
Jack, it must be confessed, was considerably excited at the
prospect of seeing something at close quarters of this terrible war,
which had brought forth so many surprises for the world. Hitherto he
had seen nothing but its fringe; and of the many contradictory
rumours he had heard he was not disposed to believe too much. The
Russian officers with whom he had talked were divided into two
classes: the partisans of Alexeieff and those of Kuropatkin. The
majority pinned their faith to Kuropatkin. If he had been left alone,
they said, the war would have followed an entirely different course.
He would have waited patiently at Harbin until his army had been
raised to overwhelming strength; then he would have taken the
offensive and driven the Japanese into the sea. But his strategy had
been dictated either by Alexeieff or from St. Petersburg. Worse than
that, he had not been able to devote his whole energies to the
proper work of a commander-in-chief. That in itself was a
stupendous task for one man, afflicted with a poor staff. But the
general had been compelled to attend to details of commissariat,
hospital arrangements, the supply of clothes, the preparation of
maps. His was a harassing struggle against corruption,
incompetence, and drunkenness. Once, alighting at a railway-station
to make an inspection, he found the platform strewn with intoxicated
officers. With a burst of anger, unusual in a man habitually patient
and calm, he ordered the wretched men to be sent on by the first
train to the front.
What had been the course of the war since that memorable May
day when the invading army crossed the Yalu? General Kuroki's
brilliant dash was followed by several weeks of what to the outside
world seemed comparative inaction. But during that period both
sides were straining every nerve: the Russians to hurry forward
reinforcements and complete the great fortified positions along the
railway; the Japanese to perfect the arrangements for the three
great armies which were, first, to cut off Port Arthur, and then to
move northwards against the main Russian forces concentrating in
the neighbourhood of Liao-yang. General Stackelberg having failed
at Wa-fang-ho in his forlorn hope against the army investing Port
Arthur, the northward movement of the Japanese was slowly
resumed, the Russian right being steadily driven back along the
railway with occasional half-hearted attempts to stem the Japanese
advance. Meanwhile General Kuroki on the east had forced the
mountain passes at Motien-ling, and General Nodzu, in command of
the centre, was preparing for the attack on the Russian position at
To-ma-shan that resulted in the evacuation of Hai-cheng. The
beginning of August found the three Japanese armies relentlessly
driving the Russian forces towards the fortified positions south of
Liao-yang which General Kuropatkin had prepared as the scene of
his first serious attempt to roll back the tide of invasion.
It was a warm, dry morning, the 29th of August, when Schwab,
Jack, and Hi Lo, mounted on hardy ponies, hit the Green Dragon for
their forty miles ride to Liao-yang.
Just before they reached the gate, Jack had an exceedingly
uncomfortable moment when he noticed his father's enemy Sowinski
hurrying in the opposite direction in a Pekin cart. The Pole passed
without recognizing the tall figure in Chinese dress, though he gave
a nod to Schwab. Jack knew that to the European all Chinamen look
pretty much alike; but he did not wish to come to too close quarters
with the Pole, and was glad that for a time at any rate he would run
no risk of being recognized in the streets.
The rains had ceased some days before; the wind was
beginning to dry the mud which in the wet season renders all traffic
impossible. The other correspondents had already gone to the front,
and when our riders left the mud walls of Moukden behind them
they saw nobody on the road except a regiment of Cossacks
marching off behind their band, and a number of Greek camp-
followers going south in the hope of reaping some profit from the
battle.
As they approached Liao-yang they heard the dull boom of guns
in the distance. For several days the three Japanese armies under
Generals Kuroki, Oku, and Nodzu had been marching through
mountain passes and the valleys opening upon the Tai-tse-ho, and
the Russians had been falling back on the circular line of defences
which for three months they had been strengthening. As he heard
the thunderous reverberations, Schwab exulted.
"So!" he exclaimed, "I haf vaited long time. At last my
obbortunity haf come. Zis are business. Ze Illustrirte Vaterland und
Colonien shall haf fine bictures taken egsbress by a Gairman viz
native assistance on ze sbot. Famos!"
Liao-yang is a walled city lying on the direct road from Moukden
to Newchang and Port Arthur, and even more picturesquely situated
than the capital. Three miles north of the city flows the Tai-tse-ho,
taking a northerly course by the north-east corner of the walls. The
railway passes at some distance to the west, making an acute angle
with the western end of the city. Southward the ground rises
gradually. Here the Russians had prepared their defences; the crests
of the hills were scored with several lines of trenches, the result of
three months' diligent spade-work.
Schwab and his two companions, entering the city from the
north, found themselves in the midst of great bustle and activity.
The streets were thronged with soldiers; long lines of transport
wagons were arriving; and the merchants, native and foreign, were
plying a brisk trade. Schwab had some difficulty in finding a lodging;
the hotel, kept by a Greek, was full; but he at length secured a small
cottage near the wall at an exorbitant rental. It was evening when
they arrived; Hi Lo prepared a supper consisting of tinned sausages
and biscuit brought from Moukden, and pears purchased from a local
fruiterer. The booming of artillery had ceased, but the city was full of
noise, and Jack was amazed at the careless light-hearted mood in
which the soldiers, officers and men, were preparing for the
struggle.
 Before seeking repose on his frowsy k'ang that night, Herr
Schwab went out to prospect for a spot on which to place his
camera next day. He returned in a state of exaltation.
"Zere shall be colossal combat," he said. "I haf shtood on ze
blatform by ze reservoir, and zere I converse viz high Russian officer,
his gloves vite as snow. No more shall zere be evacuation, he tell
me; ze fight shall now be to ze death. Boy, ve shall see shtubendous
zinks. You are afraid?"
Map of Battle of Liao-Yang, Aug-Sept. 1904. Map of
Battle of Moukden.
 "My no aflaid this-time, masta; allo-same my tinkey no hab look-
see bobbely yet; what-time guns makee big bang-lo, that-time
masta talkee 'bout Sin Foo he belongey aflaid."
"Vell, you muss screw your gourage to ze shticky place, for
vizout doubt ve shall be in ze midst of schrapnells. It insbires me: I
breeze deep. I zink of my ancestor Hildebrand Suobensius, a great
fighter, a Landsknecht, in ze Middle Age. Vun say zat I am ver' like."
Herr Schwab struck his chest, and continued:
"It is in ze blood. Zerefore vake me early in ze morning; ve shall
be early out to secure a goot blace."
But there was no need for Sin Foo to wake his master. Before
day had fully broken, Herr Schwab was shocked from his sleep by
the boom of heavy guns—the opening of a cannonade that broke
the paper windows and set the crockery rattling. Springing up, he
bade Hi Lo saddle the two ponies, and, stuffing some biscuits into
his pocket, set off with Jack and the camera, leaving Hi Lo to guard
the house.
He led the way to the north-west of the town, past the reservoir
and the brick-built government offices near the railway-station,
which was already crowded with officers scanning the horizon
through their binoculars. On the previous night he had marked a
solitary hill, known as the Shu-shan, some distance south-west of
the city, as an ideal place for a general view of the battle-field. An
old Korean signal-tower crowned its summit; it was approached on
two sides by easy slopes, but on the north was precipitous, its rocky
face cut by ravines dark with overhanging clumps of firs. At the
western base a battery of artillery was posted.
 Arriving at the hill, Schwab saw that it was impossible to ride up
its northern face, while to ascend on either side would be to court
death from the Japanese shells. But in his zeal on behalf of the
Illustrirte Vaterland he was determined to gain the summit. Hitching
the pony's reins to a tree, he bade Jack follow him up the steep
acclivity nearer the road, warning him to be very careful of the
camera. After a stiff climb they, panting, reached the top. Just as
they appeared there was a prolonged whistle followed by a sharp
crack; the new-comers were assailed with loud shouts; several
hands seized upon Schwab and forced him into a trench cut in front
of the tower, and rough Russian voices informed the puffing German
that he had narrowly escaped a shrapnel. He did not understand
what they said; but Jack, who had slipped into the trench behind
him, whispered:
"My tinkey this plenty nasty place. Japanese he shoot too
stlaight."
Herr Schwab mopped his face with a red bandanna and glanced
somewhat nervously around. But the shock wore off, and finding
himself to all seeming well protected, his courage soared into
antiquity.
"My ancestor, Hildebrand Suobensius——" he began.
There was a shriek above him; another shell had burst but a
few yards away. He dropped flat in the trench. Twisting his neck until
one side of its fleshiness was creased with deep furrows, he said:
"Tell me, boy, do you see any more shells goming?"
Jack peeped cautiously over.
"My no look-see no mo'e, masta. He come long-long chop-chop
all-same."
 Schwab slowly rose to his knees, again mopping his brow.
"Zis is most terrible. Never did I zink zat var vas such a
business! Gnädiger Himmel! vy haf I gome? Boy, I haf a
bresentiment." His voice sank on a tragic note. "I feel it here." He
laid his hand on the lower buttons of his ample waistcoat. "I,
Hildebrand Schwab, shall vizout doubt be killed." He wrung the
bandanna out. "Listen, boy, gif notice: ven I am killed you shall send
all my goots to Schlagintwert Gompany in Düsseldorf, all egzept ze
letter to Schneiders Sohne, vich gontain order for vun dozen trouser
stretchers for General Belinski; zat you shall bost. And listen, boy:"—
here his voice sank to a confidential whisper—"in my writing-desk
zere is a visp of my hair tied up viz bink ribbon, and a boem, a boem
of lov; zese you vill send to ze Frau Jane Bottle, at ze address on ze
envelope, and you vill register ze packett. Yes—and insure it—you
shall insure it for hundert dollars."
Herr Schwab sighed deeply, at the same time keeping an eye on
the direction whence the last shell had come.
Another shrapnel burst a few yards in his rear. He groaned,
lamenting bitterly. The men of Stackelberg's 1st Siberian Infantry
paid no attention to him; in the trench they were secure. General
Stackelberg himself was at the other end, grimly peering through his
glasses over the epaulement.
Suddenly the projectiles ceased to pass over them. Jack
ventured to raise his head and scan the surrounding country. Before
him stretched a plain dotted with villages, the fields covered with the
waving green stalks of kow-liang. On the crests beyond, some two
miles away, lay the batteries of the Japanese; their infantry was
swarming in the intervening level, but concealed by the kow-liang.
To the left, separated from the Shu-shan hill by the An-shan-chan
road, was an irregular line of lower heights, stretching as far as the
eye could reach and out of sight. Here were posted the main forces
of the Russian infantry, ensconced in cunningly devised trenches. In
every gap between the rocky hills batteries were placed, concealed
by every possible device. To the west of Shu-shan the Russian
cavalry, with a portion of the 1st Siberian Army Corps, was stationed
to protect the railway and the right flank. Behind, between the hills
and the town, large forces of infantry were held in reserve, with the
hospital tents and field ambulances. Temporary lines of rail had been
laid from the station to the rear of the hills, and on these trolleys
containing ammunition were pushed along by men.
Jack explained as much of the position as he could see to
Schwab, who, in the security of the trench, took diligent notes, for
reproduction in the Illustrirte Vaterland as first-hand evidence.
"But tell me, boy, do you see General Kuroki? I do not lov
General Kuroki; he ill-use me, he gif me vat zey call beans, ven I vas
in Korea last year. Is he in sight?"
"My no can look-see one piecee Japanese. Allo hidee inside
kowliang."
"So! I make a note of zat. All ze Japanese hide. Ver' goot."
Jack now became aware that General Stackelberg was standing
erect at the end of the trench, fully exposed to the Japanese
gunnery. The general, in hooded cloak, wearing white gloves, spick
and span as if on parade, was calmly sweeping the plain with his
glass, issuing orders, dictating telegrams, slowly, deliberately. Shells
again began to fly around; but Stackelberg, summoned to the
telephone installed behind the tower, walked erect towards the spot
heedless of a shrapnel that burst within a few yards of him,
bespattering his clothes with black dust. Jack felt a thrill of
admiration; the general was giving the lie to the slanderers who said
that at Wa-fang-ho he had skulked in his carriage.
Now the sharp crackle of musketry was mingled with the
shrieking of the shells. Long lines of Japanese were threading their
way through the fields, endeavouring to turn the Russian right.
Stackelberg marked the movement; he gave an order; the Russians
in the trenches sprang to their feet and ran down the slope to
reinforce the threatened position. Rain began to fall, and Schwab
raised his head from the trench.
"Ach! it rains. Vill it shtop ze battle, zink you?"
"My no tinkey so," said Jack. "Japanese, he fetchee plenty big
guns; he come this-side chop-chop."
"Ach, ich Unglücklicher!" Schwab hastily dropped back into
safety. "Nefer shall I leave ze Vaterland again. But I shall not return;
Düsseldorf shall zee me no more; no; I haf a bresentiment; I feel it
here."
Jack, following the movement of his employer's hand, made a
suggestion.
"P'laps masta he belongey hungly; p'laps he want-chee chow-
chow." He offered him a biscuit.
Schwab shook his head dismally.
"No, no; I haf no abbedide."
"My eat he."
Nibbling the biscuit, Jack, in a lull of the firing, ventured to leave
the trench. A moment later he called to Schwab.
 "My hab catchee one-piecee pictul. Japanese lunning long-side
kowliang; littee littee black t'ings inside gleen stalks."
"Gott sei dank! I shall not die vizout agomblishing somezink for
ze Vaterland. Ach! zere is anozer!"
There was a gentle sound overhead, like the cry of a wounded
bird. An aide-de-camp crossing the hill-top fell with a groan. A
bearer-party marked with the Red Cross appeared from behind the
tower and swiftly bore him out of sight.
Schwab flattened himself as much as his rotund form permitted
against the floor of the trench. The cannonade was resumed with
redoubled fury. The din was incessant; shells whistling and
shrieking; musketry crackling; the Russian batteries in their
emplacements thundering as they replied to the Japanese.
Whole ranks of the Japanese were mowed down in the fields;
still they pressed on. They were attempting to turn the Russian
right. Reinforcements were hurried to the threatened regiments;
battery answered battery; the ground trembled under the repeated
shocks. The attack was repulsed, and long blood-stained tracks
marked the path of the bearers as they conveyed thousands of
wounded to the rear. Stackelberg had held his own.
Dusk was falling, the rain ceased, and a steaming mist rose over
the ground. There was a lull in the firing. Jack stood upon the
epaulement. To the left he saw a village in flames.
"My hab catchee nuzza velly good pictul, masta," he said.
"Goot boy! Zink you it is now safe for me to shtand opp?"
"My tinkey so. He fightey man tinkee hab plenty nuff."
Schwab got up slowly on his knees, peered over the edge of the
trench, then stood upon his feet. He was beginning to regain his
spirits.
"So! Famos!" he exclaimed. "I see all ze whole fielt of battle; I
see burning villages, black fielts, hundert or tousand dead men. Zis
is var. Vat a—vat a"—Herr Schwab was at a loss for words—"vat a
zink is var!" He threw out his chest and snuffed the smoke-laden
breeze. "But I muss go and describe ze battle for my journal,
illusdraded viz photographs taken by a Gairman sobjeck on ze sbot.
My ancestor Hildebrand——"
They were turning to walk down the hill; a belated shrapnel
shell burst within a few yards of them, peppering the ground in all
directions. A splinter shaved off an inch or two of the leather cover
of the camera. Schwab cut short his reminiscence by dropping flat
upon the rain-soaked ground. When he arose, a pitiable object, after
a short period of self-communing, without further words he
hastened towards the path.
Another shell crashed upon the rocks to the left, hurling a lofty
fir-tree into the ravine.
"Ach! gome alonk, gome alonk! Ve shall be killed. Let us go to
find our bonies."
Scrambling down to the spot where they had left the animals,
Schwab uttered a woeful cry; they had disappeared. A Siberian
infantryman was passing; him the German interrogated. But the
Russian shook his head; he knew no German. Jack ventured to
question him in broken Russian.
"Yes, I did see two ponies. A Chinaman led them. That was long
ago."
"He say-lo China boy hab catchee two-piecee pony, wailo long-
time."
 Schwab lifted up his voice in bitter lamentation. It was growing
dark; the ground had been made a miry swamp by the rain; there
was no alternative but to tramp back through it to Liao-yang. They
reached the mandarin road. Their feet sank ankle-deep in mud; at
every step they almost left their boots behind. Long stretches of the
road were under water. Carts were passing drawn by long teams of
mules. Schwab tried to bargain for a seat, but the drivers refused to
listen to him; their loads were wounded men, who at every jolt
uttered heart-rending moans. Jack suggested that they should leave
the road and cut across the fields to the railway; they would find the
embankment easier walking. This they did, pursued, as it seemed,
by the whistling bullets of the Japanese. At length, unharmed,
untouched, they reached the northern gate, and, entering, made
their way all bemired, weary and famished, to the cottage where Hi
Lo awaited them.

CHAPTER XII
The Retreat from Liao-yang

Rifle and Bayonet—Kuroki—Schwab's Strategic Movement—The Moukden Road—At

Yentai—One of the Wounded—Pawns in the Game—Our Friends the Enemy—Story
and Song—Schwab Smokes

Next day dawned bright and clear. The fusillade had continued
almost throughout the night, and the Japanese had made repeated
assaults on the Russian trenches in the centre, only to be driven
back every time with enormous slaughter. The first day's battle had
no decisive result; the Japanese had failed to dislodge the Russians
from any part of their line of defences. Jack was eager to go out
again; his excitement had been kindled by what little he had been
able to see of the opposing movements; after the first tremors, the
shriek of shells and whistling of bullets had left him unmoved, and
he was all afire to witness the continuation of the great struggle. But
Schwab absolutely refused to budge.
"It vas not a bresentiment," he said. "It vas a bileattack. Zose
shells, zeir schmell vas vorse zan Schwefelwasserstoffgas—I forget
ze English name, but ze schmell is ze same; it is a schmell of eggs
suberannuated. I suffer egstremely. Besides, zey haf shtole my
bonies. And vat do I discover? I discover a damage in ze ubber
egstremity of ze camera. Vy you tell me nozink about zis? I discover
it, I say. Who done zat? Vy you bermit it? It is not business: it annoy
me egstremely. I lose many dollars ven I shall gome to sell ze
photographabbaratus. My gustomers vill now see it is not new.
Venever I zink of it I suffer bile. I go not again to zis battle, no more
does ze camera; I vait for ze next. I vill stay and cure ze bileattack.
You shall see ze battle; I vill take notes ven you return."
Jack had no intention of running unnecessary risks in order that
Schwab might make "copy" out of his experiences. But he made his
way towards the railway-station, expecting to obtain from the
embankment as good a view as was possible without venturing
again on the shell-swept hills. His choice was fortunate, for it
happened that the closest fighting of the day took place west of the
railway. General Oku had made up his mind to force this, the
weakest spot in the Russian position. While, therefore, General
Nodzu in the centre was repeating the first day's bombardment, the
Russian right, throughout the day, was the scene of as terrible a
series of infantry attacks as the world's history has known. Time
after time the Japanese advanced to storm the trenches; time after
time they were mowed down by the pitiless bullets of the enemy;
but again and again they returned to the charge, recking nothing of
death or wounds, thinking it a privilege indeed to end their lives in
their country's cause. On both sides the bayonet did its fell work; at
one point a trench was captured by a company of Japanese, but
their ammunition was spent, they were unsupported, and their plight
being perceived from a Russian trench a hundred yards distant, they
were bayoneted to a man. As the hot day wore on, the Russians
were driven back against the railway embankment; streams of
wounded, their cries of agony mingled with the horrid sounds of war,
flowed incessantly towards Liao-yang; and when sunset put an end
to the firing, the bearer-parties went about their awful work on the
battle-field.
Except for the slight impression made on the right, the Russian
position was intact. The Siberian regiments had held their own with
splendid tenacity, and were almost recompensed for their terrible
sufferings by the message of thanks from General Kuropatkin, who
had witnessed their heroic resistance from his train beyond the
railway-station. Jack started to return to Schwab with the impression
that the force of the Japanese attack was broken, and that on the
morrow the Russians would take the offensive. The day closed with
a terrible rain-storm that turned the fields and roads into a
quagmire. The streets of the city were thronged; soldiers, Chinamen,
camp-followers, pedlars improving the occasion, all jostling one
another in noisy confusion.
Standing at the door of his cottage, Schwab hailed an American
correspondent who was passing just as Jack appeared.
"Is ze battle finished gomblete?" asked Schwab eagerly.
"Yes; the Russians have won. It is their first victory. I am on my
way to telegraph the news to New York—if I can get a wire."
"Zen I vill write my account of ze closing scenes," said Schwab
to Jack. "To-morrow, if ze sun shine, you can take more pictures of
ze Japanese defeat."
But half an hour later the American looked into the house on his
way back to his own quarters.
"I was mistaken, Schwab," he said; "it is not a victory after all."
"Eh?" said Schwab, looking up from his papers.
"The Russians are leaving their positions; evacuation has
begun."
"Himmel! Vat is ze meaning of zat?"
"Kuroki has crossed the Tai-tse-ho, and is threatening our
communications. You had better clear out."
Schwab might well be amazed. During the desperate and
persistent attacks on the Russian right and centre, General Kuroki
had crept steadily round their left, and forced a passage at a ford
twenty-five miles east of the town. The news, as conveyed to
Kuropatkin, was that the Japanese general had four divisions; he
had, in truth, only two; and, misled by the exaggeration, Kuropatkin
had felt it necessary to detach some of the seasoned Siberian
regiments from Stackelberg's command in order to reinforce the less
trustworthy European corps whom Kuroki was attacking. But the
American was mistaken in speaking of evacuation. The commander-
in-chief had only decided to abandon his advanced position, which
had always been too widely extended for effective defence, and to
withdraw his forces to the inner entrenchments, forming a large arc
almost encircling the town, and resting at each end on the river.
Overpowered by the terrors of "war that was real war", Schwab
was goaded into feverish activity by the news of the withdrawal. His
own pony was gone; so was Jack's; but Hi Lo's remained, and this
the German ordered to be instantly prepared for himself. Whether
the interest of the Schlagintwert Company or the safety of his own
rotund skin was the more important consideration did not appear;
but it is certain that, within half an hour after receiving the news of
Kuropatkin's order, Schwab was riding as fast as the congested
traffic would allow towards the north. He carried the precious
camera and the negatives with him, leaving the tripod with Jack.
"You muss shift for yourself," said he at the moment of leaving.
"You and Hi Lo muss gome on behind. I muss go qvick; it is a matter
of business. Vun bony vill not carry zree, and if I do not arrive in
Moukden before ze Russians zere vill be no money left to bay your
vages. Take most egstreme care of ze dribod."
Jack was not ill pleased to see the back of his employer. In
other circumstances he might have been amusing; as it was, he was
a trial of patience.
"I think we will wait till morning," said Jack to Hi Lo. "I am not
sure all is over yet. In any case the Japanese won't come into the
city in the dark; the firing has stopped; and we shall see our way
better by daylight."
 So they stretched themselves on the k'ang and slept until the
dawn. When they arose it was obvious that Schwab's flight was
premature. True, the roads northward were crowded with fugitives,
but they were in the main natives; the Russians held their positions;
and Jack saw a fine regiment marching, not northward, but
southward, in the direction of the enemy, singing the Russian
national anthem with a spirit that little betokened a failing cause. But
Jack felt that Schwab would expect his two servants to follow him;
he would be helpless without them. The exodus from the city was
already so great that it seemed best to go northwards by the
pontoon bridge while it was possible. He therefore started on his
way back to Moukden. Hi Lo had managed to secure a mule—Jack
did not enquire how; and on this, with the boy trudging by his side,
Jack crossed the river by the pontoon and gained the mandarin
road.
He found himself in a scene of terrible confusion. The road was
blocked with vehicles of all descriptions,—droshkies, Pekin carts,
ammunition wagons, country carts with their unwieldy teams; and
crowds of camp-followers and Chinese tradesmen. Drivers were
shouting, soldiers cursing, women shrieking. Chinamen staggered
along with poles over their shoulders, a basket slung at each end
containing a child barely awake, but laughing with glee at what
seemed to its innocence a novel and pleasing adventure. Women
passed, bent under heavy bundles containing their household gear;
carts were heaped with bits of furniture, ambulance wagons with
wounded and dead; here was a soldier leading a little donkey with a
battered drum upon its back, there a farmer whose clumsy cart was
filled with cackling ducks and squealing pigs. Now an axle would
break, and the contents of the wagon were scattered over the
ground; now the wheels of one cart would become locked with those
of another, and the tangled teams plunged and kicked in the mud.
Then the uproar became still more furious; riders, careless of what
damage they might do, pressed their horses through the throng in
haste to make good their escape from the terrible shells whose
coming was announced from afar. The Japanese had begun to
bombard the station.
Jack saw that he had little chance of making his way through
the crush. Calling to Hi Lo, he turned aside into a field of kowliang,
already trampled, and rode on over the ruined crop. In the distance,
on the left, he caught sight of train after train steaming northwards.
Behind, dense clouds of smoke obscured the city: the Russian
quarter of Liao-yang was in flames. Ever and anon a detonation
shook the air, and by and by the whistle of bullets was heard; the
Japanese had occupied the Shu-shan hill, and with their terrible
long-range weapons were firing into the Russian settlement.
The fourteen miles from Liao-yang to Yentai took Jack six hours.
It was evening when he arrived—too late to go farther; and he put
up for the night in a ruined hut. Russians were massed in the town,
and covered the slopes towards the mines. The Russian left wing
had been driven back in this direction, and it was to reinforce the
hard-pressed troops here that Kuropatkin had withdrawn Stackelberg
with his Siberians. But it was too late. Next day Kuroki flung his
divisions upon the Russian entrenchments. At a critical moment
General Orloff, professor in a Russian military college, attacked,
contrary to his instructions. The Japanese hidden in the kowliang
awaited the onset, then poured in a terrible fire, which threw the
first regiment, composed of raw recruits, into confusion. They broke
and fled; the regiment behind, prevented by the high stalks from
seeing what had happened, opened fire upon their own comrades; a
third was led into the same fatal error; and the entire left wing,
bewildered, disorganized, sought safety in flight. Yentai was filled
with the Russian wounded; surgeons, with coats off and shirt
sleeves tucked up, went about their work in the open streets; the air
was filled with the screams and groans of men in agony.
Jack hurried through the town, and came again into the open
country. A mile north of the town he overtook a bearded veteran
crawling painfully along; he was wounded in the chest. He looked
with haggard, covetous eyes on Jack's mule; his face was drawn and
white; sweat was streaming from his brow. Jack stopped and sprang
to the ground.
"Get on my mule," he said in Russian. "Hi Lo, help me to lift him
up."
The man broke into sobbing exclamations of thanks. Supported
by Jack on one side, by Hi Lo on the other, he rode on during the
rest of that hot day. At dusk they entered a straggling village, and
Jack was thinking of looking for a shelter for the night when a rough
voice from a cottage cried:
"Ach, Strogoff! come here, comrade."
"Nu, Chapkin," said the wounded man. "I am wounded, old
friend."
Jack led the mule to the door, and helped to carry the man into
the cottage. It had been appropriated by a group of Russian soldiers
who had become separated from their regiment. They received their
wounded comrade with rough expressions of sympathy; and,
learning from him of the Chinaman's kindness in lending his mule,
they invited Jack and Hi Lo to stay with them. Jack was nothing loth.
He shared his few remaining biscuits with the men, and sent Hi Lo
out to buy some fruit if possible.
The boy returned with some pears and peaches, which formed a
welcome addition to their black bread and cakes of buckwheat.
Sitting on the k'ang, Jack was an interested listener to the
soldiers' talk. He did not understand all they said; they were simple
moujiks, whose broad dialect was not easy to follow; but he picked
up a good deal of their conversation.
Strogoff had to relate how he had received his wound. His story
was long in the telling, punctuated by many an "Ach!" "Och!" "Eka!"
"Nu!" from his comrades.
"Ach!" he concluded, "the Japanese are fine fellows, but they
are too little to use the bayonet. A bigger man would have made a
better job of it, and I should be dead now."
"Da! But you'd rather be alive, Strogoff?"
"How can I tell, Kedril? Will the doctors be able to mend my
wound?"
"Not if they're such fools as the generals," grunted Kedril, a big,
shaggy rifleman who had lost an arm.
"True, there are some fools among them. But better be a fool
than a knave, like the commissaries. Why, half the biscuits served
out to us to-day were full of maggots, and my boots—look at them!
—are made of paper. Do you think the Little Father knows how we
are cheated?"
"No, no; the Emperor does not know, Almazoff. He would not
suffer these evils if he knew them. Nu! he cannot be everywhere,
like the Lord God."
"Things will be better some day. We've done our part, little
pigeon. But the Emperor would not like it if he knew what lies they
have told us. Why, they said the Japanese were dirty little men like
monkeys; but they're cleaner than you and me, Strogoff."
"And they said they walked with their heads downwards."
"No, Chapkin, that's the English. They say the English walk
upright in their own country, but when they go to another place of
theirs called Australia they turn upside down and walk on their
heads."
"That can't be true, because Australia belongs to Germany. It's a
part of America, I believe."
"Nu! America belongs to England, so I dare say I was right after
all. Anyway, the Japanese walk on their feet like us, and they fight
well. I wonder what made them so angry with us?"
"I don't know. What do we get angry about when we're at
home? Perhaps the Little Father called the Emperor of Japan a
sheep; if you called me a sheep I should fight you; but emperors
can't fight; of course not, for they've no one to give them orders
except the Lord God, and He couldn't give orders to both at once."
"But if they quarrel, why should they make us fight in
thousands? It would be much better if his excellency the general and
the Japanese marshal took off their coats and fought, just they two.
That would be a fight worth seeing, eh, comrades?—a fight after the
old style, before they did everything by machinery."
"Da! It wouldn't matter so much if they made each other's nose
bleed, instead of us shooting at the little Japanese and them
shooting at us. Why, think of the thousands of widows there must be
in Little Russia—da! and in Japan too, for I expect they have a kind
of marriage there."
"True, we haven't any quarrel with the little men; and they're
not very angry either. When I was wounded in the bayonet charge,
and lay on the ground, a Japanese came up and gave me a
cigarette; ach! the sun was hot, and I was fanning myself with my
cap, and he made me take a little paper fan he had. Here it is: I
shall give it to my little Anna, dushenka! when I get home again."
"Ach! shall we ever get home again? Look at the thousands of
versts we are away; and we've got to stay till we beat the Japanese!
Sing us your song, Chapkin—you know, the one that always makes
me cry."
The big veteran addressed took a sip from his half-empty flask
of vodka, and began, in a fine baritone every note of which was
charged with pathos—

"No more my eyes will see the land

Where I was born.
I suffer at my lord's command;
My limbs are torn.
Upon my roof the owl will moan;
The pigeon for her mate will yearn;
My heart with grief is broken down:
No, never more shall I return!"

The simple words brought tears to the eyes of all those rough
soldiers. Kedril grunted and growled.
 "Don't make us more sad. Almazoff, you're the only fellow
among us who can read: read us something out of your English
book; the piece about the great fight in heaven; that's the stuff for a
soldier."
Almazoff took from his pocket a dirty dog-eared paper-covered
book, and turned over the leaves. Having found the place, he began,
in a slow sonorous chant—

"Then rose a storming fury, and such uproar as never yet had been heard in
Heaven. Arms clashed on armour, a din of horrible discord; the furious wheels of
brazen chariots roared with rage; dire was the noise of battle. Overhead with
awesome hiss flew fiery darts in flaming volleys, and their flight covered either
host with a vault of fire. Beneath this burning dome the embattled armies shocked
together, with deadly onset and unquenchable rage: all Heaven resounded; and
had earth been then, the whole earth had quivered to her centre. What wonder,
when on both sides millions of angels fought, fierce foes, of whom the feeblest
could wield the elements and arm himself with the might of all their regions!——"

Thus he read on, and through the rough prose of the Russian
translation Jack caught echoes of the famous passage in Paradise
Lost.
Far into the night the reading, story-telling, singing, went on. In
the morning Jack took leave of the simple brave fellows and
resumed his journey. On the way he learnt that the Russian army
was in full retreat. General Kuropatkin's able dispositions had
extricated his worn troops from the danger of being surrounded, and
they were falling back in good order, disappointed but not
disheartened, towards Moukden. Thither Jack made with all speed;
and entering the city with Hi Lo by one of the south gates in the
evening, he found Schwab placidly smoking his pipe at the door of
the Green Dragon.

CHAPTER XIII
Mr. Brown's House

Schwab and Sowinski—Extempore—The Camera cannot Lie—Sowinski Suspicious—

Shadowed—Short Notice—Run to Earth—A Hole in the Fence—Lares et Penates—
The Press—Sowinski's Supper

Weeks passed. Moukden was no longer the city Jack had known.
Hitherto but few Russian troops had been seen in its streets; now
these were thronged from morning till night. Regimental wagons,
ammunition carts, rumbled hither and thither, raising clouds of dust.
Officers strolled about, buying knick-knacks of the curio dealers; war
correspondents kicked their heels in the hotels; droshkies, rickshaws,
troikas, flew this way and that, to the disturbance of the placid
people of this ancient city.
There were already signs of winter in the streets. The seasons
in Manchuria do not shade off one into another; summer heat stops,
almost at one stride comes winter cold. One morning the shops in
the principal streets were hung with furs—the skins of wild cats,
foxes, martens, otters, sheep, raccoons; fur caps, lined coats,
woollen hoods, sheepskin leggings, stockings of camel's hair. The
Chinese merchants near the eastern ramparts plied a brisk trade
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