The ascendancy of Japan as a major sea power in modern times has raised many interesting questions for students of naval history. Of considerable importance has been the problem of the influence of Japan’s scanty pre-modern naval experience and tradition upon the development of her modern naval establishment, thought, and activity. The answers customarily given have generally been unsatisfactory. On the one hand, inordinate emphasis has been placed upon the sporadic naval experience of the pre-Perry period and, on the other, upon the period beginning with the Sino-Japanese War of 1894-95. The neglect to study carefully the interim period of some forty years has been particularly unfortunate, for it was at this time that a Japanese Navy, in the full sense of the term, first started to come into being. During these years the military forces of the Emperor were separated into land and sea services, and though the Japanese naval officer continued to wear a sword at his side, it was a badge, and no longer a tool, of his martial profession.
The samurai sword of the Japanese naval officer epitomized in many ways the problem of developing a navy in Japan during the era from 1853 to 1894. The Japanese had rarely made any distinction between their land and sea forces; the fighting personnel, weapons, strategy, and tactics used while afloat had been fundamentally the same as those employed ashore. Battle traditions were those of war, regardless of the scene of operations. Dan-no-Ura, the repulse of the Mongol invasions, and the Korean campaigns of Hideyoshi were the heritage of the samurai, who combined the functions of the soldier, sailor, and marine.
The tasks confronting the Japanese in their efforts to build up a navy in the years after 1853 thus transcended the mere acquisition of ships and knowledge concerning their use. On a personnel level, it was necessary to train a body of men who would understand the sea and the function of their service, who would think and act not as samurai, in the traditional sense of the term, but rather as naval men. In keeping with this, it was vital that the new navy develop a body of traditions, providing both lessons and inspiration, of its own. In 1868 the results of fifteen years of activity were put to the test in the wars of the Meiji Restoration. When the hostilities came to a close with the Battle of Hakodate in the following year, the naval traditions of the generation of sailors who were to man the Japanese fleet in the war against China had been formed.
Why the Japanese evinced so pronounced an interest in naval matters in the years immediately following Commodore Perry’s visit cannot be simply answered. It was not merely the conclusion of the Japanese that, since the menacing “barbarians” had arrived in their country via the sea, they could most effectively be repulsed on the sea. This explanation, so commonly heard, does not take into account the increasing interest in naval matters awakened in the Japanese by the Dutch in the years before the coming of Perry. Nor, more importantly, does it consider adequately the intricacies of Japanese domestic politics.
Since 1603 Japan had been ruled by the Tokugawa shoguns, a military house which had dominated the puppet Emperor and the many feudal lords of the land. The keystone of Tokugawa policy being the maintenance of the status quo, relations with the outside world were broken off in 1639 and, thereafter, overtures for the resumption or establishment of intercourse by other nations were rudely discouraged. Ingenious as was the political and social edifice erected by the Tokugawa, it was with the passage of time inexorably undermined by the forces of social and economic change. Commodore Perry cast anchor in Japanese waters at a moment when the Tokugawa structure was tottering and when the slightest shock would have a cataclysmic effect. The abandonment of the official policy of isolation not only posed new and serious problems of foreign relations for the Tokugawa Shogunate at a time of mounting internal crisis, but it sharpened the lines of cleavage between the central government and the disgruntled and antagonistic feudal lords.
As opposed to the more realistic Tokugawa, many of the feudal lords and their samurai retainers displayed an unrestrained scorn for the “long-nosed” foreigners and a naive confidence in the invincibility of Japanese arms. The need for national defense against the westerners was, thus, not equally appreciated by the Tokugawa and the feudal lords; it was to require more than mere peaceful naval demonstrations to cow and convince the die-hards. From an immediate point of view, accordingly, it is likely that, in addition to providing for the defense of the country, naval reform was also designed to strengthen the political antagonists for the inevitable clash for supremacy. What is certain is that, when in 1868 the Japanese first used steam warships in battle, they did so in the course of revolution, when they trained their guns upon their countrymen and avoided the hated foreigners.
With obviously mixed motives both the Tokugawa Shogunate and several of the feudal lords embarked upon modest programs of naval reform from 1853 to 1868. Naval schools were founded, foreign instructors hired, students sent abroad, sailing vessels and steamships purchased, and ship-yards established. The results achieved by 1868 clearly varied with the interest, objectives, and resources of the participants. That the old hulking junk had outlived its days was, however, evident to all.
The appreciation of the Tokugawa Shogunate for the potentialities of naval power is well attested by its establishment of a naval school at Nagasaki only one year after the conclusion of the Treaty of Kanagawa with the United States. Here selected samurai were taken in hand by Dutch instructors and introduced to the marvels of western naval science. In the next few years several steam-powered ships were acquired by purchase or as gifts from Holland and Great Britain. The progress of these years was well demonstrated in 1860 when a Japanese mission was dispatched to the United States. It was preceded across the Pacific to San Francisco by the Japanese-manned Kanrin Maru, a small sailing ship equipped with an auxiliary one-hundred horse-power engine. As a result of the mission, arrangements were made by the Japanese government to send a group of students to be trained in American naval schools, but with the outbreak of the Civil War, plans had to be revised. In 1862 the Shogunate dispatched a student mission to Holland, where the principal branches of naval science were studied. The mission returned to Japan in 1866 aboard the Kaiyo Maru, which had been constructed at Doldrekt, Holland, at the order of the Shogunate.
One of the members of the naval mission to Holland was Enomoto Kamajiro. Born in Edo (Tokyo) in 1836 of a samurai family, Enomoto was a trusted and loyal retainer of the house of Tokugawa. During his stay in Europe he had specialized in naval engineering and, upon his return home, had been given the coveted command of the Kaiyo Maru. Of Enomoto and his ship a contemporary chronicler had the following to say: “Enomoto was a skilled navigator, and the officers under his command were also experienced in their profession. The Kaiyo Maru, of which he was captain, carried twenty-six guns, and the engines were of 400 horsepower; she was solidly constructed and well- equipped, and had the reputation of being the finest vessel in Japan.” In addition to the Kaiyo Maru, the Tokugawa navy included several other steamers, one of which was the Banryu, a steam-yacht mounting four guns, which had been presented to the Shogun by Queen Victoria. Though not very impressive by western standards, the eight western-style ships of the Shogun’s fleet represented the strongest aggregation of naval power in Tokugawa Japan. Small as it was, this fleet and its commander were to play a key role in the wars of the Imperial Restoration in 1868-69.
In the late months of 1867 the puppet Emperor, supported by the powerful feudal clans of southwestern Japan, called upon the Tokugawa Shogun to surrender his position and title, and to restore civil and military authority to the throne. Although the hard- pressed Shogun finally agreed, he balked at the demand to give up his vast estates and decided to resort to the arbitrament of war. The struggle burst out in January, 1868, and at the bloody battle of Fushimi, the Shogun’s troops were bested by the imperial armies. The Shogun himself fled to nearby Osaka, where he attempted to find safety aboard the Kaiyo Maru. Because of the darkness and rough weather the Shogun’s retinue was unable to distinguish the Kaiyo Maru from the foreign warships in the harbor and, after rowing about fruitlessly for some time, the party went aboard the U.S.S. Iroquois to spend the night. In the morning the Shogun was transferred to the Kaiyo Maru, which soon weighed anchor for his capitol at Edo.
By April the feudal allies of the Emperor had reached the outskirts of Edo and preparations were made for an assault upon the city. Impressed by the power of his foes and unwilling to risk the destruction of the greatest metropolis of Japan, the Shogun’s government resigned itself to the verdict of defeat and opened negotiations for surrender. The imperial military leaders drove a hard bargain, for, by the agreement reached on April 26, the Shogun consented to enter into retirement, to give up his castle in Edo, and to arrange for the surrender of the weapons and ships of war in the possession of his followers. Compliance with the articles of surrender would have meant the end of formal resistance on the part of the Tokugawa and complete victory for the Emperor and his supporters.
When news of the harsh surrender terms reached Enomoto and his command, it evoked bitterness and protest. It was difficult for the men in the navy fully to appreciate the predicament of their lord and to realize that further resistance on his part was futile. Not having had to contend with the advance of the imperial armies, having remained inactive during the crucial hostilities on land, the navy had not experienced the taste of defeat. Still in command of the seas, Enomoto and his men were confident of their ability to keep the cause of the Tokugawa alive and, by resistance, to force a favorable modification of the terms of surrender.
In some ways, Enomoto had good reason to hope that the small fleet under his command could be used with telling effect. His own twenty-six gun Kaiyo Maru was the most powerful warship in Japanese hands. In addition, he had at his disposal the Fujiyama, Choyo, Kanrin, Kaiten, Kanko, Chiyoda, and Banryu, with armaments ranging from four to twelve guns. As opposed to this force, the allies of the Emperor could bring to bear about six ships, principally armed steamers.
A disrupting factor, however, was the arrival in Yokohama on April 24 of the iron-clad ram Stonewall from the United States. In 1866 the Shogun had ordered a warship from the United States, but the delivery of the wooden corvette Fujiyama hardly satisfied him. When a protest was raised, the United States government agreed to settle the matter by sending out the Stonewall. Built in France, purchased by Denmark, and resold to the Confederacy, the ship had been acquired by the Union Navy at the close of the Civil War. Spared from consignment to the scrap-heap, the Stonewall, flying the Shogun’s colors, was brought to Japan by an American naval crew. In Yokohama delivery of the vessel to the Shogunate was immediately prohibited by the American Minister, General Van Valkenburgh, in keeping with the declaration of neutrality proclaimed by the western powers in the preceding February.
The value of the Stonewall in the Restoration wars was succinctly expressed by the American Minister in a communication to the Department of State. “There is but one vessel in all the squadrons now in these waters,” he wrote, “that can successfully compete with the Stonewall if she were properly managed, and that vessel is the English iron-clad Ocean. Such, also, is the opinion of all the naval officers with whom I have consulted. ...” Needless to say, Enomoto was greatly perturbed by the refusal of the American authorities to complete the delivery of the powerful ram. With it, his fleet would have been well-nigh invincible and a barb in the side of the imperial forces. As Van Valkenburgh put it aptly, “The Tycoon [Shogun] . . . would at once command the seas; could blockade successfully Osaka, Hiogo, and Nagasaki, all now in possession of the Mikado.” Being denied the Stonewall himself, Enomoto could at least console himself with the thought that the neutrality policy of the United States also prevented acquisition of the ship by the imperial government, a development which would immediately have destroyed his supremacy at sea.
Having taken stock of the situation and concluding that pressure could effectively be brought to bear upon the imperial government for liberalization of the terms of surrender, Enomoto shortly announced his defiance. Aside from counting upon the loyalty of his men to the Tokugawa house, Enomoto also felt that their personal interest in a more lenient settlement would encourage them to follow his lead. Since the destruction of the Tokugawa house portended a drastic reduction of its revenues, the retainers of the clan, who had for generations subsisted upon annual stipends granted by their lord, were faced with destitution. Thus, a thinly veiled threat in the guise of a petition was transmitted to the imperial military leaders “requesting permission” to retain ships and weapons until the question of the “revenue and territory are settled.” With decisive victory in its grasp the imperial government was in no mood for compromise and the “petition” was, accordingly, peremptorily rejected. When, however, representatives of the Emperor appeared at the Shinagawa anchorage on May 4 to receive the surrender of the Tokugawa navy, it was discovered, with anger and chagrin, that the fleet had secretly put out to sea.
Enomoto’s explanation, set forth in a letter to the imperial authorities, that his act was designed to prevent rash and impulsive action by his excited men, “as any misconduct would be in direct opposition to the wishes of our master Keiki [the Shogun], and also inexcusable in the eyes of the Imperial Court,” deceived no one. Nor did his disclaimer of any intention “of lurking in some position of ’vantage, and for keeping a lookout for what may happen” lull the fury of the imperial government. It was evident that, with the “rebel” fleet prowling about in Japanese waters, the war would have to continue. Not only would the spirit of resistance on the part of the last-ditch followers of the Tokugawa, particularly amongst the northern clans which had not yet been beaten into submission, be strengthened, but raids upon coastal shipping were likely to induce the Western powers to withhold recognition of the new imperial government until such time as its authority were indisputably established. The imperial government, thus, understandably bent every effort to secure control over the Tokugawa fleet.
For the first time since the outbreak of hostilities, the imperial government became significantly aware of its weakness at sea. Lacking the power to pursue and punish Enomoto, the problem was shifted to the Tokugawa, with the intimation that the final settlement of their revenues would be influenced by their success in dealing with the “rebels.” An officer of the highest rank was, as a result, dispatched to discuss the matter with Enomoto, whose fleet lay at anchor at Tateyama. When the full implications of his act were made known, Enomoto agreed to return to Shinagawa with his ships. There a compromise on the disposition of the fleet was reached, the Fujiyama, Choyo, and Kanrin being surrendered in exchange for three small cargo vessels, the Shinsoku, Mikabo, and Chogei. The retention of five warships, including the Kaiyo Maru, however, provided Enomoto with a naval force, which caused the imperial government considerable uneasiness.
The dramatic flight of Enomoto as well as the continued existence of his fleet brought the question of the Stonewall to the fore, the American diplomatic and consular officials in Japan being bombarded with pleas and demands for relinquishment of the ship. Without it, the imperial government could not hope to cope with the unpredictable Enomoto, while surrender of the ship by the American authorities would, in view of the stated reasons for its detention, have been tantamount to renunciation of the neutrality policy and recognition of the imperial government. Thus, imperial officials in their remon- strations to the American Minister, delivered over a period of many months, insisted that the government of the Meiji Emperor, as the successor of the Tokugawa Shogunate, was legally entitled to the iron-clad. On a purely practical level an imperial representative complained to Van Valkenburgh that “if peace should be restored . . . there would then be no use for the ship.”
Enomoto, for his part, sought desperately to secure possession of the Stonewall, even plotting to seize the vessel, and simultaneously strove to block its transfer to the imperial government. The Stonewall, he argued, had been brought to Japan for delivery to the Shogun, who alone had legal right to the vessel. Van Valkenburgh, however, was not primarily concerned with the specific issue of the ownership of the ship, but rather with the commitment of his government to a policy of neutrality which forbade the sale or delivery of warships and munitions to the belligerent parties in the Japanese war. Despite the many arguments and pressures, the American Minister remained adamant and the Stonewall, flying the Stars and Stripes and guarded by an American naval detail, passed the concluding months of the year idly swinging at its anchor in Yokohama harbor.
Whatever fears Enomoto may have had about the fate of the Tokugawa house and its tens of thousands of retainers were soon starkly realized. The niggardly income allotted to his lord filled him with dismay and inflamed him against the leaders of the Restoration government. Faced with the prospect of poverty and humiliation, Eno- moto and his men resolved to defy the new government once again. With this in mind, secret discussions were opened with the feudal lords of northern Honshu, who had not yet been brought to heel by the Emperor and his allies. On October 4, 1868, Enomoto and his fleet of eight ships set sail from Shinagawa, bound for the north. The ships were soon separated by heavy seas, and when rendezvous was finally made at Sendai, two of the ships were missing. The Mikabo had been wrecked and the Kanrin had fallen into imperial hands when it put into port at Shimidzu.
While Enomoto and his fleet took up station at Sendai, the last of the feudal clans loyal to the Tokugawa and the bitter-end remnants of their armies girded themselves to repulse the advancing imperial armies. Resistance proved to be futile, however, and when the opposition of the northern lords was finally smashed, the fleet was able to provide haven for a number of the defeated warriors. Augmenting his fleet by the acquisition of the Oe and Ho-o, two small passenger vessels which the Tokugawa had lent to the lord of Sendai, Enomoto and his still defiant followers weighed anchor in late November, and departed for the great island of Hokkaido further north.
Enomoto’s retirement to Hokkaido was, while an admirable commentary upon his fighting spirit, a ringing indictment of his judgment. Though, to be sure, he had few alternatives short of surrender, it is difficult to understand his hopes of building an impregnable base on that remote island. Completely undeveloped and only sparsely settled, Hokkaido offered little promise as a base for continued resistance to the imperial government. Enomoto’s only hope was that the sea approaches to the island could be dominated by his navy—provided that he could sustain his steamships in an area culturally and economically not far removed from the Stone Age.
Men as desperate as Enomoto Kamajiro frequently find it difficult to look reality in the eye. Whether it was because of his fanatical devotion to the Tokugawa, to whom he was personally so beholden, or because he had overplayed his hand and could not graciously extricate himself, it is hard to say, but, at any rate, he now proceeded to unfold a rather grandiose project. This was to establish in Hokkaido a colony where the Tokugawa clansmen, rendered destitute by the revolution, could settle down under a Tokugawa lord and start their lives anew. As Enomoto explained in a letter to the imperial government, “the retainers of Tokugawa during more than two hundred years have numbered more than three hundred thousand persons, and the revenue . . ., which you have appropriated to our chief, is insufficient to support all these. Men who have the hearts of samurai cannot turn into farmers or merchants, so that it appeared that there was nothing for us but to starve. But, considering the uncultivated condition of the island of Yeso [Hokkaido], we thought it better to remove thither, that, even under the endurance of every hardship, we might level steep mountains, cultivate the desert, and employ hitherto useless people in useful work, and ... be the guard of the northern gate [of the Empire].”
Enomoto, like many another leader of the day, was still thinking in terms of a feudal reconstitution of the traditional political system, hoping, as he did, to carve out a new fief for the Tokugawa on the northern outposts of the Japanese islands. He little dreamed that the successful organizers of the Meiji Restoration were even then planning the establishment of a strong national government, in which the old feudal order had no place. It is not surprising that Enomoto’s proposal was coolly received in the imperial capitol.
As mixed as were the motives and purposes of Enomoto in retreating to Hokkaido were those of his motley force. There is no doubt that some of the men found it impossible to reconcile themselves emotionally to the overthrow of the Tokugawa Shogunate and to the triumph of the hated southwestern clans. It is clear, too, that for some of the men capture or surrender meant summary execution. On the other hand, Francis Ottwell Adams, of the English diplomatic staff in Japan, throws considerable light upon the matter in his contemporary evaluation of Enomoto’s followers. The men, he wrote, consisted of “soldiers, sailors, and a numerous gathering belonging to the Tokugawa clan, of no settled occupation, out at elbows, without rice to eat, and so discontented that they were ready to join in any expedition which held out a prospect of revenge and plunder.” Even allowing for the pro-imperial sentiments of the English government, there is much truth in Adams’ observation. Reared in the cult of the sword, Enomoto’s men were more suited for hacking a path through the ranks of an enemy than for hewing a road through the obstacles of a wilderness.
In early December, 1868, forces from Enomoto’s fleet were put ashore on southwestern Hokkaido and, after a few weeks of spirited fighting, the local imperialist defenders were routed. A new government, a “republic” with Enomoto as President and a capitol at Hakodate, was quickly proclaimed. To win the sympathy and, if possible, the support of the Western powers, the local consuls were assured that there would be no interference with the rights and activities of foreigners. The ministers of the foreign powers, startled by these events, hastened to dispatch several warships to Hakodate to protect the interests of their subjects as well as to appraise the situation.
A most picturesque, though markedly condescending, description of the local scene at Hakodate has been given by Francis Ottwell Adams, who arrived on December 17, 1868, with the English warships Satellite and Venus.
The fleet was in a very sorry condition; anything more dirty-looking than the once beautiful “Kayo [sic] Maru” I have seldom seen; rust covered her sides, and her rudder was wanting. The “Eagle” [Kaiten] was in an equally deplorable state, and, except for her fine lines, no one would have recognized the Queen’s present in the rusty, uncared-for “Banriyo.”
On shore the sight was amusing. The streets were full of soldiers, in every variety of costume. Little fellows dressed out in baggy trousers, with hair cut and combed after the European fashion, marched proudly along, and touched their gold- laced caps when they met a foreign official; a number of men . . . were clad in cherry-coloured trousers, as if in mockery pf “Cardigan’s Own”; others again had retained their Japanese dress, and swaggered about, covered from head to foot with red and green blankets, and the picture was filled up with a crowd of nondescripts, who seemed as if they had picked up their motley costumes here and there in the slop shops of Yokohama.
There is obviously no need to speculate on the nature of Adams’ report.
The suppression of the military opposition in northern Honshu as well as unfavorable estimates of Enomoto’s capacity to provide a prolonged resistance to the imperial government induced the western powers to reconsider their policies. Finally, on February 9, 1869, the foreign ministers, in response to the repeated requests of the new government, announced the withdrawal of their proclamations of neutrality. Not only was the Meiji government now free to purchase ships and munitions from the foreign powers but its right to possession of the Stonewall was acknowledged. Renamed the Azuma, the ship, more popularly known as the Kotetsu (Iron-clad), was a formidable addition to the small imperial navy and whetted its enthusiasm for a show-down clash with Enomoto and his “pirate” crew.
During the preceding few months, the imperial government had been somewhat reluctant realistically to come to grips with the problem of Enomoto and his defiant force. While, to be sure, his overtures for a reconciliation had been categorically rejected, no concrete plan of action had been forthcoming. For a time, it was proposed to dispatch a member of the Tokugawa house at the head of a tranquillization expedition in the hope that his rebellious followers would thereby be induced to lay down their arms. When, however, it was considered that the Tokugawa commander might well fall into the hands of Enomoto and be used as a symbol to rally the enemies of the government, the scheme was hurriedly abandoned. The triumphs in northern Honshu, withdrawal of the neutrality proclamations, and the acquisition of the Stonewall, however, soon led to vigorous action by the imperial government. As soon as the cold winter had passed, an advance fleet of eight vessels, including the warships Kotetsu, Yoshun, Kasuga, and Teibo departed from Uraga, anchoring in Miyako Bay in northeastern Honshu on April 29. There it awaited the arrival of further ships and men for the attack on the “rebel” base.
In Hakodate, news of the termination of the neutrality policy and of the transfer of the Stonewall to the imperial government was received as a death knell. The initial enthusiasm of Enomoto’s men had worn thin, food stocks were low, finances were precarious, and the fleet was in poor condition for a struggle with a powerful foe. Though the warship Takao had been seized when it put into Hakodate several months previously, the Kaiyo Maru had been severely damaged in a storm and abandoned as a total loss. To add to the disaster the Shinsoku had been lost during the rescue operations. Nevertheless, with the promise of a fight in the offing, preparations for the defense of Hokkaido were rushed. Under the direction of several filibustering French soldiers, who had joined Enomoto at the time of his flight from Shinagawa, Hakodate and its environs were skillfully fortified. Shore batteries were set up near the mouth of the harbor to support the Tokugawa fleet.
While Hakodate was bustling with preparations for defense, Enomoto learned that his foe had anchored in Miyako Bay, not very distant from his own base. He decided, consequently, to resort to a bold stroke, one which would not only cripple the enemy fleet but restore the flagging morale of his men. A squadron, composed of the Kaiten, Banryu, and Takao, was dispatched to Miyako Bay with orders to cut out the ram and to effect its capture. Without the ironclad, the imperial forces would be compelled to think twice before attempting an invasion of Hokkaido.
Japanese and Western accounts of the Battle of Miyako Bay on May 6, 1869, differ markedly, ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous. Japanese writers, stirred by the heroic aspects of the action, frequently depict it in romantic and dashing colors. Westerners, however, have commonly viewed the battle as an opera bouffe of naval warfare, as a nineteenth century reenactment of the thirteenth century naval actions against the Mongols. Even a very sympathetic Western critic could say no more than “it was magnificent, but it was not war.” The modern student can perhaps only conclude that, courage and gallantry aside, the Battle of Miyako Bay reflects favorably neither upon the Tokugawa nor the imperial navy.
The original plan called for a surprise attack by the Tokugawa squadron, a tactic which undoubtedly has a familiar ring to students of Japanese naval history. To secure unchallenged entrance to the harbor, the ships were to resort to the stratagem of flying foreign colors. The Takao and Banryu were then to close in on the Kotetsu from port and starboard, unfurl the Tokugawa colors at the last moment, and carry out a boarding operation. The mission of the Kaiten was to engage the other ships of the imperial fleet and prevent aid from reaching the iron-clad. In its general outlines, the plan of action clearly revealed boldness and imaginativeness.
From the very start of the operation, however, the plan miscarried as bad luck clung doggedly to the raiders. Shortly after leaving Hakodate, the ships of the squadron became separated in a heavy fog and, though the Kaiten and Takao were able to rejoin, the Banryu was nowhere to be seen. The two ships then pressed on towards Miyako Bay but, before the destination had been reached, the engines of the Takao broke down. Valor got the better of discretion as the Kaiten, raising the American flag, decided to carry out the surprise attack alone. According to one Japanese account, all masts save one were cut down so as to create a silhouette more closely resembling an American ship.
The Kaiten was able to enter the harbor without challenge as well as to approach the iron-clad, which lay silently at anchor. It is at this point that Japanese and Western accounts diverge sharply. According to Western writers, whose accounts have an invidious smack, almost all hands aboard the Kotetsu had been granted shore-leave, only a small bored guard being left behind. Moreover, it is alleged, the fires in the boilers had been banked to the extent that there was not enough steam to open a sealed letter, while no one amongst the skeleton crew was familiar with the operation of the ship’s heavy guns. To cap the ludicrous, it is then maintained, the Kaiten, running up its true colors, proceeded to ram the ram, succeeding only in damaging its own bow.
A close examination of Japanese accounts, however, will dispel the farcical charges. There is no doubt that the Kotetsu was deceived by the ruse of the Kaiten, which was not challenged as it approached. As soon as the Tokugawa flag was run up and detected, Japanese writers maintain, the boiler fires were ordered banked, the sister ships of the Kotetsu being signalled to this effect. Captain Koga Gengo of the Kaiten, realizing that he had to close with the iron-clad as soon as possible, charged the ram probably to avoid exposure of his own ship to the heavy guns of his adversary. Moreover, the maneuver, whatever may be said of it, was not designed to cripple the enemy ship but rather to permit the Tokugawa boarding parties to get into action. Because the Kaiten stood much higher in the water than the iron-clad, the boarding parties had great difficulty in reaching the decks of the Kotetsu. To add to the problem, a rapid-fire ' gun aboard the ram quickly opened fire upon the raiders, killing Captain Koga and inflicting heavy casualties upon the raiders. After a desperate hand-to-hand struggle, more in keeping with the practice of bygone days, the Kaiten was compelled to retire. Damaged as it was, the Kaiten was able to evade its pursuers and limp home to Hakodate. As a final blow to the Tokugawa raiders, the Takao, which encountered the Kaiten on its flight from Miyako Bay, shortly after ran aground, the crew being captured. Only the small steam-yacht Banryu returned unscathed to Enomoto’s base in Hokkaido.
When the imperial expedition sailed from Miyako Bay for Hokkaido several weeks later, it did so with full confidence in its men and ships. The imperial fleet, which had been reinforced by the arrival of the Choyo, both outnumbered and outgunned Enomoto’s force, which had been reduced to the Kaiten, Banryu, and Chiyoda. The Oe and Ho-o, of no use in battle, were stationed at Muroran. The landing of imperial troops at Otobe on the south-western coast of Hokkaido was not opposed by Enomoto’s ships, which remained in the harbor at Hakodate. From Otobe, the imperial army forced its way along the coast and through the mountains towards the rebel capital. Garish and bizarre uniforms notwithstanding, the island’s defenders offered bitter resistance, contesting every mile of the way to Hakodate. The imperial plan of operations, while partly necessitated by the fact that the principal towns were situated along the seacoast, enabled the invading forces to exploit their sea power to the utmost, the guns of the fleet being used effectively to bombard the positions of the enemy. By the end of May the Emperor’s army stood on the approaches to Hakodate, and the imperial fleet moved up to engage Enomoto’s.
The concluding sea actions of the wars of the Restoration were waged in Hakodate Bay. In early June the imperial fleet advanced to the attack and was soon engaged off Hakodate by the Kaiten and Banryu. For several hours the opposing fleets carried on a generally ineffective long-range exchange of gunfire. When the Tokugawa ships finally broke off action, the imperial force unsuspectingly pursued them into the harbor. The stratagem succeeded, for the imperial fleet, venturing too close to the shore, was suddenly pounded heavily by ship and shore batteries. The imperial fleet, with the Choyo damaged, was compelled to retire hastily.
Several days later, the battle was resumed, the imperial forces closing in by land and sea. Enomoto’s remaining ships, assisted by shore batteries, battled furiously, but were unable to withstand the superior power of the enemy fleet. The Chiyoda was lost to the defenders when it ran aground and was prematurely abandoned. The Kaiten and Banryu, gradually disabled by enemy gunfire and no longer navigable, were converted into floating batteries, their guns continuing to roar until the bitter end. The gloom of the defenders was for a while lifted when a well- placed shot from the Banryu pierced the magazine of the Choyo, which was literally blown to pieces by the explosion. But when the final assault was launched on Hakodate on June 20, not one of Enomoto’s warships was sea-worthy.
The Kaiten and Banryu fought on until further resistance was impossible. With ammunition exhausted and bracketed by gunfire from land and sea, the two riddled hulks were set afire and abandoned. Enomoto was now an admiral without a fleet. On June 26, after a last vain struggle in the heights behind Hakodate, he surrendered. The imperial campaign in Hokkaido, the wars of the imperial Restoration, were ended.
The courage and ability of the thirty- three year old Enomoto Kamajiro were respected by his friends and foes in arms. Sent a prisoner to Tokyo after his surrender, he was condemned to death and spared only because of the plea for clemency of his conqueror, General Kuroda. Enomoto remained under arrest for several years and, when finally pardoned, a long and distinguished career in government service was opened to him. Not only did he participate in the government’s projects for the colonization and development of Hokkaido, represent Japan at the courts of Russia and China, but he rose to the rank of admiral in the Japanese Navy. Before the close of the century, moreover, he had filled the cabinet posts of the Navy, Foreign Affairs, Education, Communications, and Agriculture and Commerce. To the officers and men of the Imperial Fleet on the eve of the Sino-Japanese War in 1894, he was better known as a living tradition. Since his death in 1908, he has been revered as a founding father of the modern Japanese Navy.
The importance of the period from 1853 to 1869 in the development of the modern Japanese Navy should not be underestimated. Despite the many mistakes made, the Japanese acquired at a very crucial moment in their history experience with the new instruments of naval warfare and with their handling in actual operations. The limitations of the naval forces notwithstanding, the' value and function of sea power were impressively demonstrated to the Japanese, the wars of the imperial Restoration being prolonged at least six months because of the possession of a partially modern fleet by an otherwise vanquished foe. Though, in a sense, it was tragic that the newly-found naval science and material were put to the acid test in the circumstances of civil war, as in the United States but a few years before, they did assist in some measure in hastening the achievement of national unification and the rise of modern Japan.
Aside from these considerations, these infant years in the history of the modern Japanese Navy are significant for their contribution to the development of a naval tradition. Traditions, if they are not to be an actual handicap, must continue to grow with the institutions with which they are associated. The traditions of Dan-no-Ura, the Mongol invasions, and the Korean wars of Hideyoshi were, in a way, simple dead weight in the age of steam, and the sooner augmented, as they were in the mid-nineteenth century, the more redoubtable the power of the sea forces of Japan. The wars of the imperial Restoration offered the first contribution to the development of a modern Japanese naval tradition.