that would please you!

9 p.m.—A signal has just been received (by wireless telegraphy) that the Kamchatka, which had dropped far astern, was attacked by torpedo-boats. Just off to find out details.

10 p.m.—The Kamchatka reports that she is attacked on all sides by eight torpedo-boats.

October 9th.—Night of October 9th.

The Kamchatka is asking the position of the fleet. She says she has altered course and that the torpedo-boats have gone. On board us they think that the Japanese are asking the position of the fleet. The wind has freshened. The Suvaroff is rolling. If it continues to freshen, the torpedo-boats will be obliged to give up following and make for the nearest shore.

My God! what will the fleet do then?

About 1 a.m. they sounded off quarters, having seen ships ahead. They let the ships get nearer, and then there began....

What it was words fail to describe! All the ships of our division were ablaze. The noise of the firing was incessant. The searchlights were turned on. I was on the after bridge, and was positively blinded and deafened by the firing. I put my hands to my ears and bolted below. The rest I watched from the spar-deck, out of the accommodation-ladder port.

A small steamer was rolling helplessly on the sea. One funnel, a bridge, and the red and black paint on her side were clearly visible. I saw no one on deck—they had probably hidden themselves below in terror. First one, then another projectile from our ship struck this unfortunate steamer. I saw there was an explosion. The order to cease firing was given, but the other ships continued to fire and no doubt sank the steamer. A second and third steamer not having any one on deck rolled helplessly in the same fashion. The Suvaroff did not fire on them.

Imagine the feelings of the people in these ships! They were, no doubt, fishermen. Now there will be a universal scandal. As a matter of fact they are to blame themselves. They must have known our fleet was coming, and they must have known the Japanese wished to destroy it. They saw the fleet. Why did they not cut adrift their nets, if they had them out, and get out of the way? The nets could be paid for afterwards.

We shall find out at Brest what we have done. If it was not the Kamchatka, but the Japanese, who asked the position of the fleet, they will now know where we are to be found. If that is the case, we must expect to be attacked to-night. The moon is shining now, but from 4 to 6 a.m. it will be dark—the time most suitable for attack. If only we could get to the open sea! We shall be perfectly safe there from these accidents. I do not know whether to go to bed or not. You know I always like sharing even the smallest events with you and telling you of them. Take care of my letters; they are better than any diary. Perhaps some day I will read them myself and refresh my memory about our present excitements.

2.30 a.m.—What a misfortune! A signal has come from the Aurora, "Four underwater shot-holes, funnels torn, the chaplain severely wounded, and a captain of a gun slightly."

Our division fired on the Aurora. She and the Dimitry Donskoi were detached (we are in six divisions). At the time of the firing on the steamers the men lost their heads. Probably some one took her to be Japanese and fired on her with the six-inch guns; she was very far off. A very, very sad occurrence. The only consolation is that our shooting is so good.

3.30 p.m.—The second and third steamers about which I wrote last night suffered a little as well. The Aurora's chaplain had his hand torn off. They asked permission to call at the nearest port in order to send him to hospital. The admiral refused. Six different projectiles struck the Aurora, whose side and funnels were pierced. Comparatively few were injured. The Aurora is to blame for having shown herself on the horizon, on the side away from us. She turned her searchlight on us, and by so doing made us take her to be one of the enemy's ships.

Yesterday, or more correctly this morning, I went to bed at six o'clock. Again I did not undress. I slept by snatches, on and off all day. Perhaps there will be no sleep again to-night.

The barber has just cut my hair. He uses huge tailor's scissors with cloth-covered handles. "I did not succeed in buying a proper pair," he explained, when he saw me looking at his ditty box.[3] He cut it very evenly for a self-taught barber.

Whom have we not among the sailors?—tailors, bootmakers, locksmiths, cooks, bakers, barbers, photographers, confectioners, cigarette makers, etc. All trades are represented, and there is work for all of them in a battleship. The captain wanted to be shaved, so he sent an orderly for a barber. The man arrived (not the one who cut my hair) and the shaving began. The barber's hand shook and the captain's face grew red with blood. He had nearly taken off half his cheek. A fearful row ensued. The captain, with soapy cheeks, smacked the heads of the orderly and barber. The latter tried to excuse himself by saying that he is still learning. A pretty picture, is it not? Now the captain shaves himself, not trusting local talent.

11 p.m.—An eventful day has gone by! At six o'clock some fishing-nets fouled the screws, but the engines are working. The fishermen in these parts tow very long nets, and you have to pass over them.

We had vespers to-day. How will this night pass? The weather remains fine. It is calm. The moon will shine until four o'clock. Perhaps another fog will come on like last night. All this morning the sirens were screeching in the fog. We shall be at the entrance of the English Channel in the morning. Again they have not served out hammocks to the crew. They will sleep at their guns fully dressed.

October 10th (7 p.m.).—In the English Channel, between England and France.

I have not written to you the whole day, and it is getting on my conscience.

We had mass in the morning, and then lunch. Not having slept all night, I lay down to rest. I slept until 3.30. I worked and then dined. I am only just free. The night passed quietly. It is raining now, and the ship is gently heaving on the ocean swell. If nothing further occurs, we shall be at Brest to-morrow. Passing by England this morning I saw her southern shores, which were faintly visible in the mist. Yes, there was "Foggy Albion." Involuntarily I pondered over this clod of earth—so powerful, so rich, so proud, and so ill-disposed towards us. We are only three hours' journey from London and six by rail from Paris.

Many varieties of birds settle on the ship, tired and exhausted by their long flight. The crew feed them and let them go.

I am depressed—fearfully depressed. Anxiety presses on my soul! What would I not give to be with you now! Again I have not slept all night. How tiring it all is!

October 11th.—They say it is very possible we shall not call at Brest. Profiting by the fine weather, we shall steer straight across the Bay of Biscay. The bay enjoys a bad reputation. It is seldom crossed in calm weather. It blows there very heavily. So far we have had a very fair voyage.

The Korea, which apparently called at Cherbourg, signals that she has heard nothing of the fleet having fired on steamers. The torpedo-boat Bravy has broken something.

Bay of Biscay.