The catastrophic explosion aboard the Matsushima was the breaking point. The Japanese battle line, already battered and torn apart by the flanking cruisers, now lost its leader. With their flagship a burning wreck and no admiral to give them orders, the discipline of the Japanese fleet finally shattered. Confusion and survival instinct took over.
From the bridge of the damaged but still fighting cruiser Zhiyuan, Captain Deng Shichang saw his chance to land the killing blow. His eyes, burning with patriotic fire, scanned the chaotic melee and settled on the sleekest, most powerful ship left in the enemy fleet: the swift cruiser Yoshino. It was the pride of the Japanese navy, a ship that had, until this day, been considered the finest warship in Asia. Now, it was attempting to rally the scattered Japanese ships, its signal lamps flashing frantically.
"She is getting away!" Deng roared to his executive officer, his voice hoarse from shouting over the din of battle. "Look! The Yoshino is trying to reform their line! We cannot allow their fastest ship to escape! She will be a threat to the Empire for another day!"
"Captain, we cannot catch her!" the XO shouted back, pointing to the gauges on the bridge. "Our engines are damaged from that last hit! The engine room reports we can barely make twelve knots! And our hull is breached below the waterline! We are taking on water!"
Captain Deng looked at the escaping Yoshino, then at the state of his own battered, burning vessel. His ship was dying. But a dying dragon could still deliver one final, venomous strike. A grim, terrible resolve settled on his face.
"Then we will not use speed," he declared, his voice suddenly calm. "We will use our lives." He turned to the speaking tube that connected to the engine room. "Chief Engineer! All available power to the engines! Give me everything you have, even if it tears the ship apart!" He then turned to the helmsman. "Helm, hard to starboard! Bring us around! We are going to ram her."
A stunned silence fell over the bridge crew. Ramming. It was a tactic from the age of wooden ships, a suicidal, final gambit. But seeing the unyielding fire in their captain's eyes, they obeyed without question.
The crippled Zhiyuan shuddered as its damaged engines were pushed beyond their limits. It slowly, painfully turned, smoke and steam pouring from its wounds, and began to charge directly at the much larger and faster Yoshino. It was a magnificent, heartbreaking sight.
On the bridge of the Yoshino, the Japanese captain watched the burning Chinese cruiser turn towards them, his face a mask of disbelief.
"What is he doing?" he breathed. Then his eyes widened in comprehension. "By the gods! He means to ram us! Evasive maneuvers! Hard to port! All engines, emergency full speed!"
The Yoshino began to turn, but the Zhiyuan, a wounded dragon making its final, suicidal strike, was closing the distance. The Japanese gunners, recovering from their shock, poured a merciless fire into the oncoming ship. Shells tore through the Zhiyuan's superstructure, ripping it to shreds. But it kept coming. Captain Deng stood on his bridge, exposed to the fire, a figure of pure, defiant will, steering his ship and his crew toward a glorious death.
He was just a few hundred yards from his target, so close he could see the panicked faces of the Japanese sailors, when a shell from the Yoshino's main guns struck the Zhiyuan directly in its forward torpedo room.
The warship vaporized. A massive, blinding fireball erupted where the Zhiyuan had been, followed by a concussive boom that rolled across the sea. The ship, its valiant captain, and his entire crew were gone, sacrificed in a final, fiery act of defiance.
But Captain Deng's sacrifice was not in vain. The Yoshino, in its frantic turn to avoid the ram, had exposed its broadside to another Chinese cruiser, the Laiyuan. Seizing the opportunity Deng had created, the Laiyuan's gunners fired a full salvo. The shells slammed into the Yoshino's stern, critically damaging its rudder and propellers. The pride of the Japanese navy, though not sunk, was now crippled, unable to effectively maneuver. The Japanese fleet's last hope of rallying was gone.
That was the final straw. With their flagship a burning ruin, their command structure shattered, and several ships sinking, the will of the Japanese fleet finally broke. The signal for a general retreat was given. The surviving ships, many of them heavily damaged, disengaged from the fight and fled eastward, a scattered and broken remnant of the proud fleet that had sailed from Sasebo just days before.
On the deck of the Dingyuan, Admiral Ding Ruchang, his arm in a crude sling and his face blackened by smoke, watched the last of the Japanese ships disappear over the horizon. He leaned heavily on the railing, looking out at his own battered fleet. They had won. They held the sea. But the cost had been immense. He saw the empty space on the water where the Zhiyuan had been, and a profound sadness washed over his moment of triumph.
His aide approached him cautiously. "Admiral, we have won. A great victory for the Emperor."
Admiral Ding nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. "Yes," he said, his voice heavy. "A victory." He thought of Captain Deng, a man he had known and respected for years, a true patriot. A necessary sacrifice. He straightened up, the weight of command settling back onto his shoulders. "Signal the fleet. Cease pursuit. Take inventory of our damage and casualties. Prepare to escort the army's transports to the Liaodong Peninsula. The Emperor is waiting."
Hours later, in the war room at Port Arthur, the air was still and tense. QSH stood alone before the great map of Asia. A telegraph operator entered the room, his steps quick and quiet. He handed a decoded message to the Emperor and retreated without a word.
QSH read the flimsy paper, his expression unreadable, betraying no hint of triumph or joy.
The message was from Admiral Ding.
"Japanese Combined Fleet engaged and defeated at the Battle of the Yellow Sea. Five enemy cruisers confirmed sunk, including their flagship, Matsushima. Three others are heavily damaged and crippled. The rest have fled in disarray. We hold the sea. Victory is ours."
The message continued on a second line.
"The price was high. The cruisers Zhiyuan and Yangwei are lost with all hands. Their sacrifice was not in vain. Awaiting your further orders."
QSH placed the message carefully on the table. He looked at the map, at the vast blue expanse of the Yellow Sea that was now, indisputably, his. He reached for the box on his desk and took out a small, carved black dragon, the piece representing his land army. The anvil had been forged in the fires of Pyongyang. The hammer had fallen at sea. Now, the final invasion could begin.
"The sea is ours," he said quietly to the empty room. "Now for the land."
His hand moved across the map, past Korea, past the sea, and came to rest on the coastline of Japan itself. With a slow, deliberate movement, he placed the black dragon marker on the city of Nagasaki.