The Most Brutal and Inhumane Acts of the Battle of Tsushima | Samurai vs Mongols

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The Last Stand at Tsushima: A Tale of Honor and Desperation

On November 18, 1274, the tranquil shores of Tsushima Island were about to witness an unimaginable massacre. Eighty samurai, men of flesh and blood, stood resolute against a horizon darkened by the sails of 20,000 Mongol warriors. The air was thick with tension as they prepared for an onslaught that would change the course of history.

But this story doesn’t begin with the clash of swords or the cries of battle. It starts seven years earlier, with a letter—a letter that would seal the fate of Japan. In 1267, a messenger arrived on the shores of Japan, bearing a document sealed with the imperial seal of Kublai Khan, the grandson of Genghis Khan. This letter was not a mere invitation; it was a demand for submission. Kublai Khan, having conquered all of China and Korea, extended his hand to Japan, urging the island nation to pay tribute or face dire consequences.

The Kamakura Shogunate, the military government of Japan, read the letter and made a decision that would defy all logic. They ignored it completely. For six long years, Mongol messengers crossed the Sea of Japan, delivering increasingly threatening messages, yet the shogunate remained silent. It was an act of defiance that bordered on madness. Japan had never been invaded; its warriors were formidable, but they had only fought among themselves. They had no idea what was coming.

As the Mongol fleet was being prepared in the ports of Korea—900 ships carrying 15,000 Mongol and Chinese warriors, plus 8,000 Korean soldiers—the samurai trained with their katanas, unaware that their honor-bound ways would soon be tested against a brutal military machine. The Mongols fought not for glory but for victory, employing tactics and weaponry that Japan had never encountered, including gunpowder bombs that would wreak havoc on the battlefield.

On October 1274, the Mongol fleet set sail from Korea, heading toward Tsushima, a strategic island positioned between Korea and the main island of Kyushu. The island housed approximately 80 samurai under the command of the military governor, Sukuni. As the fleet approached, Sukuni climbed a cliff to survey the horizon, counting the ships—ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred—until he could count no more. The realization dawned on him: 80 warriors stood against thousands.

Faced with a moral dilemma, Sukuni had to choose between surrendering, fleeing to Kyushu to warn the shogunate, or staying to fight. He understood that surrender would mean the fall of Tsushima without resistance, allowing the Mongols to establish a secure base. If he fled, Japan would remain unaware of the impending doom. In a moment of courage, Sukuni chose to fight. They would send a message, even if it meant certain death.

As the Mongol fleet landed on Comeda Beach, the samurai prepared themselves for battle. But this was no ordinary fight. The Mongols advanced like a well-oiled machine, shields in front, archers behind, firing arrows without hesitation. Takasaki Suanaga, one of the samurai, rode forward, expecting an honorable duel, but instead faced a rain of arrows. He fell, wounded but not dead, as the Mongols continued their relentless assault.

The battle that ensued was not a clash of equals; it was a massacre. The Mongols fought as a unit, surrounding and overwhelming each samurai who dared to charge. Sukuni and his remaining men made a desperate charge, but it was futile. Within three hours, 80 samurai lay dead on the beach, their honor lost in a brutal execution rather than a noble battle.

As the dust settled, the Mongols began to disembark the rest of their forces, 20,000 warriors stepping onto Japanese soil for the first time. The true invasion of Tsushima had begun. The Mongols, not content with simply conquering, unleashed a campaign of terror. They captured civilians, executing them in horrific ways to instill fear in any who might resist. The psychological warfare was devastating; survivors were tortured and displayed as warnings to others.

In the aftermath of the invasion, the message sent by Sukuni and his men echoed through the islands. A rider escaped in the chaos, reaching Kyushu with news of the massacre, prompting the governor of Desaiu, Shaitsunesque, to mobilize the remaining samurai. But the odds were still daunting—3,000 warriors against 20,000 Mongols.

As the second wave of the Mongol invasion approached, the samurai faced a choice once again. Would they flee or stand and fight? Many chose to stay, knowing that their actions would determine the fate of Japan. The Mongols landed on Iki Island, where they faced a more organized resistance, but the tide of war seemed to favor the invaders.

However, the Mongol fleet encountered a storm, a typhoon that would change everything. The storm hit with a ferocity that shattered the Mongol ships and drowned many of their warriors. The Japanese watched in disbelief as the ocean claimed their enemies, and the gods seemed to intervene in their favor. This divine wind, the kamikaze, became a symbol of hope and protection for the Japanese people.

In the end, the samurai’s courage and sacrifice bought Japan precious time. The Mongols, despite their overwhelming numbers, were forced to retreat. The legend of the kamikaze was born, a story that would shape Japan’s identity for centuries.

Yet, the story of those who survived also deserves to be told. Takasaki Suanaga, the samurai who had fallen on the battlefield, returned home wounded and haunted by the memories of his fallen comrades. He would carry the weight of survival, knowing that he had lived when so many had died. In a culture that revered honor and death in battle, his survival was a complex burden.

Suanaga commissioned an artist to create an illustrated scroll depicting the battles, hoping to convey the truth of the Mongol invasions—that they were not just a tale of heroism but a reminder of the brutal reality of war. He sought recognition for his bravery, a way to prove that he had fought alongside his brothers, even if he had survived when they had not.

As Japan entered a new era, the legacy of the samurai evolved. The myth of the kamikaze grew, intertwining with the national identity. The stories of bravery, sacrifice, and survival became woven into the fabric of Japan’s history. The 80 samurai of Tsushima were remembered not just as warriors who fought and died but as symbols of resilience in the face of overwhelming odds.

In the end, the question remains: what is worth more, living with shame or dying with honor? The samurai chose honor, and their story continues to resonate through the ages. Their struggle against the Mongol invasion serves as a reminder of the complexities of war, the choices made in the face of despair, and the enduring spirit of a nation that would not be easily conquered.