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THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE.

MAY 1917.

_BRING UP THE GUNS._

BY BOYD CABLE.

When Jack Duncan and Hugh Morrison suddenly had it brought home to them
that they ought to join the New Armies, they lost little time in doing
so. Since they were chums of long standing in a City office, it went
without saying that they decided to join and ‘go through it’ together,
but it was much more open to argument what branch of the Service or
regiment they should join.

They discussed the question in all its bearings, but being as ignorant of
the Army and its ways as the average young Englishman was in the early
days of the war, they had little evidence except varied and contradictory
hearsay to act upon. Both being about twenty-five they were old enough
and business-like enough to consider the matter in a business-like way,
and yet both were young enough to be influenced by the flavour of romance
they found in a picture they came across at the time. It was entitled
‘Bring up the Guns,’ and it showed a horsed battery in the wild whirl of
advancing into action, the horses straining and stretching in front of
the bounding guns, the drivers crouched forward or sitting up plying whip
and spur, the officers galloping and waving the men on, dust swirling
from leaping hoofs and wheels, whip-thongs streaming, heads tossing,
reins flying loose, altogether a blood-stirring picture of energy and
action, speed and power.

‘I’ve always had a notion,’ said Duncan reflectively, ‘that I’d like to
have a good whack at riding. One doesn’t get much chance of it in city
life, and this looks like a good chance.’

‘And I’ve heard it said,’ agreed Morrison, ‘that a fellow with any
education stands about the best chance in artillery work. We’d might as
well plump for something where we can use the bit of brains we’ve got.’

‘That applies to the Engineers too, doesn’t it?’ said Duncan. ‘And the
pottering about we did for a time with electricity might help there.’

‘Um-m,’ Morrison agreed doubtfully, still with an appreciative eye on
the picture of the flying guns. ‘Rather slow work though—digging and
telegraph and pontoon and that sort of thing.’

‘Right-oh,’ said Duncan with sudden decision. ‘Let’s try for the
Artillery.’

‘Yes. We’ll call that settled,’ said Morrison; and both stood a few
minutes looking with a new interest at the picture, already with a
dawning sense that they ‘belonged,’ that these gallant gunners and
leaping teams were ‘Ours,’ looking forward with a little quickening of
the pulse to the day when they, too, would go whirling into action in
like desperate and heart-stirring fashion.

‘Come on,’ said Morrison. ‘Let’s get it over. To the
recruiting-office—quick march.’

And so came two more gunners into the Royal Regiment.

When the long, the heart-breakingly long period of training and waiting
for their guns, and more training and slow collecting of their horses,
and more training was at last over, and the battery sailed for France,
Morrison and Duncan were both sergeants and ‘Numbers One’ in charge of
their respective guns; and before the battery had been in France three
months Morrison had been promoted to Battery Sergeant-Major.

The battery went through the routine of trench warfare and dug its guns
into deep pits, and sent its horses miles away back, and sat in the same
position for months at a time, had slack spells and busy spells, shelled
and was shelled, and at last moved up to play its part in The Push.

Of that part I don’t propose to tell more than the one incident—an
incident of machine-pattern sameness to the lot of many batteries.

The infantry had gone forward again and the ebb-tide of battle was
leaving the battery with many others almost beyond the water-mark of
effective range. Preparations were made for an advance. The Battery
Commander went forward and reconnoitred the new position the battery was
to move into, everything was packed up and made ready, while the guns
still continued to pump out long range fire. The Battery Commander came
in again and explained everything to his officers and gave the necessary
detailed orders to the Sergeant-Major, and presently received orders of
date and hour to move.

This was in the stages of The Push when rain was the most prominent
and uncomfortable feature of the weather. The guns were in pits built
over with strong walls and roofing of sand-bags and beams which were
weather-tight enough, but because the floors of the pits were lower than
the surface of the ground, it was only by a constant struggle that the
water was held back from draining in and forming a miniature lake in each
pit. Round and between the guns was a mere churned-up sea of sticky mud.
As soon as the new battery position was selected a party went forward to
it to dig and prepare places for the guns. The Battery Commander went
off to select a suitable point for observation of his fire, and in the
battery the remaining gunners busied themselves in preparation for the
move. The digging party were away all the afternoon, all night, and on
through the next day. Their troubles and tribulations don’t come into
this story, but from all they had to say afterwards they were real and
plentiful enough.

Towards dusk a scribbled note came back from the Battery Commander at the
new position to the officer left in charge with the guns, and the officer
sent the orderly straight on down with it to the Sergeant-Major with a
message to send word back for the teams to move up.

‘All ready here,’ said the Battery Commander’s note. ‘Bring up the guns
and firing battery waggons as soon as you can. I’ll meet you on the way.’

The Sergeant-Major glanced through the note and shouted for the Numbers
One, the sergeants in charge of each gun. He had already arranged with
the officer exactly what was to be done when the order came, and now he
merely repeated his orders rapidly to the sergeants and told them to ‘get
on with it.’ When the Lieutenant came along five minutes after, muffled
to the ears in a wet mackintosh, he found the gunners hard at work.

‘I started in to pull the sand-bags clear, sir,’ reported the
Sergeant-Major. ‘Right you are,’ said the Lieutenant. ‘Then you’d better
put the double detachments on to pull one gun out and then the other. We
must man-handle ’em back clear of the trench ready for the teams to hook
in when they come along.’

For the next hour every man, from the Lieutenant and Sergeant-Major
down, sweated and hauled and slid and floundered in slippery mud and
water, dragging gun after gun out of its pit and back a half dozen yards
clear. It was quite dark when they were ready, and the teams splashed
up and swung round their guns. A fairly heavy bombardment was carrying
steadily on along the line, the sky winked and blinked and flamed in
distant and near flashes of gun fire, and the air trembled to the
vibrating roar and sudden thunder-claps of their discharge, the whine
and moan and shriek of the flying shells. No shells had fallen near the
battery position for some little time, but, unfortunately, just after
the teams had arrived, a German battery chose to put over a series of
five-point-nines unpleasantly close. The drivers sat, motionless blotches
of shadow against the flickering sky, while the gunners strained and
heaved on wheels and drag-ropes to bring the trails close enough to drop
on the hooks. A shell dropped with a crash about fifty yards short of
the battery and the pieces flew whining and whistling over the heads of
the men and horses. Two more swooped down out of the sky with a rising
wail-rush-roar of sound that appeared to be bringing the shells straight
down on top of the workers’ heads. Some ducked and crouched close to
earth, and both shells passed just over and fell in leaping gusts of
flame and ground-shaking crashes beyond the teams. Again the fragments
hissed and whistled past and lumps of earth and mud fell spattering and
splashing and thumping over men and guns and teams. A driver yelped
suddenly, the horses in another team snorted and plunged, and then out
of the thick darkness that seemed to shut down after the searing light
of the shell-burst flames came sounds of more plunging hoofs, a driver’s
voice cursing angrily, threshings and splashings and stamping. ‘Horse
down here ... bring a light ... whoa, steady, boy ... where’s that light?’

Three minutes later: ‘Horse killed, driver wounded in the arm, sir,’
reported the Sergeant-Major. ‘Riding leader Number Two gun, and centre
driver of its waggon.’

‘Those spare horses near?’ said the Lieutenant quickly. ‘Right. Call up a
pair; put ’em in lead; put the odd driver waggon centre.’

Before the change was completed and the dead horse dragged clear, the
first gun was reported hooked on and ready to move, and was given the
order to ‘Walk march’ and pull out on the wrecked remnant of a road that
ran behind the position. Another group of five-nines came over before the
others were ready, and still the drivers and teams waited motionless for
the clash that told of the trail-eye dropping on the hook.

‘Get to it, gunners,’ urged the Sergeant-Major, as he saw some of the
men instinctively stop and crouch to the yell of the approaching shell.
‘Time we were out of this.’

‘Hear, bloomin’ hear,’ drawled one of the shadowy drivers. ‘An’ if
you wants to go to bed, Lanky’—to one of the crouching gunners—‘just
lemme get this gun away fust, an’ then you can curl up in that blanky
shell-’ole.’

There were no more casualties getting out, but one gun stuck in a
shell-hole and took the united efforts of the team and as many gunners
as could crowd on to the wheels and drag-ropes to get it moving and
out on to the road. Then slowly, one by one, with a gunner walking and
swinging a lighted lamp at the head of each team, the guns moved off
along the pitted road. It was no road really, merely a wheel-rutted
track that wound in and out the biggest shell-holes. The smaller ones
were ignored, simply because there were too many of them to steer clear
of, and into them the limber and gun wheels dropped bumping, and were
hauled out by sheer team and man power. It took four solid hours to cover
less than half a mile of sodden, spongy, pulpy, wet ground, riddled with
shell-holes, swimming in greasy mud and water. The ground they covered
was peopled thick with all sorts of men who passed or crossed their way
singly, in little groups, in large parties—wounded, hobbling wearily or
being carried back, parties stumbling and fumbling a way up to some vague
point ahead with rations and ammunition on pack animals and pack-men,
the remnants of a battalion coming out crusted from head to foot in
slimy wet mud, bowed under the weight of their packs and kits and arms;
empty ammunition waggons and limbers lurching and bumping back from the
gun line, the horses staggering and slipping, the drivers struggling
to hold them on their feet, to guide the wheels clear of the worst
holes; a string of pack-mules filing past, their drivers dismounted and
leading, and men and mules ploughing anything up to knee depth in the
mud, flat pannier-pouches swinging and jerking on the animals’ sides, the
brass tops of the 18-pounder shell-cases winking and gleaming faintly
in the flickering lights of the gun flashes. But of all these fellow
wayfarers over the battlefield the battery drivers and gunners were
hardly conscious. Their whole minds were so concentrated on the effort of
holding and guiding and urging on their horses round or over the obstacle
of the moment, a deeper and more sticky patch than usual, an extra large
hole, a shattered tree stump, a dead horse, the wreck of a broken-down
waggon, that they had no thought for anything outside these. The gunners
were constantly employed manning the wheels and heaving on them with
cracking muscles, hooking on drag-ropes to one gun and dragging it clear
of a hole, unhooking and going floundering back to hook on to another and
drag it in turn out of its difficulty.

The Battery Commander met them at a bad dip where the track degenerated
frankly into a mud bath—and how he found or kept the track or ever
discovered them in that aching wilderness is one of the mysteries of
war and the ways of Battery Commanders. It took another two hours, two
mud-soaked nightmare hours, to come through that next hundred yards. It
was not only that the mud was deep and holding, but the slough was so
soft at bottom that the horses had no foothold, could get no grip to
haul on, could little more than drag their own weight through, much less
pull the guns. The teams were doubled, the double team taking one gun
or waggon through, and then going back for the other. The waggons were
emptied of their shell and filled again on the other side of the slough;
and this you will remember meant the gunners carrying the rounds across a
couple at a time, wading and floundering through mud over their knee-boot
tops, replacing the shells in the vehicle, and wading back for another
couple. In addition to this they had to haul guns and waggons through
practically speaking by man-power, because the teams, almost exhausted by
the work and with little more than strength to get themselves through,
gave bare assistance to the pull. The wheels, axle deep in the soft mud,
were hauled round spoke by spoke, heaved and yo-hoed forward inches at a
time.

When at last all were over, the teams had to be allowed a brief
rest—brief because the guns must be in position and under cover before
daylight came—and stood dejectedly with hanging ears, heaving flanks, and
trembling legs. The gunners dropped prone or squatted almost at the point
of exhaustion in the mud. But they struggled up, and the teams strained
forward into the breast collars again when the word was given, and the
weary procession trailed on at a jerky snail’s pace once more.

As they at last approached the new position the gun flashes on the
horizon were turning from orange to primrose, and although there was no
visible lightening of the Eastern sky, the drivers were sensible of a
faintly recovering use of their eyes, could see the dim shapes of the
riders just ahead of them, the black shadows of the holes, and the wet
shine of the mud under their horses’ feet.

The hint of dawn set the guns on both sides to work with trebled energy.
The new position was one of many others so closely set that the blazing
flames from the gun muzzles seemed to run out to right and left in a
spouting wall of fire that leaped and vanished, leaped and vanished
without ceasing, while the loud ear-splitting claps from the nearer guns
merged and ran out to the flanks in a deep drum roll of echoing thunder.
The noise was so great and continuous that it drowned even the roar of
the German shells passing overhead, the smash and _crump_ of their fall
and burst.

But the line of flashes sparkling up and down across the front beyond the
line of our own guns told a plain enough tale of the German guns’ work.
The Sergeant-Major, plodding along beside the Battery Commander, grunted
an exclamation.

‘Boche is getting busy,’ said the Battery Commander.

‘Putting a pretty solid barrage down, isn’t he, sir?’ said the
Sergeant-Major. ‘Can we get the teams through that?’

‘Not much hope,’ said the Battery Commander, ‘but, thank Heaven, we don’t
have to try, if he keeps barraging there. It is beyond our position.
There are the gun-pits just off to the left.’

But, although the barrage was out in front of the position, there were
a good many long-ranged shells coming beyond it to fall spouting fire
and smoke and earth-clods on and behind the line of guns. The teams were
flogged and lifted and spurred into a last desperate effort, wrenched
the guns forward the last hundred yards and halted. Instantly they were
unhooked, turned round, and started stumbling wearily back towards the
rear; the gunners, reinforced by others scarcely less dead-beat than
themselves by their night of digging in heavy wet soil, seized the
guns and waggons, flung their last ounce of strength and energy into
man-handling them up and into the pits. Two unlucky shells at that
moment added heavily to the night’s casualty list, one falling beside
the retiring teams and knocking out half a dozen horses and two men,
another dropping within a score of yards of the gun-pits, killing three
and wounding four gunners. Later, at intervals, two more gunners were
wounded by flying splinters from chance shells that continued to drop
near the pits as the guns were laboriously dragged through the quagmire
into their positions. But none of the casualties, none of the falls and
screamings of the high-explosive shells, interrupted or delayed the work,
and without rest or pause the men struggled and toiled on until the last
gun was safely housed in its pit.

Then the battery cooks served out warm tea, and the men drank greedily,
and then, too worn out to be hungry or to eat the biscuit and cheese
ration issued, flung themselves down in the pits under and round their
guns and slept there in the trampled mud.

The Sergeant-Major was the last to lie down. Only after everyone else had
ceased work, and he had visited each gun in turn and satisfied himself
that all was correct, and made his report to the Battery Commander, did
he seek his own rest. Then he crawled into one of the pits, and before
he slept had a few words with the ‘Number One’ there, his old friend
Duncan. The Sergeant-Major, feeling in his pockets for a match to light a
cigarette, found the note which the Battery Commander had sent back and
which had been passed on to him. He turned his torch light on it and read
it through to Duncan—‘Bring up the guns and firing battery waggons ...’
and then chuckled a little. ‘Bring up the guns.... Remember that picture
we saw before we joined, Duncan! And we fancied then we’d be bringing ’em
up same fashion. And, good Lord, think of to-night.’

‘Yes,’ grunted Duncan, ‘sad slump from our anticipations. There was some
fun in that picture style of doing the job—some sort of dash and honour
and glory. No honour and glory about “Bring up the guns” these days. Na
poo to-night anyway.’

The Sergeant-Major, sleepily sucking his damp cigarette, wrapped in his
sopping British Warm, curling up in a corner on the wet cold earth,
utterly spent with the night’s work, cordially agreed.

Perhaps, and anyhow one hopes, some people will think they were wrong.

_FRANCE AND BRITAIN: THEIR COMMON MEMORIES._

    ‘France and England, whose very shores look pale
    With envy of each other’s happiness.’

              SHAKESPEARE, _Henry V._, Act v. sc. ii.

    ‘Each the other’s mystery, terror, need and love.’

                                     RUDYARD KIPLING.

Our common memories? Well, are they so many of this nature which brings
closer those who recollect them together? They are indeed! Let this
article be a friendly protest, a grounded protest against the idea which
is no doubt, still, the prevalent popular idea on both sides of the
Channel, I mean this one: ‘The Entente Cordiale is something splendid,
but when one comes to think about it, how wonderful, how new!’ Yes, when
we think about it _superficially_, how wonderful, how new, but when we
think somewhat more deeply and with a little more knowledge of the past,
how natural! Not a miracle: the logical result, only too long deferred,
of the long centuries of our common history. It is not mere pastime to
show it. How important on the contrary, how _practically_ important for
the present and for the future of our alliance, to make conscious again
the old moral ties and to reawaken the sleeping sense of historical
fellowship!

II.

To make that fellowship apparent, at a glance, at least from certain
points of view, I have devised the appended diagram. There you see
represented, as it were, the streams of the history of our two nations
from their farthest origins down to our own times. Please note the scale
of centuries. See both streams rising about eight or six centuries
before Christ in the same mountain—if I may say so figuratively—in the
same mountain of the Celtic race. They spring, as you see, from the same
source, and, though geographically divided, their waters remain a long
time of the same colour—green in my draught.

[Illustration: SYMBOLIC DRAUGHT ILLUSTRATING THE HISTORY OF
FRANCO-BRITISH RELATIONS.]

We have, on that point of their origins, very interesting and very
numerous testimonies, chiefly in the contemporary Greek and Roman
writers. Very striking in particular was the fellowship of ancient
Britons and Gauls with regard to religion. If you open one—I may say
any one—of our French history text-books, you will see that it begins
exactly as one of yours, with the same story, and pictures, of Druids,
priests, teachers, and judges—some of them bards; the same story of the
solemn gathering of the mistletoe verdant in winter on the bare branches
of oaks, symbol of the cardinal creed of the race: the immortality of
the soul. Caesar, who had a Druid among his best friends, observes that
the young Gauls who wanted to go deeper into the study of their religion
generally used to go over to Britain in order to graduate, if I may say
so, in this mysterious and lofty science.[1] It appears, therefore,
that, though the Celts had passed originally from Gaul into Britain, yet
Britain had become and remained the sanctuary of their common religion.
Note that nothing of the sort was to be found elsewhere. Here we have
characteristics of ancient Britain and ancient Gaul and of them alone.
Now observe that though this Celtic colour is to be later on—in fact much
later—modified by waters from other sources, yet it will never completely
disappear. The Celtic element remains visible to our day in our two
nations: you have your green Celtic fringe in Cornwall, Wales, part of
Scotland, and the greater part of Ireland;—we have something of the kind
in Brittany.

III.

During the first century B.C. a very big event took place which was to
stamp the whole of our ulterior history on this side of the Channel with
its principal character: I am referring to the Romanisation of Gaul.

For many reasons which I omit, the advent of the Romans, though of course
it met with some strenuous and even splendid resistance for a short time,
could hardly be called a conquest in the odious meaning of the word.
Now, you know that Caesar in the very midst of his campaigns in Gaul
found time to carry out two bold expeditions into Britain. It is very
interesting to note his motives. He was not, as one could easily imagine,
impelled by an appetite of conquest. This appetite, by the way, was much
less among the Romans than is generally imagined, and Caesar himself
had enough to do at that time with the turbulent Gallic tribes without
entering, if it could be avoided, upon a doubtful enterprise beyond the
Channel. But he could not do otherwise, and he gives us himself his
motives, which are extremely interesting from the point of view of the
history of our early relations. He felt that he could not see an end to
his Gallic war if he did not at least intimidate the British brothers
of the Gauls always ready to send them help! Let me quote his own words
(remember that he speaks of himself in the third person):

    ‘Though not much was left of the fine season—and winter comes
    early in those parts—he resolved to pass into Britain, at
    least, to begin with, for a reconnoitring raid, because he saw
    well that in almost all their wars (the Romans’ wars) with the
    Gauls, help came from that country to their enemies.’[2]

His two bold raids into Britain had some of the desired effect. His
successors achieved more, leisurely, without too much trouble, but very
incompletely too, both as regards extent of territory and depth of
impression. You see how I have expressed all this in my draught.

In Gaul, on the contrary, the transformation was complete and lasting,
lasting to our days. The civilisation of Rome, which had already
fascinated Gaul from afar, was so eagerly and so unanimously adopted all
over the country that, in the space of a few decades, this country was
nearly as Roman as Rome. The fame of the Gallo-Roman schools, the great
number of Latin writers and orators of Gallic origin, the numberless
remains of theatres, temples, bridges, aqueducts—some in marvellous
state of preservation—which are even now to be found in hundreds of
places, not only in the south but even in the north of this country, from
the Mediterranean to the Rhine, and still more than anything else our
language, so purely Romanic, abundantly testify to the willingness, nay
to the enthusiasm, with which Gaul made her own the civilisation of Rome.

But why do I insist on this fact? Because much of all this we were to
transmit to you later on, chiefly on the Norman vehicle. The direct
impression of Rome on your country was to remain superficial—though it
would be a mistake to overlook it altogether—but the indirect influence
through us was nearly to balance any other influence and to become one of
the chief factors of your moral and intellectual history.

IV.

But before we reach that time we have to take note of two nearly
simultaneous events. In the fifth century the Franks established
themselves in Roman Gaul and the Angles and Saxons in Roman Britain.
You see in my draught each of these rivers—English and Frankish—flowing
respectively into the streams of British and Gallic history. I have
given about the same bluish colour to these new rivers to point out that
Anglo-Saxons and Franks were originally cousins and neighbours. Their
establishment was more or less attended with some rough handling, but
even in their case, and chiefly in our case, the strict propriety of the
word conquest to describe their coming can be questioned. There had been
previous and partial agreements with the old people to come over, besides
they were few in numbers. Yet the results were strikingly different. On
our side the Franks were gradually absorbed, though giving their name
to the country—France—and constituting, specially in the north, a small
aristocracy of soldiers. On your side, on the contrary, the Anglo-Saxons
converted the old country into a new one. Instead of giving up their own
language they imposed it, at least to a large extent. Between them and
their Frankish cousins established in old Roman Gaul relations remained
quite cordial. A king of Kent, who had married a Christian daughter of a
king of Paris, showed remarkable good will for the second introduction
of Christianity into Britain. He and his Anglo-Saxon comrades would not
accept Christianity from the ancient Britons who had already become
Christian, more or less, under the Romans, but they accepted it eagerly
at the recommendation of the Romanised and Christianised Franks. May I
say that the Franks went so far as to provide the Mission under Augustine
with the necessary interpreters! Very soon the Anglo-Saxons became so
eager themselves for Christianity that they became foremost in the
spreading of it to the last country which remained to be converted to
the new faith, I mean Germany. This is a very interesting story, though
an old one, and, I am afraid, much forgotten: your Winfrid—he and his
pupils—with the recommendation and support of Charles Martel—the founder
of our Carolingian dynasty—Christianising Germany, founding there a
dozen bishoprics, with British bishops, becoming himself the first
archbishop of Mayence, and then dying a martyr on German soil.... Is not
it interesting, this now forgotten story, in which we see early England
and early France friendly co-operating to Christianise and to civilise
Germany?

V.

The next stage in the history of both countries was again analogous.
About the same time—the ninth century—we, and you, had troubles from
the same people: the Northmen. They were few in numbers, but gave much
annoyance for some time. The result was the same on both sides: you
practically turned your Northmen into Anglo-Saxons, and we turned ours
into Romanised Frenchmen of the best sort. The process was much more
rapidly completed on our side than on yours, and you were still engaged
in it when our Romanised Normans arrived in Britain and nearly succeeded
in achieving what the Romans themselves had failed to achieve. And more
than that—more from the point of view of our relations—they very nearly
succeeded in building out of our two countries a practically unified but
short-lived empire.

In 1180 the whole of the present United Kingdom of Great Britain and
Ireland and nearly two-thirds of France were practically acknowledging,
under one title or another, only one sovereign: Henry II. Plantagenet.
Let me say—though I own it is not the view which is generally prevalent
in our schools, and far from it!—that it is a pity they did not succeed
altogether! Henry II. had against him untoward circumstances and, above
all, Philip Augustus! He had finally to give up that fine dream. Now,
union failing to be achieved that way, it is a pity, I think, that it
failed also the _other_ way, a little time after in 1216. Then the far
greater part of your people, barons and clergy, revolting against one
of the unworthiest rulers ever known, King John, agreed to invite over
the eldest son, _and heir_, of the French king to be their own king. He
came over, of course, was received at Westminster, accepted and confirmed
Magna Charta, the charter of your liberties, and was going to be
acknowledged in all parts of the kingdom when John—allow me these strong
terms—did the stupidest and wickedest thing of his stupid and wicked life
by dying at the wrong time! at that time! He died when by living a little
longer he might have been the occasion of joining our two countries into
one empire! Fancy for a moment what _this_ would have meant, the course
our common history would have taken for our common glory and the future
of the whole human race! But, dying, he left an heir, a boy of nine
years of age, and the idea of innocent legitimacy, with the strenuous
support of the Papal legate, prevailed over the half-accomplished fact!
And thus this splendid chance was lost!

Another occasion presented itself hardly more than a century afterwards,
when the Capetian line of our own kings became extinct and the nearest
heir was the English king Edward III. In fact, he was as much French as
English, and the king of a country whose official language was still
French and whose popular language was now permeated with French. I think
it was no more difficult for France, in 1328, to accept this king, and
be united with England under the same sovereign while remaining herself,
than for England in 1603 to accept a king from Scotland. Well, there
was some hesitation among the French barons and clergy, and a solemn
discussion was held on the point of law. In fact, there was no law at all
on the subject and they had a free choice. To my mind the interest of
the country pointed to the recognition of Edward, that is to union. No
doubt, on the other hand, that it was the way pointed to by civil and by
canon laws. They preferred the other course. No doubt they meant well,
but to be well-meaning and far-seeing are two things, and I for one, in
the teeth of all adverse and orthodox teaching, lament the decision which
they took and the turn which they gave to national feelings yet in their
infancy. The other decision would have spared the two countries not only
one, but several hundred years’ wars, and would have secured to the two
sister countries all the mutual advantages of peaceful development and
cordial co-operation.

I can only briefly refer to the famous Treaty of Troyes, 1420, by which
in the course of the Hundred Years’ War our King—insane literally
speaking—and his German wife, disinherited their son to the profit of
their son-in-law, the English king, and handed over to him, at once,
as Regent, the crown of France. This treaty of course, under such
circumstances, and when national feelings had been roused—however
unfortunately—in the contrary direction, had little moral and political
value. Yet, had your Henry V. lived—he died two years after the treaty—he
might possibly have got it accepted by France. Professor A. Coville in
his contribution to what is presently the latest, the leading, history of
France, commenting on Henry’s love of justice and the stern discipline he
maintained in his army—the Army of Agincourt—concludes in the following
remarkable terms, which I beg to translate:

    ‘After so many years of strife the people of this Kingdom [the
    French Kingdom] looked up to his stern government to turn this
    anarchy into order. Paris accepted as a deliverance this yoke,
    heavy no doubt but protective.’[3]

It is interesting to observe that this view of this French historian is
in complete agreement with Shakespeare’s ‘Henry V.’ Such an agreement
between an English poet and a French scientist is certainly worthy of
attention!

Well, Henry V. died, and national feelings being decidedly roused,
flaming into the stupendous miracle of Joan of Arc, decided otherwise.

VI.

What about this _otherwise_, I mean this definitive political separation
and these centuries of hostility which fill our history text-books? We
can speak of it without the slightest uneasiness, not only because all
this seems now to be so far in the past, a past which can never revive,
but, above all, because of the remarkable characters of this hostility
and of its brilliant interludes.

I say that this hostility had, on the whole, this remarkable character,
to be lofty rivalry, not low hatred. It may have been—it was indeed
at times—fierce and passionate, but it was all along accompanied by
mutual respect. Our two countries aimed at surpassing much more than
at destroying each other. It was more like a world race for glory than
a grip for death. Its spirit was quarrelsome animosity taking immense
delight in stupid pinpricks and daring strokes, not cold hate dreaming of
mortal stabs to the heart.

Your great poet Rudyard Kipling has expressed this very finely in the
poem he wrote three years ago on the occasion, if I remember well, of
your King’s first visit to Paris. Let me quote from this poem:

          ‘We stormed the seas tack for tack and burst
    Through the doorways of new worlds, doubtful which was first.’

    ‘Ask the wave that has not watched war between us two ...
    Each the other’s mystery, terror, need, and love.’

    ‘O companion, we have lived greatly through all time.’

I could illustrate this spirit by many stories. One of the most typical
is about the encounter on the battlefield of Fontenoy, in 1745, of
the massive English column and of the French centre. There is in that
story a mixture of fine legend and historical truth, but anyway it is
illustrative of the spirit. The very fact that the legend could grow out
of the truth is a proof of the spirit by itself.

There is another story much less known, but which is as much
illuminating. It was at the beginning of the American war, thirty-four
years after Fontenoy, in 1779. Your famous seaman Rodney was in Paris,
which he could not leave on account of certain debts, yet he was
perfectly free to walk about as any ordinary private man, though France
and England were at war. Concentration camps had not been invented
as yet! One day, then, as he was dining with some French military
friends—always remember, please, that we were at war—they came to talk of
some recent successes we had just had at sea, among them the conquest of
Grenada in the West Indies. Rodney expressed himself on these successes
with polite disdain, saying that if _he_ was free—he Rodney—the French
would not have it so easy! Upon which old Marshal de Biron paid for his
debts and said: ‘You are free, sir, the French will not avail themselves
of the obstacles which prevent you from fighting them.’ Well, it cost us
very dear to have let him go, but was not it fine!

I am glad to hear from my friend, your Oxford countryman, Mr. C.R.L.
Fletcher, the author of a brilliantly written ‘Introductory History of
England’ in four volumes, that the story is told in substantially the
same terms on your side, by all the authorities on the subject: Mundy’s
‘Life and Correspondence of Lord Rodney’ (vol. i. p. 180); Laughton in
the ‘Dictionary of National Biography’; Captain Mahan in his ‘Influence
of Sea Power in History,’ p. 377.

We could tell many, many stories of that kind, but let these two
be sufficient for our purpose to-day. And yet, even with all these
extenuating circumstances, how pitiful it would have been if this enmity
had been continuous! But it was not, and even far from it! Even the worst
of all our wars, the Hundred Years’ War, was interrupted by very numerous
and very long truces lasting years and even decades of years! In fact,
that war consisted generally of mere raids with handfuls of men, though
it must be said that they often did harm out of all proportion to their
numbers. As to the other wars in more modern times they were pleasantly
intermingled with interludes of co-operation and alliance. The simple
enumeration of them is instructive and may even appear surprising.

In the sixteenth century there was a temporary alliance between your
Henry VIII. and our Francis the First, against the Emperor of Germany,
Charles V. In fact Henry VIII., at first, had allied himself with the
German Emperor against the French king, but when the latter, attacked
from all cardinal points (Spain and most of Italy were then in the hands
of the Emperor), had been beaten at Pavia and taken prisoner to Madrid,
your King perceived his mistake, _i.e._ England’s ultimate danger. He
consequently offered his alliance to Francis for the restoration of this
balance of power, which, for want of something better, was the guarantee
of the independence of all states. In Mignet’s study[4] of these times
I find this extract from your King’s instructions to his ambassadors in
France, in March 1526, as to the conditions forced upon the French king,
in his Spanish prison, by the Emperor of Germany:

    ‘They [the English ambassadors] shall infer what damage the
    crown of France may and is likely to stand in by the said
    conditions—this be the way to bring him [Charles] to the
    monarchy of Christendom.’

You know that, after all, the world-wide ambition of the then Emperor of
Germany was defeated, to the point that he resigned in despair and ended
his life in a monastery.

Again, towards the end of the same century Queen Elizabeth was on quite
friendly terms with our Henry the Fourth. They had the same enemy:
Philip the Second of Spain, son of Charles the Fifth and heir to the
greater part of his dominions. This friendship ripened into alliance,
and there was a very strong English contingent in the French army which
retook Amiens, from the Spaniards, in 1597. Both sovereigns united also
in helping the Low Countries in their struggle for independence against
Spain.

In the seventeenth century your Cromwell and our Mazarin renewed the
same alliance against Spain, and in 1657 a Franco-British army under the
ablest of the French soldiers of that time, Marshal Turenne, beat the
Spaniards near Dunkirk and took Dunkirk itself, which was handed over to
you as the price previously agreed upon of the alliance.

After the Restoration your Stuarts were on so friendly terms with the
French Government that they were accused, sometimes with some show of
justice, of forgetting the national interests. There is no doubt that
they tried, and to a certain extent successfully, to evade the just
demands and control of your Parliament by becoming pensioners of the King
of France. Their selling Dunkirk to France in 1662, five years after
its capture from Spain, made them particularly unpopular. Of course,
when they were finally expelled by your revolutions of 1688, they found,
with hundreds of followers, a hospitable reception at the French court,
causing thereby on the other hand a revival of hostility between our
government and your new one. May I observe, by the way, that the head of
this new government of yours was the Prince of Orange—French Orange, near
Avignon—and that this little, practically self-governing principality was
suffered to remain his until his death, in 1702, when Louis XIV. annexed
it to France?

In the eighteenth century itself, marked by so keen a rivalry, there were
temporary periods of understanding, specially during the two or three
decades following the peace of Utrecht, with a view of preserving the
peace of Europe. The names of Sir Robert Walpole and Cardinal Fleury are
attached to this period.

In the nineteenth century, from the fall of Napoleon, the improvement
of our relations—down to the present day—has been nearly continuous
and marked by a series of remarkable facts. It was first the union of
our navies, with that of Russia, for the destruction of the Turkish
fleet at Navarino, in 1827, thereby securing the independence of
Greece—an independence which was completed in the ensuing years by
French and Russian armies—(we wish the present Greek Government, the
Royal government, remembered this better!). It was then the union of our
policies for the liberation of Belgium from Dutch vassalage, a liberation
which Prussia wanted to oppose but durst not, seeing that France and
England had made up their minds about it. Then came the union of our
armies for the mistaken object of protecting Turkey against Russia (how
strange it sounds now!), or of opening China to the European trade. Chief
of all, how could we forget that—some way or other—France and Britain
have been godmothers to Italian unity!

Well, all this is rather a long record and it may appear surprising to
many as an aggregate, though nearly each component part of it is well
known! The reason for this impression of surprise is this: in spite
of this political co-operation, and side by side with it, much of the
acrimonious spirit long survived, unwilling to die. The twentieth
century, thank God! and the present alliance have given it the ‘coup de
grâce’!

VII.

I have adverted until now to the political side only of our relations,
but if we look at our past relations from another standpoint—the
standpoint of the mind, of moral progress, of civilisation—we have a
somewhat simpler story to tell, yet a chequered story too. Whatever our
political relations may have been—with perhaps the only exception of the
time when you opposed all reforms, because we were making revolutionary,
disconcerting reforms!—we have been generally emulating for all that
ennobles the life of man: higher thought, justice, and liberty. There
is here such a formidable accumulation of interesting facts that I can
scarcely refer to them except in very general terms, lest I should lose
sight of the limits within which I must compress this article.

French and English writers rarely took much account of the political
hostility which prevailed between the two countries. Your writers
have generally paid, from Chaucer’s time down to our own, the closest
attention to our literature, whether they have followed its lead or
reacted against its influence. On the other hand, all our political
philosophers have always found in the study of your institutions a source
of inexhaustible interest, whether they have been admirers of them like
Montesquieu or sharp critics like Rousseau. And let no one imagine that
this side of the question is devoid of practical interest. It is owing
to this continuous interchange of ideas that both countries have been
equipped for these intellectual, moral and political achievements by
which, in spite of all their shortcomings, they have won the glory of
being generally acknowledged, on so many points, as the joint leaders
of modern civilisation. It is the fact that they have been more or less
conscious all along, or nearly so, of this joint leadership, which has so
happily counteracted and at the end got the better of political acrimony
and popular prejudices. The Entente Cordiale between our two countries
is largely a triumph of the mind, the finest in history and certainly
the most far-reaching. Let us not underestimate therefore the influence
of intellectual workers. It has been the glory of most of them in this
country and in yours to plead for the noblest ideals: for liberty and
justice at home, and also, abroad, for a cordial understanding of all
nations, for harmony between national interests and the rights of
humanity. In modern Germany, on the contrary, most of those who are
supposed to be the representatives of the mind have not been ashamed of
ministering, long before this war, to the brutal appetites of a feudal
and military caste by spreading among their own people a monstrous
belief in the divine right of the German race to oppress all the world.
The best of them, with extremely rare exceptions, have done nothing to
oppose this dangerous fanaticism and to maintain the nobler traditions
of German thought. Both instances therefore, ours and theirs—I mean
French and British intellectual history on one side, German later
intellectual history on the other side—sufficiently illustrate the power
of spiritual factors for good or for evil. The only thing to be deplored
in our case is that our Entente was so long deferred. Things would have
turned otherwise if our Entente had ripened somewhat earlier into a
closer association, gradually extending by a moral attraction to all
peace-loving nations. Had it been so who would have dared to attack them?
At least let the bitter lesson be turned to account for the future!

And chief of all let us think of the new chapter of our common history.
There is being written on the banks and hills of the Somme such a chapter
of our common history as will live eternally in the souls of Britons and
Frenchmen. Let the memory of it, added to all those I have recounted,
bind together in eternal alliance the hearts and the wills of the two
nations. Let it be known to all the world that this present alliance is
not like so many of the past a temporary combination of governments, but
the unanimous and for ever fixed will of both nations as the crowning
and _logical_ conclusion of their glorious history. Let this close and
intimate association include all our noble allies, and all such nations
as may be worthy to join it; let it become the Grand Alliance, the only
one really and completely deserving of this name, to which it will have
been reserved to establish, at last, the reign of Right and Peace on
earth.

                                                         GASTON E. BROCHE.

FOOTNOTES

[1] Caesar, _B.G._ vi. 13.

[2] Caesar, _B.G._ iv. 20.

[3] See _Histoire de France_ publiée sous la direction de Mr. Lavisse:
Tome IV. par A. Coville, Recteur de l’Académie de Clermont-Ferrand,
Professeur honoraire de l’Université de Lyon.

[4] Mignet, _Rivalité de François 1er et de Charles-Quint_, II ch. ix.

_OLD WAYS AT WESTMINSTER._

RECALLED BY SIR HENRY LUCY.

To the July number of CORNHILL I last year contributed an article gleaned
from the Recollections of an anonymous observer of the House of Commons
from the year 1830 to the close of the session of 1835. It contained a
series of thumb-nail personal sketches of eminent members long since gone
to ‘another place,’ leaving names that will live in English history. A
portion of the musty volume was devoted to descriptions of Parliamentary
surroundings and procedure interesting by comparison with those
established at the present day.

‘Q,’ as for brevity I name the unknown recorder, describes the old
House of Commons destroyed by fire in 1834 as dark, gloomy and badly
ventilated, so small that not more than 400 out of the 658 members could
be accommodated with any measure of comfort. In those days an important
debate was not unfrequently preceded by ‘a call of the House,’ which
brought together a full muster. On such occasions members were, ‘Q’ says,
‘literally crammed together,’ the heat of the House recalling accounts of
the then recent tragedy of the Black Hole of Calcutta. Immediately over
the entrance provided for members was the Strangers’ Gallery; underneath
it were several rows of seats for friends of members. This arrangement
exists in the new House. Admission to the Strangers’ Gallery was obtained
on presentation of a note or order from a member. Failing that, the
payment of half a crown to the doorkeeper at once procured admittance.

When the General Election of 1880 brought the Liberals into power,
parties in the House of Commons, in obedience to immemorial custom,
crossed over, changing sides. The Irish members, habitually associated
with British Liberals, having when in Opposition shared with them
the benches to the left of the Speaker, on this occasion declined to
change their quarters, a decision ever since observed. They were, they
said, free from allegiance to either political party and would remain
uninfluenced by their movements. This was noted at the time as a new
departure. Actually they were following a precedent established half a
century earlier.

In the closing sessions of the unreformed Parliament, a group of extreme
Radicals, including Hume, Cobbett and Roebuck, remained seated on the
Opposition Benches whichever party was in power. Prominent amongst them
was Hume, above all others most constant in attendance. He did not
quit his post even during the dinner hour. He filled his pockets with
fruit—pears by preference—and at approach of eight o’clock publicly ate
them.

In the old House of Commons a bench at the back of the Strangers’
Gallery was by special favour appropriated to the reporters. The papers
represented paid the doorkeepers a fee of three guineas a session. As
they numbered something over threescore this was a source of snug revenue
in supplement to the strangers’ tributary half-crown. Ladies were not
admitted to the Strangers’ Gallery. The only place whence they could
partly see, and imperfectly hear, what was going on was by looking down
through a large hole in the ceiling immediately above the principal
candle-stocked chandelier. This aperture was the principal means of
ventilating the House, and the ladies circled round it regardless of the
egress of vitiated air. Mr. Gladstone, who sat in the old House as member
for Newark, once told me that during progress with an important debate he
saw a fan fluttering down from the ceiling. It had dropped from the hand
of one of the ladies, who suddenly found herself in a semi-asphyxiated
condition. Something more than half a century later Mr. Gladstone was
unconsciously the object of attention from another group of ladies
indomitable in desire to hear an historic speech. On the night of the
introduction of the first Home Rule Bill there was overflowing demand for
seats in the Ladies’ Gallery. When accommodation was exhausted, the wife
of the First Commissioner of Works happily remembered that the floor of
the House is constructed of open iron network, over which a twine matting
is laid. These cover the elaborate machinery by which fresh air is
constantly let into the Chamber, escaping by apertures near the ceiling.
Standing or walking along the Iron Gallery that spans the vault, it is
quite easy to hear what is going on in the House. Here, on the invitation
of the First Commissioner’s wife, were seated a company of ladies who,
unseen, their presence unsuspected, heard every word of the Premier’s
epoch-making speech.

‘Q’ incidentally records details of procedure in marked contrast with
that of to-day. In these times, on the assembling of a newly elected
Parliament, the Oath is administered by the Clerk to members standing in
batches at small tables on the floor of the House. In the old Parliament,
members were sworn in by the Lord Steward of His Majesty’s Household.
At the same period a new Speaker being duly elected or re-elected was
led by the Mover and Seconder from his seat to the Bar, whence he was
escorted to the Chair. To-day he is conducted direct to the Chair.
When divisions were taken in Committee of the whole House, members did
not, as at present, go forth into separate lobbies. The ‘ayes’ ranged
themselves to the right of the Speaker’s Chair, the ‘noes’ to the left,
and were counted accordingly. The practice varied when the House was
fully constituted, the Speaker in the Chair and the Mace on the Table.
In such circumstances one only of the contending parties, the ‘ayes’ or
the ‘noes’ according to the nature of the business in question, quitted
the Chamber. The tellers first counted those remaining in the House, and
then, standing in the passage between the Bar and the door, counted the
others as they re-entered. The result of the division was announced in
the formula: ‘The ayes that went out are’ so many. ‘The noes who remained
are’ so many, or otherwise according to the disposition of the opposing
forces. A quorum then as now was forty, but when the House was in
Committee the presence of eight members sufficed. ‘Q’ makes no reference
to the use of a bell announcing divisions. But he mentions occasions on
which the Mace was sent to Westminster Hall, the Court of Request, or to
the several Committee Rooms to summon members to attend.

At the period of Parliamentary history of which ‘Q’ is the lively
chronicler, the ceremony of choosing a Speaker and obtaining Royal Assent
to the choice was identical with that first used on the occasion of Sir
Job Charlton’s election to the Chair in the time of Charles II. The title
of Speaker was bestowed because he alone had the right to speak to or
address the King in the name and on behalf of the House of Commons. Of
this privilege he customarily availed himself at considerable length. On
being summoned to the presence of the Sovereign in the House of Lords
he, in servile terms, begged to be excused from undertaking the duties
of Speaker, ‘which,’ he protested, ‘require greater abilities than I can
pretend to own.’ The Lord Chancellor, by direction of the Sovereign,
assured the modest man that ‘having very attentively heard your discreet
and handsome discourse,’ the King would not consent to refusal of the
Chair. Thereupon the Speaker-designate launched forth into a fresh,
even more ornate, address, claiming ‘renewal of the ancient privileges
of Your most loyal and dutiful House of Commons.’ Whereto His Majesty,
speaking again by the mouth of the Lord Chancellor, remarked, not without
a sense of humour, that ‘he hath heard and well weighed your short and
eloquent oration and in the first place much approves that you have
introduced a shorter way of speaking on these occasions.’

Up to 1883 the Speaker’s salary was, as it is to-day, £5000 a year. In
addition to his salary he received fees amounting to £2000 or £3000 per
session. On his election he was presented with 2000 ounces of plate,
£1000 of equipment money, two hogsheads of claret, £100 per annum for
stationery, and a stately residence in convenient contiguity to the
House. These little extras made the post worth at least £8000 per annum.

In the present and recent Parliament an ancient tradition is kept up by a
member for the City of London seating himself on the Treasury Bench. Two
members are privileged to take their places there, but after his election
for the City Mr. Arthur Balfour left Sir Frederick Banbury in sole
possession of the place. To-day, by the strange derangement of party ties
consequent on the war, the ex-Prime Minister has permanently shifted his
quarters to the Treasury Bench under the leadership of a Radical Premier.
In the first third of the nineteenth century the City of London returned
four members, who not only sat on the Treasury Bench on the opening day
of the new Parliament, but arrayed themselves in scarlet gowns. Sir
Frederick Banbury stopped short of acquiring that distinction.

During the first two sessions of the reformed Parliament the Commons met
at noon for the purpose of presenting petitions and transacting other
business of minor importance. These morning sittings, precursors of
others instituted by Disraeli and since abandoned, usually lasted till
three o’clock, the House then adjourning till five, when real business
was entered upon. Subsequently this arrangement was abandoned, the
Speaker taking the Chair at half-past three. Even then the first and
freshest hour and a half of the sitting were spent in the presentation of
petitions or in debate thereupon. The interval can be explained only upon
the assumption that the petitions were read verbatim.

In the Parliamentary procedure of to-day petitions play a part of ever
decreasing importance. Their presentation takes precedence of all other
business. But the member in charge of one is not permitted to stray
beyond briefest description of its prayer and a statement of the number
of signatories. Thereupon, by direction of the Speaker, he thrusts the
petition into a sack hanging to the left of the Speaker’s chair, and
there an end on’t. There is, it is true, a Committee of Petitions which
is supposed to examine every document. As far as practical purposes are
concerned, petitions might as well be dropped over the Terrace into the
Thames as into the mouth of the appointed sack.

At times of popular excitement round a vexed question—by preference
connected with the Church, the sale of liquor, or, before her ghost was
laid, marriage with the deceased wife’s sister—the flame systematically
fanned is kept burning by the presentation of monster petitions. Amid
ironical cheers these are carried in by two elderly messengers, who lay
them at the foot of the Table. Having been formally presented, they are,
amid renewed merriment, carried forth again and nothing more is heard of
them, unless the Committee on Petitions reports that there is suspicious
similarity in the handwriting of blocks of signatures, collected by an
energetic person remunerated by commission upon the aggregate number.

The most remarkable demonstration made in modern times happened during
the short life of the Parliament elected in 1892. Members coming down
in time for prayers discovered to their amazement the floor of the
House blocked with monster rolls, such as are seen in the street when
the repair of underground telegraph wires is in progress. The member to
whose personal care this trifle had been submitted rising to present
the petition, Mr. Labouchere, on a point of order, objected that sight
of him was blocked by the gigantic cylinders. ‘The hon. gentleman,’ he
suggested, ‘should mount one and address the Chair from the eminence.’
The suggestion was disregarded, and in time the elderly messengers put
their shoulders to wheels and rolled the monsters out of the House.

‘Q,’ whose eagle eye nothing escapes, comments on the preponderance of
bald heads among Ministers. Occupying an idle moment, he counted the
number of bald heads and found them to amount to one-third of the full
muster. ‘Taking the whole 658,’ he writes in one of his simple but
delightful asides, ‘I should think that perhaps a fourth part are more or
less baldheaded. The number of red heads,’ he adds, ‘is also remarkable.
I should think they are hardly less numerous than bald ones. When I come
to advert to individual members of distinction it cannot fail to strike
the reader how many are red-headed.’

This interesting inference is, if it be accepted as well-founded,
damaging to the status of the present House of Commons. I do not, on
reflection, recall a single member so decorated.

As to baldheadedness—which in the time of the prophet Elisha was
regarded as an undesirable eccentricity, public notice of which, it
will be remembered, condemned the commentators to severe disciplinary
punishment—it was, curiously enough, a marked peculiarity among members
of the House of Commons in an early decade of the nineteenth century. I
have a prized engraving presenting a view of the interior of the House of
Commons during the sessions of 1821-3. Glancing over the crowded benches,
I observe that the proportion of baldheaded men is at least equal to that
noted by ‘Q’ in the Parliament sitting a dozen years later.

What are known as scenes in the House were not infrequent in ‘Q’s’ time.
He recalls one in which an otherwise undistinguished member for Oxford,
one Hughes Hughes, was made the butt. It was a flash of the peculiar, not
always explicable, humour of the House of Commons, still upon occasion
predominant, to refuse a gentleman a hearing. ‘Hughes’s rising was the
signal for continuous uproar,’ ‘Q’ writes. ‘At repeated intervals a sort
of drone-like drumming, having the sound of a distant hand organ or
bagpipes, arose from the back benches. Coughing, sneezing and ingeniously
extended yawning blended with other sounds. A voice from the Ministerial
benches imitated very accurately the yelp of a kennelled hound.’

For ten minutes the double-barrelled Hughes faced the music, and when he
sat down not a word save the initial ‘Sir’ had been heard from his lips.

The nearest approach to this scene I remember happened in the last
session of the Parliament of 1868-74, when, amidst similar uproar,
Cavendish Bentinck, as one describing at the time the uproar wrote, ‘went
out behind the Speaker’s Chair and crowed thrice.’ This was the occasion
upon which Sir Charles Dilke made his Parliamentary début. In Committee
of Ways and Means he, in uncompromising fashion that grated on the ears
of loyalists, called attention to the Civil List of Queen Victoria and
moved a reduction. Auberon Herbert, now a staid Tory, at that time
suspected of a tendency towards Republicanism, undertook to second the
amendment. Sir Charles managed amid angry interruptions to work off his
speech. Herbert, following him, was met by a storm of resentment that
made his sentences inaudible.

After uproar had prevailed for a full quarter of an hour a shamefaced
member, anxious for the dignity of the Mother of Parliaments, called
attention to the presence of strangers. Forthwith, in accordance with the
regulation then in force, the galleries were cleared. As the occupants
of the Press Gallery reluctantly departed, they heard above the shouting
the sound of cock-crowing. Looking over the baluster they saw behind
the Chair Little Ben, as Cavendish Bentinck was called to distinguish
him from his bigger kinsman, vigorously engaged upon a vain effort to
preserve order by a passable imitation of Chanticleer saluting the happy
morn.

From ‘Q’s’ report of another outbreak of disorder it would appear that in
the House meeting in the ‘thirties of the nineteenth century, exchange of
personalities went far beyond modern experience. The once heated Maynooth
question was to the fore. In the course of an animated set-to between a
Mr. Shaw and Daniel O’Connell, the former shouted ‘The Hon. Member has
charged me with being actuated by spiritual ferocity. My ferocity is not
of the description which takes for its symbol a death’s head and cross
bones.’ O’Connell, as a certain fishwife locally famous for picturesque
language discovered, was hard to beat in the game of vituperation.
Turning upon Shaw, he retorted ‘Yours is a calf’s head and jaw bones.’

‘Q’ records that the retort was greeted with deafening cheers from the
Ministerial side where O’Connell and his party were seated. Mr. Shaw’s
polite, but perhaps inconsequential, remark had been received with equal
enthusiasm by the Opposition.

_AFTER THE BATTLE._

BY BENNET COPPLESTONE.

‘Caesar,’ said a Sub-lieutenant to his friend, a temporary Lieutenant
R.N.V.R., who at the outbreak of war had been a classical scholar at
Oxford, ‘you were in the thick of our scrap yonder off the Jutland coast.
You were in it every blessed minute with the battle cruisers, and must
have had a lovely time. Did you ever, Caesar, try to write the story of
it?’

It was early in June of last year, and a group of officers had gathered
near the ninth hole of an abominable golf course which they had
themselves laid out upon an island in the great landlocked bay wherein
reposed from their labours long lines of silent ships. It was a peaceful
scene. Few even of the battleships showed the scars of battle, though
among them were some which the Germans claimed to be at the bottom of the
sea. There they lay, coaled, their magazines refilled, ready at short
notice to issue forth with every eager man and boy standing at his action
station. And while all waited for the next call, officers went ashore,
keen, after the restrictions upon free exercise, to stretch their muscles
upon the infamous golf course. It was, I suppose, one of the very worst
courses in the world. There were no prepared tees, no fairway, no greens.
But there was much bare rock, great tufts of coarse grass greedy of
balls, wide stretches of hard, naked soil destructive of wooden clubs,
and holes cut here and there of approximately the regulation size. Few
officers of the Grand Fleet, except those in Beatty’s Salt of the Earth
squadrons, far to the south, had since the war began been privileged to
play upon more gracious courses. But the Sea Service, which takes the
rough with the smooth, with cheerful and profane philosophy, accepted the
home-made links as a spirited triumph of the handy-man over forbidding
nature.

‘Yes,’ said the naval volunteer, ‘I tried many times, but gave up all
attempts as hopeless. I came up here to get first-hand material, and
have sacrificed my short battle leave to no purpose. The more I learn
the more helplessly incapable I feel. I can describe the life of a ship,
and make you people move and speak like live things. But a battle is
too big for me. One might as well try to realise and set on paper the
Day of Judgment. All I did was to write a letter to an old friend, one
Copplestone, beseeching him to make clear to the people at home what we
really had done. I wrote it three days after the battle, but never sent
it. Here it is.’

Lieutenant Caesar drew a paper from his pocket and read as follows:

    ‘MY DEAR COPPLESTONE,—Picture to yourself our feelings. On
    Wednesday we were in the fiery hell of the greatest naval
    action ever fought. A real Battle of the Giants. Beatty’s and
    Hood’s battle cruisers—chaffingly known as the Salt of the
    Earth—and Evan Thomas’s squadron of four fast Queen Elizabeths
    had fought for two hours the whole German High Seas Fleet.
    Beatty, in spite of his heavy losses, had outmanœuvred Fritz’s
    battle cruisers and enveloped the German line. The Fifth Battle
    Squadron had stalled off the German Main Fleet, and led them
    into the net of Jellicoe, who, coming up, deployed between Evan
    Thomas and Beatty, though he could not see either, crossed the
    T of the Germans in the beautifullest of beautiful manœuvres,
    and had them for a moment as good as sunk. But the Lord giveth
    and the Lord taketh away; it is sometimes difficult to say
    Blessed be the Name of the Lord. For just when we most needed
    full visibility the mist came down thick, the light failed, and
    we were robbed of the fruits of victory when they were almost
    in our hands. It was hard, hard, bitterly hard. But we had
    done the utmost which the Fates permitted. The enemy, after
    being harried all night by destroyers, had got away home in
    torn rags, and we were left in supreme command of the North
    Sea, a command more complete and unchallengeable than at any
    moment since the war began. For Fritz had put out his full
    strength, all his unknown cards were on the table, we knew
    his strength and his weakness, and that he could not stand
    for a moment against our concentrated power. All this we had
    done, and rejoiced mightily. In the morning we picked up from
    Poldhu the German wireless claiming the battle as a glorious
    victory—at which we laughed loudly. But there was no laughter
    when in the afternoon Poldhu sent out an official message from
    our own Admiralty which, from its clumsy wording and apologetic
    tone, seemed actually to suggest that we had had the devil of a
    hiding. Then when we arrived at our bases came the newspapers
    with their talk of immense losses, and of bungling, and of
    the Grand Fleet’s failure! Oh, it was a monstrous shame! The
    country which depends utterly upon us for life and honour, and
    had trusted us utterly, had been struck to the heart. We had
    come back glowing, exalted by the battle, full of admiration
    for the skill of our leaders and for the serene intrepidity
    of our men. We had seen our ships go down and pay the price
    of sea command—pay it willingly and ungrudgingly as the Navy
    always pays. Nothing that the enemy had done or could do was
    able to hurt us, but we had been mortally wounded in the house
    of our friends. It will take days, weeks, perhaps months, for
    England and the world to be made to understand and to do us
    justice. Do what you can, old man. Don’t delay a minute. Get
    busy. You know the Navy, and love it with your whole soul.
    Collect notes and diagrams from the scores of friends whom
    you have in the Service; they will talk to you and tell you
    everything. I can do little myself. A Naval Volunteer who
    fought through the action in a turret, looking after a pair
    of big guns, could not himself see anything outside his thick
    steel walls. Go ahead at once, do knots, and the fighting Navy
    will remember you in its prayers.’

The attention of others in the group had been drawn to the reader and his
letter, and when Lieutenant Caesar stopped, flushed and out of breath,
there came a chorus of approving laughter.

‘This temporary gentleman is quite a literary character,’ said a two-ring
Lieutenant who had been in an exposed spotting top throughout the whole
action, ‘but we’ve made a Navy man of him since he joined. That’s a
dashed good letter, and I hope you sent it.’

‘No,’ said Caesar. ‘While I was hesitating, wondering whether I would
risk the lightning of the Higher Powers, a possible court martial, and
the loss of my insecure wavy rings, the business was taken out of my
hands by this same man to whom I was wanting to write. He got moving on
his own account, and now, though the battle is only ten days old, the
country knows the rights of what we did. When it comes to describing the
battle itself, I make way for my betters. For what could I see? On the
afternoon of May 31, we were doing gun drill in my turret. Suddenly came
an order to put lyddite into the guns and follow the Control. During
the next two hours as the battle developed we saw nothing. We were just
parts of a big human machine intent upon working our own little bit with
faultless accuracy. There was no leisure to think of anything but the
job in hand. From beginning to end I had no suggestion of a thrill, for
a naval action in a turret is just gun drill glorified, as I suppose it
is meant to be. The enemy is not seen; even the explosions of the guns
are scarcely heard. I never took my ear-protectors from their case in
my pocket. All is quiet, organised labour, sometimes very hard labour
when for any reason one has to hoist the great shells by the hand
purchase. It is extraordinary to think that I got fifty times more actual
excitement out of a squadron regatta months ago than out of the greatest
battle in naval history.’

‘That’s quite true,’ said the Spotting Officer, ‘and quite to be
expected. Battleship fighting is not thrilling except for the very few.
For nine-tenths of the officers and men it is a quiet, almost dull
routine of exact duties. For some of us up in exposed positions in the
spotting tops or on the signal bridge, with big shells banging on the
armour or bursting alongside in the sea, it becomes mighty wetting and
very prayerful. For the still fewer, the real fighters of the ship in
the conning tower, it must be absorbingly interesting. But for the
true blazing rapture of battle one has to go to the destroyers. In a
battleship one lives like a gentleman until one is dead, and takes the
deuce of a lot of killing. In a destroyer one lives rather like a pig,
and one dies with extraordinary suddenness. Yet the destroyer officers
and men have their reward in a battle, for then they drink deep of the
wine of life. I would sooner any day take the risks of destroyer work,
tremendous though they are, just for the fun which one gets out of it.
It was great to see our boys round up Fritz’s little lot. While you
were in your turret, and the Sub. yonder in control of a side battery,
Fritz massed his destroyers like Prussian infantry and tried to rush up
close so as to strafe us with the torpedo. Before they could get fairly
going, our destroyers dashed at them, broke up their masses, buffeted and
hustled them about exactly like a pack of wolves worrying sheep, and with
exactly the same result. Fritz’s destroyers either clustered together
like sheep or scattered flying to the four winds. It was just the same
with the light cruisers as with the destroyers. Fritz could not stand
against us for a moment, and could not get away, for we had the heels of
him and the guns of him. There was a deadly slaughter of destroyers and
light cruisers going on while we were firing our heavy stuff over their
heads. Even if we had sunk no battle cruisers or battleships, the German
High Seas Fleet would have been crippled for months by the destruction of
its indispensable “cavalry screen.”’

As the Spotting Officer spoke, a Lieutenant-Commander holed out on the
last jungle with a mashie—no one uses a putter on the Grand Fleet’s
private golf course—and approached our group, who, while they talked,
were busy over a picnic lunch.

‘If you pigs haven’t finished all the bully beef and hard tack,’ said
he, ‘perhaps you can spare a bite for one of the blooming ’eroes of the X
Destroyer Flotilla.’ The speaker was about twenty-seven, in rude health,
and bore no sign of the nerve-racking strain through which he had passed
for eighteen long-drawn hours. The young Navy is as unconscious of nerves
as it is of indigestion. The Lieutenant-Commander, his hunger satisfied,
lighted a pipe and joined in the talk.

‘It was hot work,’ said he, ‘but great sport. We went in sixteen and
came out a round dozen. If Fritz had known his business, I ought to be
dead. He can shoot very well till he hears the shells screaming past his
ears, and then his nerves go. Funny thing how wrong we’ve been about
him. He is smart to look at, fights well in a crowd, but cracks when he
has to act on his own without orders. When we charged his destroyers
and ran right in he just crumpled to bits. We had a batch of him nicely
herded up, and were laying him out in detail with guns and mouldies, when
there came along a beastly intrusive Control Officer on a battle cruiser
and took him out of our mouths. It was a sweet shot, though. Someone—I
don’t know his name, or he would hear of his deuced interference from
me—plumped a salvo of twelve-inch common shell right into the brown of
Fritz’s huddled batch. Two or three of his destroyers went aloft in
scrap-iron, and half a dozen others were disabled. After the first hour
his destroyers and light cruisers ceased to be on the stage; they had
flown quadrivious—there’s an ormolu word for our classical volunteer—and
we could have a whack at the big ships. Later, at night, it was fine.
We ran right in upon Fritz’s after-guard of sound battleships and
rattled them most tremendous. He let fly at us with every bally gun he
had, from four-inch to fourteen, and we were a very pretty mark under
his searchlights. We ought to have been all laid out, but our loss was
astonishingly small, and we strafed two of his heavy ships. Most of his
shots went over us.’

‘Yes,’ called out the Spotting Officer, ‘yes, they did, and ricochetted
all round us in the Queen Elizabeths. There was the devil of a row. The
firing in the main action was nothing to it. All the while you were
charging, and our guns were masked for fear of hitting you, Fritz’s
bonbons were screaming over our upper works and making us say our prayers
out loud in the Spotting Tops. You’d have thought we were at church. I
was in the devil of a funk, and could hear my teeth rattling. It is when
one is fired on and can’t hit back that one thinks of one’s latter end.’

‘Did any of you see the _Queen Mary_ go?’ asked a tall thin man with the
three rings of a Commander. ‘Our little lot saw nothing of the first part
of the battle; we were with the K.G. Fives and Orions.’

‘I saw her,’ spoke a Gunnery Lieutenant, a small, quiet man with dreamy,
introspective eyes—the eyes of a poet turned gunner. ‘I saw her. She was
hit forward, and went in five seconds. You all know how. It was a thing
which won’t bear talking about. The _Invincible_ took a long time to
sink, and was still floating bottom up when Jellicoe’s little lot came
in to feed after we and the Salt of the Earth had eaten up most of the
dinner. I don’t believe that half the Grand Fleet fired a shot.’

There came a savage growl from officers of the main Battle Squadrons,
who, invited to a choice banquet, had seen it all cleared away before
their arrival. ‘That’s all very well,’ grumbled one of them; ‘the four
Q.E.s are getting a bit above themselves because they had the luck of
the fair. They didn’t fight the High Seas Fleet by their haughty selves
because they wanted to, you bet.’

The Gunnery Lieutenant with the dreamy eyes smiled. ‘We certainly
shouldn’t have chosen that day to fight them on. But if the _Queen
Elizabeth_ herself had been with us, and we had had full visibility—with
the horizon a hard dark line—we would have willingly taken on all Fritz’s
twelve-inch Dreadnoughts and thrown in his battle cruisers.’

‘That’s the worst of it,’ grumbled the Commander, very sore still at
having tasted only of the skim milk of the battle; ‘naval war is now only
a matter of machines. The men don’t count as they did in Nelson’s day.’

‘Excuse me, sir,’ remarked the Sub-Lieutenant; ‘may I say a word or two
about that? I have been thinking it out.’

There came a general laugh. The Sub-Lieutenant, twenty years of age,
small and dark and with the bright black eyes of his mother—a pretty
little lady from the Midi de la France whom his father had met and
married in Paris—did not look like a philosopher, but he had the
clear-thinking, logical mind of his mother’s people.

‘Think aloud, my son,’ said the Commander. ‘As a living incarnation
of l’Entente Cordiale, you are privileged above those others of the
gun-room.’

The light in the Sub’s eyes seemed to die out as his gaze turned inwards.
He spoke slowly, carefully, sometimes injecting a word from his mother’s
tongue which could better express his meaning. He looked all the while
towards the sea, and seemed scarcely to be conscious of an audience of
seniors. His last few sentences were spoken wholly in French.

‘No—naval war is a war of men, as it always was and always will be. For
what are the machines but the material expression of the souls of the
men? Our ships are better and faster than the German ships, our guns
heavier and more accurate than theirs, our gunners more deadly than
their gunners, because our Navy has the greater human soul. The Royal
Navy is not a collection of lifeless ships and guns imposed upon men
by some external power as the Kaiser sought to impose a fleet upon the
Germans, a nation of landsmen. The Navy is only a matter of machines
in so far as human beings can only achieve material ends by material
means. I look upon the ships and guns as secreted by the men just as a
tortoise secretes its shell. They are the products of naval thought,
and naval brains, and, above all, of that ever-expanding naval soul
(_l’esprit_) which has been growing for a thousand years. Our ships
yonder are materially new, the products almost of yesterday, but really
they are old, centuries old; they are the expression of a naval soul
working, fermenting, always growing through the centuries, always seeking
to express itself in machinery. Naval war is an art, the art of men, and
where in the world will one find men like ours, officers like ours? Have
you ever thought whence come those qualities which one sees glowing every
day in our men, from the highest Admiral to the smallest ship boy—have
you ever thought whence they come?’

He paused, still looking out to sea. His companions, all of them his
superiors in rank and experience, stared at him in astonishment, and one
or two laughed. But the Commander signalled for silence. ‘Et après,’
he asked quietly; ‘d’où viennent ces qualités?’ Unconsciously he had
sloughed the current naval slang and spoke in the native language of the
Sub.

The effect was not what he had expected. At the sound of the Commander’s
voice speaking in French the Sub-Lieutenant woke up, flushed, and
instantly reverted to his English self. ‘I am sorry, sir. I got speaking
French, in which I always think, and when I talk French I talk the most
frightful rot.’

‘I am not so sure that it was rot. Your theory seems to be that we are,
in the naval sense, the heirs of the ages, and that no nation that has
not been through our centuries-old mill can hope to stand against us. I
hope that you are right. It is a comforting theory.’

‘But isn’t that what we all think, sir, though we may not put it quite
that way? Most of us know that our officers and men are of unapproachable
stuff in body and mind, but we don’t seek for a reason. We accept it as
an axiom. I’ve tried to reason the thing out because I’m half French;
and also because I’ve been brought up among dogs and horses and believe
thoroughly in heredity. It’s all a matter of breeding.’

‘The Sub’s right,’ broke in the Gunnery Lieutenant with the poet’s eyes;
‘though a Sub who six months ago was a snotty has no business to think
of anything outside his duty. The Service would go to the devil if the
gun-room began to talk psychology. We excuse it in this Sub here for the
sake of the Entente Cordiale, of which he is the living embodiment; but
had any other jawed at us in that style I would have sat upon his head.
Of course he is right, though it isn’t our English way to see through
things and define them as the French do. No race on earth can touch us
for horses or dogs or prize cattle—or Navy men. It takes centuries to
breed the boys who ran submarines through the Dardanelles and the Sound
and stayed out in narrow enemy waters for weeks together. Brains and
nerves and sea skill can’t be made to order even by a German Kaiser. Navy
men should marry young and choose their women from sea families, and
then their kids won’t need to be taught. They’ll have the secret of the
Service in their blood.’

‘That’s all very fine,’ observed a Marine Lieutenant reflectively; ‘but
who is going to pay for it all? We can’t. I get 7_s._ 6_d._ a day, and
shall have 11_s._ in a year or two; it sounds handsome, but would hardly
run to a family. Few in the Navy have any private money, so how can we
marry early?’

‘Of course we can’t as things go now,’ said the Gunnery Lieutenant.
‘But some day even the Admiralty will discover that the English Navy
will become a mere list of useless machines unless the English naval
families can be kept up on the lower deck as well as in the ward-room
and gun-room. Why, look at the names of our submarine officers whenever
they get into the papers for honours. They are always salt of the sea,
names which have been in the Navy List ever since there was a List. You
may read the same names in the Trafalgar roll and back to the Dutch
wars. Most of us were Pongos before that—shore Pongos who went afloat
with Blake or Prince Rupert—but then we became sailors, and so remained,
father to son. I can only go back myself to the Glorious First of June,
but some of us here in the Grand Fleet date from the Stuarts at least. It
is jolly fine to be of Navy blood, but not all plum jam. One has such
a devil of a record to live up to. In my term at Dartmouth there was a
poor little beast called Francis Drake—a real Devon Drake, a genuine
antique—but what a load of a name to carry! Thank God, my humble name
doesn’t shine out of the history books. And as with the officers, so with
the seamen. Half of them come from my own county of Devon—the cradle
of the Navy. They are in the direct line from Drake’s buccaneers. Most
of the others come from the ancient maritime counties of the Channel
seaboard, where the blood of everyone tingles with Navy salt. The Germans
can build ships which are more or less accurate copies of our own, but
they can’t breed the men. That is the whole secret.’

The Lieutenant-Commander, whose war-scarred destroyer lay below
refitting, laughed gently. ‘There is a lot in all that, more than we
often realise when we grumble at the cursed obstinacy of our old ratings,
but even you do not go back far enough. It is the old blood of the
Vikings and sea-pirates in us English which makes us turn to the sea;
the rest is training. In no other way can you explain the success of the
Fringes, the mine-sweepers, and patrols, most of them manned by naval
volunteers who, before the war, had never served under the White Ensign
nor seen a shot fired. What is our classical scholar here, Caesar, but a
naval volunteer whom Whale Island and natural intelligence have turned
into a gunner? But as regards the regular Navy, the Navy of the Grand
Fleet, you are right. Pick your boys from the sea families, catch them
young, pump them full to the teeth with the Navy Spirit—_l’esprit marine_
of our bi-lingual Sub here—make them drunk with it. Then they are all
right. But they must never be allowed to think of a darned thing except
of the job in hand. The Navy has no use for men who seek to peer into
their own souls. They might do it in action and discover blue funk. We
want them to be no more conscious of their souls than of their livers.
Though I admit that it is devilish difficult to forget one’s liver when
one has been cooped up in a destroyer for a week. It is not nerve that
Fritz lacks so much as a kindly obedient liver. He is an iron-gutted
swine, and that is partly why he can’t run destroyers and submarines
against us. The German liver is a thing to wonder at. Do you know—’ but
here the Lieutenant-Commander became too Rabelaisian for my delicate pen.

The group had thinned out during this exercise in naval analysis. Several
of the officers had resumed their heart-and-club-breaking struggle with
the villainous golf course, but the Sub, the volunteer Lieutenant, and
the Pongo (Marine) still sat at the feet of their seniors. ‘May I say how
the Navy strikes an outsider like me?’ asked Caesar diffidently. Whale
Island, which had forgotten all other Latin authors, had given him the
name as appropriate to one of his learning.

‘Go ahead,’ said the Commander generously. ‘All this stuff is useful
enough for a volunteer; without the Pongos and the Volunteers to swallow
our tall stories, the Navy would fail of an audience. The snotties know
too much.’

‘I was going to speak of the snotties,’ said Caesar, ‘who seem to me to
be even more typical of the Service than the senior officers. They have
all its qualities emphasised, almost comically exaggerated. I do not know
whether they are never young or that they never grow old, but there is no
essential difference in age and in knowledge between a snotty six months
out of cadet training and a Commander of six years’ standing. They rag
after dinner with equal zest, and seem to be equally well versed in the
profound technical details of their sea work. Perhaps it is that they are
born full of knowledge. The snotties interest me beyond every type that I
have met. Their manners are perfect and in startling contrast with those
of the average public school boy of fifteen or sixteen—even in College
at Winchester—and they combine their real irresponsible youthfulness
with a grave mask of professional learning which is delightful to look
upon. I have before me the vision of a child of fifteen with tousled
yellow hair and a face as glum as a sea-boot, sitting opposite to me in
the machine which took us back one day to the boat, smoking a “fag” with
the clumsiness which betrayed his lack of practice, in between bites of
“goo” (in this instance Turkish Delight), of which I had seen him consume
a pound. He looked about ten years old, and in a husky, congested voice,
due to the continual absorption of sticky food, he described minutely to
me the method of conning a battleship in manœuvres and the correct amount
to allow for the inertia of the ship when the helm is centred; he also
explained the tactical handling of a squadron during sub-calibre firing.
That snotty was a sheer joy, and the Navy is full of him. He’s gone
himself, poor little chap—blown to bits by a shell which penetrated the
deck.’

‘In time, Caesar,’ said the Commander, ‘by strict attention to duty you
will become a Navy man. But we have talked enough of deep mysteries. It
was that confounded Sub, with his French imagination, who started us.
What I really wish someone would tell me is this: what was the “northern
enterprise” that Fritz was on when we chipped in and spoilt his little
game?’

‘It does not matter,’ said the Gunnery Lieutenant. ‘We spoilt it, anyhow.
The dear old newspapers talk of his losses in big ships as if they were
all that counted. What has really crippled him has been the wiping out of
his destroyers and fast new cruisers. Without them he is helpless. It was
a great battle, much more decisive than most people think, even in the
Grand Fleet itself. It was as decisive by sea as the Marne was by land.
We have destroyed Fritz’s mobility.’

The men rose and looked out over the bay. There below them lay their
sea homes, serene, invulnerable, and about them stretched the dull,
dour, treeless landscape of their northern fastness. Their minds were
as peaceful as the scene. As they looked a bright light from the
compass platform of one of the battleships began to flicker through the
sunshine—dash, dot, dot, dash. ‘There goes a signal,’ said the Commander.
‘You are great at Morse, Pongo. Read what it says, my son.’

The Lieutenant of Marines watched the flashes, and as he read grinned
capaciously. ‘It is some wag with a signal lantern.’ said he. ‘It reads:
Question—Daddy,—what—did—you—do—in—the—Great—War?’

‘I wonder,’ observed the Sub-Lieutenant, ‘what new answer the lower deck
has found to that question. Before the battle their reply was: “I was
kept doubling round the decks, sonny.”’

‘There goes the signal again,’ said the Pongo; ‘and here comes the
answer.’ He read it out slowly as it flashed word after word: ‘“I LAID
THE GUNS TRUE, SONNY.”’

‘And a dashed good answer, too,’ cried the Commander heartily.

‘That would make a grand fleet signal before a general action,’ remarked
the Gunnery Lieutenant. ‘I don’t care much for Nelson’s Trafalgar signal.
It was too high-flown and sentimental for the lower deck. It was aimed at
the history books, rather than at old tarry-breeks of the fleet a hundred
years ago. No—there could not be a better signal than just “Lay the Guns
True”—carry out your orders precisely, intelligently, faultlessly. What
do you say, my Hun of a classical volunteer?’

‘It could not be bettered,’ said Caesar.

‘I will make a note of it,’ said the Gunnery Lieutenant, ‘against the day
when, as a future Jellicoe, I myself shall lead a new Grand Fleet into
action.’

_L’ILE NANCE._

BY ROWLAND CRAGG.

Nance was a tomboy, or whatever may be the equivalent of this type in the
doggy world, and she looked it. An ungainly body, clad in a rough coat of
silver and grey on a foundation of brown, carried a head that appeared
ill-shaped because of the unusual width of skull. Over her forehead
continually straggled a tangle of hairs that mixed with others growing
stiffly above her snout, and through this cover were to be seen two
pearly eyes that were wondrously bright and intelligent. She had a trick,
too, of tossing her head in a manner suggestive of nothing so much as a
girl throwing back the curls from face and shoulders, and it seemed to
emphasise the tomboy in Nance. But she had sterling qualities, of which
her broad skull and quick eyes gave more than a hint. If ungainly, her
little body was untiring and as supple as a whiplash, and her legs were
as finely tempered steel springs. She had, too, a rare turn of speed, and
it was the combination of these gifts with her remarkable intelligence
that in later days made her the most noted dog in Craven.

Her puppyhood was unpromising. Indeed, for one born on a farm, where
is lack neither of shelter nor food, her earliest hours were doubly
perilous, for, in addition to the prospect of a watery grave in a bucket,
her existence, and that of the whole litter, was threatened by negligent
nursing. Fate had given the little family a mother not only herself
young, but of all dogs that ever worked on a farm the most irresponsible.
It was quite in keeping with her reputation that Lucy should bring her
children to birth in the exposed hollow trunk of a tree and then forget
the blind, sprawling, whimpering puppies for hours together. It was going
hard with the weaklings when fate again took a hand in their welfare,
this time in the person of young Zub.

It had become evident to the farm folk, to whom matters of birth and
reproduction are commonplaces of daily life, that Lucy’s new duties had
come upon her, and it was plainly evident, too, before the third day had
run, that she was neglecting them. It was then that young Zub, or Zubdil,
as he was indifferently called, either name serving to distinguish him
from Owd Zub, his father, actively bestirred himself. Hitherto he had
done no more than keep his eyes and ears open as he moved about the
farm buildings, but neither soft whimper nor the sound of tender noses
nuzzling against a warm body had rewarded him. His first deliberate
efforts were to watch Lucy’s comings and goings, in the hope of tracing
her hiding-place. But the mother dog, a poacher at heart and with all a
four-footed poacher’s cunning, had easily beaten him at this game. When
he recognised this, angry at the thought that somewhere a small family
was suffering, he soundly cuffed her about the ears in the hope that she
would bolt for her hiding-place and her blind charges. But the graceless
one, howling, raced no further than to her kennel, and from its depths
kept one watchful eye open for further developments.

‘Drat thee,’ cried Zubdil, as his experiment went wrong, ‘but I’ll find
’em yet.’ He turned and slowly entered the kitchen, where Owd Zub was
quietly chuckling to himself.

‘Shoo’s bested thee, reight an’ all, this time,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t thy
books tell thee owt?’

It was a thrust he was fond of making. Zubdil’s strongly developed taste
for reading was something beyond the old farmer’s understanding. He would
have given but occasional heed to it had not the younger man taken up
works on scientific farming and breeding, and also studied these subjects
in a course of postal lessons with the Agricultural Department at the
Northern University. New ideas thus acquired often clashed with the
father’s ingrained conservative methods, and they left him sore. A chance
to get in a sly dig at this ‘book larning’ was too good to be missed. He
chuckled again as he asked the question.

The younger man laughed. He was broadening in more ways than one, and he
bore no malice. ‘Happen they do,’ he said. ‘Yo just watch, fayther, an’
happen yo’ll leearn summat.’

He reached up to the blackened oak beam that spanned the ceiling, took
down his gun, and strolled casually out across the yard. In a moment
Lucy had tumultuously burst out of the kennel and was dancing about him,
all animation and keenness. Graceless she might be, and lacking in the
discharge of her mothering duties, but heart and soul she was a lover
of sport. At the sight of the gun she was in transports. Unheeding her,
young Zub passed on through the gate. Wriggling through ere it closed,
Lucy was after him and away in front of him like a streak, making
river-wards. There, as well she knew, were the plumpest rabbits. When
the old dalesman, his curiosity whetted, reached a point where he could
see without being seen, the two were ranging the low field where runs
the Wharfe. Steadily they passed along through Dub End and into Lang
Pasture, the gun still hooked in the curl of the man’s arm, then as they
came through the field gate together into the High Garth Lucy’s tail
suddenly drooped. She hesitated, turned about in indecision, and finally,
disregarding the sharp whistle calling her to heel, slid off up the hill
under the wall-side and vanished by the riven oak.

‘Dang it,’ said Owd Zub, greatly interested, and understanding, ‘I owt to
ha’ knawn shoo’d ha’ gooan to ’em if they came owt near ’em.’

By the time he arrived on the spot, and he walked across the field with a
great show of carelessness, Zubdil had the whimpering youngsters on the
grass and was examining them. Couched near by, her tail going in great
pride, Lucy was mothering each one as it was laid down again.

‘They’re a poor lot,’ said the elder man, eyeing them critically, and
discreetly making no reference to the finding of them; ‘put ’em ivvery
one i’ t’ pail.’

Zubdil did not reply immediately. He was watching one puppy, more
vigorous than any of the rest, trying to prop itself up on its forelegs.
Its sightless eyes were turned towards him, its tiny nostrils were
working, and there was a decided quiver—it was an immature wagging—in its
wisp of a tail. He picked it up again. A tiny patch of red slid out and
licked his hand, and there were faint noises that brought Lucy’s ears to
the prick. Zubdil laughed.

‘Sitha for pluck, fayther,’ he cried. ‘This is best o’ t’ lot. I’se
keeping this for mysen.’

‘Thou’ll drown t’ lot,’ said his father, sharply. ‘We’ve dogs enough on
t’ farm. Besides, they’re hawf deead.’

They are sparing of speech, these Craven dalesmen, but their words are
ever to the point. They have also a stiff measure of obstinacy in their
constitution, as have all men whose forebears for generations have lived
and died amid the everlasting hills. Obstinacy now showed in the younger
man. He put the youngster down beside the mother dog, gathered up the
others into a bag that he took from his capacious pocket, and rose. Lucy
was up in an instant, ears cocked. Zubdil checked her sternly.

‘Lig thee theer,’ he ordered, and she resumed her nursing under
constraint. Young Zub turned to the elder.

‘I’se keeping it,’ he announced, briefly.

The other knew that tone, and gave in. ‘Well,’ grudgingly, ‘I’se heving
nowt to do wi’ it, then. An’ if theer’s another licence to get, tha pays
for it thysen.’

So the pup was spared, and she flourished and grew apace. Nance, he
called her, after one from a neighbouring farm, thoughts of whom had been
occupying his mind a good deal of late. He ventured to tell her what he
had done when one evening, by chance that had been occurring frequently
of late, he met her by the old bridge. The girl reddened with pleasure at
the implied compliment, giggled a little, and gave him a playful nudge
with her elbow. It was a nudge that would have upset many a city-bred
man. ‘Thou’s a silly fond fellow,’ she said, but there was no reproach
in her words. Rather was it that in turn he was pleased. It was a little
incident that marked a distinct advance in their relations.

It was also an incident that led young Zub to take more interest in
the dog’s welfare than otherwise he might have done. Dimly floating
at the back of his mind, tinged with romance, was the idea that the
four-footed Nance ought to be worthy of the name she bore. It led him
to take her education in hand seriously, and to the task he brought all
his fieldcraft, his native shrewdness, and his great patience. He began
early, when she was not yet half grown and still a playful puppy; but,
early as he was, someone was before him. Whatever her demerits as a
mother, Lucy excelled in woodcraft and the art of the chase. She had the
soul of an artist for it, which was perhaps why, as an ordinary working
farm dog, she was an indifferent success. And what she knew she taught
her daughter, taking the young one with her as soon as Nance was strong
enough to stand these excursions. Their favourite time was dawn of day,
and their hunting-ground the woods that mantled the breast of the moors
high above the farm, or the sandy stretches along Wharfe side, where fat
rabbits were abundant. Nance was an apt pupil. She learned to stalk, to
obliterate herself behind seemingly inadequate cover, to crawl almost
without action visible to the eye, and her instinct for choosing the
moment for the final fatal rush was not bettered even in the older dog.

Thus it happened that when Zubdil took up her training the ground had
been prepared for him better than ever he knew. Yet he began his task
opportunely, for Nance was at the parting of the ways. Lucy was a clever
dog, but her best and finest qualities, neglected through want of
recognition, had deteriorated until she was now no more than a cunning
hunter. The little dog—l’ile Nance she was to everybody—inherited all her
mother’s cleverness, and, happily for her, Zubdil took her in hand while
yet she was in her plastic, impressionable days. He made her his constant
companion. If he went no further than the length of the field to fasten
up the chickens safe from the predatory fox, he called her to accompany
him. If he went on to the moor, or to the village, or to a neighbouring
farm, she was with him. And she was taught to do strange things.
Sometimes she was sent chasing round a field and brought back to heel in
zigzag tracings. At other times she was bidden to crouch by a gate and to
stir not at all until his return. Sometimes she was sent ahead at full
gallop and then made to stop dead and lie prone, when he would overtake
and pass her, man and dog alike apparently unconscious of each other’s
presence, save for the way in which those pearly eyes of hers watched his
every movement.

It was all done with no more language than can be conveyed in a whistle.
But expressive! With his ash stick tucked under one arm Zubdil would
thrust the better part, as it seemed, of both hands into his mouth,
whence would proceed now a single piercing call, now a prolonged
high-pitched note, now a series of staccato commands, and ever and again
fluty modulations as if a blackbird had joined in the business. And every
note had a definite meaning. It was a great game for Nance, who at these
times was nothing more than two bright eyes and a pair of ever-working
ears. She strove to please and worked hard, and when it dawned upon the
deliberately moving mind of the young dalesman that he had a dog of
unusual parts it stimulated him to greater efforts. It also stimulated
him to secrecy, though why he could not have explained.

He gave her experience in the rounding-up of the half-wild, hardy,
half-bred sheep on the moorlands, and here she learned to work dumbly,
without yielding to the temptation to nip the flying legs of the nervous
fleeces. It was on these uplands, too, that he received his first meed
of praise, and it fired the smouldering pride in his heart and lifted
him out of the ordinary workaday rut. For it gave him an idea. It was
dipping-time, when the moors had to be thoroughly scoured for the sheep,
and from a dozen farms in the dale below men had gathered together to
co-operate in the work. With them came their dogs; dogs that barked and
fought, dogs that raced hither and thither irresolutely trying to obey
the many and confusing whistlings, doing their best to please all and
giving satisfaction to none. Young Zub stood on a knoll a little apart,
and at his bidding a silver and grey-brown form flashed among the bracken
and the ling, sometimes buried from sight, at times only the tips of
pricked ears visible, but always making a wider and further stretching
circle than the others. And wherever Nance ranged sheep came into view
and were deftly piloted to the common gathering-ground.

It was Long Abram who first recognised what she was doing.

‘That theer young dog o’ thy lad’s is doing weel,’ he said, turning to
Owd Zub. ‘It’ll mak a rare ’un i’ time.’

It was luncheon-time, and the men had halted in their work to discuss the
contents of the baskets that had been sent up from the farms. Owd Zub
helped himself to another piece of cold apple pie before answering.

‘It’s a gooid dog nah,’ he said presently, speaking with deliberation,
‘if t’ lad doesn’t get it ower fond.’

‘Ower fond?’ It was Nance the woman who spoke. She had brought up her
father’s luncheon and was sitting near at hand. There was a sparkle in
her eye, and her resolute little chin was thrust forth aggressively.
‘Ower fond,’ she repeated, scornfully. ‘Some o’ yo think us younger end
can’t do owt reight. Why, Zubdil’s trained that dog reight, an’ all. It’s
good enough for t’ trials.’

The men laughed good-humouredly. The girl’s relations with Zubdil were
now well established and recognised, and her quick intervention was to be
expected. But good enough for the trials—well, working it on the moors
was one thing, but to direct an inexperienced dog on an enclosed field
under the eyes of a crowd, and in competition with some of the best and
most experienced trial working animals, was another matter altogether.
They laughed at the girl’s warmth, and let it go at that. But young Zub,
happening to walk past at the time while counting up the sheep, heard the
words. They quickened him and gave birth to the idea, while Long Abram’s
praise, which, if brief, went a long way, emboldened him. He thought
deeply, but kept his counsel; not even to Nance did he open his mind for
some time. But he worked the young dog even more regularly and watched
her keenly. Then one day he wrote a letter, and the girl, face flushed,
looked on.

A few weeks later the two, with Owd Zub, were units in the crowd that had
gathered in a large field in a village some miles higher up the dale.
It was the dale’s annual agricultural show and gala day, and all the
farming community that could toddle, walk, or ride, to say nothing of
visitors, had converged upon the spacious pasture. On the back of the
right hand of each and all of them was an impression in purple ink; it
was the pass-out check, imprinted upon each one with a rubber date stamp
by a stalwart, red-faced policeman, who stood guard at the gate. They
have little use for gloves, these folk of the Craven dales.

The three, with l’ile Nance stretched at ease at their feet, stood
somewhat apart from the crowd. Owd Zub was uneasy and a trifle wrathful,
and also, having already paid several visits to the refreshment booth,
inclined to be querulous. Not until that morning, as they were packing
into the farm gig, had he learned that l’ile Nance had been entered for
the sheep-dog trials. For years these trials had been the feature of the
show, and they attracted good dogs, and knowing this, and being convinced
that the little dog would not shine against such opponents, he was sore.
Deep down in his heart he was proud of his son, and he did not relish
seeing him beaten before his fellows of the dale.

‘What chance hes shoo?’ he growled. ‘Theer’s lots o’ first-class dogs
here. There’s Tim Feather wi’ his, ’at’s run i’ theease trials for t’
past six year. An’ theer’s Ike Thorpe, thro’t’ Lancashire side. He’s
ta’en t’ first prize here this last two year. He’s owd hand at t’ game,
an’ soa is his dog.’

‘Well,’ said his son, ‘if he wins it ageean he can hev it.’

He spoke somewhat abstractedly. The trials had already begun, and he was
more intent on watching his rivals and in familiarising himself with
the course than in listening to the elder man. It was a long field and
of good breadth, so that there was plenty of room for the sheep to run.
Along the farther side, close to the bank of the river, were three sets
of upright posts, like goal-posts, but lacking the net and cross-bar.
Through these the sheep had to be driven, and whilst this was being
done the owner of the dog had to stay near the judges; he was, in fact,
looped to a rope attached to a stake to prevent him, in his eagerness,
going to the assistance of his animal. As a consequence, all his commands
had to be given in whistles or by word of mouth. Near the head of the
enclosure was the second set of obstacles—a cross-road made of hurdles.
The sheep had to be piloted through each road and then driven to a little
hurdle enclosure and penned there. The competing owners were allowed to
drop their rope and go to the help of their dogs at the cross-roads and
the pen, and the winning dog was the one that penned the sheep in the
shortest time with the fewest mistakes.

Young Zub was the last to compete, and so far the best performance had
been done by Ike’s dog, which had penned its three allotted sheep in
fine style in nine-and-a-half minutes. As the young farmer looped the
rope about his arm he took stock of his three sheep, held by as many
perspiring attendants at the far end of the enclosure. They were fresh
from the moors that morning, and their fear and wildness were manifest.
Zubdil saw that there would be trouble if once they broke away, but he
was cool and unflurried as he nodded to the time-keeper to indicate that
he was ready.

‘Time,’ said that official, and dropped a white handkerchief. It was
the signal for the men to let go the sheep, which, once released, ran
a little way, and then began to nibble the rich luscious grass. It was
grand fare for them after what the moors had provided. At the same
instant Zubdil waved his stick. As if galvanised into life, Nance, who
had been stretched lazily at his feet snapping at the flies, shot up the
field like an arrow from a bow. Young Zub, straining hard at the rope,
his fingers in his mouth, watched her every stride, judging both pace
and distance. A moment later a shrill whistle, a long-drawn-out rising
cadence, went up, and with one ear cocked by way of reply the young dog
closed in on the rear of the nibbling sheep. They threw up their heads
and broke towards the river in a swift rush. A series of sharp notes
stabbed the air, and l’ile Nance, belly flat almost, such was her speed,
swung round them and headed them off. Back they came in a huddled group
to the very mouth of the first lot of posts. For a second they hesitated,
uncertain where to run, but Nance was coming up on their rear and they
broke through. Hard on their heels she followed, swinging now right,
now left, as one or other made as if to burst away, and so skilful her
piloting that she took them straight away through the second line of
posts at the run. A loud cheer went up from the onlookers; it was a neat
bit of work. But not a man but knew that things were going too well; it
is not in the nature of driven sheep to keep the proper course for long
together.

True to their traditions of stupidity and contrariness, they broke away
fan-wise when nearing the last posts. Zubdil, straining on loop until
he was drawn sideways, sent out clear, quick calls, a Morse code of
commands. Nance was as if making circles on her two near legs. With
ears laid flush, body stretching and closing like a rubber cord, she
flashed round the heads of the straying ones, collected them and hustled
them through the posts at panic speed. Once again that rising note rang
out, and in response she swept them round in a wide circle towards the
cross-roads. This was the danger point, for the hurdles stood close to
the ring of spectators, and here, if anywhere, the sheep were most likely
to bolt out of hand.

What happened was the unexpected. A fussy fox-terrier, excited by the
tumult and its nerves snapping at the sight of the racing sheep, broke
loose from its owner and, open-mouthed and noisy, sprang in to take a
hand. It caught the nearest sheep and nipped its leg. A roar of anger
went up; an interruption like this was against all tradition. Young
Zub, who was racing across the field to join l’ile Nance, rapped out an
excusable ‘damn,’ and half a dozen farmers on the edge of the ring loudly
expressed a wish to break the neck of the terrier, and to ‘belt’ the
careless owner of that animal. On the slope above the crowd Owd Zub was
dancing with rage.

‘They done it a’ purpose,’ he roared, his voice booming above the din.
‘Sumbody’s done it a’ purpose. They knawed t’ l’ile dog ’ud win. We’ll
hev another trial. We’ll tak all t’ dogs i’ England an’ back wer own for
a ten-pun noat. We’ll hev another trial.’

In deep wrath he was making his way to the enclosure, one hand fumbling
meanwhile to get into the pocket where lay his old-fashioned purse,
securely tied and buttoned up, when a hand gripped him firmly. Another,
equally decided in its action, closed over his mouth.

‘Ho’d thi din,’ cried Nance, for it was she. ‘It’s all reight. Sitha,
look at t’ l’ile dog nah. Well done, Zubdil.’

It was all over in a moment, but it was a stirring moment. L’ile Nance
had dealt with the intruder. Taking it in her stride, she had seized the
terrier by the back of the neck, flung it from her with a toss of her
head, and was about her business. She and her master had to deal with a
serious situation, for one sheep, in mad panic at the terrier’s attack
and at the feel of its teeth in her leg, had bolted blindly through the
crowd, clearing the fence in one fine leap. A silver-and-grey streak
flew through the opening thus made, and in a second both dog and sheep
were swallowed up among the onlookers. Zub, down on his knees the better
to see through the legs of the huddled spectators, was whistling until
he was well-nigh black in the face, but he never lost his head. His
calls were wonderful, articulate almost. They were thrilling, short, but
infinitely encouraging and coaxing. Many a man would have deeply cursed
his dog; every ounce of Zubdil went into encouraging the little animal.
‘Over, over, over,’ said the whistles, as plainly as could be, and at
the moment that the other Nance on the slope had stayed the wrathful old
farmer, her four-footed namesake came back over the fence in the rear of
the missing sheep.

The prodigal, bearing down upon its fellows, who had stopped to graze the
moment they found they were not being harried, alarmed them, and they
fled. By good luck they bore down straight upon the cross-road hurdles.
With Zubdil on one flank, l’ile Nance on the other, there was no escape,
and they bolted straight through. All the precious seconds lost by the
incident of the fox-terrier were thus won back, with more to them. Nance
awaited the panting fleeces at the exit, and with her tongue lolling,
and her bright eyes just visible through the tangled fringe of hair, she
appeared to be grinning them a welcome. The sheep spun round to avoid
her, and were brought up opposite the second entrance by the long form of
the young farmer. His arms were swaying, gently, unhurriedly, waving them
into the entrance. There was need now of patience and tact, for seconds
were becoming precious, and an over-alarmed sheep is a—mule. He whistled
softly with pursed lips while yet they hesitated what to do. Nance sank
prone.

Save that there was a dark patch against the green of the grass, she
had disappeared. Without any visible movement the patch drew nearer
the hesitating sheep. It was pretty work, and the crowd marked their
admiration by their dead silence. The sheep sighted the dog, backed round
to face her, and crowded with their hind-quarters against the hurdle.
Zubdil was silent, motionless, save for the slow movement of his arms.
Nance slid a little nearer, nearer yet. The sheep crowded further back
against the opening. She was not now a yard away. Suddenly she sat up
and panted hard. One of the animals, turning sharply to escape, found an
opening, pushed along it in dread haste. The other two struggled for next
place, and the cross-roads were won.

Again was l’ile Nance there to meet them as they gained the open, and
collecting them smartly she raced them off towards the pen. They broke
away, but their wild rush ended in their being brought up exactly against
the opening of the pen. Zubdil was there, too, his arms going like the
sails of a windmill on an almost breezeless day. They pushed past the
opening, and Nance rose up out of the grass to greet them. They spun
about and raced off, but in a trice she was doing trick running about
their heads and flanks, and when they stopped for breath the mouth of
the pen was again before them. Zubdil drew a cautious step nearer, arms
outspread, his lips puckered. Just wide of him a pair of ears pricked up
above the grass. There was a moment’s hesitation; one of the sheep poked
its head through the mouth of the pen. Nance glided a little nearer, and
the other two animals crowded against the first. Another step into the
pen; the dog was only a yard away. There was a flurried movement about
the opening. L’ile Nance sat up and lolled out a red tongue. She appeared
to be laughing. There was a crush, a scramble, the sheep burst in, and
Nance slid across the opening, lay down, and fixed her pearly eyes on her
master. What wonder if she appeared to be grinning cheerfully?

Before the cheering had subsided, a stolid-faced judge stepped towards
Zubdil. The pink rosette which denoted the first prize was in his hand,
and at the sight of it there was more cheering. The other Nance on the
slope clutched the arm of Owd Zub. For his part he was smiling broadly,
and ecstatically slapping his leggings hard with his ash stick.

‘Nine-an’-a-quarter minutes,’ said the judge, handing the rosette to the
young farmer. ‘By gum, but it wor a near do. Shoo’s a rare ’un, that dog
o’ thine, an’ nobbut a young ’un, too.’

But Zubdil’s greatest reward came later. It was not the hearty
congratulations of so doughty an opponent as Ike, nor the incoherent
remarks of Owd Zub. It was when an arm slid through his, when eyes dimmed
with the moisture of genuine pride looked into his, and a low voice said:

‘I’se reight glad, lad. I is.’

He laughed, gladly. Then openly, unashamed, he stooped and took toll of
her lips. Nor was he denied. And the other Nance, looking up from where
she lay at their feet, tossed back a lock of hair and wagged her tail in
approval.

_FRAGMENTS FROM GERMAN EAST._

BY A SOLDIER’S WIFE.

A still lagoon of veld, mile upon mile. Nowhere in the world, I should
suppose, does the tide of battle ebb and flow so almost imperceptibly.
Sometimes, only in echo, we hear the thunder of the overwhelming
seas—sometimes, just now and then, the ripple at our feet breaks in a
little cloud of spray and for a moment dims the eyes that are used to
vast spaces, with sudden yearning for an island home beneath the far
horizon, and perhaps hands tremble a little in tearing the wrapper from
the daily newspaper.

But enough for us, so far, has been our all unequal struggle with Nature,
who turns our skies to steel and with fierce winds scatters the hovering
clouds, while the young crops shrivel and the watersprings are dry and
the eyes of the beasts wait upon us who can give them no meat in due
season.

A Kaffir boy comes round one evening and sings a doggerel he has
fashioned from an old nigger melody, and others join in the foolish
refrain:

    ‘I come to Basutoland,
    I come through lands and sea,
    I kill five thousand Germans,
    With my banjo on my knee.’

We laugh and throw him a tickey, and turn again to watch the
skies—to-morrow, perhaps, the rains will come and we can plough and sow.
For the dread hand that writes upon the wall has formed no fearful word
for us—as yet—and sympathy, deep and very real as it is, stands in our
lexicon as ‘a feeling for’ rather than ‘a feeling with.’

And then a cable calls me in haste to Durban to meet a returning
transport and suddenly there is nothing in the world but war and its
magnificence and its horror. The clusters of people at various stations
who come to meet the mail train—the event of the day—the youths who
slouch up and down the platform with loud voices and noisy jests, the
girls who laugh with them, the groups of farmers talking of the crops—all
these rouse me to a feeling of irritation, then to an impotent anger.

‘Come with me,’ I want to urge, ‘and I will take you where men are heroes
in life and death.’ And again, ‘Is it nothing to you that your brothers
agonise? Will you jest while the earth opens under your feet?’—and
something ominous creeps into the meaningless laughter.

And then at last comes Durban, and I am surrounded with war activities
and what was sinister has vanished in the wholesomeness of sacrifice and
strenuous work.

To hundreds here war work has become their daily life. The town is always
full of soldiers—Australians, New Zealanders, South Africans—coming and
going. Here is a company of New Zealanders winding up the street. From
a balcony I watch them marching with a fine swing—well set-up, stalwart
fellows. Someone comes with a tray of cigarettes and we throw packets
down amongst them, and their upturned, laughing boyish faces ask for
more. Youngsters all of these, eager for happiness, eager for a slap at
the Germans, and to ‘see life’—and their destination is the battlefield
of Flanders! At the corner they dismiss and there is a race for the
rickshaws; three crowd into one, and the Zulu boy gladly sweats up the
incline and capers and leaps when the downward slope relieves him,
knowing that for his brief exertion he will ask and get six times his
lawful fee. His ostrich feathers wave, his black limbs flash, and the
passengers lean back and laugh.

And the other side of the picture—a shipload of returning Australians,
on crutches, arms in slings, helpless on wheeled chairs, with the look
of the trenches on the brave faces that smile their grateful thanks.
For to each and all Durban has a warm welcome. While they still lie off
the Point, a girl signaller bids them come to the Y.M.C.A. Hut for all
that they want, ladies from the Patriotic League wait on the wharf with
supplies of cigarettes and fruit, motor-cars and carriages stop to pick
up stragglers and carry them home to dinner, to a concert or theatre,
and the Hut itself tempts with open doors to the comforts within, to the
tables strewn with magazines and papers, to the letter-writing facilities
and varied games, to the most excellent meals, where one penny will give
a hungry man a liberal helping of cold meat or an appetising plate of
fish mayonnaise, while a second penny provides the steaming cup.

Down on the Point a little crowd has gathered. The steamer is a day late,
and wives and mothers sit and wait, or restlessly ply any and all with
endless reiterate questions, or hold impatiently to a telephone receiver.
And the night falls, and along the beach gardens the coloured lights hang
in jewelled strings against the dark. A drizzle of rain makes a halo of
their blurred radiance, the band plays, the few wanderers—the last of
the holiday-makers—talk of their homeward journey, for the summer and
the beginning of the season of rains are with us. Far out in the bay a
mast-head light springs up, then more lights, a stir of excitement in the
gathering crowd at the Point, and slowly the tug leads the transport to
her moorings.

‘Stand back—stand back! Make way there!’ and with a whir of starting
engines, the motor ambulances steer their way through the pressing crowd,
and slowly the stretcher-bearers carry their freight along the lower
deck and round the difficult angle of the lowered gangway. In silence
this, and the greetings are very quiet as the waiting women meet their
loved ones again—for this great steamer with her rows of decks and wide
accommodation holds but the remnant of a regiment. Fifteen hundred strong
they marched through Durban nine months ago, and how many have not
returned! Fever, dysentery, debility, starvation, wounds and death—these
have all taken their toll.

I suppose there are few parts of the world which nature has made more
difficult to the intruder than German East Africa. In the forest the
thorny creepers join tree to tree in close high walls until the very
stars—man’s only guide—are hidden, nearly all the trees also are
a-bristle with protecting spears, sharp as needles to pierce and tear
the flesh, and to leave behind, it may be, a poisoned festering sore.
Mountain ranges throw their boulders and tear their gaping chasms in the
way, the streams, too few and far between for thirsty man, are torrents
to be crossed on fallen logs, on slimy boulders where one sees the sudden
agony flash in the eyes of a laden mule that slips, and with a struggle
of frantic hoofs is tossed to death. A herd of elephants crashes like
thunder through the scrub, trumpeting their suspicion of man’s presence,
the lions prowling unheard startle with a sudden hungry roar and seek
their meat from God.

Then come the swamps where the crocodile lies in the slime, and snakes
coil, and the mosquito goes about its deadly work. Men sink to their
waists in mud, the transports break down—all are tried in vain, ox
waggons, mule carts, motor-cars, ‘and then we go hungry,’ said one man to
me. Gaunt and weak, with eyes too bright for health, he smiled and spoke
lightly—a least trembling of the hands, a twitch of a muscle, a look
behind the smiling eyes which no laugh could quite conceal, these the
only signs of the over-strained, still quivering nerves. He told me the