The World Peril of 1910
Page 22
CHAPTER XXI
--AND ENDS
The defenders of Dover, terribly as they had suffered, and hopeless asthe defence really now seemed to be, were still not a little cheered bythe tidings of the complete and crushing defeat which had been inflictedby Admiral Beresford and the _Ithuriel_ on the French at Portsmouth andFolkestone, and the brilliant capture of the whole of the twoExpeditionary Forces. Now, too, the destruction of the Allied Reservemade it possible to hope that at least a naval victory might beobtained, and the transports prevented from crossing until the remainsof the British Fleet Reserve could be brought up to the rescue.
At any rate it might be possible, in spite of sunken ships and shatteredfortifications, to prevent, at least for a while, the pollution ofEnglish soil by the presence of hostile forces, and to get on with themobilisation of regulars, militia, yeomanry and volunteers, which, asmight have been expected, this sudden declaration of war found in theusual state of hopeless muddle and chaos.
But, even in the event of complete victory by sea, there would still bethose terrible cruisers of the air to be reckoned with, and they wereknown to be as efficient as submarines as they were as airships.
Still, much had been done, and it was no use going to meet troublehalfway. Moreover, Beresford's guns were beginning to talk down yonderto the southward, and it was time for what was left of the North SeaSquadron and the Home Fleet to reform and manoeuvre, so as to work tothe north-eastward, and get the enemy between the two British forces.
A very curious thing came to pass now. The French and German Fleets,though still much superior to the defenders, had during that first awfulhour of the assault received a terrible mauling, especially from thelarge guns of the _England_ and the _Scotland_--sisters of the_Britain_, and the flagships respectively of the North Sea Squadron andthe Home Fleet--and the totally unexpected and inexplicable loss oftheir reserve; but the guns booming to the south-westward could only bethose of Admiral Durenne's victorious fleet. He would bring themreinforcements more than enough, and with him, too, would come the three_Flying Fishes_, which had been commissioned to destroy Portsmouth andthe battleships of the British Reserve. There need be no fear of notgetting the transports across now, and then the march of victory wouldbegin.
In a few minutes the fighting almost entirely ceased. The ships whichhad been battering each other so heartily separated as if by mutualconsent, and the French and German admirals steamed to thesouth-westward to join their allies and sweep the Strait of Dover clearof those who had for so many hundred years considered--yes, and keptit--as their own sea-freehold.
At the same time private signals were flashed through the air to the_Flying Fishes_ to retire on Calais, replenish their ammunition andmotive power, which they had been using so lavishly, and return atdaybreak.
Thus what was left of Dover, its furiously impotent soldiery, and itssorely stricken inhabitants, had a respite at least until day dawned andshowed them the extent of the ruin that had been wrought.
It was nearly midnight when the three fleets joined, and just abouteight bells the clouds parted and dissolved under the impact of a stiffnor'-easter, which had been gathering strength for the last two hours.The war smoke drifted away, and the moon shone down clearly on the nowwhite-crested battlefield.
By its light and their own searchlights the French and German admirals,steaming as they thought to join hands with their victorious friends,saw the strangest and most exasperating sight that their eyes had everbeheld. The advancing force was a curiously composed one. Trained, asthey were, to recognise at first sight every warship of every nation,they could nevertheless hardly believe their eyes. There were sixbattleships in the centre of the first line. One was the _Britain_,three others were of the _Edward the Seventh_ class; two were French. Ofthe sixteen cruisers which formed the wings, seven were French--andevery warship of the whole lot was flying the White Ensign!
Did it mean disaster--almost impossible disaster--or was it only a _rusede guerre_?
They were not left very long in doubt. At three miles from a directionalmost due south-east of Dover, the advancing battleships opened firewith their heavy forward guns, and the cruisers spread out in a fan oneither side of the French and German Fleets. The _Britain_, as thoughglorying in her strength and speed, steamed ahead in solitary prideright into the midst of the Allies, thundering and flaming ahead andfrom each broadside. The _Braunschweig_ had the bad luck to get in herway. She made a desperate effort to get out of it; but eighteen knotswas no good against twenty-five. The huge ram crashed into her vitals asshe swerved, and reeling and pitching like some drunken leviathan, shewent down with a mighty plunge, and the _Britain_ ploughed on over theeddies that marked her ocean grave.
This was the beginning of the greatest and most decisive sea-fight thathad been fought since Trafalgar. The sailors of Britain knew that theywere fighting not only for the honour of their King and country, but, asBritish sailors had not done for a hundred and four years, for the veryexistence of England and the Empire. On the other hand, the Allies knewthat this battle meant the loss or the keeping of the command of thesea, and therefore the possibility or otherwise of starving the UnitedKingdom into submission after the landing had been effected.
So from midnight until dawn battleship thundered against battleship, andcruiser engaged cruiser, while the torpedo craft darted with flamingfunnels in and out among the wrestling giants, and the submarines didtheir deadly work in silence. Miracles of valour and devotion wereachieved on both sides. From admiral and commodore and captain in theconning-towers to officers and men in barbettes and casemates, and thesweating stokers and engineers in their steel prisons--which might wellbecome their tombs--every man risked and gave his life as cheerfully asthe most reckless commander or seaman on the torpedo flotillas.
It was a fight to the death, and every man knew it, and accepted thefact with the grim joy of the true fighting man.
Naturally, no detailed description of the battle of Dover would bepossible, even if it were necessary to the narrative. Not a man whosurvived it could have written such a description. All that was known tothe officials on shore was that every now and then an aerogram came,telling in broken fragments of the sinking of a battleship or cruiser onone side or the other, and the gradual weakening of the enemy's defence;but to those who were waiting and watching so anxiously along the lineof cliffs, the only tidings that came were told by the gradualslackening of the battle-thunder, and the ever-diminishing frequency ofthe pale flashes of flame gleaming through the drifting gusts of smoke.
Then at last morning dawned, and the pale November sun lit up as sorry ascene as human eyes had ever looked upon. Not a fourth of the shipswhich had gone into action on either side were still afloat, and thesewere little better than drifting wrecks.
All along the shore from East Wear Bay to the South Foreland lay theshattered, shell-riddled hulks of what twelve hours before had been thefinest battleships and cruisers afloat, run ashore in despair to savethe lives of the few who had come alive through that awful battle-storm.Outside them showed the masts and fighting-tops of those which had sunkbefore reaching shore, and outside these again lay a score or so ofbattleships and a few armoured cruisers, some down by the head, some bythe stern, and some listing badly to starboard or port--still afloat,and still with a little fight left in them, in spite of their gashedsides, torn decks, riddled topworks and smashed barbettes.
But, ghastly as the spectacle was, it was not long before a mighty cheerwent rolling along the cliffs and over the ruined town for, whether flewthe French or German flag, there was not a ship that French or Germansailor or marine had landed on English soil save as prisoners.
The old Sea Lion had for the first time in three hundred and fifty yearsbeen attacked in his lair, and now as then he had turned and rent theinsolent intruder limb from limb.
The main German Fleet and the French Channel Fleet and North SeaSquadrons had ceased to exist within twenty-four hours of thecommencement of hostilitie
s.
Once more Britain had vindicated her claim to the proud title of Queenof the Seas; once more the thunder of her enemies' guns had echoed backfrom her white cliffs--and the echo had been a message of defeat anddisaster.
If the grim game of war could only have been played now as it had beeneven five years before, the victory would have already been with her,for the cable from Gibraltar to the Lizard had that morning brought thenews from Admiral Commerell, Commander-in-Chief in the Mediterranean,that he had been attacked by, and had almost destroyed, the combinedFrench Mediterranean and Russian Black Sea Fleets, and that, with theaid of an Italian Squadron, he was blockading Toulon, Marseilles andBizerta. The captured French and Russian ships capable of repair hadbeen sent to Malta and Gibraltar to refit.
This, under the old conditions, would, of course, have meant checkmatein the game of invasion, since not a hostile ship of any sort would havedared to put to sea, and the crowded transports would have been asuseless as so many excursion steamers, but--