In appearance, this naval titan was short and stocky; an average Englishman, perhaps, until one looked at his face. It was round, smooth, and curiously boyish. His mouth was full-lipped and sensual and could be merry, but as he aged it tightened and the corners turned down with bitterness and fatigue. The extraordinary feature was the eyes. Set far apart, almost at the edges of his face, they were very large, and light gray. Heavy eyelids, which tended to droop, gave them an almond shape. When he looked at a person, Fisher’s gaze was fixed and compelling and gave no clue to the patterns of thought or emotion behind the façade. When he was happy, all this stone could melt and his eyes would glow with warmth. When wrath entered his soul, the lips thinned, the jaw clenched, and the eyes narrowed and glittered.
There was another curious quality about Jacky Fisher’s face. It had a strange yellowish tint, which, together with the quasi-Oriental shape of his eyes, gave birth to the rumor, given wings by his enemies, that he was partly Malayan, “the son of a Cingalese Princess,”1 it was said. In fact, he had suffered severely from dysentery and malaria while in his forties and almost died from this combination of diseases, which took a number of years to cure. It was this that had given him his yellowish hue, but this fact did not stop his opponents, who used it to explain what they called his “Oriental cunning and duplicity.”2 In 1904, Captain Wilhem Widenmann, the German Naval Attaché in London, passed the rumors along to Berlin, referring to the new First Sea Lord as “an unscrupulous half-Asiatic.”3
Fisher was not a Malay or a Cingalese, but he was barely a gentleman by birth and not truly one in behavior. He owed nothing to family, wealth, or social position and everything to merit, force of character, and sheer persistence. “I entered the Navy4 penniless, friendless and forlorn,” he told everyone who would listen, including the king. “I have had to fight like hell5 and fighting like hell has made me what I am.” He brought to the fight an exceptional inventory of qualities: Herculean energy, burning ambition, towering ego and self-confidence, and fervent patriotism. He was bold, quick-witted, and original, and in everything he did he was passionately involved: for or against, yea or nay. This was true from the beginning. “I remember the intense enthusiasm6 which he displayed in everything... he was easily the most interesting midshipman I ever met,” recalled an early shipmate.
Fisher’s correspondence and conversation mirrored his exuberant nature. His letters,7 written in large, bold letters and filled with exclamation points and double and triple underlining, frequently ended with “Yours till we part at the pearly gates,” “Yours till Hell freezes,” or “Yours till charcoal sprouts.” His phraseology ranged from the Bible to the street and he threw in quotes and historical facts with less regard for accuracy than for making whatever point he had in mind. He never reread or edited his letters before putting them in the mail. As an eighteen-year-old midshipman, he explained this practice, which he followed for the rest of his life: “I can’t bear to read them8 [letters] over twice. I like putting things down as I think of them, and if I was to read them over twice, I should get disgusted... and tear the letter up and consequently never write a letter at all.” His conversation was similar. Rarely worrying about the impression his listener might be forming, Fisher cared only about making his point as he riveted a man with his eyes and pounded his fist on the palm of his hand. Sometimes, he quite forgot to whom he was speaking. “Would you kindly leave off9 shaking your fist in my face?” King Edward once said to the Admiral.
Fisher knew the Bible intimately and he reinforced his knowledge with constant reading and visits to church. When at the Admiralty, he went every morning to early service at Westminster Abbey or St. Paul’s and sometimes would listen to three sermons on a single Sunday. When the Dean of Westminster heard that the First Sea Lord had been seen listening to four sermons on one day, he wrote to Fisher, warning him of “spiritual indigestion.”10 Fisher did not ride horses and played no sport. He liked to walk—or, better, pace—so that he could think. His single relaxation and exercise was dancing. He began as a young man on ship or shore, dancing with women, or fellow officers if women were not available, and singing or whistling the tune himself if he could not find a band. “I believe, dear Admiral, that I would walk to England to have another waltz with you,” wrote one of his partners, Grand Duchess Olga, a younger sister of Tsar Nicholas II of Russia.
Fortunately for Fisher’s career, his blunt words and sometimes tactless behavior were buffered by an extraordinary ability to charm. He could charm Russian grand duchesses and Royal Navy boatswain’s mates, a Sultan of Turkey and a roomful of American millionaires. He charmed two monarchs of England: the tiny reclusive widow who lived at Windsor and her bon vivant son who traveled the world in pursuit of pleasure. Both Queen Victoria and King Edward VII put up with impertinence from Fisher because he delivered it with an impish smile and contagious high spirits which cut through the pomp and boredom surrounding Royal Persons. Once at a dreary formal luncheon, Fisher blurted out to the King: “Pretty dull, Sir, this....11 Hadn’t I better give them a song?” The King was delighted and the First Sea Lord then rendered a music-hall ditty about two drunken tramps in Trafalgar Square. Fisher was on shakier ground one evening at dinner when the King was teasing him about sailors having a wife in every port. Smiling, but with narrowed eyes, Fisher shot back, “Wouldn’t you, Sir, have loved12 to be a sailor?” For a moment, the King’s face clouded and the table fell ominously silent. Then the King roared and everyone else guffawed and chuckled.
Within the navy, Fisher’s credo, “The efficiency of the Fleet13 and its instant readiness for war,” won him a band of devoted followers, many of them exceptional younger officers who, like Jellicoe, would go on to higher command and fame. But not everyone in the navy liked or admired Fisher. His thrusting ambition, his certainty that he was always right, his blunt language, and his ruthless treatment of officers he thought were unfit made him enemies, especially among older, more conventional officers already shocked by the nature of his reforms. It was argued that he showed favoritism;14 he admitted it, declaring that “favoritism is the secret of efficiency,” by which he meant selection on the basis of merit, not seniority. Besides, he pointed out, “if I haul a man up15 over the shoulders of his seniors, that man is going to take care to show I haven’t made a mistake.” As he grew older, he became more autocratic, showing contempt and hatred of anyone who stood in his way. His opponents were “pre-historic admirals,”16 “mandarins,”17 or “fossils.”18 “Anyone who opposes me, I crush,”19 he once hissed at an opponent in an Admiralty corridor. Not surprisingly, an anti-Fisher faction grew up in the navy. Fisher was described as reckless, duplicitous, abusive, and vengeful. Behind his back, he was “The Malay,”20 “The Yellow Peril,”21 and “that hobgoblin22 whose name is Fisher.”
People outside the navy constantly groped for sticks with which to beat the First Sea Lord. The Admiral remained elusive. “A silly ass23 at the War Office wrote a paper to prove me inconsistent,” he wrote to Arthur Balfour, who as Prime Minister brought Fisher to the summit of the Admiralty. “Inconsistency is the bugbear of fools! I wouldn’t give a damn for a fellow who couldn’t change his mind with a change of conditions. Ain’t I to wear a waterproof because I didn’t when the sun was shining?” Fisher’s general opinion of politicians was not high. He never lost his respect for Balfour, admiring his keenness of mind and grateful for Balfour’s constant support as Prime Minister and then as Leader of the Opposition. He served under four First Lords during the prewar period: Lord Selborne from 1904 to early 1905, Lord Cawdor for eight months until the fall of the Unionist government at the end of 1905, Lord Tweedmouth, the Liberal First Lord from 1906 to 1908, and Reginald McKenna from 1908 until Fisher’s retirement in 1910. All worked well with Fisher, except Lord Tweedmouth, whose indecision in Fisher’s long battle with Lord Charles Beresford helped to undermine the Admiralty and precipitate Fisher’s ultimate fall. Cabinet ministers in general Fisher likened to “frightened rabbits,
”24 and he once declared that the existence of politicians had “deepened his faith in Providence.25 How else could one explain Britain’s continued existence as a nation?”
There were some who charged that Fisher was a warlord who thirsted for blood. The image was supported by the story that he once suggested to the King that the navy be sent to “Copenhagen” the growing German fleet as Fisher’s hero Nelson had destroyed the Danish Fleet by a surprise peacetime blow. “My God, Fisher, you must be mad!”26 King Edward cried. Fisher’s real view of war was more complicated. He had been in battle and witnessed carnage. He knew that war was something other than a path to glory. “Personally, I hope27 that war will not come,” he told an American friend in 1898, when press and public opinion in the United States were clamoring for war with Spain. He pointed to “the fearful miseries it always entails amongst those poor widows and orphans and dependant relatives whose sufferings pay for the fortunes of war contractors and the power of politicians who run no risks.”
Nevertheless, Fisher understood what wars were about and what nations meant when they said they wanted peace: “All nations want peace,28 but they want a peace that suits them.” A decision for war, he felt, came from a weighing of factors; if a nation felt that it risked losing more in war than it could possibly gain, there would be no war. Thus, for Fisher, the key to peace as well as security lay in the strength of the British Navy. “The French, no doubt,29 sincerely desire peace with England,” he wrote in 1894, “provided they can replace England in Egypt and the Nile Basin and elsewhere. To obtain peace on these terms they would not shrink from trying a fall with England, if they thought there was a fair chance of success. The deadlock that ends in war can only be avoided by one of two means. Either the French may abandon their claims, or the English may strengthen their seapower to such an extent that the probable chances of an international struggle would leave France worse off than she is today.” It all came back to the Fleet. “On the British fleet30 rests the British Empire,” he said, and “Only a congenital idiot31 with criminal tendencies would permit any tampering with the maintainance of our sea supremacy.” If war did come, it might come suddenly and, in the case of a great sea battle, all could be decided within a few hours. Throughout his career Fisher hammered on the theme of “the suddenness...32 and finality of a modern sea fight... once beaten the war is finished. Beaten on land, you can improvise fresh armies in a few weeks. You can’t improvise a fresh Navy; it takes four years.” The suddenness and decisiveness of a sea battle put a premium on intelligent, courageous leadership. “The generals may be asses,33 but the men, being lions, may pull the battle through on shore,” he said. “But in a sea fight, if the admiral is an ass, millions of lions are useless!”
For most of Fisher’s naval career, England’s presumed enemy was France. Nevertheless, by 1901 he was writing from the Mediterranean, where he had trained a vast fleet to fight the French: “We must reconsider34 our standard of naval strength in view of the immense development of the German Navy.” He admired the Kaiser (“a wonderful man,”35 “a wonderful fellow”) for his interest in the sea and for the efficient way he was building up a fleet. The Kaiser returned the sentiment. “I admire Fisher,36 I say nothing against him,” he told a foreign visitor. “If I were in his place I should do all that he has done and I should do all that I know he has in mind to do.” Despite this exchange of compliments, Fisher was convinced throughout his term as First Sea Lord of the inevitability of war with Germany. When war did come, he thought, it would come suddenly. “The German Empire,”37 he told the King in 1906, “is the one Power in political organization and in fighting strength and in fighting efficiency, where one man (the Kaiser) can press the button and be confident of hurling the whole force of the Empire instantly, irresistably, and without warning on its enemy.” Specifically, Fisher thought that the Germans would choose a weekend, probably a weekend with a bank holiday. He had no difficulty pinpointing the date, the name of the British admiral, and the name of the battle in which Britain’s future would be decided. “Jellicoe to be Admiralissimo38 on October 21, 1914 when the Battle of Armageddon comes along,” he wrote in 1911. Fisher’s premise and most of the details of his prediction were correct. He picked the date because it corresponded with the probable completion of the deepening of the Kiel Canal, which would permit the passage of German dreadnoughts from the Baltic to the North Sea. War did come on a bank holiday weekend, although it was in August, not October, 1914. (The Kiel Canal had been completed in July.) At the Battle of Armageddon, which was the Battle of Jutland, when the whole strength of the German High Seas Fleet was hurled against the Royal Navy, the Commander-in-Chief of the Grand Fleet—the Admiralissimo—was Sir John Jellicoe. Jellicoe was in command because, over the years, Fisher had guided his career and insisted that no one else would do.
On January 25, 1841, in Rambodde, Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), a twenty-year-old Englishwoman, Sophie Fisher, wife of Captain William Fisher, aide-de-camp of the Governor of Ceylon, gave birth to the first of her eleven children, a son whom the parents named John Arbuthnot. As Fisher himself described his parents: “[My mother was] a most magnificent39 and handsome, extremely young woman who married for love exactly nine months before I was born! My father was 6 feet 2 inches, a Captain of the 78th Highlanders, also very young, also especially handsome.... Why I am ugly is one of those puzzles of physiology which are beyond finding out.”
In the same year as his first child’s birth, Captain Fisher unwisely resigned his army commission and began to plant coffee. Within a few years, his crop was obliterated by disease and he took work as Inspector General of Police, a low-paying job which left little to bring up the eleven children whom his bountiful wife provided. To lessen the burden, “little Jack,” as he was known, was sent back to England at the age of six. He never saw his father again; Captain Fisher was thrown from a horse and killed when the boy was fifteen. Two years before his death, when the son he hadn’t seen for seven years entered the navy, Captain Fisher wrote a letter which, in its pathetic apologies and awkward attempt at warmth, suggests how distant from his family and thoroughly alone young Jack must have felt:
My dear Jack:40
You must recollect I am very poor and that you have a great many brothers and sisters, and that I cannot give you much pocket money. But I will give you what I can afford, and mind you, never get into debt.... From all that I have heard... you are a very good boy and very clever, and I expect you to get on well. Perhaps you may see some fighting.... God help you, my dear Jack.
Fisher’s destination in England was the house of his London grandfather, Sophie’s father, a wine merchant who had lost all his money (“A simple-minded man,”41 Fisher described his grandfather, “fleeced of a fortune by foreign scoundrels”) and existed by taking in lodgers. The boy lived mainly on boiled rice and brown sugar, sometimes gratefully receiving from a charitable lodger a piece of bread thickly spread with butter. He had almost no contact with his mother, now living in penury in Ceylon, struggling to bring up her many children on the negligible income of her husband’s negligible estate.fn1
Fisher’s sense of abandonment created a gap between him and his mother which he could never overcome. When he was twenty-nine and stationed aboard a ship in Hong Kong, he wrote to his wife, Kitty, “I heard from my mother....42 She contemplates coming to see me.... I am in a horrid fright of my mother turning up some day unexpectedly; I am sure we couldn’t live together. I hate the very thought of it and, really, I don’t want to see her. I don’t see why I should as I haven’t the slightest recollection of her.”
Although he helped his mother as much as possible from his skimpy navy pay and sent her an allowance until her death in 1891, Fisher resented her constant requests for more money. Thus, two months after complaining to his wife about his mother’s drawing money from his agent in England, Fisher was proposing to his wife that they give away eighteen pounds, five shillings a year “to charity.” He understood the sadness of the s
ituation, but saw no remedy. “[I have] none of the feelings43 of a son for his mother,” Fisher admitted to his wife. “I do so much pity her when I think how I love Beatrix and Cecil [his own two oldest children] and what a grief it would be to me were they to grow up without loving me.”
Later in life, Fisher told everyone who would listen (including King Edward VII) that he had entered the navy “penniless, friendless and forlorn,” but it wasn’t quite true. He had very little money, but he had important friends. His godmother, the widow of the Governor of Ceylon whom Fisher’s father had served as aide-decamp, now lived in a sumptuous country house in Derbyshire, where young Jack was often invited. “I had happy days44 there,” he remembered. “The Trent flowed past the house and I loved being on the river and catching perch.” One of Lady Horton’s neighbors was Sir William Parker, the last of Nelson’s captains, now a senior admiral and Commander-in-Chief of the naval base at Plymouth. Lady Horton requested Sir William to nominate her godson Jack Fisher for the navy. At the same time, “strange to say,”45 said Fisher, “another dear old lady took a fancy to me, and she was Lord Nelson’s own niece, and she [also] asked Sir William for me.” Sir William obliged and on July 13, 1854, thirteen-year-old Jack Fisher went on board Nelson’s flagship, H.M.S. Victory, at Portsmouth to be examined for the navy. The test was simple: “I wrote out46 the Lord’s Prayer and the doctor made me jump over a chair naked and I was given a glass of sherry.” He was certified “free from defect of speech,47 vision, rupture, or any other physical disability,” and was accepted.
Dreadnought Page 55