OUR NATIONAL DEFENCES.
(By Mr. Punch's Own Veteran Expert.)
It was a happy thought of the respected Editor of this paper (if I may be permitted so to say) to commission me to undertake a thorough inspection of the guns at the Admiralty Pier, Dover. Since war has broken out between China and Japan there is no saying what may happen next, and it seems to me that a plain statement of our preparedness will have a reassuring effect. So without further preface I will relate my adventures, taking care, however, to give no information that can be serviceable to the enemy.
I am a bit of a soldier myself but frankly confess that I was not nearly so much of a warrior as my companion. We had a pass for two, and it was understood that nothing should be done through indiscretion that might endanger the safety of the country. So if my description is not what the dramatic critics of the nearly newest school term "convincing," the omission is accounted for. We two, braving the rain the wind and the spray, put in an appearance at the end of the Admiralty Pier. There was a sort of boat-house on our right, which seemingly contained clothing for those who intended to do the guns.
"You had better put on canvas, Sir," said the custodian; "the engineers are about, and it is rather dirty down below."
My companion was soon suited with a pair of overalls and a jumper. I would have been fitted as speedily if the date of the adornment had been anticipated by twenty years or so. As it was, my weight rather interfered with the measurement. From the size of the canvas clothing in stock, I am afraid our army must be a skinny one. Be this as it may, I had to wear "36," when "44" would have been nearer the mark. The result was that I walked with difficulty, and found I could not cough. So I was rather glad that there was no chance of meeting the fairer sex, as I was quite sure that I was not looking my best. And I say this although I was tied together with bits of rope, and did wear an old jockey cap.
"We will go and see the powder magazine first," said our guide, flourishing what seemed to me to be a cheap kind of teapot, with a light at the end of it. "It is so many feet below the level of the sea at low water."
I carefully refrain from giving the number of feet—first, because I will disclose no confidences, and, secondly, because I have forgotten it. So down we went into the depths of the earth. The hole was about as big as a kitchen chimney, and had on one side of it a number of iron bars, serving as a ladder. Our guide went first, then my companion, then I myself. I shall never forget the experience. I have often heard of the treadmill, and this seemed a revised edition of the punishment. Each bar hurt my feet, and each foot of descent increased my temperature. I went very slowly—it was impossible to go fast in overalls "36." When I had descended what appeared to me to be a mile or so, I came to a full stop. I was standing in a sort of empty store-cupboard—the kind of place where careful housewives stack boxes and unused perambulators.
"This is the magazine," said our conductor, waving his illuminated tea-pot about, so that we might see the place to better advantage.
"Is this all?" I asked, rather disappointed, as after so much exertion I should have been glad of a little excitement. Even an infernal machine on tick would have been something.
"Yes, that's all, Sir," returned the teapot-bearer, beginning to mount the ladder. He was followed by my companion. I brought up the rear, and felt like the great-grandfather of Jack Sheppard escaping from Newgate. When I was half way it occurred to me that it was really very wrong to allow people to see such secrets. I might have been a spy, or a political agent, or something or other. Yes, such things should not be permitted, and I recommenced my exertions.
"Take care where you go, Sir! There's a loose plank thereabouts!"
It was the voice of our leader. It came from above, and had a ventriloquial sound about it. I felt inclined to reply in a shrill falsetto, "What a funny man you are Mr. Cole!" but would not. First, it was undignified; secondly, I hadn't the breath to do it.
"Wearily, drowsily," like Miss May Yohe, but (considering my costume) with a difference, I came to the surface. I felt that I had been for the last ten hours in the hottest room of a local Chinese Turkish Bath. I was so limp that had I been told that the fairest of the fair and the richest of the rich combined was on the eve of being introduced to me, I should not have made any effort to get away. Yes, in spite of being conscious that I had rubbed my nose with a smutty glove, and consequently had something in common with the sweep.
"We are going to see the engines," said my friend.
"Only so many hundred feet below the level of the ocean," added our conductor. (It will be observed that I carefully avoid figures for the reasons I have already given.)
"Thanks, no," I gasped out; "I don't think I will go. I suppose they are exactly like other engines?"
"Not in the least."
"Ah, then that decides me, I will stay here," and I did.
I am glad to say that the engines appeared to be particularly interesting, and kept my friend and his escort busily engaged for about half an hour. At length my companions returned. I was partially recovered. I was no longer as limp as a bit of string; I was by this time almost as strong as a piece of address cardboard.
"You should have seen the engines," said my friend in a tone of reproach, "they were excellent."
I replied that I would take his word for it. Then we went to see the guns themselves. Well, I frankly confess I was disappointed. They were the usual sort of guns. Big tubes and all that kind of thing. Rather silly than otherwise.
"They are only fired twice a year," said our guide, as if that enhanced their value. And now I began to understand why the casemates had such an "apartments furnished" air about them. The windows had brass fittings. I expected to see curtains hanging from above, and was quite disappointed not to find a canary in a birdcage hanging down between the window and the gun muzzle.
"Dear me!" I observed, "so these are the guns! They are fired I supposed by Number One?"
Our conductor was absolutely startled at my remark. Many years since I was a Volunteer Artilleryman, and I had stumbled on a technical term. "Number One" is the gunner of the firing-party who fires (i.e. lets off) the gun. The result of this display of knowledge was an elaborate description by our guide of the character of the gun bristling with technicalities. (Wishing to protect the Government secrets I do not transcribe it.)
Then we went to see how the gun was loaded, how it was laid or aimed. At last we came to the look-out tower.
"Only room for one gentleman," said our guide; and I nobly yielded first place to my friend. He went up, and his head disappeared. I could only see his body from the neck downwards. He appeared very agitated. Later on he came down, and saying there was a "stiffish breeze," invited me to take his place. Ascending slowly, greatly impeded by fit and fatigue, I got to the top of the ladder. My head disappeared, and my body I knew must have become greatly agitated. And this was not surprising. For my body was still in the hottest room of the local Chinese Turkish Bath, which had grown hotter than ever, and my head had apparently suddenly found itself on the summit of Mont Blanc. Yes, and in winter weather. For a moment it was all I could do to avoid what seemed to me to be avalanches, frozen thunderbolts and Atlantic icebergs. They seemed to be dashing over me. Clinging for dear life to what appeared to be a sort of glassless cucumber frame was our conductor. He explained something or other in a voice that sounded as if he were a ventriloquist who was making a man say "Good night" at the top of a very high chimney.
I intimated that I was perfectly satisfied. This I did in dumb show by promptly dropping my head and climbing down as quickly as possible. When I reached the stone floor my face was ice for a moment and then turned red hot, following the example set by the rest of my body.
Shortly afterwards, staggering in my imperfect fit, I once more returned to the entrance of the boat-house. The robes surrounding me were carefully untied in several directions. I drew off my overalls, my jumper, my shocking bad hat, my torn white gloves. I resumed my ordinary clothes. "Richard was himself again." At least, as near himself as he could be after a loss of about two stones of weight and the greater part of his voice.
"You will not give particulars that will endanger the safety of the State?"
I promised (in a feeble, melancholy tone that seemed to me like a mouse's dying farewell to sorrowing relatives) that I wouldn't.
And I hope I haven't.