CHAPTER XV
TRAFALGAR AND THE RED LAMP
Though assuredly not with fear, nor with any sense of impending dissolution, the officers and men of the Pathshire—and, perhaps, of the whole Navy—regarded war with Germany, in more than one respect, as they regarded death, and assumed that the same certitude existed in their shipmates’ minds; so that the end of peace was no more questioned than the end of life, but only the manner of that end and the hour of its coming. Moreover, as from men’s ordinary speech speculation concerning the after-life is excluded, so these seamen did not speak, and seldom thought, of the time that would come when the war was over. The tale that German officers toasted “The Day” produced in the British Navy sentiments altogether different from those with which it inspired British civilians. In Service messes they smiled the national smile at this effusiveness of foreigners, just as they would have smiled at the gesticulations of Frenchmen or the exceeding politeness of Japanese. To them it seemed pompous and laughable to drink solemnly to War; they would as soon have been ceremonious concerning a Gunlayers’ Test. But this German proceeding aroused in them neither fear nor the resentment that springs from fear. They regarded the Germans who were said to drink this toast, not as wicked men rejoicing in the prospect of wickedness, but as professional men who overstepped somewhat the boundaries of “good form” in their too dramatic attitude towards their profession.
So long as they remained in or near their ships—that is, within the atmosphere of which Mr. Alter had spoken, and beyond the influence of their civilian friends—naval officers saw the coming war with such concentration on its professional aspect that observant visitors were amazed and sometimes shocked. War would come; Germany would be the enemy and the aggressor; but the certainty of this aggression seemed no better reason for bitterness than a chess opponent’s initial move of his King’s Pawn. It was attractive to wonder whether the King’s Pawn would be moved or whether some other opening would be selected. It was delightful to suggest the defence that Jellicoe and Prince Louis would adopt. But, just as chess players are careful for the game’s intricacies and not for stakes, so naval officers thought of the war in terms of manœuvred battle squadrons and destroyer flotillas rather than of the destinies of nations. And they assumed that German officers, being likewise professional men, were no more interested than they were in those aspects of war that were not strictly professional. They imputed to the Ober-Leutnant as he stood, wine-glass in hand, no motive more sinister than a desire to prove professional superiority; and, being themselves convinced that they could outmanœuvre and out-gun him, they were unperturbed that he should drink to his sentimental heart’s content.
On the China Station the naval officer’s concern with war was, perhaps, more exclusively technical than elsewhere. In home waters the Germans were as unfamiliar as bogey-men, and the English newspapers were near at hand. A speech or leading article was potent to awake, even in the naval mind, some of those vague misgivings concerning Wilhelmshaven upon which vulgar opinion on foreign affairs was at that time based. But the newspapers that reached China were stale and little read; and—most powerful antidote for political animosity—the German Fleet was a familiar sight, and its officers were frequent guests.
The field of thought concerning war was thus circumscribed. When the time came, the China Squadron would fight its own independent battle in its own waters. The chess-board was set. The opposing force was known and visible. Many a time in Wardroom and Gunroom were the Scharnhorst, Gneisenau, Leipzig, and Nürnberg compared, knot for knot, gun for gun, armour for armour, torpedo-tube for torpedo-tube, with the Pathshire and her comrade ships. No doubt the Germans made similar calculations; no doubt they, too, cast their eyes sometimes towards Japan. But, in a subtle manner, the very closeness of the association of those who were ultimately to be enemies robbed that association of bitterness. The Germans were excellent seamen, and pleasant companions at dinner. They danced well, drank well, laughed well, and could sing a good song. When Fate ended both dance and song the ensuing duel would be a gentlemanly trial of skill, intensely interesting, a settling of knotty arguments, a test, for instance, of what the Engineer-Commander could do with his main engines. The gun-fire silent at last, the survivors would be picked up and given whisky, or, if the weather was cold, sloe gin. The battle, important to civilians for its effects upon trade-routes, Eastern prestige, and a vast complexity of political issues, would be to those who took part in it a thrilling conclusion to a technical work which for many weary years had been hard reading.
It would be a conclusion, an end of a book to which no sequel had been planned. After it, as after death, would be but that blank fly-leaf whose whiteness is more emphatic than the written word Finis. A man whose whole life has been devoted to one object scarce dares to look beyond its attainment. The business man speaks uneasily of the years that are to follow his retirement; the historian wonders how he will occupy his time when his great work has gone to press; the mother turns from contemplation of the hour in which her child, made man by her pain and endeavour, goes from her into the world. And the naval officer looked infrequently and with reluctance beyond the crowning of his work.
But there were moments when it was difficult so conveniently to restrict the vision of the future. Rumours of war were continual reminders of war’s imminence, and, therefore, pointers towards the years of undefined purpose that would succeed it. As each rumour was proved false, it was impossible, in the days of reaction, to avoid some speculation as to the results which would have ensued had the rumour been well-founded; just as it is impossible for a man who has survived an attack of that disease by which he knows his end must come not to look a little wistfully beyond the gates of death. And soon after that night on which John had, for other reasons, asked himself to what end his present life was directed, there came whisperings of war to make the question more insistent. Once again the rumour was seen to lack foundation; a leaf in the great technical volume was turned excitedly; but not yet had that page been reached upon which was written Chapter the Last. But John knew, as did they all, that they were near the end now—very near the end.
“I hope it comes,” he said to Hartington, “before we leave China. Out here it will be on a smaller scale. We shall be able to see the whole battle at once, and it will be our battle. It will be simpler, more clearly cut than that vast affair in the North Sea.”
“Do you look forward to war?”
“What else is there to which we can look forward? It’s our training. It’s what we are here for.”