"Load me well and keep me clean,
I'll carry my ball to Calais Green."
But inspection of the Castle was not encouraged, and tourists of foreign appearance who showed a disposition to take snapshots in the vicinity were promptly checked in their pursuit of the pleasing but too common art of photography. Yet it was certain that, pigeon-holed in every war department, of continental and, perhaps, of certain Eastern powers, there were full details, or nearly full, of the elaborate defence works with which Dover was provided. It was known that Castle Hill was honeycombed with subterranean passages and galleries, and that the Castle (nowadays a barrack rather than a fortress) was thus connected with the modern forts in its immediate vicinity.
Fort Burgoyne, to the north of the castle itself, was, until recent times, the strongest link in the chain of defence, its guns being of great calibre, and commanding a vast range over land and sea. But far more powerful, and better equipped with modern armament and military resources, was Fort Warden; such being the name given to the works which had been specially constructed as a safeguard against possible attack by means of the Channel Tunnel. The very hill had been hewn and carved and moulded to meet the needs of such a danger. Commanding the gradual sweep by which the railway descended towards the Tunnel, the great guns of Fort Warden were always trained upon the gaping archway from which the incoming trains were constantly emerging.
The highest battery of the Fort occupied a dominating position overlooking all the enceinte fortifications, which were armed with machine guns and small cannon. There was a subterranean passage connecting the fort with the waterworks of a large service reservoir in a hollow of the hill, which had been constructed in modern times to ensure an adequate supply of water for the troops and the Duke of York's School. Fort Warden was complete in itself; but, linked up with the other fortifications, it formed, as it were, the citadel of a composite fortress where, in the event of attack, the last stand would be made by England's defenders. Round the fort extended a double row of trenches, and within these was a moat. Strong wire entanglements defended the trenches, and the loopholes in the breastworks were protected by 3/4-inch steel plates with a cross-shaped opening for the rifles. In addition, strong bomb-proofs were provided for the reserves, with wide bomb-proof passages leading to certain of the other forts. In all directions on the hill were placed howitzers and mortars, most of the battery positions and gun epaulements being ingeniously masked and difficult for an advancing enemy to locate. The military scientist who had designed most of the elaborate defences and put finishing touches to those of earlier construction was Major Edgar Wardlaw of the Royal Engineers. His old friend General Hartwell held that from the point of view of an invading enemy, this quiet, unassuming officer was the most dangerous man in all the British army. Major Wardlaw certainly knew better than anyone else of what Dover Castle Hill was capable. The military authorities were very chary of rehearsing its possible performances, because, in the vulgar parlance of an earlier period, it would give the show away. It was a "show" that must be closely reserved and kept dark in times of international peace and quietness.
Meanwhile, the hillside showed but few signs of life; the winds of heaven blew over it, the rains descended, or the sun shone. Birds hopped about, and people came and went. Often there was hardly a sound to break the silence of the hill. A visitor who had climbed the heights could gaze over the town of Dover and the hills and valleys behind it, or look right across the Channel to the coast of France, quite undisturbed by human voice or sound of busy life. But Major Wardlaw could have told that visitor that on the instant, at a signal, this placid scene could be converted into one of awful violence and furious sound; that in a flash the hill would vomit forth, as if from many avenues of hell, wholesale, fiery death and indiscriminate destruction. On every side would rise the roar of monster ordnance, the ceaseless rattle of machine guns, the deafening crack of musketry.
Woe betide the foe that dared to rouse the sleeping monster of the hill!
Such were Wardlaw's Works, as they were called throughout the British army. When the Major retired from active service, he still lingered in the neighbourhood of his magnum opus. In a charming bungalow, perched on the hillside of Folkestone Warren, he and Miss Flossie spent unruffled days amid eminently healthy surroundings.
The Warren, a bay of much natural beauty, had been rescued from neglect. A station on the line from Folkestone proper to Dover afforded easy access to the Bay; trees had been planted and roads cut in the hillside. Everywhere on summer nights the lights gleamed from villas and bungalows, and down below on the new jetty, and at the mastheads of scores of pleasure craft. The place suited Major Wardlaw admirably, and even little Miss Wardlaw, who was by way of being exacting, seemed quite satisfied with her surroundings. Her father kept a small cutter in the bay, and frequently took the young lady for health-giving sails upon the dancing sea. Usually their port of call was Dover. The Major was always going to Dover. He couldn't keep away from it. When the cutter was laid up for the winter, he went by train, or sometimes walked across the wind-swept downs. Dover town itself had no particular attractions for him. The magnet lay on Castle Hill. In short, Wardlaw could not keep away from Wardlaw's Works. Even when he was not visiting the Works, he was always thinking about them. When military friends of his came over from the Castle or from Shorncliffe, they seemed to talk of nothing else but Fort Warden—all that it was, and all that it would be if the critical hour of conflict or invasion ever came.
Flossie Wardlaw disapproved of the whole thing. It annoyed her—this constant absorption, this ever recurring topic of conversation. Personally, she refused to discuss the Works, and had it been possible would have forbidden all allusion to the Fort when those tiresome friends dropped in and talked "shop" with her father. Poor Wardlaw, torn with conflicting emotions, knowing that the child was jealous of the Works, used to look at her apologetically when one of his cronies started the everlasting topic. But Flossie was not easily to be mollified. With her little nose in the air, she would glance severely, disdainfully, at the author of her being, tossing back that mass of silky, sunny hair from which her pet name was derived.
And now the hated subject of the "Works" was more to the fore than ever, for the military movement among the women of England had brought Fort Warden into prominence in the newspapers. The Vice-President of the Council, in pursuance of her policy, was turning the Fort to unforeseen account. The First Amazons, as they were popularly called, had been "enrolled and uniformed," and now the Fighting Girls (as some people styled them) were to have this wonderful fort placed at their disposal for the purpose of training and instruction in the art of war. The idea was very popular among the Amazons. Some two hundred of them were to spend a fortnight in the Fort, and then give place to another batch, the Fort meanwhile being vacated by the artillerymen, save only a handful of gunnery instructors and lecturers. So the men marched out of the tortoise-backed "Works," and the Amazons, very smart in their new uniforms, and full of gleeful excitement, briskly and triumphantly marched in.