Once more the logic of events is compelling the attention of all and sundry to the fact, hardly realised by the great majority of people, that in the personnel of the Navy we have a force of warriors that on land as well as at sea have not their equals in the world. The overwhelming preponderance of our naval power deprives these magnificent men of the opportunity to show an astounded world what they are capable of on their own element; how they can handle the terrible engines of war with which modern engineering science has equipped them; but in spite of the fact that as a nation we know little of the doings of our new Navy upon the sea, there is undoubtedly a solid simple faith in its absolute pre-eminence. Like the deeds of all true heroes, the work of our sailors is done out of sight; there are no applauding crowds to witness the incessant striving after perfection that goes on in our ships of war. We rarely see a company of bluejackets ashore unless we have the good fortune to live at some of the ports favoured by men-o’-war. There, if we feel interested, we may occasionally get a glimpse of a drill-party landed, and watch the way in which Jack handles himself and his weapons freed from the hampering environment of his ship’s decks. And to those who enjoy the spectacle of a body of men at the highest pitch of physical development, clothed in garments that permit the utmost freedom of limb, and actuated every one by an intelligent desire after perfection, the sight is worth any trouble to obtain. Really, it is “heady” as strong wine. To the dash and enthusiasm of public-school boys the men unite an intense pride in their profession and an intellectual obedience that is amazing to the beholder.

Yet it should be remembered that shore-drill is for them only a small interlude, an occasional break in the constant stream of duties that claims every unit on board of a man-o’-war throughout each working day. There is so very much to do in the keeping up to perfect fitness of the vast complication of a modern ship of war that only the most careful organisation and apportionment of duties makes the performance possible. But sandwiched in between such routine work comes so great a variety of marine evolutions that the mind is staggered to contemplate them. It would be well for all landsmen reading of the doings of a Naval Brigade ashore to remember this—to bear in mind that if Jack excels as a soldier, preparation for which duty is made in the merest fag-ends and scraps of his time, he is superexcellent in the performance of his main business, which he does in the privacy of the sea, with only the approval of his superior officers—and his pride in the British Navy—to encourage him. How would it be possible to convey to the lay mind the significance of even one of these complicated evolutions that are sprung upon Jack at all sorts of times without a moment’s warning? How reveal the significance of such a manifestation of readiness for all emergencies as is shown by, say, the bugle-call “Prepare for action”? The ship is in a state of normal peace. Every member of the crew is engaged either upon such private matters as making or mending clothes, school-room duties, or other domestic relaxations peculiar to a watch below; or on the never-ending work of cleaning steel and brass, &c., that must be done whatever goes undone. At the first note of alarm every one springs to attention, before half the tune has vibrated they are swarming like bees round an overturned hive, and by the time that any ordinary individual would have realised the import of the command the whole interior of the ship is transformed. Great masses of iron that look immovable as if built into the hull have disappeared, every aperture whereby water could gain access below is hermetically sealed, each subdivision of the ship is isolated by water-tight doors, and from hidden depths with ponderous clangour is rising the food for the shining monsters above. The racks are stripped of revolvers and cutlasses, the mess-traps and tables have disappeared from the lower deck, and, showing all her teeth, the mighty weapon of war is ready for the foe. If the watchful head of affairs has noted with satisfaction the number of minutes absorbed in this general upheaval of things, his word or two of approval circulates with electric swiftness from fighting-top to torpedo-flat; should he frown darkly upon a few seconds’ delay, there is gloom on all faces and frantic searching of heart among those who may be held responsible therefor.

For be it noted that the perfunctory leisurely performance of any duty is unthinkable in the Navy. The Scriptural injunction, “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might,” is fully acted upon there, not only by command, but with the gleeful co-operation of those commanded. And hence it is that whenever a Naval Brigade is called upon for service ashore, their behaviour is such as to call for wonder and admiration even from those who know least about the difficulties they overcome. Their high spirits, the frolicsome way in which they attack the most tremendous tasks, compel even their bitterest enemies to bear witness in their favour, while hardships that would disable or dishearten landsmen only seem to heighten their enjoyment. It has often been said that during one of our West African campaigns the conduct of the Naval Brigade in one peculiar direction was unique. Orders had been given that in consequence of the danger of lying on the ground every man should collect a sufficient pile of brushwood upon which to raise his body while he slept. To the rank-and-file of the Army this duty, coming at the end of a fatiguing day’s march, was a terrible one, although it was practically their only safeguard against disease. They wandered wearily about in the darkness seeking sticks for their couch, and trying all kinds of dodges to evade the salutary regulation. But Johnny Haul-taut thought it fine fun. Not only was his pile of sticks collected in double-quick time, but he was noways backward in lending a helping hand to his less adaptable march-mates of the Army, and after that he had still so much superfluous energy to spare that he must needs dance a great deal before retiring to rest, flinging himself about in uproarious merriment while tired soldiers were still seeking material for their couches.

Amid all the revenges that time affords the sons of men, could there be anything more dramatic than that exemplified by the relative positions of soldier and sailor to-day? Recall the infant days of the Navy, when the sailor was looked upon as a base mechanic, one degree perhaps better than the galley-slave who, chained to the oar, enacted the part of machinery whereby the warship was brought into action, and lived or died as it might happen without ever having a say in the matter or an opportunity for self-defence. Picture the proud mail-clad warriors striding on board the ships, hardly deigning to notice the mariners who trimmed the sails and handled the vessels—mere rope-haulers, coarse and uncouth, destitute of any military virtues, and only fit, indeed, to be the humble attendants upon the behests of warlike men. Think of the general taking command of a fleet, fresh from leaguers and pitched battles ashore, and giving his orders to the ships as to a troop of horse. And then remember the great change in the relations of soldier and sailor now. Not only is the sailor a man of war from his youth up, but all his training tends to bring out resourcefulness, individuality, and self-reliance, not only in the officer but in the humblest seaman. Without in the least intending the very slightest disparagement to our gallant and able Army officers—men who have proved their ability as well as their courage on so many battlefields—it may be permissible to quote the recent words of a first-class petty officer, a bos’un’s mate on board of one of her Majesty’s ships, who said: “There ain’t a General livin’ as can handle a fleet, but I’ll back e’er a one of our Admirals to handle an army agenst the smartest General we’ve got.” He probably meant an army of sailors, for the behaviour of even the finest troops would hardly satisfy the ideas of smartness held by an Admiral. He has been taught to expect his men to combine the characteristics of cats, monkeys, game-cocks, and bulldogs, with a high order of human intelligence to leaven the whole. Remembering all this, it would be interesting to know, if the knowledge were to be had, the history of the struggle that resulted in the sailor throwing off the rule of the soldier at sea. That it was long and bitter, admits of no doubt, for it has left its traces even now, traces that it would, perhaps, be invidious to point out. Foreign critics sneer at most things English, and institute unfavourable comparisons, but it is gratifying to note that such comparisons are never made between the British naval officer and any other warriors soever. The task would, indeed, be an ungrateful one for any critic attempting it in the hope of proving shortcomings on the part of these splendid sailors—well, perhaps the word “sailors” will hardly fit them now. The handling of ships still forms an important part of their manifold duties, but when one realises what their scientific attainments must be in order to discharge all those duties, it becomes quite a mental problem how ever the naval officer of to-day manages to know so much at such an age as he usually is when he becomes a Lieutenant. That he does manage it we all know, and not only so, but, instead of shrivelling up into a sapless, spectacled student, he retains a sparkling boyishness of demeanour, a readiness for fun and frolic of all kinds that is contagious, making the most morbid visitor admitted to intimate acquaintanceship with the life of a warship feel as if the weight of years had suddenly been lifted from him.

With that keen insight which always characterises him, Mr. Kipling has noted in marvellous language what he terms the almost “infernal mobility” of a battleship’s crew—how at a given signal there suddenly bursts from her grim sides a fleet of boats, warships in miniature, each self-contained and full of possibilities of destruction. The sight of “Man and arm boats” simultaneously carried out in less than a dozen minutes by every ship in a squadron, the sudden mobilisation of an army numbering between two and three thousand perfectly equipped sinewy men in whose vocabulary the word “impossible” has no place, is one that should be witnessed by every thoughtful citizen who would understand the composition of our first line of defence. Better still, perhaps, that he should see the operation performed of transhipping guns, such guns as those landed by the tars of the Powerful and used with such effect at Ladysmith. One would like to know for certain whether it is true, as reported, that her 6-inch rifles were landed as well as the 4.7 guns. The latter were a handful, no doubt, but the former! They are twenty feet long, they weigh seven tons, and have a range of 11,000 yards;—penetration at 1000 yards, 11.6 inch of iron. Yet it is reported that some of these pretty playthings were landed by the bluejackets, mounted on carriages designed by one of their officers and built by the ship’s artificers, and taken up country into action. Truly a feat worthy of Titans.

Is it any wonder that Jack is proud of his shore-fighting record? Wherever and whenever he has been permitted to join in the work of the Army he has made his mark so deeply that he has come to be looked upon as indispensable, invincible. His effervescent humour never seems to desert him, as the following anecdote, told the writer recently, fairly well illustrates. It was at Gingihlovo, and the Naval Brigade was face to face with an apparently overwhelming force of Zulus, numbers of whom were armed with rifles. The sailors were reserving their fire, only sending an occasional volley when a favourable opportunity presented itself. Forth from the Zulu host stepped a warrior laden with an ancient firearm, which he calmly mounted upon a tripod in the open, while the sailors looked on admiring his pluck, but wondering much what he was proposing to do. At last one jovial tar suggested that their photographs were going to be taken, and, by common consent, no shots were sent at the supposed photographer. Having loaded his piece with great deliberation, the Zulu primed it, sighted, and, leaning hard against its breech, he fired. The recoil—for the thing was much overloaded—knocked him head over heels backward, while a great roar of laughter went up from the delighted sailors. He sat up looking hurt and dazed, and then, the amusement over, he, along with a suddenly charging impi of his countrymen, were annihilated by a volley from the steadily aimed pieces of the little cheerful band of bluejackets.

THE END

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