REVOLUTION IN NAVAL WARFARE: HAMPTON ROADS AND LISSA.

During the 19th century, from 1815 to 1898, naval power, though always an important factor in international relations, played in general a passive rÔle. The wars which marked the unification of Germany and Italy and the thrusting back of Turkey from the Balkans were fought chiefly on land. The navy of England, though never more constantly busy in protecting her far-flung empire, was not challenged to a genuine contest for mastery of the seas. In the Greek struggle for independence there were two naval engagements of some consequence—Chios (1822), where the Greeks with fireships destroyed a Turkish squadron and gained temporary control of the Ægean, and Navarino (1827), in which a Turkish force consisting principally of frigates was wiped out by a fleet of the western powers. But both of these actions were one-sided, and showed nothing new in types or tactics. In the American Civil War control of the sea was important and even decisive, but was overwhelmingly in the hands of the North. Hence the chief naval interest of the period lies not so much in the fighting as in the revolutionary changes in ships, weapons, and tactics—changes which parallel the extraordinary scientific progress of the century; and the engagements may be studied now, as they were studied then, as testing and illustrating the new methods and materials of naval war.

Changes in Ships and Weapons

Down to the middle of the 19th century there had been only a slow and slight development in ships and weapons for a period of nearly 300 years. A sailor of the Armada would soon have felt at home in a three-decker of 1815. But he would have been helpless as a child in the fire-driven iron monsters that fought at Hampton Roads. The shift from sail to steam, from oak to iron, from shot to shell, and from muzzle-loading smoothbore to breech-loading rifle began about 1850; and progress thereafter was so swift that an up-to-date ship of each succeeding decade was capable of defeating a whole squadron of ten years before. Success came to depend on the adaptability and mechanical skill of personnel, as well as their courage and discipline, and also upon the progressive spirit of constructors and naval experts, faced with the most difficult problems, the wrong solution of which would mean the waste of millions of dollars and possible defeat in war. Every change had to overcome the spirit of conservatism inherent in military organizations, where seniority rules, errors are sanctified by age, and every innovation upsets cherished routine. Thus in the contract for Ericsson's Monitor it was stipulated that she should have masts, spars, and sails!

The first successful steamboat for commerce was, as is well known, Robert Fulton's flat-bottomed side-wheeler Clermont, which in August, 1807, made the 150 miles from New York to Albany in 32 hours. During the war of 1812 Fulton designed for coast defense a heavily timbered, double-ender floating battery, with a single paddle-wheel located inside amidships. On her trial trip in 1815 this first steam man-of-war, the U. S. S. Fulton, carried 26 guns and made over 6 knots, but she was then laid up and was destroyed a few years later by fire. Ericsson's successful application of the screw propeller in 1837 made steam propulsion more feasible for battleships by clearing the decks and eliminating the clumsy and exposed side-wheels. The first American screw warship was the U. S. S. Princeton, of 1843, but every ship in the American Navy at the outbreak of the Civil War had at least auxiliary sail rig. Though by 1850 England had 30 vessels with auxiliary steam, the Devastation of 1869 was the first in the British service to use steam exclusively. Long after this time old "floating museums" with sail rig and smoothbores were retained in most navies for motives of economy, and even the first ships of the American "White Squadron" were encumbered with sails and spars.

Progress in ordnance began about 1822, when explosive shells, hitherto used only in mortars, were first adopted for ordinary cannon with horizontal fire. At the time of the Crimean War shells were the usual ammunition for lower tier guns, and at Sinope in 1853 their smashing effect against wooden hulls was demonstrated when a Russian squadron destroyed some Turkish vessels which fired only solid shot. The great professional cry of the time, we are told, became "For God's sake, keep out the shell."[1]

[Footnote 1: Custance, The Ship of the Line in Battle, p. 9.]

In 1851 MiniÉ rifles supplanted in the British army the old smoothbore musket or "Brown Bess," with which at ranges above 200 yards it was difficult to hit a target 11 feet square. This change led quickly to the rifling of heavy ordnance as well. The first Armstrong rifles of 1858—named after their inventor, Sir William Armstrong, head of the Royal Gun Factory at Woolwich—included guns up to 7-inch diameter of bore. The American navy, however, depended chiefly on smoothbores throughout the Civil War.

Breech-loading, which had been used centuries earlier, came in again with these first rifles, but after 1865 the British navy went back to muzzle-loading and stuck to it persistently for the next 15 years. By that time the breech-loading mechanism had been simplified, and its adoption became necessary to secure greater length of gun barrel, increased rapidity of fire, and better protection for gun-crews. About 1880 quick-fire guns of from 3 to 6 inches, firing 12 or 15 shots a minute, were mounted in secondary batteries.

As already suggested, the necessity for armor arose from the smashing and splintering effect of shell against wooden targets and the penetrating power of rifled guns. To attack Russian forts in the Crimea, the French navy in 1855 built three steam-driven floating batteries, the Tonnant, Lave, and DÉvastation, each protected by 4.3-inch plates and mounting 8 56-lb. guns. In the reduction of the Kinburn batteries, in October of the same year, these boats suffered little, but were helped out by an overwhelming fire from wooden ships, 630 guns against 81 in the forts.

The French armored ship Gloire of 1859 caused England serious worry about her naval supremacy, and led at once to H. M. S. Warrior, like the Gloire, full rigged with auxiliary steam. The Warrior's 4.5-inch armor, extending from 6 feet below the waterline to 16 feet above and covering about 42 per cent of the visible target, was proof against the weapons of the time. At this initial stage in armored construction, naval experts turned with intense interest to watch the work of ironclads against ships and forts in the American Civil War.

The American Civil War

The naval activities of this war are too manifold to follow in detail. For four years the Union navy was kept constantly occupied with the tasks of blockading over 3000 miles of coast-line, running down enemy commerce destroyers, cooperating with the army in the capture of coast strongholds, and opening the Mississippi and other waterways leading into the heart of the Confederacy. To make the blockade effective and cut off the South from the rest of the world, the Federal Government unhesitatingly applied the doctrine of "continuous voyage," seizing and condemning neutral ships even when bound from England to Bermuda or the Bahamas, if their cargo was ultimately destined for Southern ports. The doctrine was declared inapplicable when the last leg of the journey was by land,[1] doubtless because there was little danger of heavy traffic across the Mexican frontier. Blockade runners continued to pour goods into the South until the fall of Fort Fisher in 1865; but as the blockade became more stringent, it crippled the finances of the Confederacy, shut out foodstuffs and munitions, and shortened, if it did not even have a decisive effect in winning the war.

[Footnote 1: Peterhoff Case, 1866 (5 Wall, 28).]

To meet these measures the South was at first practically without naval resources, and had to turn at once to new methods of war. Its first move was to convert the steam frigate Merrimac, captured half-burned with the Norfolk Navy Yard, into an ironclad ram. A casemate of 4 inches of iron over 22 inches of wood, sloping 35 degrees from the vertical, was extended over 178 feet, or about two-thirds of her hull. Beyond this structure the decks were awash. The Merrimac had an armament of 6 smoothbores and 4 rifles, two of the latter being pivot-guns at bow and stern, and a 1500-lb. cast-iron beak or ram. With her heavy load of guns and armor she drew 22 feet aft and could work up a speed of barely 5 knots.

Faced with this danger, the North hurriedly adopted Ericsson's plan for the Monitor,[2] which was contracted for on October 4, 1861, and launched after 100 days. Old marlin-spike seamen pooh-poohed this "cheesebox on a raft." As a naval officer said, it might properly be worshiped by its designer, for it was an image of nothing in the heavens above, or the earth beneath, or the waters under the earth. It consisted of a revolving turret with 8-inch armor and two 11-inch smoothbore guns, set on a raft-like structure 142 feet in length by 41-1/2 feet in beam, projecting at bow, stern, and sides beyond a flat-bottomed lower hull. Though unseaworthy, the Monitor maneuvered quickly and drew only 10-1/2 feet. She was first ordered to the Gulf, but on March 6 this destination was suddenly changed to the Chesapeake.

[Footnote 2: So called by Ericsson because it would "admonish" the South, and also suggest to England "doubts as to the propriety of completing four steel-clad ships at three and one-half millions apiece."]

The South in fact won the race in construction and got its ship first into action by a margin of just half a day. At noon on March 8, with the iron-workers still driving her last rivets, the Merrimac steamed out of Norfolk and advanced ponderously upon the three sail and two steam vessels then anchored in Hampton Roads.

In the Northern navy there had been much skepticism about the ironclad and no concerted plan to meet her attack. Under a rain of fire from the Union ships, and from share fortifications too distant to be effective, the Merrimac rammed and sank the sloop-of-war Cumberland, and then, after driving the frigate Congress aground, riddled her with shells. Towards nightfall the Confederate vessel moved dawn stream, to continue the slaughter next day.

About 12 o'clock that night, after two days of terrible buffeting on the voyage down the coast, the little Monitor anchored on the scene lighted up by the burning wreck of the Congress. The first battle of ironclads began next morning at 8:30 and continued with slight intermission till noon. It ended in a triumph, not for either ship, but for armor over guns. The Monitor fired 41 solid shot, 20 of which struck home, but merely cracked some of the Merrimac's outer plates. The Monitor was hit 22 times by enemy shells. Neither craft was seriously harmed and not a man was killed on either side, though several were stunned or otherwise injured. Lieut. Worden, in command of the Monitor, was nearly blinded by a shell that smashed in the pilot house, a square iron structure then located not above the turret but on the forward deck.

The drawn battle was hailed as a Northern victory. Imagination had been drawing dire pictures of what the Merrimac might do. At a Cabinet meeting in Washington Sunday morning, March 9, Secretary of War Stanton declared: "The Merrimac will change the course of the war; she will destroy seriatim every naval vessel; she will lay all the cities on the seaboard under contribution. I have no doubt that the enemy is at this minute on the way to Washington, and that we shall have a shell from one of her guns in the White House before we leave this room." The menace was somewhat exaggerated. With her submerged decks, feeble engines, and general awkwardness, the Merrimac could scarcely navigate in Hampton Roads. In the first day's fighting her beak was wrenched off and a leak started, two guns were put out of action, and her funnel and all other top-hamper were riddled. As was shown by Farragut in Mobile Bay, and again by Tegetthoff at Lissa, even wooden vessels, if in superior numbers, might do something against an ironclad in an aggressive mÊlÉe.

Both the antagonists at Hampton Roads ended their careers before the close of 1862; the Merrimac was burned by her crew at the evacuation of Norfolk, and the Monitor was sunk under tow in a gale off Hatteras. But turret ships, monitors, and armored gunboats soon multiplied in the Union navy and did effective service against the defenses of Southern harbors and rivers. Under Farragut's energetic leadership, vessels both armored and unarmored passed with relatively slight injury the forts below New Orleans, at Vicksburg, and at the entrance to Mobile Bay. Even granting that the shore artillery was out of date and not very expertly served, it is well to realize that similar conditions may conceivably recur, and that the superiority of forts over ships is qualified by conditions of equipment and personnel.

Actually to destroy or capture shore batteries by naval force is another matter. As Ericsson said, "A single shot will sink a ship, while 100 rounds cannot silence a fort."[1] Attacks of this kind against Fort McAllister and Charleston failed. At Charleston, April 7, 1863, the ironclads faced a cross-fire from several forts, 47 smoothbores and 17 rifles against 29 smoothbores and 4 rifles in the ships, and in waters full of obstructions and mines.

[Footnote 1: Wilson, Ironclads in action, Vol. I, p. 91.]

The capture of Fort Fisher, commanding the main entrance to Wilmington, North Carolina, was accomplished in January, 1865, by the combined efforts of the army and navy. The fort, situated on a narrow neck of land between the Cape Fear River and the sea, had 20 guns on its land face and 24 on its sea face, 15 of them rifled. Against it were brought 5 ironclads with 18 guns, backed up by over 200 guns in the rest of the fleet. After a storm of shot and shell for three successive days, rising at times to "drum-fire," the barrage was lifted at a signal and troops and sailors dashed forward from their positions on shore. Even after this preparation the capture cost 1000 men. As at Kinhurn in the Crimean War, the effectiveness of the naval forces was due less to protective armor than to volume of fire.

Submarines and Torpedoes

In the defense of Southern harbors, mines and torpedoes for the first time came into general use, and the submarine scored its first victim. Experiments with these devices had been going on for centuries, but were first brought close to practical success by David Bushnell, a Connecticut Yankee of the American Revolution. His tiny submarine, resembling a mud-turtle standing on its tail, embodied many features of modern underwater boats, including a primitive conning tower, screw propulsion (by foot power), a vertical screw to drive the craft down, and a detachable magazine with 150 pounds of gunpowder. The Turtle paddled around and even under British men-of-war off New York and New London, but could not drive a spike through their copper bottoms to attach its mine.

Robert Fulton, probably the greatest genius in nautical invention, carried the development of bath mines and submarines much further. His Nautilus, so-called because its collapsible sail resembled that of the familiar chambered nautilus, was surprisingly ahead of its time; it had a fish-like shape, screw propulsion (by a two-man hand winch), horizontal diving rudder, compressed air tank, water tank filled or emptied by a pump, and a torpedo[1] consisting of a detachable case of gunpowder. A lanyard ran from the torpedo through an eye in a spike, to be driven in the enemy hull, and thence to the submarine, which as it moved away brought the torpedo up taut against the spike and caused its explosion. Fulton interested Napoleon in his project, submerged frequently for an hour or more, and blew up a hulk in Brest harbor. But the greybeards in the French navy frowned on these novel methods, declaring them "immoral" and "contrary to the laws of war."

[Footnote 1: This name, coined by Fulton, was from the torpedo electricus, or cramp fish, which kills its victim by electric shock.]

Later the British Government entered into negotiations with the inventor, and in October, 1804, used his mines in an unsuccessful attack an the French flotilla of invasion at Boulogne. Only one pinnace was sunk. Fulton still maintained that he could "sweep all military marines off the ocean."[2] But Trafalgar ended his chances. As the old Admiral Earl St. Vincent remarked, "Pitt [the Prime Minister] would be the greatest fool that ever existed to encourage a mode of war which they who command the sea do not want and which if successful would deprive them of it." So Fulton took £15,000 and dropped his schemes.

[Footnote 2: Letter to Pitt, Jan. 6, 1806.]

Much cruder than the Nautilus, owing to their hurried construction, were the Confederate "Davids" of the Civil War. One of these launches, which ran only semi-submerged, drove a spar torpedo against the U. S. S. New Ironsides off Charleston, but it exploded on the rebound, too far away. The C. S. S. Hunley was a real submarine, and went down readily, but on five occasions it failed to emerge properly, and drowned in these experiments about 35 men. In August, 1864, running on the surface, it sank by torpedo the U. S. Corvette Housatonic off Charleston, but went down in the suction of the larger vessel, carrying to death its last heroic crew.

By the end of the century, chiefly owing to the genius and patient efforts of two American inventors, John P. Holland and Simon Lake, the submarine was passing from the experimental to the practical stage. Its possibilities were increased by the Whitehead torpedo (named after its inventor, a British engineer established in Fiume, Austria), which came out in 1868 and was soon adopted in European navies. With gyroscopic stabilizing devices and a "warmer" for the compressed air of its engine, the torpedo attained before 1900 a speed of 28 knots and a possible range of 1000 yards. Its first victim was the Chilean warship Blanco, sunk in 1891 at 50 yards after two misses. Thornycroft in England first achieved speed for small vessels, and in 1873 began turning out torpedo boats. Destroyers came in twenty years later, and by the end of the century were making over 30 knots.

Long before this time the lessons of the Civil War had hastened the adoption of armor, the new ships ranging from high-sided vessels with guns in broadside, as in the past, to low freeboard craft influenced by the Monitor design, with a few large guns protected by revolving turrets or fixed barbettes, and with better provision for all-around fire. Ordnance improved in penetrating power, until the old wrought-iron armor had to be 20 inches thick and confined to waterline and batteries. Steel "facing" and the later plates of Krupp or Harveyized steel made it possible again to lighten and spread out the armor, and during the last decade of the century it steadily increased its ascendancy over the gun.

The Battle of Lissa

The adoption of armor meant sacrifice of armament, and a departure from Farragut's well-tried maxim, "The best protection against the enemy's fire is a well-sustained fire from your own guns." Thus the British Dreadnought of 1872 gave 35% of its displacement to armor and only 5% to armament. Invulnerability was secured at the expense of offensive power. That aggressive tactics and weapons retained all their old value in warfare was to receive timely illustration in the Battle of Lissa, fought in the year after the American war. The engagement illustrated also another of Farragut's pungent maxims to the effect that iron in the ships is less important than "iron in the men"—a saying especially true when, as with the Austrians at Lissa, the iron is in the chief in command.

In 1866 Italy and Prussia attacked Austria in concert, Italy having secured from Bismarck a pledge of Venetia in the event of victory. Though beaten at Custozza on June 24, the Italians did their part by keeping busy an Austrian army of 80,000. Moltke crushed the northern forces of the enemy at Sadowa on July 3, and within three weeks had reached the environs of Vienna and practically won the war. Lissa was fought on July 20, just 6 days before the armistice. This general political and military situation should be borne in mind as throwing some light on the peculiar Italian strategy in the Lissa campaign.

Struggling Italy, her unification under the House of Piedmont as yet only partly achieved, had shown both foresight and energy in building up a fleet. Her available force on the day of Lissa consisted of 12 armored ships and 16 wooden steam vessels of same fighting value. The ironclads included 7 armored frigates, the best of which were the two "kings," Re d'Italia and Re di Portogallo, built the year before in New York (rather badly, it is said), each armed with about 30 heavy rifles. Then there was the new single-turret ram Affondatore, or "Sinker," with two 300-pounder 10-inch rifles, which came in from England only the day before the battle. Some of the small protected corvettes and gunboats were of much less value, the Palestro, for instance, which suffered severely in the fight, having a thin sheet of armor over only two-fifths of her exposed hull.

The Austrian fleet had the benefit of some war experience against Denmark in the North Sea two years before, but it was far inferior and less up-to-date, its armored ships consisting of 7 screw frigates armed chiefly with smoothbores. Of the wooden ships, there were 7 screw frigates and corvettes, 9 gunboats and schooners, and 3 little side-wheelers—a total of 19. The following table indicates the relative strength:

Thus in general terms the Italians were nearly twice as strong in main units, could fire twice as heavy a weight of metal from all their guns, and four times as heavy from their rifles. Even without the Affondatore, their advantage was practically as great as this from the beginning of the war.

With such a preponderance, it would seem as if Persano, the Italian commander in chief, could easily have executed his savage-sounding orders to "sweep the enemy from the Adriatic, and to attack and blockade them wherever found." He was dilatory, however, in assembling his fleet, negligent in practice and gun drill, and passive in his whole policy to a degree absolutely ruinous to morale. War was declared June 20, and had long been foreseen; yet it was June 25 before he moved the bulk of his fleet from Taranto to Ancona in the Adriatic. Here on the 27th they were challenged by 13 Austrian ships, which lay off the port cleared for action for two hours, while Persano made no real move to fight. It is said that the Italian defeat at Custozza three days before had taken the heart out of him. On July 8 he put to sea for a brief three days' cruise and went through some maneuvers and signaling but no firing, though many of the guns were newly mounted and had never been tried by their crews.

At this time Napoleon III of France had already undertaken mediation between the hostile powers. In spite of the orders of June 8, quoted above, which seem sufficiently definite, and urgent orders to the same effect later, Persano was unwilling to take the offensive, and kept complaining of lack of clear instructions as to what he should do. He was later convicted of cowardice and negligence; but the campaign he finally undertook against Lissa was dangerous enough, and it seems possible that some secret political maneuvering was partly responsible for his earlier delay.[1]

[Footnote 1: In July Persano wrote to the Deputy Boggio: "Leave the care of my reputation to me; I would rather be wrongly dishonored than rightly condemned. Patience will bring peace; I shall be called a traitor, but nevertheless Italy will have her fleet intact, and that of Austria will be rendered useless." Quoted in Bernotti, Il Potere Marittimo Nella Grande Guerra, p. 177.]

It is significant at least that the final proposal to make a descent upon the fortified island of Lissa came not from Persana but from the Minister of Marine. On July 15 the latter took up the project with the fleet chief of staff, d'Amico, and with Rear Admiral Vacca, but not until later with Persano. All agreed that the prospect of a truce allowed no time for a movement against Venice or the Austrian base at Pola, but that they should strike a swift stroke elsewhere. Lissa commanded the Dalmatian coast, was essential to naval control in the Adriatic, and was coveted by Italy then as in later times. It would be better than trying to crush the enemy fleet at the risk of her own if she could enter the peace conference with possession of Lissa a fait accompli.

Undertaken in the face of an undefeated enemy fleet, this move has been justly condemned by naval strategists. But with a less alert opponent the coup might have succeeded. Tegetthoff, the Austrian commander, was not yet 41 years of age, but had been in active naval service since he was 18, and had led a squadron bravely in a fight with the Danes two years before off Heligoland. He had his heterogeneous array of fighting craft assembled at Pola at the outbreak of war. "Give me everything you have," he told the Admiralty when they asked him what ships he wanted; "I'll find some use for them." His crews were partly men of Slav and Italian stock from the Adriatic coast, including 600 from Venice; there is no reason for supposing them better than those of Persano. The influence of their leader, however, inspired them with loyalty and fighting spirit, and their defiance of the Italians at Ancona on June 27 increased their confidence. When successive cable messages from Lissa satisfied him that the Italian fleet was not attempting a diversion but was actually committed to an attack on the island, Tegetthoff set out thither on July 19 with his entire fighting force. His order of sailing was the order of battle. "Every captain knew the admiral's intention as well as the admiral himself did; every officer knew what had to be done, and every man had some idea of it, and above all knew that he had to fight."[1]

[Footnote 1: Laughton, Studies in Naval History, Tegetthoff, p. 164.]

In the meantime the Italian drive on Lissa had gone ahead slowly. The island batteries were on commanding heights and manned by marines and artillerymen resolved to fight to the last ditch. During the second day's bombardment the Affondatore appeared, and also some additional troops needed to complete the landing force. Two-thirds of the guns on shore were silenced that day, and if the landing operations had been pushed, the island captured, and the fleet taken into the protected harbor of St. Giorgio, Tegetthoff would have had a harder problem to solve. But as the mist blew away with a southerly wind at 10 o'clock on the next day, July 20, the weary garrison on the heights of the island gave cheer after cheer as they saw the Austrian squadron plunging through the head seas at full speed from the northeastward, while the Italian ships hurriedly drew together north of the island to meet the blow.

The Austrians advanced in three successive divisions, ironclads, wooden frigates, and finally the smaller vessels, each in a wedge-shaped formation (shown by the diagram), with the apex toward the enemy. The object was to drive through the Italian line if possible near the van and bring on a close scrimmage in which all ships could take part, ramming tactics could be employed, and the enemy would profit less by their superiority in armor and guns. Like Nelson's at Trafalgar, Tegetthoff's formation was one not likely to be imitated, but it was at least simple and well understood, and against a passive resistance it gave the results planned.

"Ecco i pescatori!" (Here come the fishermen), cried Persana, with a scorn he was far from actually feeling. The Italians were in fact caught at a disadvantage. One of their best ships, the Formidabile, had been put hors de combat by the batteries on the day before. Another, coming in late from the west end of the island, took no part in the action. The wooden ships, owing to the cowardice of their commander, Albini, also kept out of the fight, though Persano signaled desperately to them to enter the engagement and "surround the enemy rear." With his remaining ironclads Persano formed three divisions of three ships each and swung across the enemy's bows in line ahead. Just at the critical moment, and for no very explicable motive, he shifted his flag from the Re d'Italia in the center to the Affondatore, which was steaming alone on the starboard side of the line. The change was not noted by all his ships, and thus caused confusion of orders. The delay involved also left a wider gap between van and center, and through this the Austrians plunged, Tegetthoff in his flagship Erzherzog Ferdinand Max leading the way.

Here orderly formation ended, and only the more striking episodes stand out in a desperate close combat, during which the black ships of Austria and the gray of Italy rammed or fired into each other amid a smother of smoke and spray. The Austrian left flank and rear held up the Italian van; the Austrian ironclads engaged the Italian center; and the wooden ships of the Austrian middle division, led by the 92-gun Kaiser, smashed into the Italian rear. Of all the Austrian ships, the big Kaiser, a relic of other days, saw the hardest fighting. Twice she avoided the Affondatore's ram, and she was struck by one of her 300-pound projectiles. Then the Re di Portogallo bore down, but Petz, the Kaiser's captain, rang for full speed ahead and steered for the ironclad, striking a glancing blow and scraping past her, while both ships poured in a heavy fire. The Kaiser soon afterward drew out of the action, her foremast and funnel down, and a bad blaze burning amidships. Altogether she fired 850 rounds in the action, or about one-fifth of the total fired by the Austrians, and she received 80 hits, again one-fifth of the total. Of the 38 Austrians killed and 138 wounded in the battle, she lost respectively 24 and 75.

The Kaiser's combat, though more severe, was typical of what was going on elsewhere. The Italian gunboat Palestro was forced to withdraw to fight a fire that threatened her magazines. The Re d'Italia, which was at first supposed by the Austrians to be Persano's flagship, was a center of attack and had her steering gear disabled. As she could go only straight ahead or astern, the Austrian flagship seized the chance and rammed her squarely amidships at full speed, crashing through her armor and opening an immense hole. The Italian gunboat heeled over to starboard, then back again, and in a few seconds went down, with a loss of 381 men.

This spectacular incident practically decided the battle. After an hour's fighting the two squadrons drew apart about noon, the Austrians finally entering St. Giorgio harbor and the Italians withdrawing to westward. During the retreat the fire on the Palestro reached her ammunition and she blew up with a loss of 231 of her crew. Except in the two vessels destroyed, the Italian losses were slight—8 killed and 40 wounded. But the armored ships were badly battered, and less than a month later the Affondatore sank in a squall in Ancona harbor, partly, it was thought, owing to injuries received at Lissa.

For a long time after this fight, an exaggerated view was held regarding the value of ramming, line abreast formation, and bow fire. Weapons condition tactics, and these tactics of Tegetthoff were suited to the means he had to work with. But they were not those which should have been adopted by his opponents; nor would they have been successful had the Italians brought their broadsides to bear on a parallel course and avoided a mÊlÉe. What the whole campaign best illustrates—and the lesson has permanent interest—is how a passive and defensive policy, forced upon the Italian fleet by the incompetence of its admiral or otherwise, led to its demoralization and ultimate destruction. After a long period of inactivity, Persano weakened his force against shore defenses before he had disposed of the enemy fleet, and was then taken at a disadvantage. His passive strategy was reflected in his tactics. He engaged with only a part of his force, and without a definite plan; "A storm of signals swept over his squadron" as it went into action. What really decided the battle was not the difference in ships, crews, or weapons, but the difference in aggressiveness and ability of the two admirals in command.

The Battle of the Yalu

Twenty-eight years elapsed after Lissa before the next significant naval action, the Battle of the Yalu, between fleets of China and Japan. Yet the two engagements may well be taken together, since at the Yalu types and tactics were still transitional, and the initial situation at Lissa was duplicated—line abreast against line ahead. The result, however, was reversed, for the Japanese in line ahead took the initiative, used their superior speed to conduct the battle on their own terms, and won the day.

Trouble arose in the Far East over the dissolution of the decrepit monarchy of Korea, upon which both Japan and China cast covetous eyes. As nominal suzerain, China in the spring of 1894 sent 2000 troops to Korea to suppress an insurrection, without observing certain treaty stipulations which required her to notify Japan. The latter nation despatched 5000 men to Chemulpo in June. Hostilities broke out on July 25, when four fast Japanese cruisers, including the Naniwa Kan under the future Admiral Togo, fell upon the Chinese cruiser Tsi-yuen and two smaller vessels, captured the latter and battered the cruiser badly before she got away, and then to complete the day's work sank a Chinese troop transport, saving only the European officers on board.

After this affair the Chinese Admiral Ting, a former cavalry officer but with some naval experience, favored taking the offensive, since control of the sea by China would at once decide the war. But the Chinese Foreign Council gave him orders not to cruise east of a line from Shantung to the mouth of the Yalu. Reverses on land soon forced him to give all his time to troop transportation, and this occupied both navies throughout the summer.

On September 16, the day before the Battle of the Yalu, the Chinese battleships escorted transports with 5000 troops to the mouth of the Yalu, and on the following morning they were anchored quietly outside the river. "For weeks," writes an American naval officer who was in command of one of the Chinese battleships, "we had anticipated an engagement, and had had daily exercise at general quarters, etc., and little remained to be done.... The fleet went into action as well prepared as it was humanly possible for it to be with the same officers and men, handicapped as they were by official corruption and treachery ashore."[1] As the midday meal was in preparation, columns of black smoke appeared to southwestward. The squadron at once weighed anchor, cleared for action, and put on forced draft, while "dark-skinned men, with queues tightly coiled around their heads, and with arms bare to the elbow, clustered along the decks in groups at the guns, waiting to kill or be killed." Out of the smoke soon emerged 12 enemy cruisers which, with information of the Chinese movements, had entered the Gulf intent on battle.

[Footnote 1: Commander P. N. McGiffin, The Battle of the Yalu, Century Magazine, August, 1895, pp. 585-604.]

The forces about to engage included the best ships of both nations. There were 12 on each side, excluding 4 Chinese torpedo boats, and 10 actually in each battle line. The main strength of the Chinese was concentrated in two second-class battleships, the Ting-yuen and the Chen-yuen, Stettin-built in 1882, each of 7430 tons, with 14-inch armor over half its length, four 12-inch Krupp guns in two barbettes, and 6-inch rifles at bow and stern. The two barbettes were en echelon (the starboard just ahead of the port), in such a way that while all four guns could fire dead ahead only two could bear on the port quarter or the starboard bow. These ships were designed for fighting head-on; and hence to use them to best advantage Admiral Ting formed his squadron in line abreast, with the Ting-yuen and Chen-yuen in the center. The rest of the line were a "scratch lot" of much smaller vessels—two armored cruisers (Lai-yuen and King-yuen) with 8 to 9-inch armored belts; three protected cruisers (Tsi-yuen, Chi-yuen, and Kwang-ping) with 2 to 4-inch armored decks; on the left flank the old corvette Kwang-chia; and opposite her two other "lame ducks" of only 1300 tons, the Chao-yung and Yang-wei. Ting had properly strengthened his center, but had left his flanks fatally weak. On board the flagship Ting-yuen was Major von Hannekin, China's military adviser, and an ex-petty officer of the British navy named Nichols. Philo N. McGiffin, a graduate of the United States Naval Academy, commanded the Chen-yuen.

The Japanese advanced in column, or line ahead, in two divisions. The first, or "flying squadron," was led by Rear Admiral Tsuboi in the Yoshino, and consisted of four fast protected cruisers. Four similar ships, headed by Vice Admiral Ito in the Matsushima, formed the chief units of the main squadron, followed by the older and slower ironclads, Fuso and Hiyei. The little gunboat Akagi and the converted steamer Saikio Maru had orders not to engage, but nevertheless pushed in on the left of the line. Aside from their two battleships, the Chinese had nothing to compare with these eight new and well-armed cruisers, the slowest of which could make 17-1/2 knots.

In armament the Japanese also had a marked advantage, as the following table, from Wilsan's Ironclads in Action, will show:

The smaller quick-fire and machine guns proved of slight value on either side, but the large Japanese quick-firers searched all unprotected parts of the enemy ships with a terrific storm of shells. After the experience of July 25, the Chinese had discarded much of their woodwork and top hamper, including boats, thin steel gun-shields, rails, needless rigging, etc., and used coal and sand bags an the upper decks; but the unarmored ships nevertheless suffered severely. From the table it is evident that the Japanese could pour in six times as great a volume of fire. The Chinese had a slight advantage in heavier guns, and their marksmanship, it is claimed, was equally accurate (possibly 10% hits on each side), but their ammunition was defective and consisted mostly of non-bursting projectiles. They had only 15 rounds of shell for each gun.

During the approach the Japanese steered at first for the enemy center, thus concealing their precise objective, and then swung to port, with the aim of attacking on the weaker side of the Chinese battleships (owing to their barbette arrangement) and on the weaker flank of the line. In the meantime the Chinese steamed forward at about 6 knots and turned somewhat to keep head-on, thus forcing the Japanese to file across their bows. At 12.20 p.m. the Chen-yuen and Ting-yuen opened at 5800 yards on Tsuboi's squadron, which held its fire until at 3000 yards or closer it swung around the Chinese right wing.

The main squadron followed. Admiral Ito has been criticized for thus drawing his line across the enemy's advance, instead of attacking their left flank. But he was previously committed to the movement, and executed it rapidly and for the most part at long range. Had the Chinese pressed forward at best speed, Lissa might have been repeated. As it was, they cut off only the Hiyei. To avoid ramming, this old ironclad plunged boldly between the Chen-yuen and Ting-yuen. She was hit 22 times and had 56 killed and wounded, but managed to pull through.

Before this time the Chao-yung and Yang-wei on the right flank of the Chinese line had crumpled under a heavy cross-fire from the flying squadron. These ships had wooden cabins on deck outboard, and the whole superstructure soon became roaring masses of flames. Both dropped out of line and burned to the water's edge. The two ships on the opposite flank had seized an early opportunity to withdraw astern of the line, and were now off for Port Arthur under full steam, "followed," writes McGiffin, "by a string of Chinese anathemas from our men at the guns."

The Japanese van turned to port and was thus for some time out of action. The main division turned to starboard and circled the Chinese rear. Of the 6 Chinese ships left in the line, the four smaller seem now to have moved on to southward, while both Japanese divisions concentrated on the two battleships Chen-yuen and Ting-yuen. These did their best to keep head to the enemy, and stood up doggedly, returning slowly the fire of the circling cruisers. Tsuboi soon turned away to engage the lighter vessels. Finally, at 3.26, as the Matsushima closed to about 2000 yards, the Chen-yuen hit her fairly with a last remaining 12-inch shell. This one blow put Ito's flagship out of action, exploding some ammunition, killing or wounding 50 or more men, and starting a dangerous fire. The Japanese hauled off, while according to Chinese accounts the battleships actually followed, but at 4.30 came again under a severe fire. About 5.30, when the Chinese were practically out of ammunition, Ito finally withdrew and recalled his van.

Of the other Chinese ships, the Chi-yuen made a desperate attempt to approach the Japanese van and went down at 3.30 with screws racing in the air. The King-yuen, already on fire, was shot to pieces and sunk an hour later by the Yoshino's quick-firers. As the sun went down, the Lai-yuen and Kwang-ping, with two ships from the river mouth, fell in behind the battleships and staggered off towards Port Arthur, unpursued. The losses on the two armored ships had been relatively slight—56 killed and wounded. The Japanese lost altogether 90 killed and 204 wounded, chiefly on the Matsushima and Hiyei.

Though China saved her best ships from the battle, her fighting spirit was done for. The battleships were later destroyed by Japanese torpedo operations after the fall of Wei-hai-wei. Her crews had on the whole fought bravely, handicapped as they were by their poor materials and lack of skill. For instance, when McGiffin called for volunteers to extinguish a fire on the Chen-yuen's forecastle, swept by enemy shells, "men responded heartily and went to what seemed to them certain death." It was at this time that the commander himself, leading the party, was knocked over by a shell explosion and then barely escaped the blast of one of his own 12-inch guns by rolling through an open hatch and falling 8 feet to a pile of dÉbris below.

In the way of lessons, aside from the obvious ones as to the value of training and expert leadership and the necessity of eliminating inflammables in ship construction, the battle revealed on the one hand the great resisting qualities of the armored ship, and on the other hand the offensive value of superior gunfire. Admiral Mahan said at the time that "The rapid fire gun has just now fairly established its position as the greatest offensive weapon in naval warfare."[1] Another authority has noted that, both at Lissa and the Yalu, "The winning fleet was worked in divisions, as was the British fleet in the Dutch wars and at Trafalgar, and the Japanese fleet afterwards at Tsushima." Remarking that experiments with this method were made by the British Channel Fleet in 1904, the writer continues: "The conception grew out of a study of Nelson's Memorandum. Its essence was to make the fleet flexible in the hands of the admiral, and to enable any part to be moved by the shortest line to the position where it was most required."[2]

[Footnote 1: Lessons from the Yalu Fight, Century Magazine, August, 1895, p. 630.]

[Footnote 2: Custance, The Ship of the Line in Battle, p. 103.]

By the Treaty of Shimonoseki (April 17, 1895) which closed the war, Japan won Port Arthur and the Liao-tung Peninsula, the Pescadores Islands and Formosa, and China's withdrawal from Korea. But just as she was about to lay hands on these generous fruits of victory, they were snatched out of her grasp by the European powers, which began exploiting China for themselves. Japan had to acquiesce and bide her time, using her war indemnity and foreign loans to build up her fleet. The Yalu thus not only marks the rise of Japan as a formidable force in international affairs, but brings us to a period of intensified colonial and commercial rivalry in the Far East and elsewhere which gave added significance to naval power and led to the war of 1914.

REFERENCES

Aside from those already cited see:

Robert Fulton, Engineer and Artist, H. W. Dickinson, 1913.

The Story of the Guns, J. E. Tennant, 1864.

The British Navy, Sir Thomas Brassey, 1884.

Clowes' History of the Royal Navy, Vol. VII (p. 20, bibliography).

Naval Development of the 19th Century, N. Barnaby, 1904.

The Torpedo in Peace and War, F. T. Jane, 1898.

Submarine Warfare, H. C. Fyfe, 1902.

The Submarine in War and Peace, Simon Lake, 1918.

Four Modern Naval Campaigns, Lissa, W. L. Clowes, 1902.

The Austro-Italian Naval War, Journal of the United Service Institution, Vol. XI, pp. 104ff.