WARDLAW'S WORKS.
To counteract the dangers arising from the Channel Tunnel, long since
an accomplished fact, and to soothe the apprehensions of a large
section of the public, new defence works of enormous strength and
intricacy had been constructed on the heights of Dover. Always a place
of vast importance by reason of its position, the ancient stronghold
now had become more notably than ever the key to England. As a
watering place it had steadily dwindled in importance. Its neighbour,
Folkestone, easily held the palm for all pleasure-seekers; but the
commercial development of Dover as a port of call for the great liners
had been remarkable, just as its strength for naval purposes had been
vastly augmented. The completion of the Admiralty Harbour by the
construction of the East Arm and the South Breakwater now afforded a
safe haven for the largest warships in the British Navy. Here they
might ride at anchor, or safely come and go, always protected by the
monster guns which had been mounted in the various forts.
The commercial harbour had been provided with a huge marine station,
where transatlantic passengers in ever-increasing numbers were enabled
to land or embark under shelter, continuing their journey either on
land or sea with a modicum of inconvenience. It was the great aim
of competing steam and railway companies to simplify the methods of
travel and enable everybody to go everywhere and do everything with
the greatest possible amount of comfort. Those who could not trust
themselves, invaluable as they were to themselves, amid the chops of
the Channel, now might travel by tunnel to and from the Continent, and
thus avoid the risks of nausea or the inconsiderate assaults of wind or
wave.
By one means or another thousands upon thousands of passengers of all
nations and tongues streamed through Dover year after year. It was
before all things a place of passage--in so far as it was not a place
of arms. If one had repeated to most of these globe-trotters Gloster's
question in King Lear: "Dost thou know Dover?" the answer would
probably have been: "Well, I just caught a glimpse of it." From the
Channel, Shakespeare's Cliff, to the westward of the Admiralty pier,
certainly was found less impressive than most people had expected.
Like English life, as a whole, it seemed less spacious than it was
considered to be in the days of good Queen Bess. But then, of course,
Shakespeare, with his cloud-capp'd towers and gorgeous palaces,
was always such a very imaginative dramatist. Still, there was the
ancient, though slowly-crumbling, cliff remaining in evidence to remind
English folk and foreigners of the splendid story of England's past.
There, too, on Castle Hill, the ancient Roman Pharos--adjoining St.
Mary's-in-Castro--reared its roofless walls towards the clouds. The
mariners of England and of Gaul no longer needed the lights of the
Pharos to guide them in the Channel, and, of course, the venerable
bells that used to ring for matins and evensong were silent many a
year before Admiral Rooke removed them to Portsmouth parish church.
The great Castle, close at hand, was visited by very few excursionists.
The climb between Castle Hill and the Western heights was found
fatiguing. More Americans than Englishmen appeared to interest
themselves in the story of the Castle; its occupation by William of
Normandy after the Battle of Hastings, its associations with King
John's craven submission to the Papal Legate, its victorious defence
by Hubert de Burgh, the French attack--fruitless again--of 1278, and
other incidents of historic interest. The Long Gun, known as Queen
Elizabeth's pocket-pistol, still pointed its muzzle sea-ward, and the
inscription in low Dutch, very freely translated, rashly adjured the
current generation to--
"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.
It was a picturesque episode in martial history which afforded
excellent scope for lively descriptive reporting. Great numbers of
people seemed to be pleasurably interested in the event, just as they
used to be in the volunteer military picnics on Easter Monday. There
were others, however, who, like General Hartwell noisily, and Edgar
Wardlaw quietly, condemned the whole thing as monstrous, unseemly, and
fraught with danger to the nation. The majority, however, laughed at
the minority. What was there to be afraid of? There was not a cloud
in the international sky. England's difficulties, they said, now were
purely domestic. Greater Britain had been so cut up and divided that we
had nothing further to fear. Surely no greedy Jezebel would dream of
stirring up a Continental Ahab to covet and lay violent hands on the
remnant of Naboth's Vineyard.