When the innermost recesses of the Admiralty archives yield their secrets
to the historian there will be some strange and stirring events to relate.
But however diligently the chroniclers may search amongst the accumulated
records at Whitehall there will still remain one outstanding performance,
one shining example of courage and endurance of which no trace can there be
found; for it was never officially known how Reginald McTaggart upheld the
honour of the White Ensign in the Gulf of Lyons.
Reginald does not in the ordinary way suffer from excess of modesty; indeed
he has been known to hint that on more than one occasion it was primarily
due to his efforts that the world was eventually made safe for democracy;
but of this his greatest exploit he will never speak without pressure, and
even then but diffidently.
When WILLIAM HOHENZOLLERN first cried "Havoc" and let slip the Prussian
Guard, Reginald was among the most unsophisticated of landsmen. He had
never in his life so much as heard a bo'sun's pipe and could scarcely
distinguish a battleship from a bathing-machine. But the blood of a
maritime ancestry ran hot in his veins, and, being too highly educated to
get on in the Army, he placed himself at the disposal of the Senior
Service, which embraced him gladly. Henceforth his career was one of
unbroken triumph.
Having taken a First in Mechanical Sciences at Cambridge, Reginald was at
once detailed off for deck-swabbing on a Portsmouth depôt ship; but one day
an enterprising Rear-Admiral of the younger school, noting his scientific
manner of manipulating a squeegee, had him sent before the Flag Captain,
who, on learning his antecedents, recommended the blushing Reginald for the
post of batman to the Senior Wireless Officer. Here his talents showed to
such advantage that in a little over a year he received a commission as
technical officer, and was placed in charge of an experimental Torpedo
School, well away from the storms and tempests that vexed his less gifted
brothers.
It were tedious to relate Reginald's adventures during the next two
years--how time and again he baffled the cunning devices of the German
naval scientists--how he invented a pivotal billiard-table for use on
drifters in rough weather and perfected an electro-magnetic contrivance by
means of which enemy submarines were inveigled into torpedoing themselves
without warning. All this and much else is accessible to the formal
historian; besides, Reginald tells people himself. We will hurry on to the
grand exploit.
It occurred shortly after he was appointed to a post on the British Naval
Mission at Athens. He had left England little more than a month when the
Sea Lords became uneasy. Trouble broke out among the torpedoes and there
was no one to set matters right. Paragraphs began to appear in the Press.
The result was an urgent wireless message to Athens recalling Reginald at
once. There was to be no delay.
"Are you prepared to start immediately?" asked the Vice-Admiral, when he
had briefly outlined the situation.
Reginald saluted briskly.
"I don't quite know how you'll go," continued the Vice-Admiral. "We haven't
an armed ship sailing West for a week. There's a little Greek trading
steamer leaving for Marseilles to-morrow morning, but I'm afraid you would
find her very incommodious. Would you care to risk it?"
"I start in the morning, Sir," said Reginald tersely.
The Vice-Admiral seized his hand and wrung it warmly.
When Reginald came down to the harbour and saw the craft on which he had
undertaken to embark he was seized with a sudden faintness. Even the
toughest seafarer would have thought twice before venturing beyond the
breakwater in such an unsavoury derelict; and Reginald, be it remembered,
had only once in his life made a sea voyage, and that in the peaceful
security of an ironclad. His heart quailed beneath his Commander's uniform.
However, setting his teeth and consoling himself with the thought that she
would undoubtedly fall to pieces before they could leave the harbour
behind, he went aboard.
The master, an unprepossessing but exceedingly polite child of the Ægean,
was overwhelmed at the prospect of carrying a British Naval Commander as
passenger. He saluted wildly; he gesticulated; it was too much honour.
Would his Excellency the Commander accept the use of his poor state-room--
yes? Would he undertake the navigation of this so dangerous voyage--no? Ah,
but he would seek his so expert advice in the sudden perilous moment--good.
Reginald bowed nervously.
At first all went well. Except for the atmosphere of the state-room, which
was richly tinged with a mixed odour of mildewed figs and rotten
pomegranates, and the uncomfortable feeling that, unless he trod
delicately, the decks would crumble away and deposit him in the bosom of
the Mediterranean, Reginald was fairly happy. A ready wit and a dignified
bearing combined to cloak his lack of seamanship and kept the skipper in a
fit state of humility and awe.
But in the Gulf of Lyons a breeze sprang up. It was quite a gentle breeze
at first, and Reginald found it rather stimulating. Towards evening,
however, it freshened, and the ship began to stagger. Reginald became
conscious of those disquieting symptoms common to landsmen in such case.
Fearful for his reputation he crept below to suffer in solitude.
By midnight it was blowing a gale, and Reginald had lost interest in life.
He was thinking mournfully of the vanity of all human desires when a
message was brought from the captain. They were about to perish. Would his
Excellency the Commander come up to the bridge and save them, please?
It was a painful predicament, and Reginald was justly horrified. Could he
venture out and display the weakness of the British Navy in the face of a
crew of unwashed Greek matelots? On the other hand, could he skulk in his
cabin and allow the Master to doubt his courage and resource? He rose and
lurched unsteadily on deck.
The Captain was distinctly excited. Destruction was imminent. He had
appealed to the Saints without avail. Would the British Commander come to
their assistance? What did his Excellency think of it?
Reginald thought it was perfectly horrible. He had never thought such a
ghastly scene possible. The ship appeared on the point of turning turtle
and he was soaked to the skin already. Then, realizing that he could not
remain on the bridge another minute without internal disaster, he made a
supreme effort.
"My dear skipper," he howled at the top of his voice, "you surely don't
call this a storm? The merest breeze, I assure you. I really can't be
disturbed for such a trifle. If it begins to blow at all during the night
let me know and I'll come up and take the matter in hand;" and without
waiting for a reply he scrambled down from the bridge and made a dash for
the seclusion of the state-room.
Next morning they were rolling in the swell off Marseilles, with the
prestige of the British Navy, if possible, higher than ever.
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[Illustration: POLICE CONSTABLE (DEMOBILISED OFFICER) MEETS AN OLD FRIEND
FROM FRANCE.]
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"The Lord Mayor of Dublin has placed a room in the City Hall at the
disposal of the Labour party for the reception of reputations."--_Irish
Paper_.
A kindly thought. Reputations are so easily lost in Ireland.
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