THE DOVER COMMAND
And now Dover Castle rises into prominence above the horizon as I travel
onward. My husband was offered Colchester or Dover. He left the choice
to me. How could there be a doubt in my mind? The Castle was the very
ideal, to me, of a residence. Here was History, picturesqueness, a wide
view of the silver sea, and the line of the French coast to free the
mind of insularity. So to Dover we went, children, furniture, horses,
servants, dogs and all, from the Aldershot bungalow. As usual, I was
spared by Sir William all the trouble of the move, and while I was
comfortably harboured by my ever kind and hospitable friends, the
Sweetmans, in Queen’s Gate, my husband was managing all the tiresome
work of the move.
It was a pleasure to give dances at the Constables’ Tower, and the
dinners were like feasts in the feudal times under that vaulted ceiling
of the Banqueting Hall. Our boys’ bedroom in the older part of this
Constables’ Tower had witnessed the death of King Stephen, and a winding
staircase conducted the unappreciative London servants by a rope to
their remote domiciles. The modernised part held the drawing-rooms,
morning-room, library, and chief bedrooms, while in the garden, walled
round by the ramparts, stood the tower whence Queen Mary is said to have
gazed upon her lost Calais. My studio had a balcony which overhung the
moat and drawbridge. What could I have better than that? No wonder I
accomplished a creditable picture there, for I had many advantages. I
place “Steady, the Drums and Fifes!” amongst those of my works with
which I am the least dissatisfied. The Academy treated me well this
time, and gave the picture a place of honour. These drummer-boys of the
old 57th Regiment, now the Middlesex, are waiting, under fire, for the
order to sound the advance, at the Battle of Albuera. That order was
long delayed, and they and the regiment had to bear the supreme test of
endurance, the keeping motionless under fire. A difficult subject,
excellent for literature, very trying for painting. I had had the vision
of those drummer-boys for many years before my mind’s eye, and it is a
very obvious fact that what you see strongly in that way means a
successful realisation in paint. Circumstances were favourable at Dover.
The Gordon Boys’ Home there gave me a variety of models in its
well-drilled lads, and my own boys were sufficiently grown to be of
great use, though, for obvious reasons, I could not include their dear
faces in so painful a scene. The yellow coatees, too, were a tremendous
relief to me after that red which is so hard to manage. I remember
asking Detaille if he ever thought of giving our army a turn. “I would
like to,” he said, “but the red frightens us.” The bandsmen of the
Peninsular War days wore coatees of the colour of the regimental
facings. After long and patient researches I found out this fact, and
the facings of the 57th, being canary yellow, I had an unexpected treat.
I remember how the Duke of York[11] at an Aldershot dinner had
characteristically caught up this fact with great interest when I told
him all about my preparations for this picture. I am glad to know this
work belongs to the old 57th, the “Die Hards,” who won that title at
Albuera. “Die hard, men, die hard!” was their colonel’s order on that
tremendous day.
Many interesting events punctuated our official life at Dover:
“_August 15th, 1896._--Great doings to-day. We had a busy time of it.
Lord Salisbury was installed Lord Warden in the place of Lord Dufferin.
Will had the direction, not only of the military part of the ceremonies
but of the social (in conjunction with me), as far as the Constables’
Tower was concerned. Everything went well. Lord and Lady Salisbury drove
in a carriage and four from Walmer up to our Tower, and, while the
procession was forming outside to escort them down to the town, they
rested in our drawing-room for about half an hour, and Lord Dufferin
also came in.
“I had to converse with these exalted personages whilst officers in full
uniform and women in full toilettes came and went with clatter of sabre
and rustle of silk. To fill up the rather trying half-hour and being
expected to devote my attention chiefly to the new Lord Warden, I
bethought myself of conducting him to a window which gave a bird’s-eye
view of the smoky little town below. I moralised, _à la_ Ruskin, on the
ugliness of the coal smoke which was smudging that view in particular,
and spoiling England in general. On reconducting the weighty Salisbury
to a rather fragile settee I morally and very nearly physically knocked
him over by this felicitous remark: ‘Well, I have the consolation of
knowing that the coalfields of England are finite!’ ‘What?’ he shouted,
with a bound which nearly broke the back of that settee. I don’t think
he said anything more to me that day. Of course, I meant that smokeless
methods would have to be discovered for working our industries, but I
left that unsaid, feeling very small. It is my misfortune that I have
not the knack of small talk, so useful to official people, and that I am
obliged to propel myself into conversation by pronouncements of that
kind. Shall I ever forget the catastrophe at the L----s’ dinner at
Aldershot, when I announced, during a pause in the general conversation,
to an old gentleman who had taken me in, and whose name I hadn’t caught,
that there was one word I would inscribe on the tombstone of the Irish
nation, and that word was--Whisky. The old gentleman was John Jameson.
“But to return to to-day’s doings. I had to consign to C.,[12] as my
deputy, the head of the table for such of the people as were remaining
at the Castle for luncheon as I myself had to appear at that function at
the Town Hall. The procession, military, civil and civic--especially
civic--started at 12 for the ‘Court of Shepway,’ where much antique
ceremonial took place. When they all reached the Town Hall after that,
Lord Salisbury first unveiled a full-length portrait of the outgoing
Lord Warden, at the entrance to the Banqueting Hall, and complimented
him on so excellent a likeness with a genial pat on the back. We were
all in good humour which increased as we filed in to luncheon and
continued to increase during that civic feast, enlivened by a band.
Trumpets sounded before each speech, and the sharp clapping of hands
called, I think, ‘Kentish Fire,’ gave a local touch which was pleasingly
original. I am glad, always, to find the county spirit still so strong
in England, and nowhere is it stronger than in Kent. It must work well
in war with the county regiments.
“I am afraid Lady Salisbury must have got rather knocked out of time
coming to the Castle, by all the saluting, trumpeting and general
prancing of the guard of honour. She was nervous crossing our drawbridge
with four ‘jumpy’ horses which she told me had never been with troops
before! Altogether I don’t think this was a day to suit her at all. I
heard the postillion riding the near leader shout back to the coachman
on the box as they started homeward from our door, ‘Put on both brakes
_hard!_’ Away went the open carriage which had very low sides and no
hood, and Lord Salisbury, being very wide, rather bulged over the side.
Wearing a military cape, lent him by my General, the day turning chilly,
he had a rather top-heavy appearance, and we only breathed freely when
that ticklish drawbridge, and the very steep drop of the hill beyond it,
were passed. So now let them rest at Walmer. Will will do all he can to
secure peace for them there.”
On August 20th I went to poor Sir John Millais’ funeral in St. Paul’s.
The ceremony was touching to me when I thought of the kind, enthusiastic
friend of my early days and his hearty encouragement and praise. They
had placed his palette and a sheaf of his brushes on the coffin. Lord
Wolseley, Irving, the actor, Holman Hunt and Lord Rosebery were the
pall-bearers. The ceremony struck me as gloomy after being accustomed to
Catholic ritual, and the undertaker element was too pronounced, but the
music was exquisite. So good-bye to a truly great and sincere artist.
What a successful life he had, rounded by so terribly painful a death!
One of the most interesting of the Dover episodes was our hiring of
“Broome Hall” for the South-Eastern District manœuvres in the
following September. The Castle was too far away for working them from
there, so this fine old Elizabethan mansion, being in the very centre of
the theatre of “war,” became our headquarters. There we entertained Lord
Wolseley and his staff as the house-party. Other warriors and many
civilians whose lovely country houses were dotted about that beautiful
Kentish region came in from outside each day, and for four days what
felt to me like a roaring kind of hospitality went on which proved an
astonishing feat of housekeeping on my part. True, I was liberally
helped, but to this day I marvel that things went so successfully.
Everything had to be brought from the Castle--servants in an omnibus,
_batterie de cuisine_, plate, linen and all sorts of necessary things,
in military waggons, for the house had not been inhabited for a long
while. All the food was sent out from Dover fresh every day, by road--no
village near. The house had been palatially furnished in the old days,
but its glory was much faded and so ancestral was it that it possessed a
ghost. A pathetic interest attaches to “Broome” to-day, and I should not
know it again in its renovated beauty. Lord Kitchener restored it to
more than its pristine lustre, I am told.
The morning start each day of all these generals (Sir Evelyn Wood was
one of them) from the front door for the “battle” was a pleasing sight
for me, with the strong cavalry escort following. After the gallant
cavalcade had got clear I would follow in the little victoria with
friends, hoping in my innermost heart that I was leaving everything well
in hand behind me for the hungry “Cocked Hats” on their return.
On March 30th, 1897, I had a glimpse of Gladstone. We were on the pier
to receive a Royalty, and the “Grand Old Man” was also on board the
Calais boat. He was the last to land and was accompanied by his wife. He
came up the gangway with some difficulty, and struck me as very much
aged, with his face showing signs of pain. I had not seen him since he
sat beside me at a dinner at the Ripons’ in 1880, when his keen eye had
rather overawed me. He was now eighty-eight! The crowd cheered him well,
but the old couple were past that sort of thing, and only anxious to
seek their rest at “Betteshanger,” a few miles distant, whither Lord
Northbourne’s carriage whirled them away from public view.
And now comes the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria. I think my fresh
impressions written down at the time should be inserted here as I find
them. Too much national sorrow and suffering brought to us by the Great
War, and too many changes have since blurred that bright picture to
allow of posthumous enthusiasm for its chronicling to-day. Were I to
tone down that picture to the appearance it has to me at the present
time it would hardly be worth showing.
“_June 22nd, 1897._--Jubilee Day. I never expected to be so touched by
what I have seen of these pageants and rejoicings, and to feel so much
personal affection for the Queen as I have done through this wonderful
week. Thinking of other nations, we cannot help being impressed with the
way in which the English have comported themselves on this occasion--the
unanimity of the crowds; the willingness of every one concerned; all
resulting in those huge pageants passing off without a single jar. My
place was in the courtyard of the Horse Guards; Will’s place was on his
big grey before St. Paul’s, at Queen Anne’s statue, to keep an eye on
things. I had an effective view of the procession making the bend from
Whitehall into the courtyard, and out by the archway into the parade
ground. This gave me time to enjoy the varied types of all those
nationalities whose warriors represented them, as they filed past at
close quarters. But we had five hours of waiting. These hours were well
filled up for me, so continually interested in watching the movements of
the troops as they took up their positions for receiving the procession
and saluting the Queen. I think in the way of perfect dress and of
superfine, thoroughbred horseflesh, Lord Lonsdale’s troop of Cumberland
Hussars was as memorable a group as any that day. They wore the ‘sling
jacket,’ only known to me in pictures and old prints of the pre-Crimean
days, and to see these gallant-looking crimson pelisses in reality was
quite a delightful surprise.
“The sun burst through the clouds just as the guns announced to us that
the Queen had started from Buckingham Palace on her great round by St.
Paul’s at 11.15. So we waited, waited. Presently some one called out,
‘Here’s Captain Ames,’ and, knowing he was the leader, we nimbly ran up
to our seats. It seemed hardly credible that the journey to St. Paul’s
and the ceremony there, and the journey homewards could have occupied
so comparatively brief an interval. I think the part of the procession
which most delighted me was the cohort of Indian cavalry, and then the
gorgeous bunch of thirty-six princes, each in his national dress or
uniform. These rode in triplets. You saw a blue-coated Prussian riding
with a Montenegrin on one side and an Italian bonneted by the absurd
general’s helmet now in vogue on the other. Then came another triplet of
a Persian, whose breast was a galaxy of diamonds flashing in the sun, an
Austrian with fur pelisse and busby (poor man, in that heat), and the
brother of the Khedive, wearing the familiar _tarboosh_, riding a little
white Arab. Then followed an English Admiral in the person of the Duke
of York, a Japanese mannikin on his right, and a huge Russian on his
left, and so on, and so on--types and dresses from all the quarters of
the globe in close proximity, so that one could compare them at a
glance. The dignified Indian cavalry were superb as to dress and
_puggarees_, but the faces were stolid, very unlike the keen, clean-cut
Arab types which so charmed me in Egypt and Palestine. There certainly
were too many carriages filled with small Germans. Then came the
colonial escort to the Queen’s carriage. As they came on and passed
before us I do not exaggerate when I say that there seemed to pass over
them an ever-deepening cloud-shadow, as it were, from the white
Canadians riding in front, through ever-deepening shades of brown down
to the blackest of negroes, who rode last. What an epitome of our
Colonial Empire! Then, finally, before the supreme moment, came Lord
Wolseley, the immediate forerunner of the Royal carriage. He looked well
and gallant and youthful. Then round the curve into the courtyard the
eight cream-coloured horses in rich gala harness of Garter-blue and
gold! So quick was the pace that I dared not dwell too long on their
beauty for I was too absorbed in the Queen during that precious minute.
There she was, the centre of all this! A little woman, seated by herself
(I had not time to see who sat facing her) with an expressionless pink
face, preoccupied in settling her bonnet, which had got a little
crooked, as though nothing unusual was going on, and that was the last I
saw of her as she passed under the dark archway, facing homeward.
“_June 26th._--Off from Dover at 2 a.m. for Southampton, by way of
London, to see the culminating glory of the Jubilee--the greatest naval
review ever witnessed. At eight we left Waterloo in one of the
‘specials’ that took holders of invitation cards for the various ocean
liners that had been chartered for the occasion. Our ship was the P. and
O. _Paramatta_, and very pleased I was on beholding her vast
proportions, for I feared qualms on any smaller vessel. There were
meetings on board with friends and a great luncheon, and general good
humour and complacency at being Britons. The day cleared up at 10.30,
and only a slight haze thinly veiled the mighty host of the Channel
Fleet as we slowly steamed towards it along the Solent. Gradually the
sun shone fully out and the day settled into steady brilliance.
“Well, I have been so inflated with national pride since beholding our
naval power this day that if I don’t get a prick of some sort I shall go
off like a balloon. Let us be exultant just for a week! We won’t think
of the ugly look of India just now and all the nasty warnings of the
bumptious Kaiser and the rest of it. We can’t while looking at Britannia
ruling the waves, as we are doing to-day. Five miles of ships of war
five lines deep! When all these ships fired each twenty-one guns by
divisions as the Prince of Wales steamed up and down the lines, and the
crews of each vessel in turn gave such cheers as only Jack Tar can give,
it was not the moment to threaten us with anything. I shall never forget
the aspect of this fleet of ours, black hulls and yellow funnels and
‘fighting tops’ stretching to east and west as far as the eye could
reach and beyond, the mellow sunlight full upon them and the
slowly-rolling clouds of smoke that wrapped them round with mystery as
their countless guns thundered the salute! Myriads of flags fluttered in
the breeze, the sea sparkled, and in and out of those motionless
battleships all manner of steam and sailing craft moved incessantly,
deepening by the contrast of their hurry the sense one had of the
majestic power contained in those reposing monsters.... Every one is
saying, ‘And to think that not a single ship has been recalled from
abroad to make up this display!’ We are all very pleased, and have the
good old Nelson feeling about us.” On June 28th the Queen held her
Jubilee Garden Party in the Buckingham Palace grounds. There we looked
our last on her.
I took four of the children, in August, to Bruges, that old city so much
enjoyed by me in my early years. I was charmed to see how carefully all
the old houses had been preserved, and, indeed, I noticed that a few of
them, vulgarly modernised then, were now restored to their original
beauty. How well the Belgians understand these things! Seventeen years
after this date the eldest of the two schoolboys I had with me was to
ride through that same old Bruges as A.D.C. to the general commanding
“The Immortal 7th Division,” which, retiring before the German hordes,
was to turn and help to rend them at Ypres.
In 1898 I exhibited a smaller picture than usual--“The Morrow of
Talavera,” which was very kindly placed at the Academy--and I began a
large Crimean subject, “The Colours,” for the succeeding year. I had
some fine models at Dover for this picture. In making the studies for it
I had an interesting experience. I wanted to show the colour party of
the Scots Guards advancing up the hill of the Alma in their full parade
dress--the last time British troops wore it in action--Lieutenant Lloyd
Lindsay carrying the Queen’s colour. It was then he won the V.C. Lord
Wantage (that same Lloyd Lindsay), now an old man, but full of energy,
when he heard of my project, conducted me to the Guards’ Chapel in
London, and there and then had the old, dusty, moth-eaten Alma colours
taken down from their place on the walls, and held the Queen’s colour
once more in his hand for me to see. I made careful studies at the
chapel, and restored the fresh tints which he told me they had on that
far-away day, when I came to put them into the picture. I was in South
Africa when the Academy opened in the following spring.
On September 11th, 1898, we received the terrible news of the
assassination of the Empress of Austria. I had seen her every Sunday and
feast day at our little Ventnor church, at Mass, during her residence at
Steep Hill Castle. She had the tiniest waist I ever saw--indeed, no
woman could have lived with a tinier one. She was beautiful, but so
frigid in her manner; she seemed made of stone, yet she rode splendidly
to hounds--altogether an enigma.
October 27th, 1898, I thoroughly enjoyed. It was a day after my own
heart--picturesque, historical, stirring, amusing. Sir Herbert
Kitchener, _the_ Sirdar _par excellence_, was received at Dover on his
arrival from the captured Khartoum with all the prestige of his new-won
honours shining around him. My husband had decided that the regulation
military honours “to be accorded to distinguished persons” were
applicable to the man who was coming, and so a guard of honour
(Highlanders) with the regimental colour was drawn up at the pier head,
the regimental officers in red and the staff in blue. The crowd on the
upper part of the pier was immense and densely packed all along the
parapet, and the Lower Pier, reserved for special people, was crowded,
too. It was a calm, grey, yet bright day, and the absence of wind made
things pleasant. Great gathering of Cocked Hats at the entrance gates,
and we all walked to the landing stage. There was a dense smudge of
black smoke on the horizon. I knew that meant Kitchener. Keeping my eye
on that smudge, I took but a distracted part in the small talk and
frequent introductions of distinguished persons come from afar to
welcome the man of the hour, “the Avenger of Gordon.” I was conducted to
the head of the landing steps, together with such of the staff as were
not to go on board the boat with the General. Then the smudge got hidden
behind the pier end, but I could see the ever-increasing swish and swirl
of the water on the starboard side of the hidden steamer, and soon she
swept alongside; a few vague cheers began, no one in the crowd knowing
the Sirdar by sight. When, however, the General went on board and shook
hands, this proclaimed at once where the man was, and cheer upon cheer
thundered out. I have never, before or since, seen such spontaneous
enthusiasm in England. After a little talk (my husband and he were long
together on the Nile) and after the delivery of letters (one from the
Queen) and telegrams, during which the hurrahs went on in a great roar
and multitudinous pocket handkerchiefs fluttered in a long perspective,
the big, solid, stolid, sunburnt Briton stepped on English soil once
more. While shaking hands with me he seemed astonished and amused at all
that was going on and, looking over my head at the masses of people
above, he lifted his hat, and thenceforth kept it in his hand as he was
escorted to the Lord Warden Hotel. He had asked his A.D.C., on first
catching sight of the reception awaiting him, “What is all this about?”
Then there was an Address at the hotel to which he listened with an
ox-like patience, and after that the enormous company of invited guests
went to lunch. In his speech my husband paid the Sirdar the compliment
of saying that the traditional Field Marshal’s baton would be found in
his trunk when the customs officers opened it at Victoria. Kitchener
spoke so low I could not hear him. Had he been less immovable one could
have plainly seen how utterly he hated having to make a speech. His
travelling dress looked most interestingly incongruous amidst the rich
uniforms and the glossy frock-coats as he stood up to say what he had to
say. As we all bulged out of the hotel door the cheers began again from
the crowds. I took care to look at the people that day, and I was struck
by their _unanimity_. All ranks were there, and yet on every face, well
bred or unwashed, I saw the same identical expression--one of broad,
laughing delight. Such were my impressions, which I noted down, as
usual, at the moment, and I have lived to see that remarkable man work
out his life, and end it with a tragedy that will hold its place in
history; my husband’s prophecy, put in those playful words at Dover,
fulfilled; a threatening disaster to the Empire turned into victory with
the aid of that extraordinary mind and physical endurance; and the
burning fire of that personality quenched, untimely, in the icy depths
of a northern sea.