AFTER TWELVE MONTHS
The shock which electrified London was reminiscent of the shocks to
which it was submitted in the early days of the war, when the "Yellow"
press ran riot, and journalists dipped deeply into their reservoirs of
superlatives to generate the current of sensation which should sell
their papers.
It was a misty afternoon, with an almost intangible yet saturating
drizzle; a setting admirably fitting an evening newspaper thrill.
Spirits were at a sufficiently low ebb for something of a screaming
nature. Fleet Street did its best; a best at no time to be despised.
It came as the homeward rush began from the offices of the great
metropolis. It stared out from street corners and the fronting of
bookstalls. It looked up from the greasy pavements. It served to hide a
portion of the rags which hung about the nether limbs of small street
urchins. It came in strident, raucous tones upon the moisture-laden
atmosphere. There was no escaping it. That which escaped the eyes
thrust itself upon defenceless ear. And its urgent note created the
necessary excitement in minds set upon the task of making the homeward
journey with the least possible delay.
Then, at once, the careless eye was caught and held. "Under Water: The
World Defied," cried one contents bill. "The New Submersible
Merchantman," announced one of the more sedate journals. "The Great
Problem Solved," cryptically suggested a buff-tinted sheet. "From
Downing Street to the Deeps," smiled the more flippant pink
announcement. And so on through the whole jargon of the press poster.
There was no escape from it. The word "submersible" seemed to fill the
whole of the wretched winter atmosphere. And, as was intended, it
caught the London fancy, and deflected purpose into the channel it
desired.
London was startled; and when London is startled by its press it is no
niggard. Therefore the rain of coppers which set in became perilously
near a deluge. The small boys snatched, and the old sinners with grey
whiskers and weather-stained faces swept in their harvest. The
bookstall attendants dealt out their papers in a steady, accurate
stream, and, within an hour, the whole of London's democracy had
formulated its definite opinion upon the new adventure, in the dogmatic
manner of the British ratepayer.
Strange and mixed were many of the opinions which flew from lip to lip
in the overcrowded homeward bound trains and 'buses. True, there were
many who read the well-told story of the skilful journalist as they
might read a sensational tale in a sixpenny magazine. They enjoyed it.
They devoured it hungrily. Then they passed on to the sports page, and
considered the doings of their favorites in the sporting world. But the
suburban ratepayer, the householder whose responsibilities left him no
alternative but to take himself seriously, was of a different calibre.
He possesses to the full the stolid, fault-finding mind of the British
race. He is as full of prejudice as the egg is supposed to be full of
meat. He is ready at all times to hurl blame and anathema at the heads
of those who conspire to extract from his pocket the necessary funds to
contrive that he shall live in security and comfort in his home. He is
the victim of a splendid pessimism for all things except his summer
holiday. His opinions come like a shot from a gun.
He read with incredulity until he arrived at the point where he felt
righteously he could open afresh the rut of his ever-ready disapproval.
Then the full force of what he read percolated heavily through his fog
of prejudiced incredulity, and virtuous indignation supervened.
"What was this absurd nonsense? Who ever heard of submersible
merchantmen? What fresh folly of the Government was coming now? The
Prime Minister on the trial trip. Why the devil didn't he stick to his
job in Downing Street? The moment these fellows got their five thousand
a year they didn't care a hang for the country. Playing about with
these toys of some crazy inventor. It made one sick. Anyway, if the
Government were concerned in the scheme, why was it kept secret? Why
wasn't the taxpayer told of it? Who was making the money out of it?
Somebody. There was always graft in these secret things. There was too
much of this hole-in-the-corner business--entirely too much. Altogether
too much disregard for the liberty of the subject," etc., etc.
But the Fleet Street chorus of "epochs" and "masterly moves" and
"strokes of statesmanship" found an abiding echo amongst the optimists.
They saw, with eyes wide open, that which they read. There was no
grumble in them. Why should there be? That which they read told them
clearly of success. It told them that never again would Britain's
overseas commerce be placed in jeopardy from enemy attack in time of
war; that is, if British enterprise would only rise to the opportunity
afforded. That was simple enough. Of course the ship-owners would see
their advantage. Germany--pah!
The men who personally felt aggrieved, however, were the professional
politicians and the private Member. These men were seriously perturbed.
Here was real limelight, and they were not in it! Horrible thought!
Their course lay clearly before them. An attack upon inoffensive paper,
by a pen, erroneously believed to be mightier than the sword, was their
only hope of making up leeway. So those who had sufficient influence
hurled broadcast the next morning, in their favorite daily papers, a
wealth of ill-considered and valueless criticism and opinion of
something which they were splendidly incompetent to judge.
And the cause of all the sensation? It was so small an incident, and
yet so tremendous in its omen for the future. Just the story of a
number of eminent men, Cabinet Ministers, naval and army men, and one
or two great ship-builders, running a blockade of warships, and
successfully shipping a cargo of pretended contraband of war from
Dundee to Gravesend. The game had been played in deadly earnest. It was
a test trip for a new type of submersible cargo and passenger vessel,
pitting its powers against the concentrated might of a large squadron
of the British Navy. It was a test of efficiency. The details were
simple in the extreme. The laden vessel, carrying a thousand tons of
merchandise and its burden of passengers, was lying at Dundee. Outside,
watching and waiting for its appearance on the high seas, lay a
powerful squadron of the British Navy. The rules laid down were that
the submersible should make its way to Gravesend, and the naval
squadron, under war conditions, was to capture it, or place it in such
a position as to be sinkable, by any means in its power, at any point
upon its journey.
The result. With all the skill and power at its command the great
surface squadron had proved its helplessness. The submersible had
slipped out of port under cover of darkness, and from that moment,
until its arrival at Gravesend, the seas had been scoured vainly for so
much as a sight of it.
It was a tremendous thought. It was a splendid victory for the pacifist
hope. The dead Polish inventor had been justified beyond all question.
Never had the word "epoch," such as Fleet Street loves, been better
used. It was such a moment that those who made the secret journey, and
witnessed the capabilities of the vessel which had been built at the
Dorby yards, were flung back from all preconceived convictions of
maritime affairs, established during the war, to imaginative
speculation upon the vista of progress now opened up.
Not a man of them, from the Prime Minister of England down to the
junior lieutenant upon the vainly striving fleet of war-vessels, but
realized a picture of the doom of the magnificent and costly
super-Dreadnought as the pillar of might upon which naval power must
rest. Its proud office gone, it appeared to them as little greater than
a means of defence against the landing of hostile man power upon
Britain's vulnerable shores. The proud queens of the sea must pass from
their exalted thrones to a lesser degree in naval armaments.
Nor was the realization without pity and regret. How could it be
otherwise in the human heart which ever worships the actual display of
might? It almost seemed as if the world had been suddenly given over to
topsy-turveydom.
The facts, however, were irrefutable. As in the dim past the troublous
surface of the seas had been conquered by the intrepid and skilful
mariner, now at last the devious submarine channels had been turned
into an almost equally secure highway of traffic by the inventor. The
march of progress was continuing. It was invention triumphant. The
world's sea-borne commerce was secured. It was held safe from enemy
war-craft in the future. Therefore the doom of the proud battleship had
been sounded.
Some day, perhaps, a new weapon would be achieved. Some day, perhaps,
even the channels of the dark waters would be rendered insecure by the
hand that had now made them safe. For the present, however, and
probably for years to come, the sea-borne food supplies of Britain
stood in no position of jeopardy.
It was well past midnight. The house in Smith Square quite suddenly
displayed renewed signs of life. A closed motor had driven up, paused,
and then passed on. Then appeared many lights behind the small-paned
Georgian windows.
Ruxton Farlow had returned home with his wife after a strenuous and
exciting day; and with them was their devoted Yorkshire father, burning
with the sense of a great triumph for his beloved son, and his almost
equally beloved daughter.
Their journey from Gravesend earlier in the evening had been broken
that they might attend an informal dinner-party at Downing Street. It
was a function entirely in honor of the masters of Dorby; and it had
been arranged that Ruxton's colleagues in the country's Cabinet might
tender their sincere congratulations and thanks for the work which he,
and his father, and his wife had achieved privately in their country's
cause.
It was over; and all three were relieved and thankful. But the note of
triumph surging through their hearts was still dominant. Scarcely a
word had passed between them in the brief run from Downing Street to
Smith Square. Their hearts were as yet too full, and the memory of the
words addressed to them by Sir Meeston and his colleagues was still too
poignant to permit of normal conditions. Vita had leant back in the
car, with her husband's arm linked through hers, and one of his
powerful hands clasped in hers. She sat thus with thought teeming, and
a heart thrilling with an unspeakable joy, and happiness, and triumph,
all for the man at her side. Her own share in the events through which
they had passed was entirely forgotten by her. This man at her side
filled her whole focus. He was all in all to her, as she felt he was
all in all to the cause in which they had worked.
It was perhaps the profoundest and proudest moment of her life. It was
a moment of perfect happiness. All she had ever dreamed of was hers;
and the hand of the man she worshipped was even now, warm and strong,
clasped tightly in her own. Hers to keep; hers to lean on; hers never
to yield so long as their lives should last.
In the house they passed up into the small drawing-room, and, for a few
moments, they sat there before retiring. Slowly the spell of the day's
events fell from them. It was finally Sir Andrew who released them from
it.
He gazed across at Vita with twinkling eyes. His smile was full of
kindly tenderness.
"Now, perhaps, I shall have time to appreciate the fact that at last I
am the happy possessor of a beautiful daughter as well as a headstrong
son," he said. Then, after the briefest hesitation: "Vita, my dear," he
went on, in his old-fashioned manner, while his gaze took in the
radiant beauty turned abruptly towards him, "it seems to me that the
most wonderful thing in the world has happened to me. The long, lonely
life seems to have entirely passed. I mean the loneliness which only a
man can feel who is deprived for all time of the association of his own
womankind. Now at last I can draw deep comfort from the reflection of
Ruxton's happiness. Now, however slight my claim, I can nevertheless
_claim_ something of a woman's filial regard. The grey of life has been
tinted for me since you have chosen to make my boy happy, and as time
goes on I can see that tint develop into the roseate hue of a happiness
I somehow never thought to feel again. Bless you, my dear, for coming
into an old man's life; and you, too, my boy," he went on, turning to
the smiling Ruxton, "for having given me such a daughter. I feel this
is the moment for saying this. The work is done now in workmanlike
fashion, and the little triumph of it all makes me want to tell you of
this thing that I feel."
Vita impulsively left her husband's side. She rose from the settee and
crossed over to her second father and held out both her hands.
"You have made it difficult for me to say a word----" she began,
smiling down upon him with her glorious eyes. Then she seemed to become
speechless.
The oriflamme of her red-gold hair shone with a delicious burnish under
the shaded electric light. Her flushed oval cheek glowed with a
suggestion of thrilling happiness. The old man caught and held her
hands, and, the next moment, she had bent her slimly graceful body and
impressed upon his rugged cheek a kiss of deep affection.
Still she remained speechless, and she turned and glanced with dewy
eyes in appeal to the great husband looking on.
"Won't you help me?" she demanded wistfully.
Ruxton laughed happily.
"Help?" he said quickly. Then he shook his head. "No, no. You don't
need any help. Just tell him what you once told me. You remember." His
eyes became serious. "You said 'I love him almost as if he were really
my own father.' He won't need more."
And Vita obeyed him, reciting the words almost like some child. But she
meant them, and felt them, and at the last word her glance was full of
a whimsical light as she added of her own initiative--
"And aren't you two dears going to smoke?"
Half an hour later the two men were sitting alone in Ruxton's study.
The smoke of their cigars hung heavily upon the air of the room. There
had come a moment of profound silence between them. They had talked of
the happenings of that day: of the test of their new submersible: its
simple triumph, and all it meant in the cause of humanity, of that
progress towards a lasting peace among nations which mankind was
yearning to achieve.
Each man had offered his own view-point for discussion, and it seemed
as if the last word had at length been spoken. But they sat on in
silence, and Sir Andrew watched the reflective eyes of his idealist
son. He was speculating as to what deep thought still lay unvoiced
behind them, and he urged him.
"Well, boy? It has been a long day. Is it bed? Or are you going to put
into words that dream I see moving behind your eyes?"
Ruxton broke into a short, nervous laugh which died out with a curious,
sober abruptness.
"Dreams, dreams? I wonder if they are only dreams. If they are dreams
they are surely vivid enough--painfully vivid." He paused for an
infinitesimal fraction. "No, no, Dad, I am no visionary in the sense
that imagination runs away with me. I see many things that every other
man sees, and it is only a question of different reading. What do you
think the majority of people in this country will do when they really
understand all that our little adventure means? They will
metaphorically fling up their hats, and deride the wretched Teuton, and
his merciless delight in the slaughter of innocent life upon the high
seas. In a few years' time, when they see our sea-borne traffic carried
by great submersibles of eight and ten thousand tons, their confidence
will be unbounded, and they will reiterate again the old song
'Britannia Rules the Waves,' and--they will have justice on their side.
But the questions which I ask myself, which I must keep on asking
myself, are--'Does Britannia rule the waves? Can she continue to rule
the waves?'"
He shook his head, and gently removed the ash from his cigar.
"In spite of all the evidence, in spite of our wholly promising new
move for protecting our overseas traffic, in spite of the brilliant
manner in which our Navy has met, and defeated, every ingenious method
of attack by our enemies in the past, I do not believe we can ever hope
to continue indefinitely our rule of the seas, or _even the
safeguarding of our overseas traffic_.
"Oh, yes, I know what everybody will say in answer to such a
statement," he went on, in reply to the interrogatory in his father's
eyes. "But they are wrong, a thousand times wrong," he declared, almost
passionately. "It is no sound argument or real logic that what we have
done for the past few hundred years we can continue to do. Our men are
giants among the men of the sea. But they are only human. The days of
'wait and see' are over. We must not wait for trouble to arise to
attempt its counter. We must look ahead with all the experience of the
late war behind us. The reason we rule the seas at the moment--if we do
rule them--is because we are an island country, and because our past
necessities have forced us to stride far ahead in maritime affairs of
all other nations, while they possessed no full realization of the
value of sea power. But the late war has shown us that now, at last,
every country in the world understands to the full the necessity for
wresting from any one Power the dominance of the seas. Look back.
Germany was fighting for sea power as greatly as she was fighting for
anything else. Russia, that vast land-locked world, could only hope for
an outlet to the sea as a result of all her sacrifice. The Balkan
countries, their national aspirations, every one of them was a harbor
on the high seas. The whole world intends to possess each its share of
the great waterways, without fear of the dominance of any one nation.
It is plain, plain as the writing on the wall.
"I solemnly submit that Britain's power, her domination of the seas,
cannot stand for all time. And the reason--it is so simple, so terribly
simple. Just as our strength now lies in the seas, so does our
weakness. Every moment of our lives the threat of starvation stares
into our haunted eyes, and we, like hunted men, search and search for a
means to ward it off. Do you see? I could weep for those who will not
see. The Germans were just not clever enough, that is all. They saw the
weakened links in our armor, and endeavored to drive home the attack
when they attempted their submarine blockade. But their attempt lacked
adequate preparation. This is all ancient history, but it points in the
direction I would have men look. The result of that has been to make us
further consolidate our defences. The completion of that comes in our
new submersible. But, remember, we are defending only against known
forces--not the unknown. It is the unknown we have to fear. Every human
defence can be destroyed by human ingenuity. That is why I say that the
new principle will only serve us in itself for just the amount of time
which it takes our rivals to readjust their focus, and mobilize their
powers of offence. The day will come when some invention will be
brought to attack underwater craft successfully. And then--what then?
In spite of all our territory, our wealth, our nominal power we shall
be driven to yield to the pangs of hunger. It is not a dream I am
showing you. It is a reality. It is a truism which no logical mind can
deny."
Sir Andrew refrained from comment for some moments as his son ceased
speaking. But at last, as the silence prolonged, he urged him.
"And what is the answer to it all?" he enquired. His eyes were serious,
and his words came crisply. He had caught something of his boy's
gravity although he was not sure how far he accepted his creed. "There
must be an answer. Every problem of State possesses its solution, if we
can only find it--in time."
Ruxton nodded. Then he rose abruptly from his chair and flung his
cigar-end into the empty fireplace with a forceful gesture. He began to
pace the room.
"That is the crux of the whole situation," he declared feverishly, his
dark eyes burning with an intense light. "In time! In time! If we could
only be induced to adopt the true solution 'in time'--before we are
forced to adopt it. Oh, yes, there is a solution--a right solution. It
is so simple that one wonders it has not long since been discussed by
every man in the street. The solution stares us in the face on every
hand. It calls aloud to us in appeal, and we turn from it. Every
country that can ever hope to last out the days of man must be
self-contained, self-supporting. In times of stress it must be capable
of existence upon its own natural stores. Look at America's position
during the war. She could afford to hold aloof, and continue her reign
of prosperity while she snapped her fingers at Armageddon. Why? Because
she was independent of the rest of the world both economically and
strategically. Let the whole of the rest of the world blaze. Let the
slaughter go on. She could stand alone though the conflagration raged a
century. No combination of human forces could defeat America without
exterminating her peoples. Here are we, with territory, blocks of
territory scattered throughout the world so vast as to make America
look small in comparison. They are not tracts of savage country, but
cultivated and highly civilized States, any one of which can be wholly
self-supporting. They are ours--peopled with our people--governed by
codes of laws similar to our own--with objects and principles like to
our own. And yet we sit here awaiting ultimate destruction, a tiny
group of islands upon the crests of the Atlantic waters. It makes one
think of the foolish bird, who builds her nest and stocks it full of
eggs, and sets it upon the topmost twigs of a tree, waiting for the
gathering of the storm which must sweep it out of existence, while the
whole protection of the tree's full strength lies open to her. The
position is so absurd as to set one laughing in very bitterness. I tell
you the day will come when an island home is utterly untenable for any
great nation. I am not even sure that the time has not already come. If
I had my way our empire would be ruled from the heart of Canada, whose
vast tracts of territory are bursting with an unbroached wealth which
no country in the world can ever hope to match. There, amidst those
fertile plains, I would set up our kingdom, and gather our limitless
resources about us. There, in the midst of that new world, I would
wield me the sceptre of the greatest Empire of all time, and within its
ramparts I would strive unceasingly for the spiritual and mundane
welfare of our people and all mankind. No nation in the world was ever
more fitted, both in temper and in power, for the task. No peoples
would more willingly lend themselves to it. All our history has been
one long story of pacific purpose, and only has our regrettable
geographical setting forced upon us any other course. My most ardent
thought and desire is that some day we may voluntarily remove the
obstacles besetting us, and our pacific purpose may be given the full
development it seeks. But so long as Britain nests upon the waters of
the Atlantic, so long shall we continue to live under the burden of
war. And the end?--Who can prophesy the--end?"