Owing to the lightness of the wind Nelson would lose no time in

maneuvering. He formed his fleet rapidly in two divisions, each in

single column, the simplest and most flexible order of attack, and the

one whose regularity is most easily preserved. The simple column,

however, unflanked, sacrifices during the critical period of closing the

support given by the rear ships to the leader, and draws upon the latter

the concentrated fire of the enemy’s line. Its use by Nelson on this

occasion has been much criticized. It is therefore to be remarked that,

although his orders, issued several days previous to the battle, are

somewhat ambiguous on this point, their natural meaning seems to

indicate the intention, if attacking from to windward, to draw up with

his fleet in two columns parallel to the enemy and abreast his rear.

Then the column nearest the enemy, the lee, keeping away together, would

advance in line against the twelve rear ships; while the weather column,

moving forward, would hold in check the remainder of the hostile fleet.

In either event, whether attacking in column or in line, the essential

feature of his plan was to overpower twelve of the enemy by sixteen

British, while the remainder of his force covered this operation. The

destruction of the rear was entrusted to the second in command; he

himself with a smaller body took charge of the more uncertain duties of

the containing force. “The second in command,” wrote he in his memorable

order, “will, after my instructions are made known to him, have the

entire direction of his line.”

The justification of Nelson’s dispositions for battle at Trafalgar rests

therefore primarily upon the sluggish breeze, which would so have

delayed formations as to risk the loss of the opportunity. It must also

be observed that, although a column of ships does not possess the

sustained momentum of a column of men, whose depth and mass combine to

drive it through the relatively thin resistance of a line, and so cut

the latter in twain, the results nevertheless are closely analogous. The

leaders in either case are sacrificed,—success is won over their

prostrate forms; but the continued impact upon one part of the enemy’s

order is essentially a concentration, the issue of which, if long enough

maintained, cannot be doubtful. Penetration, severance, and the

enveloping of one of the parted fragments, must be the result. So,

exactly, it was at Trafalgar. It must also be noted that the rear ships

of either column, until they reached the hostile line, swept with their

broadsides the sea over which enemy’s ships from either flank might try

to come to the support of the attacked center. No such attempt was in

fact made from either extremity of the combined fleet.

The two British columns were nearly a mile apart and advanced on

parallel courses,—heading nearly east, but a little to the northward to

allow for the gradual advance in that direction of the hostile fleet.

The northern or left-hand column, commonly called the “weather line”

because the wind came rather from that side, contained twelve ships, and

was led by Nelson himself in the _Victory_, a ship of one hundred guns.

The _Royal Sovereign_, of the same size and carrying Collingwood’s flag,

headed the right column, of fifteen ships.

To the British advance the allies opposed the traditional order of

battle, a long single line, close-hauled,—in this case heading north,

with the wind from west-north-west. The distance from one flank to the

other was nearly five miles. Owing partly to the lightness of the

breeze, partly to the great number of ships, and partly to the

inefficiency of many of the units of the fleet, the line was very

imperfectly formed. Ships were not in their places, intervals were of

irregular width, here vessels were not closed up, there two overlapped,

one masking the other’s fire. The general result was that, instead of a

line, the allied order showed a curve of gradual sweep, convex toward

the east. To the British approach from the west, therefore, it presented

a disposition resembling a re-entrant angle; and Collingwood, noting

with observant eye the advantage of this arrangement for a cross-fire,

commented favorably upon it in his report of the battle. It was,

however, the result of chance, not of intention,—due, not to the talent

of the chief, but to the want of skill in his subordinates.

[Illustration:

THE ATTACK AT TRAFALGAR

OCTOBER 21, 1805

5 minutes past noon

The French and Spanish ships marked + were taken or destroyed in the

action.

REFERENCES

A. Santa Ana, Alava’s Flagship

B. Bucentaure, Villeneuve’s Flagship

P. Principe De Asturias, Gravina’s Flagship

R. Redoutable

S. Royal Sovereign, Collingwood’s Flagship

T. Santisima Trinidad

V. Victory, Nelson’s Flagship

Recent investigation has shown that Collingwood’s division was much

more nearly parallel to the enemy than is indicated in this diagram,

and thus in a formation more closely resembling Nelson’s original

plan.—_Editor._

]

The commander-in-chief of the allies, Villeneuve, was in the

_Bucentaure_, an eighty-gun ship, the twelfth in order from the van of

the line. Immediately ahead of him was the huge Spanish four-decker, the

_Santisima Trinidad_, a Goliath among ships, which had now come forth to

her last battle. Sixth behind the _Bucentaure_, and therefore eighteenth

in the order, came a Spanish three-decker, the _Santa Ana_, flying the

flag of Vice-Admiral Alava. These two admirals marked the right and left

of the allied center, and upon them, therefore, the British leaders

respectively directed their course,—Nelson upon the _Bucentaure_,

Collingwood upon the _Santa Ana_.

The _Royal Sovereign_ had recently been refitted, and with clean new

copper easily outsailed her more worn followers. Thus it happened that,

as Collingwood came within range, his ship, outstripping the others by

three quarters of a mile, entered alone, and for twenty minutes endured,

unsupported, the fire of all the hostile ships that could reach her. A

proud deed, surely, but surely also not a deed to be commended as a

pattern. The first shot of the battle was fired at her by the

_Fougueux_, the next astern of the _Santa Ana_. This was just at noon,

and with the opening guns the ships of both fleets hoisted their

ensigns; the Spaniards also hanging large wooden crosses from their

spanker booms.

The _Royal Sovereign_ advanced in silence until, ten minutes later, she

passed close under the stern of the _Santa Ana_. Then she fired a

double-shotted broadside which struck down four hundred of the enemy’s

crew, and, luffing rapidly, took her position close alongside, the

muzzles of the hostile guns nearly touching. Here the _Royal Sovereign_

underwent the fire not only of her chief antagonist, but of four other

ships; three of which belonged to the division of five that ought

closely to have knit the _Santa Ana_ to the _Bucentaure_, and so fixed

an impassable barrier to the enemy seeking to pierce the center. The

fact shows strikingly the looseness of the allied order, these three

being all in rear and to leeward of their proper stations.

For fifteen minutes the _Royal Sovereign_ was the only British ship in

close action. Then her next astern entered the battle, followed

successively by the rest of the column. In rear of the _Santa Ana_ were

fifteen ships. Among these, Collingwood’s vessels penetrated in various

directions; chiefly, however, at first near the spot where his flag had

led the way, enveloping and destroying in detail the enemy’s center and

leading rear ships, and then passing on to subdue the rest. Much

doubtless was determined by chance in such confusion and obscurity; but

the original tactical plan ensured an ever-whelming concentration upon a

limited portion of the enemy’s order. This being subdued with the less

loss, because so outnumbered, the intelligence and skill of the various

British captains readily compassed the destruction of the dwindling

remnant. Of the sixteen ships, including the _Santa Ana_, which composed

the allied rear, twelve were taken or destroyed.

Not till one o’clock, or nearly half an hour after the vessels next

following Collingwood came into action, did the _Victory_ reach the

_Bucentaure_. The latter was raked with the same dire results that

befell the _Santa Ana_; but a ship close to leeward blocked the way, and

Nelson was not able to grapple with the enemy’s commander-in-chief. The

_Victory_, prevented from going through the line, fell on board the

_Redoutable_, a French seventy-four, between which and herself a furious

action followed,—the two lying in close contact. At half-past one Nelson

fell mortally wounded, the battle still raging fiercely.

The ship immediately following Nelson’s came also into collision

with the _Redoutable_, which thus found herself in combat with two

antagonists. The next three of the British weather column each in

succession raked the _Bucentaure_, complying thus with Nelson’s

order that every effort must be made to capture the enemy’s

commander-in-chief. Passing on, these three concentrated their

efforts, first upon the _Bucentaure_, and next upon the _Santisima

Trinidad_. Thus it happened that upon the allied commander-in-chief,

upon his next ahead, and upon the ship which, though not his natural

supporter astern, had sought and filled that honorable post,—upon

the key, in short, of the allied order,—were combined under the most

advantageous conditions the fires of five hostile vessels, three of

them first-rates. Consequently, not only were the three added to the

prizes, but also a great breach was made between the van and rear of

the combined fleets. This breach became yet wider by the singular

conduct of Villeneuve’s proper next astern. Soon after the _Victory_

came into action, that ship bore up out of the line, wore round, and

stood toward the rear, followed by three others. This movement is

attributed to a wish to succor the rear. If so, it was at best an

indiscreet and ill-timed act, which finds little palliation in the

fact that not one of these ships was taken.

Thus, two hours after the battle began, the allied fleet was cut in two,

the rear enveloped and in process of being destroyed in detail, the

_Bucentaure_, _Santisima Trinidad_, and _Redoutable_ practically

reduced, though not yet surrendered. Ahead of the _Santisima Trinidad_

were ten ships, which as yet had not been engaged. The inaction of the

van, though partly accounted for by the slackness of the wind, has given

just cause for censure. To it, at ten minutes before two, Villeneuve

made signal to get into action and to wear together. This was

accomplished with difficulty, owing to the heavy swell and want of wind.

At three, however, all the ships were about, but by an extraordinary

fatality they did not keep together. Five with Admiral Dumanoir stood

along to windward of the battle, three passed to leeward of it, and two,

keeping away, left the field entirely. Of the whole number, three were

intercepted, raising the loss of the allies to eighteen

ships-of-the-line taken, one of which caught fire and was burned. The

approach of Admiral Dumanoir, if made an hour earlier, might have

conduced to save Villeneuve; it was now too late. Exchanging a few

distant broadsides with enemy’s ships, he stood off to the south-west

with four vessels; one of those at first with him having been cut off.

At quarter before five Admiral Gravina, whose ship had been the rear of

the order during the battle and had lost heavily, retreated toward

Cadiz, making signal to the vessels which had not struck to form around

his flag. Five other Spanish ships and five French followed him. As he

was withdrawing, the last two to resist of the allied fleet struck their

colors.

During the night of the 21st these eleven ships anchored at the mouth of

Cadiz harbor, which they could not then enter, on account of a land wind

from south-east. At the same time the British and their prizes were

being carried shoreward by the heavy swell which had prevailed during

the battle; the light air blowing from the sea not enabling them to haul

off. The situation was one of imminent peril. At midnight the wind

freshened much, but fortunately hauled to the southward, whence it blew

a gale all the 22d. The ships got their heads to the westward and drew

off shore, with thirteen of the prizes; the other four having had to

anchor off Cape Trafalgar. That morning the _Bucentaure_, Villeneuve’s

late flagship, was wrecked on some rocks off the entrance to Cadiz; and

toward evening the _Redoutable_, that had so nobly supported her, was

found to be sinking astern of the British ship that had her in tow.

During the night of the 22d she went down with a hundred and fifty of

her people still on board. On the 24th the same fate befell the great

_Santisima Trinidad_, which had been the French admiral’s next ahead.

Thus his own ship and his two supports vanished from the seas.

For several days the wind continued violent from north-west and

south-west. On the 23d five of the ships that had escaped with Gravina

put out, to cut off some of the prizes that were near the coast. They

succeeded in taking two; but as these were battered to pieces, while

three of the five rescuers were carried on the beach and wrecked with

great loss of life, little advantage resulted from this well-meant and

gallant sortie. Two other prizes were given up to their own crews by the

British prize-masters, because the latter were not able with their

scanty force to save them. These got into Cadiz. Of the remaining

British prizes, all but four either went ashore or were destroyed by the

orders of Collingwood, who despaired of saving them. No British ship was

lost.

Of thirty-three combined French and Spanish ships which sailed out of

Cadiz on the 20th of October, eleven, five French and six Spanish,

mostly now disabled hulks, lay there at anchor on the last day of the

month. The four that escaped to sea under Dumanoir fell in with a

British squadron of the same size near Cape Ortegal, on the 4th of

November, and were all taken. This raised the allied loss to

twenty-two,—two more than the twenty for which Nelson, in his dying

hour, declared that he had bargained.

No attempt to move from Cadiz was again made by the shattered relics of

the fight. On the 25th of October Rosily arrived and took up his now

blasted command. Nearly three years later, when the Spanish monarchy, so

long the submissive tool of the Directory and of Napoleon, had been

overthrown by the latter, and the Spanish people had risen against the

usurper, the five French ships were still in the port. Surprised between

the British blockade and the now hostile batteries of the coast, Rosily,

after an engagement of two days with the latter, surrendered his

squadron, with the four thousand seamen then on board. This event

occurred on the 14th of June, 1808. It was the last echo of Trafalgar.

Such, in its leading outlines and direct consequences, was the famous

battle of Trafalgar. Its lasting significance and far-reaching results

have been well stated by a recent historian, more keenly alive than most

of his fellows to the paramount, though silent, influence of Sea Power

upon the course of events: “Trafalgar was not only the greatest naval

victory, it was the greatest and most momentous victory won either by

land or by sea during the whole of the Revolutionary War. No victory,

and no series of victories, of Napoleon produced the same effect upon

Europe.... A generation passed after Trafalgar before France again

seriously threatened England at sea. The prospect of crushing the

British navy, so long as England had the means to equip a navy,

vanished. Napoleon henceforth set his hopes on exhausting England’s

resources, by compelling every state on the Continent to exclude her

commerce. Trafalgar forced him to impose his yoke upon _all_ Europe, or

to abandon the hope of conquering Great Britain.... Nelson’s last

triumph left England in such a position that no means remained to injure

her but those which _must result in the ultimate deliverance of the

Continent_.”[85]

These words may be accepted with very slight modification. Napoleon’s

scheme for the invasion of Great Britain, thwarted once and again by the

strategic difficulties attendant upon its execution, was finally

frustrated when Villeneuve gave up the attempt to reach Brest and headed

for Cadiz. On the part of the allies Trafalgar was, in itself, a useless

holocaust, precipitated in the end by the despair of the unfortunate

admiral, upon whose irresolution Napoleon not unjustly visited the anger

caused by the wreck of his plans. Villeneuve was perfectly clear-sighted

and right in his appreciation of the deficiencies of his command,—of the

many chances against success. Where he wretchedly failed was in not

recognizing the simple duty of obedience,—the obligation to persist at

all hazards in the part of a great scheme assigned to him, even though

it led to the destruction of his whole force. Had he, upon leaving

Ferrol, been visited by a little of the desperation which brought him to

Trafalgar, the invasion of England might possibly—not probably—have been

effected.

An event so striking as the battle of Trafalgar becomes, however, to

mankind the symbol of all the circumstances—more important, perhaps, but

less obvious—which culminate in it. In this sense it may be said that

Trafalgar was the cause—as it certainly marked the period—of Napoleon’s

resolution to crush Great Britain by excluding her commerce from the

Continent. Here, therefore, the story of the influence of Sea Power upon

this great conflict ceases to follow the strictly naval events, and

becomes concerned simply with commerce-destroying, ordinarily a

secondary operation of maritime war, but exalted in the later years of

Napoleon’s reign to be the principal, if not the sole, means of action.

_Commerce Warfare after Trafalgar_

The warfare against commerce during the French Revolution, alike under

the Republic and under Napoleon, was marked by the same passionate

vehemence, the same extreme and far-reaching conceptions, the same

obstinate resolve utterly to overthrow and extirpate every opposing

force, that characterized the political and military enterprises of the

period. In the effort to bring under the yoke of their own policy the

commerce of the whole world, the two chief contestants, France and Great

Britain, swayed back and forth in deadly grapple over the vast arena,

trampling under foot the rights and interests of the weaker parties;

who, whether as neutrals, or as subjects of friendly or allied powers,

looked helplessly on, and found that in this great struggle for

self-preservation, neither outcries, nor threats, nor despairing

submission, availed to lessen the pressure that was gradually crushing

out both hope and life. The question between Napoleon and the British

people became simply one of endurance, as was tersely and powerfully

shown by the emperor himself. Both were expending their capital, and

drawing freely drafts upon the future, the one in money, the other in

men, to sustain their present strength. Like two infuriated dogs, they

had locked jaws over commerce, as the decisive element in the contest.

Neither would let go his grip until failing vitality should loose it, or

until some bystander should deal one a wound through which the powers of

life should drain away. All now know that in the latter way the end

came. The commercial policy of the great monarch, who, from the confines

of Europe, had watched the tussle with all the eagerness of

self-interest, angered Napoleon. To enforce his will, he made new and

offensive annexations of territory. The czar replied by a commercial

edict, sharp and decisive, and war was determined. “It is all a scene in

the Opera,” wrote Napoleon,[86] “and the English are the scene

shifters.” Words failed the men of that day to represent the grandeur

and apparent solidity of the Empire in 1811, when Napoleon’s heir was

born. In December, 1812, it was shattered from turret to foundation

stone; wrecked in the attempt “to conquer the sea by the land.” The

scene was shifted indeed.

Great Britain remained victorious on the field, but she had touched the

verge of ruin. Confronted with the fixed resolution of her enemy to

break down her commerce by an absolute exclusion from the continent of

Europe, and as far as possible from the rest of the world, she met the

challenge by a measure equally extreme, forbidding all neutral vessels

to enter ports hostile to her, unless they had first touched at one of

her own. Shut out herself from the Continent, she announced that while

this exclusion lasted she would shut the Continent off from all external

intercourse. “No trade except _through_ England,” was the formula under

which her leaders expressed their purpose. The entrance of Russia into

this strife, under the provocations of Napoleon, prevented the problem,

which of these two policies would overthrow the other, from reaching a

natural solution; and the final result of the measures which it is one

object of this and the following chapter to narrate must remain for ever

uncertain. It is, however, evident that a commercial and manufacturing

country like Great Britain must, in a strife the essence of which was

the restriction of trade, suffer more than one depending, as France did,

mainly upon her internal resources. The question, as before stated, was

whether she could endure the greater drain by her greater wealth. Upon

the whole, the indications were, and to the end continued to be, that

she could do so; that Napoleon, in entering upon this particular

struggle, miscalculated his enemy’s strength.

But besides this, here, as in every contest where the opponents are

closely matched, where power and discipline and leadership are nearly

equal, there was a further question: which of the two would make the

first and greatest mistakes, and how ready the other party was to profit

by his errors. In so even a balance, the wisest prophet cannot foresee

how the scale will turn. The result will depend not merely upon the

skill of the swordsman in handling his weapons, but also upon the

wariness of his fence and the quickness of his returns; much, too, upon

his temper. Here also Napoleon was worsted. Scarcely was the battle over

commerce joined, when the uprising of Spain was precipitated by

overconfidence; Great Britain hastened at once to place herself by the

side of the insurgents. Four years later, when the British people were

groaning in a protracted financial crisis,—when, if ever, there was a

hope that the expected convulsion and ruin were at hand,—Napoleon,

instead of waiting for his already rigorous blockade to finish the work

he attributed to it, strove to draw it yet closer, by demands which were

unnecessary and to which the czar could not yield. Again Great Britain

seized her opportunity, received her late enemy’s fleet, and filled his

treasury. Admit the difficulties of Napoleon; allow as we may for the

intricacy of the problem before him; the fact remains that he wholly

misunderstood the temper of the Spanish people, the dangers of the

Spanish enterprise, the resolution of Alexander. On the other hand,

looking upon the principal charge against the policy of the British

government, that it alienated the United States, it is still true that

there was no miscalculation as to the long-suffering of the latter under

the guidance of Jefferson, with his passion for peace. The submission of

the United States lasted until Napoleon was committed to his final

blunder, thus justifying the risk taken by Great Britain and awarding to

her the strategic triumph.

... As regards the rightfulness of the action of the two parties, viewed

separately from their policy, opinions will probably always differ,

according to the authority attributed by individuals to the _dicta_ of

International Law. It may be admitted at once that neither Napoleon’s

decrees nor the British orders can be justified at that bar, except by

the simple plea of self-preservation,—the first law of states even more

than of men; for no government is empowered to assent to that last

sacrifice, which the individual may make for the noblest motives. The

beneficent influence of the mass of conventions known as International

Law is indisputable, nor should its authority be lightly undermined; but

it cannot prevent the interests of belligerents and neutrals from

clashing, nor speak with perfect clearness in all cases where they do.

Of this the Rule of 1756 offered, in its day, a conspicuous instance.

The belligerent claimed that the neutral, by covering with his flag a

trade previously the monopoly of the enemy, not only inflicted a grave

injury by snatching from him a lawful prey, but was guilty likewise of a

breach of neutrality; the neutral contended that the enemy had a right

to change his commercial regulations, in war as well as in peace. To the

author, though an American, the belligerent argument seems the stronger;

nor was the laudable desire of the neutral for gain a nobler motive than

the solicitude, about their national resources, of men who rightly

believed themselves engaged in a struggle for national existence. The

measure meted to Austria and Prussia was an ominous indication of the

fate Great Britain might expect, if her strength failed her. But,

whatever the decision of our older and milder civilization on the merits

of the particular question, there can be no doubt of the passionate

earnestness of the two disputants in their day, nor of the conviction of

right held by either. In such a dilemma, the last answer of

International Law has to be that every state is the final judge as to

whether it should or should not make war; to its own self alone is it

responsible for the rightfulness of this action. If, however, the

condition of injury entailed by the neutral’s course is such as to

justify war, it justifies all lesser means of control. The question of

the rightfulness of these disappears, and that of policy alone remains.

It is the business of the neutral, by his prepared condition, to make

impolitic that which he claims is also wrong. The neutral which fails to

do so, which leaves its ports defenseless and its navy stunted until the

emergency comes, will then find, as the United States found in the early

years of this century, an admirable opportunity to write State Papers.

26. GENERAL STRATEGY OF THE WAR OF 1812[87]

The general considerations that have been advanced are sufficient to

indicate what should have been the general plan of the war on the part

of the United States. Every war must be aggressive, or, to use the

technical term, offensive, in military character; for unless you injure

the enemy, if you confine yourself, as some of the grumblers of that day

would have it, to simple defense against his efforts, obviously he has

no inducement to yield your contention. Incidentally, however, vital

interests must be defended, otherwise the power of offense falls with

them. Every war, therefore, has both a defensive and an offensive side,

and in an effective plan of campaign each must receive due attention.

Now, in 1812, so far as general natural conditions went, the United

States was relatively weak on the sea frontier, and strong on the side

of Canada. The seaboard might, indeed, in the preceding ten years, have

been given a development of force, by the creation of an adequate navy,

which would have prevented war, by the obvious danger to British

interests involved in hostilities. But this had not been done; and

Jefferson, by his gunboat policy, building some two hundred of those

vessels, worthless unless under cover of the land, proclaimed by act as

by voice his adherence to a bare defensive. The sea frontier, therefore,

became mainly a line of defense, the utility of which primarily was, or

should have been, to maintain communication with the outside world; to

support commerce, which in turn should sustain the financial potency

that determines the issues of war.

... Such in general was the condition of the sea frontier, thrown

inevitably upon the defensive. With the passing comment that, had it

been defended as suggested [by a squadron of respectable battleships in

concentrated strength.—EDITOR], Great Britain would never have forced

the war, let us now consider conditions on the Canadian line, where

circumstances eminently favored the offensive by the United States; for

this war should not be regarded simply as a land war or a naval war, nor

yet as a war of offense and again one of defense, but as being

continuously and at all times both offensive and defensive, both land

and sea, in reciprocal influence.

Disregarding as militarily unimportant the artificial boundary dividing

Canada from New York, Vermont, and the eastern parts of the Union, the

frontier separating the land positions of the two belligerents was the

Great Lakes and the river St. Lawrence. This presented certain

characteristic and unusual features. That it was a water line was a

condition not uncommon; but it was exceptionally marked by those broad

expanses which constitute inland seas of great size and depth, navigable

by vessels of the largest sea-going dimensions. This water system, being

continuous and in continual progress, is best conceived by applying to

the whole, from Lake Superior to the ocean, the name of the great river,

the St. Lawrence, which on the one hand unites it to the sea, and on the

other divides the inner waters from the outer by a barrier of rapids,

impassable to ships that otherwise could navigate freely both lakes and

ocean.

The importance of the lakes to military operations must always be great,

but it was much enhanced in 1812 by the undeveloped condition of land

communications. With the roads in the state they then were, the movement

of men, and still more of supplies, was vastly more rapid by water than

by land. Except in winter, when iron-bound snow covered the ground, the

routes of Upper Canada were well-nigh impassable; in spring and in

autumn rains, wholly so to heavy vehicles. The mail from Montreal to

York,—now Toronto,—three hundred miles, took a month in transit.[88] In

October, 1814, when the war was virtually over, the British general at

Niagara lamented to the commander-in-chief that, owing to the refusal of

the navy to carry troops, an important detachment was left “to struggle

through the dreadful roads from Kingston to York.”[89] “Should

reinforcements and provisions not arrive, the naval commander would,” in

his opinion, “have much to answer for.”[90] The commander-in-chief

himself wrote: “The command of the lakes enables the enemy to perform in

two days what it takes the troops from Kingston sixteen to twenty days

of severe marching. Their men arrive fresh; ours fatigued, and with

exhausted equipment. The distance from Kingston to the Niagara frontier

exceeds two hundred and fifty miles, and part of the way is

impracticable for supplies.”[91] On the United States side, road

conditions were similar but much less disadvantageous. The water route

by Ontario was greatly preferred as a means of transportation, and in

parts and at certain seasons was indispensable. Stores for Sackett’s

Harbor, for instance, had in early summer to be brought to Oswego, and

thence coasted along to their destination, in security or in peril,

according to the momentary predominance of one party or the other on the

lake. In like manner, it was more convenient to move between the Niagara

frontier and the east end of the lake by water; but in case of

necessity, men could march. An English traveler in 1818 says: “I

accomplished the journey from Albany to Buffalo in October in six days

with ease and comfort, whereas in May it took ten of great difficulty

and distress.”[92] In the farther West the American armies, though much

impeded, advanced securely through Ohio and Indiana to the shores of

Lake Erie, and there maintained themselves in supplies sent

over-country; whereas the British at the western end of the lake,

opposite Detroit, depended wholly upon the water, although no hostile

force threatened the land line between them and Ontario. The battle of

Lake Erie, so disastrous to their cause, was forced upon them purely by

failure of food, owing to the appearance of Perry’s squadron.

... The opinion of competent soldiers on the spot, such as Craig and

Brock, in full possession of all the contemporary facts, may be accepted

explicitly as confirming the inferences which in any event might have

been drawn from the natural features of the situation. Upon Mackinac and

Detroit depended the control and quiet of the Northwestern country,

because they commanded vital points on its line of communication. Upon

Kingston and Montreal, by their position and intrinsic advantages,

rested the communication of all Canada, along and above the St.

Lawrence, with the sea power of Great Britain, whence alone could be

drawn the constant support without which ultimate defeat should have

been inevitable. Naval power, sustained upon the Great Lakes, controlled

the great line of communication between the East and West, and also

conferred upon the party possessing it the strategic advantage of

interior lines; that is, of shorter distances, both in length and time,

to move from point to point of the lake shores, close to which lay the

scenes of operations. It followed that Detroit and Michilimackinac,

being at the beginning in the possession of the United States, should

have been fortified, garrisoned, provisioned, in readiness for siege,

and placed in close communication with home, as soon as war was seen to

be imminent, which it was in December, 1811, at latest. Having in that

quarter everything to lose, and comparatively little to gain, the

country was thrown on the defensive. On the east the possession of

Montreal or Kingston would cut off all Canada above from support by the

sea, which would be equivalent to ensuring its fall. “I shall continue

to exert myself to the utmost to overcome every difficulty,” wrote

Brock, who gave such emphatic proof of energetic and sagacious exertion

in his subsequent course. “Should, however, the communication between

Montreal and Kingston be cut off, the fate of the troops in this part of

the province will be decided.”[93] “The Montreal frontier,” said the

officer selected by the Duke of Wellington to report on the defenses of

Canada, “is the most important, and at present [1826] confessedly most

vulnerable and accessible part of Canada.”[94] There, then, was the

direction for offensive operations by the United States; preferably

against Montreal, for, if successful, a much larger region would be

isolated and reduced. Montreal gone, Kingston could receive no help from

without; and, even if capable of temporary resistance, its surrender

would be but a question of time. Coincidently with this military

advance, naval development for the control of the lakes should have

proceeded, as a discreet precaution; although, after the fall of

Kingston and Montreal, there could have been little use of an inland

navy, for the British local resources would then have been inadequate to

maintain an opposing force.

_Results of the Northern Campaign_

[While control was more vital and the forces stronger on Lake Ontario

than on either Erie or Champlain, no naval action of consequence

occurred there in 1813 or in fact throughout the war. Yeo, the British

commander, was enjoined by Admiralty orders to take no risks; and the

American Commodore Chauncey, with no such justification, adopted a

similar policy. Hence the important fleet actions of the war were in

other waters—Perry’s victory of September 10, 1813, on Lake Erie, and

Macdonough’s victory on Lake Champlain a year later. The first sentence

in the paragraph following refers to a raid on Buffalo, December 30,

1813.—EDITOR.]

With this may be said to have terminated the northern campaign of 1813.

The British had regained full control of the Niagara peninsula, and they

continued to hold Fort Niagara, in the State of New York, till peace was

concluded. The only substantial gain on the whole frontier, from the

extreme east to the extreme west, was the destruction of the British

fleet on Lake Erie, and the consequent transfer of power in the west to

the United States. This was the left flank of the American position. Had

the same result been accomplished on the right flank,—as it might have

been,—at Montreal, or even at Kingston, the center and left must have

fallen also. For the misdirection of effort to Niagara, the local

commanders, Dearborn and Chauncey, are primarily responsible; for

Armstrong[95] yielded his own correct perceptions to the representations

of the first as to the enemy’s force, supported by the arguments of the

naval officer favoring the diversion of effort from Kingston to Toronto.

Whether Chauncey ever formally admitted to himself this fundamental

mistake, which wrecked the summer’s work upon Lake Ontario, does not

appear; but that he had learned from experience is shown by a letter to

the Secretary of the Navy,[96] when the squadrons had been laid up. In

this he recognized the uselessness of the heavy sailing schooners when

once a cruising force of ships for war had been created, thereby

condemning much of his individual management of the campaign; and he

added: “If it is determined to prosecute the war offensively, and secure

our conquests in Upper Canada, Kingston ought unquestionably to be the

first object of attack, and that so early in the spring as to prevent

the enemy from using the whole of the naval force that he is preparing.”

In the three chapters which here end, the Ontario operations have been

narrated consecutively and at length, without interruption by other

issues,—except the immediately related Lake Erie campaign,—because upon

them turned, and upon them by the dispositions of the government this

year were wrecked the fortunes of the war. The year 1813, from the

opening of the spring to the closing in of winter, was for several

reasons the period when conditions were most propitious to the American

cause. In 1812 war was not begun until June, and then with little

antecedent preparation; and it was waged half-heartedly, both

governments desiring to nip hostilities. In 1814, on the other hand,

when the season opened, Napoleon had fallen, and the United States no

longer had an informal ally to divert the efforts of Great Britain. But

in the intervening year, 1813, although the pressure upon the seaboard,

the defensive frontier, was undoubtedly greater than before, and much

vexation and harassment was inflicted, no serious injury was done beyond

the suppression of commerce, inevitable in any event. In the north, on

the lakes frontier, the offensive and the initiative continued in the

hands of the United States. No substantial reinforcements reached Canada

until long after the ice broke up, and then in insufficient numbers.

British naval preparations had been on an inadequate scale, receiving no

proper professional supervision. The American Government, on the

contrary, had had the whole winter to prepare, and the services of a

very competent naval organizer. It had also the same period to get ready

its land forces; while incompetent Secretaries of War and of the Navy

gave place in January to capable men in both situations.

With all this in its favor, and despite certain gratifying successes,

the general outcome was a complete failure, the full measure of which

could be realized only when the downfall of Napoleon revealed what

disaster may result from neglect to seize opportunity while it exists.

The tide then ebbed, and never again flowed. For this many causes may be

alleged. The imbecile ideas concerning military and naval preparation

which had prevailed since the opening of the century doubtless counted

for much. The entrusting of chief command to broken-down men like

Dearborn and Wilkinson was enough to ruin the best conceived schemes.

But, despite these very serious drawbacks, the strategic misdirection of

effort was the most fatal cause of failure.

There is a simple but very fruitful remark of a Swiss military writer,

that every military line may be conceived as having three parts, the

middle and the two ends, or flanks. As sound principle requires that

military effort should not be distributed along the whole of an enemy’s

position,—unless in the unusual case of overwhelming superiority,—but

that distinctly superior numbers should be concentrated upon a limited

portion of it, this idea of a threefold division aids materially in

considering any given situation. One third, or two thirds, of an enemy’s

line may be assailed, but very seldom the whole; and everything may

depend upon the choice made for attack. Now the British frontier, which

the United States was to assail, extended from Montreal on the east to

Detroit on the west. Its three parts were: Montreal and the St. Lawrence

on the east, or left flank; Ontario in the middle, centering at

Kingston; and Erie on the right; the strength of the British position in

the last-named section being at Detroit and Malden, because they

commanded the straits upon which the Indian tribes depended for access

to the east. Over against the British positions named lay those of the

United States. Given in the same order, these were: Lake Champlain, and

the shores of Ontario and of Erie, centering respectively in the naval

stations at Sackett’s Harbor and Presque Isle.

Accepting these definitions, which are too obvious to admit of dispute,

what considerations should have dictated to the United States the

direction of attack; the one, or two, parts out of the three, on which

effort should be concentrated? The reply, as a matter of abstract,

accepted, military principle, is certain. Unless very urgent reasons to

the contrary exist, strike at one end rather than at the middle, because

both ends can come up to help the middle against you quicker than one

end can get to help the other; and, as between the two ends, strike at

the one upon which the enemy most depends for reinforcements and

supplies to maintain his strength. Sometimes this decision presents

difficulties. Before Waterloo, Wellington had his own army as a center

of interest; on his right flank the sea, whence came supplies and

reinforcements from England; on his left the Prussian army, support by

which was imminently necessary. On which flank would Napoleon throw the

weight of his attack? Wellington reasoned, perhaps through national

bias, intensified by years of official dependence upon sea support, that

the blow would fall upon his right, and he strengthened it with a body

of men sorely needed when the enemy came upon his left, in overwhelming

numbers, seeking to separate him from the Prussians.

No such doubt was possible as to Canada in 1813. It depended wholly upon

the sea, and it touched the sea at Montreal. The United States, with its

combined naval and military strength, crude as the latter was, was at

the beginning of 1813 quite able in material power to grapple two out of

the three parts,—Montreal and Kingston. Had they been gained, Lake Erie

would have fallen; as is demonstrated by the fact that the whole Erie

region went down like a house of cards the moment Perry triumphed on the

lake. His victory was decisive, simply because it destroyed the

communications of Malden with the sea. The same result would have been

achieved, with effect over a far wider region, by a similar success in

the east.

27. LESSONS OF THE WAR WITH SPAIN[97]

_The Possibilities of a “Fleet in Being”_

[Admiral Cervera left the Cape Verde Islands on April 29, 1898. After

touching at Martinique on May 11, he coaled at Curaçao on the 15th, and

entered Santiago on the 19th.

On news of Cervera’s arrival at Martinique, Sampson’s squadron from

Porto Rico and Schley’s Flying Squadron from Hampton Roads converged on

Key West. Sampson had his full strength in the approaches to Havana by

the 21st and Schley was off Cienfuegos, the chief southern port of Cuba,

on the 22d.

“We cannot,” writes Admiral Mahan, “expect ever again to have an enemy

so entirely inapt as Spain showed herself to be; yet, even so, Cervera’s

division reached Santiago on the 19th of May, two days before our

divisions appeared in the full force they could muster before Havana and

Cienfuegos.”[98]—EDITOR.]

As was before said, the disparity between the armored fleets of the two

nations was nominally inconsiderable; and the Spaniards possessed one

extremely valuable—and by us unrivalled—advantage in a nearly

homogeneous group of five[99] armored cruisers, very fast, and very

similar both in nautical qualities and in armament. It is difficult to

estimate too highly the possibilities open to such a body of ships,

regarded as a “fleet in being,” to use an expression that many of our

readers may have seen, but perhaps scarcely fully understood.

The phrase “fleet in being,” having within recent years gained much

currency in naval writing, demands—like the word “jingo”—preciseness of

definition; and this, in general acceptance, it has not yet attained. It

remains, therefore, somewhat vague, and so occasions misunderstandings

between men whose opinions perhaps do not materially differ. The writer

will not attempt to define, but a brief explanation of the term and its

origin may not be amiss. It was first used, in 1690, by the British

admiral Lord Torrington, when defending his course in declining to

engage decisively, with an inferior force, a French fleet, then

dominating in the Channel, and under cover of which it was expected that

a descent upon the English coast would be made by a great French army.

“Had I fought otherwise,” he said, “our fleet had been totally lost, and

the kingdom had lain open to invasion. As it was, most men were in fear

that the French would invade; but I was always of another opinion, for I

always said that whilst we had a fleet in being, they would not dare to

make an attempt.”

A “fleet in being,” therefore, is one the existence and maintenance of

which, although inferior, on or near the scene of operations, is a

perpetual menace to the various more or less exposed interests of the

enemy, who cannot tell when a blow may fall, and who is therefore

compelled to restrict his operations, otherwise possible, until that

fleet can be destroyed or neutralized. It corresponds very closely to “a

position on the flank and rear” of an enemy, where the presence of a

smaller force, as every military student knows, harasses, and may even

paralyze, offensive movements. When such a force is extremely mobile, as

a fleet of armored cruisers may be, its power of mischief is very great;

potentially, it is forever on the flank and rear, threatening the lines

of communications. It is indeed as a threat to communications that the

“fleet in being” is chiefly formidable.

The theory received concrete and convincing illustration during the

recent hostilities, from the effect exerted—and justly exerted—upon our

plans and movements by Cervera’s squadron, until there had been

assembled before Santiago a force at once so strong and so numerous as

to make his escape very improbable. Even so, when a telegram was

received from a capable officer that he had identified by night, off the

north coast of Cuba, an armored cruiser,—which, if of that class, was

most probably an enemy,—the sailing of Shafter’s expedition was stopped

until the report could be verified. So much for the positive, material

influence—in the judgment of the writer, the reasonable influence—of a

“fleet in being.” As regards the moral effect, the effect upon the

imagination, it is scarcely necessary more than to allude to the

extraordinary play of the fancy, the kaleidoscopic effects elicited from

our own people, and from some foreign critics, in propounding dangers

for ourselves and ubiquity for Cervera. Against the infection of such

tremors it is one of the tasks of those in responsibility to guard

themselves and, if possible, their people. “Don’t make pictures for

yourself,” was Napoleon’s warning to his generals. “Every naval

operation since I became head of the government has failed, because my

admirals see double and have learned—where I don’t know—that war can be

made without running risks.”

The probable value of a “fleet in being” has, in the opinion of the

writer, been much overstated; for, even at the best, the game of

evasion, which this is, if persisted in, can have but one issue. The

superior force will in the end run the inferior to earth. In the

meanwhile, however, vital time may have been lost. It is conceivable,

for instance, that Cervera’s squadron, if thoroughly effective, might,

by swift and well-concealed movements, have detained our fleet in the

West Indies until the hurricane of September, 1898, swept over the

Caribbean. We had then no reserve to replace armored ships lost or

damaged. But, for such persistence of action, there is needed in each

unit of the “fleet in being” an efficiency rarely attainable, and liable

to be lost by unforeseen accident at a critical moment. Where effect,

nay, safety, depends upon mere celerity of movement, as in retreat, a

crippled ship means a lost ship; or a lost fleet, if the body sticks to

its disabled member. Such efficiency it is probable Cervera’s division

never possessed. The length of its passage across the Atlantic, however

increased by the embarrassment of frequently recoaling the torpedo

destroyers, so far overpassed the extreme calculations of our naval

authorities, that ready credence was given to an apparently authentic

report that it had returned to Spain; the more so that such

concentration was strategically correct, and it was incorrect to

adventure an important detachment so far from home, without the

reinforcement it might have received in Cadiz. This delay, in ships

whose individual speed had originally been very high, has been commonly

attributed in our service to the inefficiency of the engine-room force;

and this opinion is confirmed by a Spanish officer writing in their

“Revista de la Marina.” “The Americans,” he says, “keep their ships

cruising constantly, in every sea, and therefore have a large and

qualified engine-room force. We have but few machinists, and are almost

destitute of firemen.” This inequality, however, is fundamentally due to

the essential differences of mechanical capacity and development in the

two nations. An amusing story was told the writer some years ago by one

of our consuls in Cuba. Making a rather rough passage between two ports,

he saw an elderly Cuban or Spanish gentleman peering frequently into the

engine-room, with evident uneasiness. When asked the cause of his

concern, the reply was, “I don’t feel comfortable unless the man in

charge of the engines talks English to them.”

When to the need of constant and sustained ability to move at high speed

is added the necessity of frequent recoaling, allowing the hostile navy

time to come up, it is evident that the active use of a “fleet in

being,” however perplexing to the enemy, must be both anxious and

precarious to its own commander. The contest is one of strategic wits,

and it is quite possible that the stronger, though slower, force,

centrally placed, may, in these days of cables, be able to receive word

and to corner its antagonist before the latter can fill his bunkers. Of

this fact we should probably have received a very convincing

illustration, had a satisfactory condition of our coast defenses

permitted the Flying Squadron to be off Cienfuegos, or even off Havana,

instead of in Hampton Roads. Cervera’s entrance to Santiago was known to

us within twenty-four hours. In twenty-four more it could have been

communicated off Cienfeugos by a fast despatch boat, after which less

than forty-eight would have placed our division before Santiago. The

uncertainty felt by Commodore Schley, when he arrived off Cienfuegos, as

to whether the Spanish division was inside or no, would not have existed

had his squadron been previously blockading; and his consequent delay of

over forty-eight hours—with the rare chance thus offered to

Cervera—would not have occurred. To coal four great ships within that

time was probably beyond the resources of Santiago; whereas the speed

predicted for our own movements is rather below than above the

dispositions contemplated to ensure it.

The great end of a war fleet, however, is not to chase, nor to fly, but

to control the seas. Had Cervera escaped our pursuit at Santiago, it

would have been only to be again paralyzed at Cienfuegos or at Havana.

When speed, not force, is the reliance, destruction may be postponed,

but can be escaped only by remaining in port. Let it not, therefore, be

inferred, from the possible, though temporary, effect of a “fleet in

being,” that speed is the chief of all factors in the battleship. This

plausible, superficial notion, too easily accepted in these days of

hurry and of unreflecting dependence upon machinery as the all in all,

threatens much harm to the future efficiency of the navy. Not speed, but

power of offensive action, is the dominant factor in war. The decisive

preponderant element of great land forces has ever been the infantry,

which, it is needless to say, is also the slowest. The homely summary of

the art of war, “To get there first with the most men,” has with strange

perverseness been so distorted in naval—and still more in

popular—conception, that the second and more important consideration has

been subordinated to the former and less essential. Force does not exist

for mobility, but mobility for force. It is of no use to get there first

unless, when the enemy in turn arrives, you have also the most men,—the

greater force. This is especially true of the sea, because there

inferiority of force—of gun power—cannot be compensated, as on land it

at times may be, by judiciously using accidents of the ground. I do not

propose to fall into an absurdity of my own by questioning the

usefulness of higher speed, _provided_ the increase is not purchased at

the expense of strictly offensive power; but the time has come to say

plainly that its value is being exaggerated; that it is in the

battleship secondary to gun power; that a battle fleet can never attain,

nor maintain, the highest rate of any ship in it, except of that one

which at the moment is the slowest, for it is a commonplace of naval

action that fleet speed is that of the slowest ship; that not

exaggerated speed, but uniform speed—sustained speed—is the requisite of

the battle fleet; that it is not machinery, as is often affirmed, but

brains and guns, that win battles and control of the sea. The true speed

of war is not headlong precipitancy, but the unremitting energy which

wastes no time.

For the reasons that have been given, the safest, though not the most

effective, disposition of an inferior “fleet in being” is to lock it up

in an impregnable port or ports, imposing upon the enemy the intense and

continuous strain of watchfulness against escape. This it was that

Torrington, the author of the phrase, proposed for the time to do. Thus

it was that Napoleon, to some extent before Trafalgar, but afterward

with set and exclusive purpose, used the French Navy, which he was

continually augmenting, and yet never, to the end of his reign,

permitted again to undertake any serious expedition. The mere

maintenance of several formidable detachments, in apparent readiness,

from the Scheldt round to Toulon, presented to the British so many

possibilities of mischief that they were compelled to keep constantly

before each of the French ports a force superior to that within,

entailing an expense and an anxiety by which the emperor hoped to

exhaust their endurance. To some extent this was Cervera’s position and

function in Santiago, whence followed logically the advisability of a

land attack upon the port, to force to a decisive issue a situation

which was endurable only if incurable. “The destruction of Cervera’s

squadron,” justly commented an Italian writer, before the result was

known, “is the only really decisive fact that can result from the

expedition to Santiago, because it will reduce to impotence the naval

power of Spain. The determination of the conflict will depend throughout

upon the destruction of the Spanish sea power, and not upon territorial

descents, although the latter may aggravate the situation.” The American

admiral from before Santiago, when urging the expedition of a land force

to make the bay untenable, telegraphed, “The destruction of this

squadron will end the war;” and it did.

28. THE SANTIAGO BLOCKADE[100]

Our battle fleet before Santiago was more than powerful enough to crush

the hostile squadron in a very short time if the latter attempted a

stand-up fight. The fact was so evident that it was perfectly clear

nothing of the kind would be hazarded; but, nevertheless, we could not

afford to diminish the number of armored vessels on this spot, now

become the determining center of the conflict. The possibility of the

situation was twofold. Either the enemy might succeed in an effort at

evasion, a chance which required us to maintain a distinctly superior

force of battleships in order to allow the occasional absence of one or

two for coaling or repairs, besides as many lighter cruisers as could be

mustered for purposes of lookout, or, by merely remaining quietly at

anchor, protected from attack by the lines of torpedoes, he might

protract a situation which tended not only to wear out our ships, but

also to keep them there into the hurricane season,—a risk which was not,

perhaps, adequately realized by the people of the United States.

It is desirable at this point to present certain other elements of the

naval situation which weightily affected naval action at the moment, and

which, also, were probably overlooked by the nation at large, for they

give a concrete illustration of conditions, which ought to influence our

national policy, as regards the navy, in the present and immediate

future. We had to economize our ships because they were too few. There

was no reserve. The Navy Department had throughout, and especially at

this period, to keep in mind, not merely the exigencies at Santiago, but

the fact that we had not a battleship in the home ports that could in

six months be made ready to replace one lost or seriously disabled, as

the _Massachusetts_, for instance, not long afterwards was, by running

on an obstruction in New York Bay. Surprise approaching disdain was

expressed, both before and after the destruction of Cervera’s squadron,

that the battle fleet was not sent into Santiago either to grapple the

enemy’s ships there, or to support the operations of the army, in the

same way, for instance, that Farragut crossed the torpedo lines at

Mobile. The reply—and, in the writer’s judgment, the more than adequate

reason—was that the country could not at that time, under the political

conditions which then obtained, afford to risk the loss or disablement

of a single battleship, unless the enterprise in which it was hazarded

carried a reasonable probability of equal or greater loss to the enemy,

leaving us, therefore, as strong as before relatively to the naval power

which in the course of events might yet be arrayed against us. If we

lost ten thousand men, the country could replace them; if we lost a

battleship, it could not be replaced. The issue of the war, as a whole

and in every locality to which it extended, depended upon naval force,

and it was imperative to achieve, not success only, but success delayed

no longer than necessary. A million of the best soldiers would have been

powerless in face of hostile control of the sea. Dewey had not a

battleship, but there can be no doubt that that capable admiral thought

he ought to have one or more; and so he ought, if we had had them to

spare. The two monitors would be something, doubtless, when they

arrived; but, like all their class, they lacked mobility.

When Cámara started by way of Suez for the East, it was no more evident

than it was before that we ought to have battleships there. That was

perfectly plain from the beginning; but battleships no more than men can

be in two places at once, and until Cámara’s movement had passed beyond

the chance of turning west, the Spanish fleet in the Peninsula had, as

regarded the two fields of war, the West Indies and the Philippines, the

recognized military advantage of an interior position. In accepting

inferiority in the East, and concentrating our available force in the

West Indies, thereby ensuring a superiority over any possible

combination of Spanish vessels in the latter quarter, the Department

acted rightly and in accordance with sound military precedent; but it

must be remembered that the Spanish Navy was not the only possibility of

the day. The writer was not in a position to know then, and does not

know now, what weight the United States Government attached to the

current rumors of possible political friction with other states whose

people were notoriously sympathizers with our enemy. The public knows as

much about that as he does; but it was clear that if a disposition to

interfere did exist anywhere, it would not be lessened by a serious

naval disaster to us, such as the loss of one of our few battleships

would be. Just as in the maintenance of a technically “effective”

blockade of the Cuban ports, so, also, in sustaining the entireness and

vigor of the battle fleet, the attitude of foreign Powers as well as the

strength of the immediate enemy had to be considered. For such reasons

it was recommended that the orders on this point to Admiral Sampson

should be peremptory; not that any doubt existed as to the discretion of

that officer, who justly characterized the proposition to throw the

ships upon the mine fields of Santiago as suicidal folly, but because it

was felt that the burden of such a decision should be assumed by a

superior authority, less liable to suffer in personal reputation from

the idle imputations of over-caution, which at times were ignorantly

made by some who ought to have known better, but did not. “The matter is

left to your discretion,” the telegram read, “except that the United

States armored vessels must not be risked.”

When Cervera’s squadron was once cornered, an intelligent opponent

would, under any state of naval preparedness, have seen the advisability

of forcing him out of the port by an attack in the rear, which could be

made only by an army. As Nelson said on one occasion, “What is wanted

now is not more ships, but troops.” Under few conditions should such a

situation be prolonged. But the reasons adduced in the last paragraph

made it doubly incumbent upon us to bring the matter speedily to an

issue, and the combined expedition from Tampa was at once ordered.

Having in view the number of hostile troops in the country surrounding

Santiago, as shown by the subsequent returns of prisoners, and shrewdly

suspected by ourselves beforehand, it was undoubtedly desirable to

employ a larger force than was sent. The criticism made upon the

inadequate number of troops engaged in this really daring movement is

intrinsically sound, and would be wholly accurate if directed, not

against the enterprise itself, but against the national shortsightedness

which gave us so trivial an army at the outbreak of the war. The really

hazardous nature of the movement is shown by the fact that the column of

Escario, three thousand strong, from Manzanillo, reached Santiago on

July 3d; too late, it is true, abundantly too late, to take part in the

defense of San Juan and El Caney, upon holding which the city depended

for food and water; yet not so late but that it gives a shivering

suggestion how much more arduous would have been the task of our troops

had Escario come up in time. The incident but adds another to history’s

long list of instances where desperate energy and economy of time have

wrested safety out of the jaws of imminent disaster. The occasion was

one that called upon us to take big risks; and success merely justifies

doubly an attempt which, from the obvious balance of advantages and

disadvantages, was antecedently justified by its necessity, and would

not have been fair subject for blame, even had it failed.

The Navy Department did not, however, think that even a small chance of

injury should be taken which could be avoided; and it may be remarked

that, while the man is unfit for command who, on emergency, is unable to

run a very great risk for the sake of decisive advantage, he, on the

other hand, is only less culpable who takes even a small risk of serious

harm against which reasonable precaution can provide. It has been well

said that Nelson took more care of his topgallant masts, in ordinary

cruising, than he did of his whole fleet when the enemy was to be

checked or beaten; and this combination of qualities apparently opposed

is found in all strong military characters to the perfection of which

both are necessary.

29. “FLEET IN BEING” AND “FORTRESS FLEET”[101]

_The Port Arthur Squadron in the Russo-Japanese War_

[At the outbreak of the Russo-Japanese War in February, 1904, Russia had

three armored cruisers at Vladivostok, another at Chemulpo, Korea, and

seven battleships, six cruisers, and a torpedo flotilla at Port Arthur.

Three of the Port Arthur ships were badly damaged by torpedo attack on

February 8, and the cruiser at Chemulpo was destroyed on the next day.

Togo lost two of his six first-class battleships by running into a mine

field off Port Arthur on May 15. In an attempt to escape to Vladivostok

on August 10, the Port Arthur squadron lost a battleship and several

cruisers; the remainder were sunk in the course of the Port Arthur

siege. This lasted from May 27 to January 1, 1905. Even before February

8, 1904, the Japanese had begun transporting their troops to Korea; and

after the fall of Port Arthur they were able to throw their full

strength against General Kuropatkin in the decisive battle of Mukden,

February 24, 1905.—EDITOR.]

I have been led, on an occasion not immediately connected with Naval

Strategy, to observe that errors and defeats are more obviously

illustrative of principles than successes are. It is from the records of

the beaten side that we are most surely able to draw instruction. This

is partly due to the fact that the general or admiral who is worsted has

to justify himself to his people, perhaps also to his Government. The

naval practice of court-martialing a defeated captain or admiral has

been most productive of the material which history, and the art of war,

both require for their treatment. Even failing a court-martial, defeat

cries aloud for explanation; whereas success, like charity, covers a

multitude of sins. To this day Marengo is the victory of Napoleon, not

of Desaix; and the hazardous stretching of the French line which caused

the first defeat is by most forgotten in the ultimate triumph. The man

who has failed will of his own motion bring out all that extenuates

failure, or relieves him from the imputation of it. The victor is asked

few questions; and if conscious of mistakes he need not reveal them.

More can be found to criticize Kuropatkin and Rozhestvensky than to

recognize either their difficulties or their merits. Probably few, even

in this naval audience, knew, or have noted, that on the day preceding

that on which two Japanese battleships, the _Hatsuse_ and _Yashima_,

were sunk by Russian mines, not a Japanese scout was in sight, to notice

the Russian vessel engaged in the work which resulted so disastrously to

its foes. On that day, during that operation, no Japanese vessel was

visible to the lookouts at Port Arthur.

For the reasons advanced, I turn at first, and more particularly, to the

Russian naval action for illustration of principles, whether shown in

right or wrong conduct; and here I first name _two_ such principles, or

formulation of maxims, as having been fundamental, and in my judgment

fundamentally erroneous, in the Russian practice. These are mental

conceptions, the first of which has been explicitly stated as

controlling Russian plans, and influencing Russian military ideas; while

the second may be deduced, inferentially, as exercising much effect. The

first, under the title of “Fortress Fleet,” is distinctly Russian;

realized, that is, in Russian theory and practice, though not without

representation in the military thought of other countries. The second is

the well known “Fleet in Being;” a conception distinctly English in

statement and in origin, although, like the first, it finds reflection

in naval circles elsewhere. I shall not at this point define this

conception “Fleet in Being.” I shall attempt to do so later, by marking

its extreme expression; but to do more will require more space than is

expedient to give here, because full definition would demand the putting

forward of various shades of significance, quite wide in their

divergence, which are attributed to the expression—“Fleet in Being”—by

those who range themselves as advocates of the theory embraced in the

phrase.

It is, however, apt here to remark that, in extreme formulation, the two

theories, or principles, summed up in the phrases, “Fortress Fleet” and

“Fleet in Being,” are the antipodes of each other. They represent naval,

or military, thought polarized, so to say. The one lays all stress on

the fortress, making the fleet so far subsidiary as to have no reason

for existence save to help the fortress. The other discards the fortress

altogether, unless possibly as a momentary refuge for the vessels of the

fleet while coaling, repairing, or refreshing. The one throws national

defense for the coast lines upon fortifications only; the other relies

upon the fleet alone for actual defense. In each case, co-operation

between the two arms, fleet and coast-works, is characterized by a

supremacy of one or the other, so marked as to be exclusive.

Co-ordination of the two, which I conceive to be the proper solution,

can scarcely be said to exist. The relation is that of subjection,

rather than of co-ordination. [Here a distinction is drawn between

_compromise_, which implies concessions and a middle course between

divergent purposes, and the proper method best expressed by the word

_adjustment_, which signifies concentration on a single purpose and

co-ordination of all means to that end.]

It is worthy of your consideration whether the word “compromise” does

not really convey to your minds an impression that, when you come to

design a ship of war, you must be prepared to concede something on every

quality, in order that each of the others may have its share. Granting,

and I am not prepared to deny, that in effect each several quality must

yield something, if only in order that its own effectiveness be ensured,

as in the case of the central defense force just cited, is it of no

consequence that you approach the problem in the spirit of him who

divided his force among several passes, rather than of him who

recognizes a central conception to which all else is to minister? Take

the armored cruiser; a fad, I admit, with myself. She is armored, and

she is a cruiser; and what have you got? A ship to “lie in the line?” as

our ancestors used to say. No, and Yes; that is to say, she may on a

pinch, and at a risk which exceeds her powers. A cruiser? Yes, and No;

for, in order to give her armor and armament which do not fit her for

the line, you have given tonnage beyond what is needed for the speed and

coal endurance proper to a cruiser. By giving this tonnage to armor and

armament you have taken it from other uses; either from increasing her

own speed and endurance, or from providing an additional cruiser. You

have in her more cruiser than you ought to have, and less armored

vessel; or else less cruiser and more armored ship. I do not call this a

combination, though it is undoubtedly a compromise. You have put two

things together, but they remain two, have not become one; and,

considering the tonnage, you have neither as much armored ship, nor as

much cruiser, as you ought to have. I do not say you have a useless

ship. I do say you have not as useful a ship as, for the tonnage, you

ought to have. Whether this opinion of one man is right or wrong,

however, is a very small matter compared with the desirability of

officers generally considering these subjects on proper lines of

thought, and with proper instruments of expression; that is, with

correct principles and correct phraseology.

As an illustration of what I am here saying, the two expressions,

“Fortress Fleet” and “Fleet in Being,” themselves give proof in their

ultimate effect upon Russian practice and principle. Fortress Fleet

was a dominant conception in Russian military and naval thought. I

quote with some reserve, because from a daily newspaper,[102] but as

probably accurate, and certainly characteristic of Russian theory, the

following: “Before his departure from Bizerta for the Suez Canal,

Admiral Wirenius, in command of the Russian squadron, remarked that

the Russian plan was to make Port Arthur and Vladivostok the two most

important arsenals in the empire, each having a fleet of corresponding

strength,”—corresponding, that is, to the fortress,—“depending upon it

as upon a base.” The distribution would be a division in the face of

the probable enemy, Japan, centrally situated, because the design has

reference primarily to the fortress, not to naval efficiency. The

conception is not wholly erroneous; if it were, the error would have

been detected. It has an element of truth, and therein lies its

greatest danger; the danger of half or quarter truths. A fleet _can_

contribute to the welfare of coast fortresses; especially when the

fortress is in a foreign possession of the nation. On the other hand,

the Fleet in Being theory has also an element of truth, a very

considerable element; and it has been before the naval public,

explicitly, for so long a time that it is impossible it was not known

in Russia. It was known and was appreciated. It had a strong

following. The Russian Naval General Staff clamored for command of the

sea; but in influence upon the government, the responsible director

and formulator of national policy, it did not possess due weight. Not

having been adequately grasped,—whether from neglect, or because the

opposite factor of Fortress Fleet was already in possession of men’s

minds,—it was never able to secure expression in the national plans.

There was compromise, possibly; both things, Fleet in Being and

Fortress Fleet, were attempted; but there was not adjustment. The

fortress throughout reduced the fleet, as fleet, to insignificance in

the national conceptions. What resulted was that at Port Arthur the

country got neither a fortress fleet, for, except the guns mounted

from it, the fleet contributed nothing to the defense of the place;

nor yet a Fleet in Being, for it was never used as such.

It is interesting to observe that this predominant conception of a

fortress fleet reflects national temperament; that is, national

characteristics, national bias. For, for what does Fortress Fleet stand?

For the defensive idea. For what does Fleet in Being stand? For the

offensive. In what kind of warfare has Russia most conspicuously

distinguished herself? In defensive. She has had her Suvarof, doubtless;

but in 1812, and in the Crimea, and now again, in 1904–1905, it is to

the defensive that she has inclined. In virtue of her territorial bulk

and vast population, she has, so to say, let the enemy hammer at her,

sure of survival in virtue of mass. Militarily, Russia as a nation is

not enterprising. She has an apathetic bias towards the defensive. She

has not, as a matter of national, or governmental, decision, so grasped

the idea of offense, nor, as a people, been so gripped by that idea, as

to correct the natural propensity to defense, and to give to defense and

offense their proper adjustment in national and military policy.

In these two well-known expressions, “Fortress Fleet” and “Fleet in

Being,” both current, and comparatively recent, we find ourselves

therefore confronting the two old divisions of warfare,—defensive and

offensive. We may expect these old friends to exhibit their well-known

qualities and limitations in action; but, having recognized them under

their new garb, we will also consider them under it, speaking not

directly of offensive and defensive, but of Fortress Fleet and Fleet in

Being, and endeavoring, first, to trace their influence in the Russian

conduct....

Why then was the fleet stationed in Port Arthur? Because, expecting the

Japanese attack to fall upon Port Arthur, the purpose of the Russian

authorities was not to use the fleet offensively against the enemy’s

navy, but defensively as a fortress fleet; defending the fortress by

defensive action, awaiting attack, not making it. That is, the function

of the fortress was conceived as defensive chiefly, and not as

offensive. Later, I hope to show that the purpose, the _raison d’être_,

of a coast fortress is in itself offensive; because it exists chiefly

for the purpose of sheltering a fleet, and keeping it fit to act

offensively. For the present, waiving the point, it will be sufficient

to note that the conception of the fleet by the Russians, that it should

act only in defense, led necessarily to imperfect action even in that

respect. The Port Arthur division virtually never acted offensively,

even locally. An observer on the spot says: “In the disposition of their

destroyers, the authorities did not seem disposed to give them a free

hand, or to allow them to take any chances.” And again, “The torpedo

boats were never sent out with the aim of attacking Japanese ships, or

transports. If out, and attacked, they fought, but they did not go out

for the purpose of attacking, although they would to cover an army

flank.” These two actions define the rôle indicated by the expression,

“Fortress Fleet.” The Japanese expressed surprise that no attempt by

scouting was made to ascertain their naval base, which was also the

landing place of their army; and, although the sinking of the two

battleships on May 15 was seen from Port Arthur, no effort was made to

improve such a moment of success, and of demoralization to the enemy,

although there were twenty-one destroyers at Port Arthur; sixteen of

which were under steam and outside. So, at the very last moment, the

fleet held on to its defensive rôle; going out only when already damaged

by enemy’s shells, and then not to fight but to fly.

It is a curious commentary upon this course of action, that, as far as

any accounts that have come under my eye show, the fleet contributed

nothing to the defense of the fortress beyond landing guns, and, as the

final death struggle approached, using their batteries in support of

those of the fortress; but the most extreme theorist would scarcely

advocate such an end as the object of maintaining a fleet. The same guns

would be better emplaced on shore. As far as defense went, the Russian

Port Arthur fleet might as well have been at Cronstadt throughout.

Indeed, better; for then it would have accompanied Rozhestvensky in

concentrated numbers, and the whole Russian navy there assembled, in

force far superior, would have been a threat to the Japanese command of

the sea much more effective, as a defense to Port Arthur, than was the

presence of part of that fleet in the port itself.

The Russian fleet in the Far East, assembled as to the main body in Port

Arthur, by its mere presence under the conditions announced that it was

there to serve the fortress, to which it was subsidiary. Concentrated at

Vladivostok, to one side of the theater of war, and flanking the enemy’s

line of communications to that which must be the chief scene of

operations, it would have been a clear evident declaration that the

fortress was subsidiary to the ships; that its chief value in the

national military scheme was to shelter, and to afford repairs, in

short, to maintain in efficiency, a body which meant to go out to fight,

and with a definite object. The hapless Rozhestvensky gave voice to this

fact in an expression which I have found attributed to him before the

fatal battle at Tsushima: that; if twenty only of the numbers under his

command reached Vladivostok, the Japanese communications would be

seriously endangered. This is clear “Fleet in Being” theory, and quite

undiluted; for it expresses the extreme view that the presence of a

strong force, even though inferior, near the scene of operations, will

produce a momentous effect upon the enemy’s action. The extreme school

has gone so far as to argue that it will stop an expedition; or should

do so, if the enemy be wise. I have for years contended against this

view as unsound; as shown to be so historically. Such a “fleet in

being,” inferior, should not be accepted by an enemy as a sufficient

deterrent under ordinary circumstances. It has not been in the past, and

the Japanese did not so accept it. The Russian “fleet in being,” in Port

Arthur, did not stop their transportation; although they recognized

danger from it, and consistently took every step in their power to

neutralize it. Their operations throughout were directed consistently to

this end. The first partially successful torpedo attack; the attempts to

block the harbor by sinking vessels; the distant bombardments; the mines

laid outside; and the early institution and persistence in the siege

operations,—all had but one end, the destruction of the fleet, in being,

within; but, for all that, that fleet did not arrest the transport of

the Japanese army.

These two simultaneous operations, the transport of troops despite the

fleet in being, and the persevering effort at the same time to destroy

it—or neutralize it—illustrate what I have called adjustment between

opposite considerations. The danger from the fleet in being is

recognized, but so also is the danger in delaying the initiation of the

land campaign. The Fleet in Being School would condemn the

transportation, so long as the Port Arthur fleet existed. It actually

did so condemn it. The London _Times_, which is, or then was, under the

influence of this school, published six weeks before the war began a

summary of the situation, by naval and military correspondents, in which

appears this statement: “With a hostile fleet behind the guns at Port

Arthur, the Japanese could hardly venture to send troops into the Yellow

Sea.” And again, four weeks later: “It is obvious that, until the

Russian ships are sunk, captured, or shut up in their ports with their

wings effectually clipped, there can be no security for the sea

communications of an expeditionary force.” These are just as clear

illustrations of the exaggeration inherent in the Fleet in Being theory,

which assumes the deterrent influence of an offensive threatened by

inferior force, as the conduct of the Russian naval operations was of

the inefficiency latent in their theory of Fortress Fleet.

If security meant the security of peace, these Fleet in Being statements

could be accepted; but military security is an entirely different thing;

and we know that, coincidently with the first torpedo attack, before its

result could be known, an expeditionary Japanese force was sent into the

Yellow Sea to Chemulpo, and that it rapidly received reinforcements to

the estimated number of fifty or sixty thousand. The enterprise in

Manchuria, the landing of troops west of the mouth of the Yalu, was

delayed for some time—two months, more or less. What the reason of that

delay, and what determined the moment of beginning, I do not know; but

we do know, not only that it was made in face of four Russian

battleships within Port Arthur, but that it continued in face of the

increase of their number to six by the repair of those damaged in the

first torpedo attack. As early as May 31, it was known in Tokyo that the

damaged ships were nearly ready for the sortie, which they actually made

on June 23.

It is doubtless open to say that, though the Japanese did thus venture,

they ought not to have done so. Note therefore that the Japanese were

perfectly alive to the risks run. From the first they were exceedingly

careful of their battleships, knowing that on them depended the

communications of their army. The fact was noted early in the war by

observers on the spot. This shows that they recognized the full menace

of all the conditions of the Russian fleet in Port Arthur, also of the

one in the Baltic, and of the danger to their communications.

Nevertheless, though realizing these various dangers from the hostile

“fleets in being,” they ventured.

About the middle of March, that is, six weeks after the war began, a

report, partly believed by the Japanese authorities, came in that the

Port Arthur ships had escaped in a snow storm, on March 11. It is

reported that all transportation of troops stopped for some ten days. It

may be remembered that in our war with Spain, a very similar report,

from two different and competent witnesses, arrested the movement of

Shafter’s army from Key West until it could be verified. In the case of

the Japanese, as in our own, the incident illustrates the possible

dangers from a “fleet in being.” In neither report was there an evident

impossibility. Had either proved true the momentary danger to

communications is evident; but the danger is one the chance of which has

to be taken. As Napoleon said, “War cannot be made without running

risks.” The condition that an enemy’s fleet watched in port may get out,

and may do damage, is entirely different from the fact that it has

gotten out. The possibility is not a sufficient reason for stopping

transportation; the actual fact is sufficient for taking particular

precautions, adjusting dispositions to the new conditions, as was done

by ourselves and by the Japanese in the circumstances. The case is

wholly different if the enemy has a fleet equal or superior; for then he

is entirely master of his movement, does not depend upon evasion for

keeping the sea, and communications in such case are in danger, not

merely of temporary disarrangement but of permanent destruction. No

special warning is needed to know this; the note of the “Fleet in Being”

School is insistence on the paralyzing effect of an _inferior_ fleet.

_Divided Forces_[103]

But among the most important lessons of this war—perhaps the most

important, as also one easily understood and which exemplifies a

principle of warfare of ageless application—is the inexpediency, the

terrible danger, of dividing the battle fleet, even in times of peace,

into fractions individually smaller than those of a possible enemy. The

Russian divisions at Port Arthur, at Vladivostok, and in the European

ports of Russia, if united, would in 1904 have outweighed decisively the

navy of Japan, which moreover could receive no increase during

hostilities. It would have been comparatively immaterial, as regards

effect upon the local field of operations, whether the ships were

assembled in the Baltic, in Vladivostok, or in Port Arthur. Present

together, the fleet thus constituted could not have been disregarded by

Japan without a risk transcending beyond comparison that caused by the

Port Arthur division alone, which the Japanese deliberately put out of

court. For, while they undertook, and successfully carried out, measures

which during a period of four months disabled it as a body menacing

their sea communications, they none the less before the torpedo attack

of February 8 had begun the movement of their army to the continent. It

is most improbable that they would have dared the same had the available

Russian navy been united. It would have mattered nothing that it was

frozen in in Vladivostok. The case of Japan would not have been better,

but worse, for having utilized the winter to cross her troops to the

mainland, if, when summer came, the enemy appeared in overwhelming naval

force. If Togo, in face of Rozhestvensky’s division alone, could signal

his fleet, “The salvation or the fall of the Empire depends upon the

result of this engagement,” how much more serious the situation had

there been with it the Port Arthur ships, which had handled his vessels

somewhat roughly the preceding August.

To an instructed, thoughtful, naval mind in the United States, there is

no contingency affecting the country, as interested in the navy, so

menacing as the fear of popular clamor influencing an irresolute, or

militarily ignorant, administration to divide the battleship force into

two divisions, the Atlantic and the Pacific. A determined President,

instructed in military matters, doubtless will not yield, but will

endeavor by explanation to appease apprehension and quiet outcry.

Nevertheless, the danger exists; and always will exist in proportion as

the people do not understand the simple principle that an efficient

military body depends for its effect in war—and in peace—less upon its

position than upon its concentrated force. This does not ignore

position, and its value. On the contrary, it is written with a clear

immediate recollection of Napoleon’s pregnant saying, “War is a business

of positions.” But the great captain, in the letter in which the phrase

occurs, goes on directly to instruct the marshal to whom he is writing

so to station the divisions of his corps, for purposes of supply, around

a common center, that they can unite rapidly; and can meet the enemy in

mass before he can attack any one of them, or move far from his present

position against another important French interest.

Concentration indeed, in last analysis, may be correctly defined as

being itself a choice of position; viz.: that the various corps, or

ships, shall not be some in one place, and some in others, but all in

one place. We Americans have luckily had an object lesson, not at our

own expense, but at that of an old friend. There is commonly believed to

have been little effective public opinion in Russia at the time the war

with Japan was at hand; such as did manifest itself, in the use of

dynamite against officials, seems not to have taken into consideration

international relations, military or other. But in the councils of the

Empire, however constituted, and whatever the weight of the military

element, there was shown in act an absolute disregard of principles so

simple, so obvious, and so continually enforced by precept and

experience, that the fact would be incomprehensible, had not we all

seen, in civil as in military life, that the soundest principles,

perfectly well known, fail, more frequently than not, to sustain conduct

against prepossession or inclination. That communications dominate

strategy, and that the communications of Japan in a continental war

would be by sea, were clear as daylight. That the whole navy of Russia,

united on the scene, would be sufficient, and half of it probably

insufficient, certainly hazardous, was equally plain. Yet, ship by ship,

half was assembled in the Far East, until Japan saw that this process of

division had been carried as far as suited her interests and declared

war; after which of course no Russian battleship could go forward alone.

From the military point of view the absurdity of the procedure is clear;

but for national safety it has to be equally clear to statesmen and to

people. An outside observer, with some little acquired knowledge of the

workings of men’s minds, needs small imagination to hear the arguments

at the Russian council board. “Things are looking squally in the East,”

says one; “the fleet ought to be increased.” “Increased,” says another,

“you may say so. All the ships we have ought to be sent, and together,

the instant they can be got ready.” “Oh but,” rejoins a third, “consider

how exposed our Baltic shores would be, in case war against us should be

declared by Great Britain, which already has an understanding with

Japan.” The obvious reply, that, in case Great Britain did declare war,

the only thing to be done with the Baltic fleet would be to snuggle it

close inside of the guns of Cronstadt, would probably be made; if it

was, it was not heeded. In a representative government would doubtless

have been heard the further remark, “The feeling in our coast towns, at

seeing no ship left for their protection, would be so strong, that I

doubt if the party could carry the next election.” Against this there is

no provision, except popular understanding; operative perhaps in the

interior, where there is no occasion for fright.

The most instructive feature of this Russian mistake, inexcusable in a

government not browbeaten by political turmoil, is that it was made in

time of peace, in the face of conditions threatening war. In fact, as is

often the case, when war came it was already too late to remedy

adequately the blunders or neglects of peace. More than twenty years ago

the present writer had occasion to quote emphatically the words of a

French author, “Naval Strategy”—naval strategic considerations—“is as

necessary in peace as in war.” In 1904, nearly a decade had elapsed

since Japan had been despoiled of much of her gains in her war with

China. Since then Russia had been pursuing a course of steady

aggression, in furtherance of her own aims, and contrary to what Japan

considered her “vital interests and national honor.” It is not necessary

to pronounce between the views of the two parties to see that the action

of Russia was militarily preposterous, unless her fleet grew in

proportion to that of Japan, and of her own purposes, and was kept in

hand; that is, kept concentrated. It would have mattered little whether,

being united, the outbreak of war found it in the Baltic, or in

Vladivostok. That it could come, as did Rozhestvensky, but in double his

force, would have been a fact no less emphatic when in the Baltic than

in the farther East.

It is precisely the same, in application as well as in principle, with

the Atlantic and Pacific coasts of the United States. Both are exposed.

Neither need be more exposed than the other; for, in virtue of our

geographical position relatively to the other great Powers of the world,

it is not the momentary location of the fleet, but its simple existence,

adequate in numbers and efficiency, and concentrated in force, which

protects both coasts. Any invader from the one side or the other must

depend upon sea communications to support his army _throughout the war_;

not merely for the three months needed to bring the United States fleet

from one side to the other. But, if the war begin with the fleet divided

between the two oceans, one half may be overmatched and destroyed, as

was that of Port Arthur; and the second on coming prove unequal to

restore the situation, as befell Rozhestvensky. That is to say,

Concentration protects both coasts, Division exposes both. IT IS OF

VITAL CONSEQUENCE TO THE NATION OF THE UNITED STATES, THAT ITS PEOPLE,

CONTEMPLATING THE RUSSO-JAPANESE NAVAL WAR, SUBSTITUTE THEREIN, IN THEIR

APPREHENSION, ATLANTIC FOR BALTIC, AND PACIFIC FOR PORT ARTHUR. So they

will comprehend as well as apprehend.

30. ROZHESTVENSKY AT TSUSHIMA[104]

[The Russian fleet under Rozhestvensky left Libau October 15, 1904;

reached Madagascar January 1, 1905, the day of the surrender of Port

Arthur; and entered the Korea or Tsushima Straits on the morning of May

26. A part of the auxiliaries had been left in the mouth of the Yang-tse

River, but the hospital and repair ships and those laden with naval

stores were with the fleet. According to testimony at the court martial

of Admiral Rozhestvensky, the battleships entered the straits with coal

for three thousand miles, though the distance from the Saddle Islands to

Vladivostok was but nine hundred.—EDITOR.]

Criticism here is another case of inferring intentions from actions;

but, when the various parts of Rozhestvensky’s conduct are taken

together, the inference is nearly irresistible that the exaggerated

estimate of the influence of an inferior fleet in being possessed his

imagination. Besides the excessive coal stowage, he took with him a

train of transports, a notorious source of tactical embarrassment in

battle, though doubtless equally a source of refitment, if he got them

to Vladivostok; and there is no evidence of any attempt at advanced

scouting on his own part, or of driving off, as he might have done, the

Japanese scouts which showed up; the result being that Togo knew all

about his dispositions, and he knew nothing about Togo’s until he saw

the enemy’s main body.

Now I say, that, while all this was bad management in the face of the

enemy, and in so far bad tactics, the bad tactics issued from an error

of strategy; and the error in strategy was due to the lack of unity of

conception, of that exclusiveness of purpose, which is the essence of

strategy, and which subordinates, adjusts, all other factors and

considerations to the one exclusive aim. While writing these pages, I

came across a few lines by one of the first of German philosophical

historians, Ranke, in one of his greatest works, “England in the

Seventeenth Century.” They apply to policy, but policy is twin brother

to strategy. Permit me to quote them:

“Why did William III get the better of James II in Ireland? Because he

always kept his one great idea before his eyes, amid the many perplexing

circumstances, which surrounded him. The decision which he displayed at

every moment rested upon the fact that he had _only one end_, and that

the one _imposed by the course of things_.”

[Illustration: SCENE OF NAVAL WAR JAPAN AND RUSSIA]

Apply this to Rozhestvensky. The one end imposed on him by the course of

things was the destruction of the Japanese fleet, which comprised every

armored vessel Japan could possibly muster for that war. Togo’s

signal[105] before the battle recognized this one end, and there was no

reason why his opponent should not have recognized it equally. To reach

Vladivostok was only a means to that end; an object most important,

because, if attained, it would put the Russians in the best possible

condition for battle. But this by no means superseded the one necessary

aim,—battle. More, it did not even postpone that aim, as a matter of

immediate consideration and preparation; for, though escape through to

Vladivostok might be possible, it was not certain. It was not even

probable, under all the conditions. Therefore, while every forethought

and care should have been to effect escape, if possible, they should

have been accompanied with the clear decision that, should battle be

forced, the fighting should have been qualified by no thought of escape,

and the fleet, like a ship cleared for action, should have been stripped

of all fleet encumbrances from the moment of leaving the Saddles. A

fleet is half beaten already when it goes into battle with one eye upon

something else than fighting.

If Rozhestvensky had recognized these facts, in their due importance and

proportion, and had been convinced that battle was his one aim, and that

there was at least a very real possibility that he could not postpone it

till after Vladivostok, it seems to me he must have reasoned thus: I

must have coal enough to reach Vladivostok, on a reasonable calculation

of the distance, and of the expenditures of the ships; both which were

known. To this amount add a fair margin of safety. This total should be

carried for the purpose of escape, if feasible; with perhaps an addition

sufficient to last during battle, with funnels pierced, which was a

likely accident. Again, there is for each ship a draft of water which

best meets her maneuvering needs. The chances are that the enemy will

await us either in the narrower part of the sea, or near his navy yards.

As there is one position, that in the Straits of Korea, which favors

both these objects, it is there I will probably have to fight, if at

all. Therefore, as far as possible, the coal carried by the fleet on

starting should be such that consumption up to the moment of reaching

the straits will put them in their best tactical trim. The coal supply

needed to reach Vladivostok is thus adjusted to the exigencies of

battle.

Then as regards the transports. For the moment, on this last fateful

stretch, they are absolutely of no consequence as affecting results. The

adjustment of them, to the end of the battle, is to dismiss them out of

mind and presence. If beaten, the loss of them will not be of the

slightest consequence to Russia; if successful, they can be summoned

from an appointed rendezvous, and escorted to a destination under such

protection as may then seem expedient. An Austrian officer has suggested

that if the whole body had weighed together, and at night had separated,

the supply vessels proceeding under convoy by the east of Japan might

have escaped notice; or, if seen, this report might have perplexed Togo,

rather than enlightened him. Upon the suggestion I make no comment,

other than that it would have been one way of counting out the supply

ships.

The imminency of the occasion should have drawn, and did draw, all

Japan’s fighting force to the Straits of Korea, an element for

Rozhestvensky’s consideration. According to Semenoff the auxiliary

steamers _Terek_ and _Kuban_ were sent off the east coast expressly to

draw attention, but met no one, and their presence was unknown to the

Japanese.

I am not disposed to question, or to doubt, that _if_ the Russian

squadron had escaped Togo, and _if_ the separated supply train had been

intercepted, it would have been very embarrassing to the ships of war

refitting at Vladivostok. Nor do I question that, in case of such

escape, the coal remaining in consequence of the deck loads taken would

have been of much value for future operations. The more real and the

greater those distracting considerations, like those of William III in

Ireland, the more do they throw into relief the greatness, as well as

the necessity, of subordinating them to the one thing needful, namely,

to be ready to the utmost on the day of battle. They illustrate, too,

how misleading is the disposition to compromise, to concede something

all around; to straddle the two horses, escape and battle.

Rozhestvensky’s course was a compromise, a mix-up of escape and

fighting; a strategic blunder to begin with, in not concentrating

attention on the one needful thing clearly indicated by the course of

events, and hence resulting necessarily in a series of blunders, which

comprehensively may be called tactical. They all hang together, as the

results of a frame of mind; the overloading with coal, the increased

danger of fire therefrom, the submersion of the armor belts, the loss of

speed and tactical capacity, the neglect of scouting, the company of the

transports,—each of which is a tactical error,—all proceed from the

failure to observe that the one governing consideration of strategy, in

this war, was a naval battle under the most favorable conditions. It is

the repetition of the mistakes of the Port Arthur division. When it

becomes clearly imminent that one may have to fight under conditions

less favorable than one would desire, conditions are changed; but there

is no change of the principles involved. Vladivostok reached, the

principle would have required the utmost preparation the yard offered,

in the least possible time, so as to be the most fit possible to fight.

At the Saddles, the same fitness required the dismissal from influence

upon conduct of all thought of Vladivostok, and of supplies there, so

far as such thought might modify the preparation for probable battle. It

seems very probable that the defective conceptions deducible from

Rozhestvensky’s conduct were emphasized and reinforced by the heavy

preoccupations about supplies, necessarily incidental to his anxious

outward voyage. His mind and _morale_ had got a twist, a permanent set,

from which they could not recover.