If there is one thing that is pleasanter than another it is to take
breakfast in the wardroom with a dozen naval officers. Of course, that
awe-inspiring monarch, the captain, is aft, keeping frozen state with
the Grand Viziers when there are any on board, and so there is nobody in
the wardroom to maintain naval etiquette. As a consequence none is
maintained. One officer, in a splendid uniform, snatches a champagne
bottle from a steward and opens it himself; another keeps the servants
moving; another opens soda; everybody eats, drinks, shouts, laughs in
the most unconstrained way, and it does seem a pity that ever the thing
should come to an end. No individual present seemed sorry he was not in
the ship with the Shah. When the festivities had been going on about an
hour, some tremendous booming was heard outside. Now here was a question
between duty and broiled chicken. What might that booming mean? Anguish
sat upon the faces of the correspondents. I watched to see what they
would do, and the precious moments were flying. Somebody cried down a
companionway:
“The _Devastation_ is saluting!”
The correspondents tumbled over one another, over chairs, over
everything in their frenzy to get on deck, and the last gun reverberated
as the last heel disappeared on the stairs. The _Devastation_, the pride
of England, the mightiest war vessel afloat, carrying guns that outweigh
any metal in any service, it is said (thirty-five tons each), and these
boys had missed that spectacle--at least I knew that some of them had. I
did not go. Age has taught me wisdom. If a spectacle is going to be
particularly imposing I prefer to see it through somebody else’s eyes,
because that man will always exaggerate. Then I can exaggerate his
exaggeration, and my account of the thing will be the most impressive.
But I felt that I had missed my figure this time, because I was not sure
which of these gentlemen reached the deck in time for a glimpse and
which didn’t. And this morning I cannot tell by the London papers. They
all have imposing descriptions of that thing, and no one of them
resembles another. Mr. X’s is perhaps the finest, but he was singing a
song about “Spring, Spring, Gentle Spring,” all through the bombardment,
and was overexcited, I fear.
The next best was Mr. Y’s; but he was telling about how he took a
Russian battery, along with another man, during the Crimean War, and he
was not fairly through the story till the salute was over, though I
remember he went up and saw the smoke. I will not frame a description of
the _Devastation’s_ salute, for I have no material that I can feel sure
is reliable.