TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Some minor changes are noted at the end of the book.
The Cambridge Manuals of Science and
Literature
MILITARY HISTORY
CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS
C. F. CLAY, MANAGER
London: FETTER LANE, E.C.
Edinburgh: 100 PRINCES STREET
[Illustration: (Publisher's colophon.)]
Berlin: A. ASHER AND CO.
Leipzig: F. A. BROCKHAUS
New York: G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Bombay and Calcutta: MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD.
Toronto: J. M. DENT AND SONS, LTD.
Tokyo: THE MARUZEN-KABUSHIKI-KAISHA
_All rights reserved_
[Illustration:
MILITARY HISTORY
LECTURES DELIVERED AT
TRINITY COLLEGE,
CAMBRIDGE
BY
The Hon. J. W. FORTESCUE
Cambridge:
at the University Press
1914]
Cambridge:
PRINTED BY JOHN CLAY, M.A.
AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS
PREFACE
There is little in these lectures, or at any rate in three out of
four of them, which I have not written at greater length in other
volumes. I therefore publish them unwillingly, and in deference
only to the wishes of some of my audience, whose good opinion I
greatly value, and whose kindly sympathy I shall never forget. If
this little volume should set but one student thinking seriously
as to the meaning of military history, its object will be fully
accomplished.
The spelling of Indian names has been, as usual, a stumbling-block.
No doubt I shall be asked why I have used the form _Narbada_ for
the more familiar _Nerbuddha_, and yet written _Hyder Ali_ instead
of _Haidar Ali_. I can only say that when the form _Kalkáta_
(or whatever may be the Hunterian spelling) is substituted for
_Calcutta_, I shall be prepared to plead guilty to inconsistency.
J. W. F.
_March 1914._
CONTENTS
LECT. PAGE
PREFACE v
I. MILITARY HISTORY: ITS SCOPE AND DEFINITION 1
II. BRITISH MILITARY HISTORY 46
III. BRITISH COLONIAL CAMPAIGNS 99
IV. BRITISH CAMPAIGNS IN INDIA 150
INDEX 201
LECTURE I
MILITARY HISTORY: ITS SCOPE AND DEFINITION
When in the spring of the year 1913 my old College did me the
honour to appoint me its first lecturer in Military History, I
was obliged for the first time to ask myself seriously, What is
military history? I confess that I have found it very difficult
to furnish a satisfactory answer. Some would reply with a light
heart that military history is the history of wars and warring. But
what, in its turn, is war? It has been defined as an instrument of
policy for the imposition of the will of one community upon another
by force of arms. The definition is not a bad one. But _force of
arms_ is a very vague term, and must not be taken necessarily to
imply an _armed force_ in the ordinary acceptation of the words.
You will remember that after the French fleet had been swept by us
from the seas in 1805, Napoleon, unable to attack England by any
other means, decreed the exclusion of British manufactures from the
Continent, and endeavoured to ruin her by shutting her out of her
markets. This he was able to do because his previous conquests had
placed the control of many of the principal ports on the Continent
in his hands. But though he strove thus to inflict his will upon
England by might of arms, the armed men necessary for enforcing
it were nothing more formidable than a small body of Custom-house
officers. No doubt these functionaries, or some of them, carried
weapons and in case of need were prepared to use them; but they
cannot be considered as a military body. None the less as an act of
war the Continental System was a bitter and deadly stroke, which
nearly proved successful.
Is the history of the Continental System, therefore, military
history? So far as concerns the invasion of Spain, Portugal
and Russia to coerce those countries into the acceptance of
it, undoubtedly it is. But as regards England, the power at
which it was really aimed, what are we to say of it? How did we
endeavour to combat it? How does any country invariably combat the
commercial restrictions of any other? First by imposing retaliatory
restrictions of her own, or engaging in a war of blockades or
tariffs, which may be called regular commercial warfare; secondly,
by the practice of smuggling, which may be called irregular
commercial warfare. Is the history of a war of tariffs, then,
military history? If we answer in the affirmative there is no
escape from the logical conclusion that the never-ceasing contest
between smugglers and revenue-officers in all countries is military
history. Moreover, since revenue-officers are only departmental
police, it follows that the external struggle between the breakers
and the upholders of the law at large--between criminals and the
police--is also military history. But this is to say that the
history of social communities generally is military history; and I
cannot think this to have been in the mind of the generous founder
of the lecturership which I have the honour to hold.
But can we then lay down the general proposition that the
breach--the forcible breach--of commercial regulations is not
military history? I do not think we can, if we bear in mind how
Spain, in virtue of a Papal bull, excluded all other nations from
commerce with the new world, and how successive Englishmen for many
generations insisted upon flouting her. Nor can we say that in many
cases the conflict between supporters and breakers of the law is
not military history. It is merely a question of degree. A fight
between three drunken men and the police is a scuffle. A fight
between three hundred men and the police is a riot. A fight between
three hundred thousand and the police is civil war; and we cannot
exclude civil war from military history, for it would mean the
sacrifice, among the English-speaking race alone, of the campaigns
of Cromwell, George Washington and Robert Lee. Altogether I think
that we must abandon the attempt to define military history as the
history of wars and warring. I feel tempted to ask in despair not
"What is military history?" but rather "What is _not_ military
history?" since all history is but the record of the strife of men
for the subsistence of their bodies or the prevalence of their
opinions. But we must be patient for yet a little while, and try
once more.
Let us begin, then, by laying it down provisionally that military
history is the history of the strife of communities. This is not
enough; for communities have been known before now to fight with
anathemas, and such a conflict belongs rather to the domain of
religious than of military history. Shall we say then that it is
the history of the strife of communities for self-preservation or
expansion? This is open to the obvious criticism that communities
have fought and will fight again for many other objects than the
two above-mentioned--for a woman, for a creed, for a principle
moral or political, or even for nothing at all but from sheer force
of habit. So it will be wiser for us to avoid any specification of
the objects of strife, or we may find ourselves in trouble. It may
be true in a sense to say that a tantrum of Madame de Pompadour
cost the French their empire in North America and in India; but it
is not the whole truth, nor nearly the whole truth. Even the best
and greatest of historians are but gropers in a thick darkness,
and epigrams are the most deceitful of will-o'-the-wisps.
Let us now, as we needs must, strengthen our definition a little,
and say that military history is the history of the strife of
communities expressed through the conflict of organised bands
of armed men. I am obliged to say _bands_ of armed men so as to
exclude such a case as a duel between two or more chosen champions
of quarrelling communities; and I add the word _organised_ so as
to indicate that, below a certain stage of civilisation, there
can be no military history. This is a second definition, but
still imperfect; and I am afraid that I cannot yet improve it.
It leaves a vast field for the survey of a lecturer, far vaster
than I have the knowledge to cover; and, if Trinity should endure
for another ten centuries, my successors will never want material
for interesting and instructive lectures. And let no man persuade
you that the subject is trivial or unimportant--that the study of
war is the study of a relic of barbarism to be eschewed by the
serious, the devout and the humane. I am not denying that war is
a terrible--from some points of view even a hideous--thing. Since
its object is to compel a number of people to do what they do not
wish, by making their lives a burden to them, it must sometimes
be a hideous thing. But, after all, the system of forcing people
to observe a certain line of conduct under penalties is that upon
which all human society is founded. We are all subject to it at
this moment, and have been from the beginning of our lives. You
remember the mother in _Punch_--"Go and see what baby is doing, and
tell her she mustn't." "Thou shalt not" is the basis of four-fifths
of the ancient code of law which is most familiar to us, and of
all other codes since. But in every community there are a certain
number of individuals who answer "Thou shalt not" with a resolute
"I will"; and these we ostracise, or imprison, or hang. We call
such people lunatics or criminals, accordingly as we consider them
responsible or not responsive for their actions, and we treat them
as we think that they deserve; but, if by chance their opinions
should later prevail even for a time, we proclaim them apostles
or martyrs. There is, in fact, always the danger that, when we
think ourselves to be merely punishing a criminal, we may really
be torturing a great reformer. Hence a certain proportion of folks
among us shrink from this system of coercion, and would have no
government at all. Others again, looking upon the existence of
private property as the main reason for the existence of the
policeman, would have communities share all things in common. I
mention these facts to show you that the employment of force
receives from some thinkers equal condemnation, whether to impose
the will of a community upon its own citizens, or upon those of
some other community.
But no one on that account has ventured to stigmatize the study of
penal codes, and of the organisation for putting them into force,
as ignoble or unprofitable. The sheriff, for instance, and his
functions are approached with respect, by some historians even with
awe. "Ah," say the despisers of military history, "but the sheriff
is an instrument for compelling obedience to the law, not the
leader of a host whose business it is to slaughter and destroy."
The law! and what is the law but the formulated will which some
section of the community, possibly a majority, but always in former
days and frequently, even at present, a minority, seeks to impose
upon the whole? And if breakers of the law resist the sheriff or
policeman, will he not if necessary slaughter them, and destroy
any shelter in which they may have taken refuge? Of course he
will, and "the law" will uphold him for so doing. "But," reply
the objectors, "you forget that civil law is not always a mere
ordinance of man; it may have the sanction of divine authority."
I speak here with all reverence, but how many are the armies and
the leaders that have claimed that theirs was the cause of God,
and have fared forth to war in His name? I am not speaking now
of modern armies, though they too invariably invoke the help of
the God of Battles, and call him to witness that their cause is
just. Look at the Crusades on one side, look on the other at the
mighty and overwhelming conquests of Islam. Look at the extinction
of Christianity in North Africa; look at the eight centuries of
conflict which banished the Mohammedan faith from Spain. Look at
the religious wars of Christians in Europe; and not least at our
own Puritans. Look finally at the bitter struggles of Hindu and
Mohammedan in India. There was not one of these parties that did
not claim, that did not for the most part heartily believe, that it
was fighting to uphold the Law of God.
No! in its essence there is no difference between the force that
imposes the will of a man upon his neighbour, and that which
imposes his will upon his enemy. In the more primitive days of
England the duties of the sheriff and his _posse comitatus_
extended to foreign enemies on English soil as well as to domestic
law-breakers. Do we not to this day speak of those guilty of acts
of violence as _breakers of the King's Peace_; men, that is, who
seek to bring about a state of war and must be suppressed by the
methods of war--taken prisoners, wounded or unwounded, and in
the last resort killed? What was the origin of our own standing
army? It was formed, as you doubtless know, out of a remnant of
the victorious army of the Parliament which had overthrown the
monarchy, a remnant which was saved from disbandment in order to
overawe the turbulent of London, or in other words to serve as a
body of police. It continued to be the only efficient instrument
for imposing the will of the Government upon the people until 1829,
when the present police-force was established. And the police are a
standing army, neither more or less. The only essential difference
between police and soldiers is that the former are employed mainly
in the coercion of subjects of the State which levies them, while
the function of the latter is to coerce the subjects of foreign
states. It would not be inaccurate to say that police are soldiers
against domestic enemies, and an army police against foreign
enemies.
And now observe that we have found a second definition of military
history. It is the history of the external police of communities
and nations. But external police, you may object, implies the
existence of something which, for want of a better word, we must
call external law. Is there such a thing as external law? There
is a thing called the law of nations or international law, which
is concerned chiefly, though not exclusively, with the relations
between belligerents and neutrals, but which it simply custom, and
should not be called law, because there is no international police
to enforce it. Any nation may defy it, if she thinks it worth
while, and a great many have defied it in the past and will defy it
in the future, not necessarily with any damage to themselves. The
same may be said of the International Tribunal of Arbitration at
the Hague. Its decrees and decisions may be excellent, and nations
may bind themselves beforehand to accept them; but nations are not
remarkable for the observance of inconvenient agreements, where
there is no penalty for violating them. It is a painful fact, but
in its relations to its neighbours every community is a law unto
itself, the nature of that law being principally determined by the
community's powers of enforcement. Police first, law afterwards, is
the rule between nation and nation--a formula which may be rendered
more tersely still by the phrase, Might is Right. In a sense,
therefore, though not in the sense generally attached to the words,
military history is the history of the law of nations, which is the
law of force; or, if you prefer it, of the law of force which is
the law of nations.
A revolting thought, perhaps some of you will say! Have all the
efforts of countless generations of good and holy men to seek
peace and ensue it, resulted in no greater success than this? Let
us have the courage to face facts and answer boldly, Yes; for be
very sure that no piety of aspiration can dignify nor excuse the
moral cowardice that seeks to evade them. You know that late in
the 17th century a company of worthy and excellent men formed the
settlement of Pennsylvania in North America. They were members of
the Society of Friends, who would have nothing to do with war, and
consequently bought their lands from the Indians instead of taking
them by force or fraud. Frugal, thrifty and industrious, they soon
grew wealthy, and extended their borders further and further, until
they came into collision with other tribes of Indians, who one
day fell upon the outlying settlers with fire and sword. In utter
dismay the sufferers appealed to the Government of the province
for protection; but the Colonial Assembly would not do violence
to their tenets and ignored the appeal, leaving their unhappy and
inoffensive frontiersmen to be massacred. At length, goaded to
desperation, the settlers came down to Philadelphia with their
arms in their hands, and threatened violence unless the Assembly
voted money, for supply of ammunition, and other measures of
defence forthwith. Thereupon the Assembly yielded, but still they
would not openly pass a vote for the purchase of gunpowder. To
save their conscience they voted money only for the purchase of
corn or _other grain_, which, as gunpowder is made up of grains,
was sufficient warrant for the acquisition of the necessary but
unspeakable article. To such contemptible subterfuge are men driven
who refuse to face facts. I understand the feelings of those who
deplore that the government of human society should rest ultimately
upon force, but I have no patience with those who pretend that
it does not. It can profit no man to be obliged so to shape the
actions of his life that they may square with a fundamental lie.
Accepting then the fact--for such I believe it to be--that the
law of nations is the law of force, let us waste no time in
lamentations. In the first place they are useless; and in the
second they seem to me highly presumptuous; for what are we, or
what is our knowledge, that we should aspire to correct the course
of this world's governance? Let us rather consider what is meant
by the word _force_, as an element in the conflict of communities.
Force, in the human creature, is of two kinds, moral and physical;
and in war, as Napoleon himself said, the moral is to the physical
as four to one. What is this moral force? It is an indefinable
consciousness of superiority. And whence does it arise? I must
summon a poet to help me with my answer.
"Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control,
These three alone lead life to sovereign power."
Self-reverence, which can be based only upon high aspirations and
high ideals; self-knowledge, which combines the courage to face
facts, the patience to accept them, the constancy to turn them
to good account; self-control, the offspring of self-denial and
self-discipline. We are too much inclined to think of war as a
matter of combats, demanding above all things physical courage. It
is really a matter of fasting and thirsting; of toiling and waking;
of lacking and enduring; which demands above all things moral
courage. Yet let us hasten to add that, without bodily soundness
and strength to resist privation, hardship and fatigue, an army
is naught. And here we strike the peculiarity which makes war
the true touch-stone of nations. It is the supreme test of their
merits and demerits both moral and physical. By a community's art,
literature, science and philosophy you may take the measure of its
intellectual attainments; through its administrative institutions
and laws you may form some judgment of its political intelligence;
from the bodily structure and condition of its citizens you may
form conclusions as to its physical fitness; but of the general
soundness of the body politic, of the capacity of its leaders,
of the devotion of their followers, of the moral force which
inspires all ages and both sexes to endure hardship and sorrow with
cheerfulness, and to meet adversity with confidence unshaken and
with courage undaunted--for all this the trial of all trials is war.
Military history is the history of these trials. Does it seem to
you a small, or ignoble, or unprofitable thing? But, it may be
objected, this is an unfair way of putting the matter. No doubt it
may be profitable to compare the political institutions of some
effete community with those of the young, virile and vigorous
communities which swept it out of existence. But the details of
fire and sword, of massacre and devastation, of the blood of men
and the tears of women, are they profitable? And the elaborate
principles of strategy and tactics--that is to say the bringing of
the armed force up to the field of decision, and the handling of
it to the best advantage when there; with their ancillary sciences
of fortification and poliorketics, that is to say, of setting up
strong places and knocking them down again--are they profitable?
What are the art of war and the science of military organisation
but the art and science of destruction? Can the study of these be
profitable?
Let us clear our minds of cant. What is the economy of this world,
so far as we have eyes to see and intellects to understand it, but
destruction and renewal, destruction and renewal? And it is really
impossible, except by our petty human standards, to distinguish
the one from the other. I have seen--and perhaps some of you may
have seen the like--what we call a desert, of a thousand square
miles of pumice-stone. This pumice-stone is a layer which varies
from six to fifteen feet in depth; and below it lie the trunks
of gigantic trees, all black and charred, which were scathed and
overthrown by the same terrific volcanic explosion which afterwards
buried them in pumice. The soil must have been fertile to raise
such trees; and men lament the destruction which has made so large
an area into a waste. But what they mean by _destruction_ and
_waste_ is simply the change which has rendered it useless, so far
as they can see, for purposes of producing food and exchangeable
commodities immediately to the profit of _men_--that and nothing
more. Whether it be destruction or renewal in the scheme of nature
we cannot tell. But let us pass to the works of man, the great
destroyer. What does a field of corn mean but that the plants which
originally grew there have been ruthlessly destroyed to make way
for those that better suit the purposes of man, and that an unknown
quantity of animal life, dependent upon the plants so destroyed,
has perished with them? What does a herd of cattle in a field
mean but the destruction of all wild cattle, till these became
tame enough to await their turn of destruction for the service of
man? And as with plants and the inferior animals, so does man
deal with man. He endeavours to destroy those that do not suit
his purpose, and to replace them by others. And this he does by
many other methods besides those which we group under the name of
war. Within the memory of living men there were many excellent but
simple gentlemen who thought that what is called Free Trade would
soon be adopted by every civilised country in the world, and that
then wars would cease. The prediction has not been verified, nor
can I see that the world would be very much the better if it had
been. For commerce is not, as is generally supposed, a peaceful
pursuit. What does successful commerce mean? The under-selling
of competitors; which means in turn cheaper production than is
possible to competitors. But cheap production, other things being
equal, depends in these days chiefly upon two things--cheap labour,
which means low wages, and the best of machinery. Who can tell how
many lives have been sacrificed to low wages in the winning of any
commercial competition; or how many men, women and children have
been starved when machinery, either absolutely or practically new,
has driven a mass of bread-winners out of employment? And these are
the casualties only on the victorious side. What have they been
on the beaten side, when whole industries have been ruined? If
we could arrive at a just estimate of the casualty lists filled
by commerce, I doubt greatly if they would be lower than those
filled by war. Improved machinery, in the case of a great many
manufactures, is as truly an engine of destruction as a torpedo or
a heavy gun. It is meant to destroy other competing machinery and
to drive its workmen from it, just as a torpedo is meant to destroy
a ship and send its crew to the bottom. A town deserted and falling
to ruin owing to loss of trade and consequent loss of population,
is as truly destroyed as if it had been battered to pieces by shot
and shell.
This, it may be said, is an unkind way of stating the matter. The
superior machinery supplants and replaces the inferior. Quite so.
There is in a general way renewal as well as destruction; but the
superior machinery does not replace the men who have perished in
assuring its triumph on the one side, or in succumbing to that
triumph on the other. And after all what is the general purport
of war but to replace what is inferior by what is superior? What
are the rise and fall of civilisations, empires, states, nations
and communities, but the process of supplanting the inferior by
the superior, or at any rate the subjection of the inferior to
the superior? Military history is the history of that process,
and it is no more the history of destruction than any other kind
of history. I do not suppose that the most tender-hearted member
of the Society of Friends would take exception to the study of
the legislative enactments whereby, quite apart from warlike
measures, we wrested their former commercial superiority from the
Dutch. He would not call it a history of destruction, and yet it
was so--to the Dutch. In the case of a military war the casualty
lists are published, and everyone says "How shocking." In the case
of a commercial war it is announced that such and such a firm has
closed its works through bankruptcy; and few, unless they chance to
be share-holders, think more about the matter. There may be some
hundreds of people deprived of their livelihood, but few consider
that. Military victors feed their prisoners of war: commercial
victors leave them to starve. And yet commerce is held to be
humane, and war very much the contrary; while captains of industry
are held in honour by men to whom the fame of a captain in war
gives sincere and conscientious affliction.
Thus you see how futile, however well-intended, are peace-societies
and similar institutions, inasmuch as they recognise only one
description--the military--of war. It is terrible to think how
true is the saying of Erasmus, _Homo homini lupus_. We like to be
successful ourselves, and we like our friends to be successful
also, but we seldom reflect that every success is won at the cost
of another's failure. Even here in Cambridge, and among those
merriest of mortals, undergraduates, the stern inexorable law
asserts itself. For one whom a class-list makes happy, how many
does it make miserable? For one to whom it offers the prospect of
food and warmth, to how many does it threaten cold and want? _Homo
homini lupus_, that is individual history. _Gentes gentibus lupi_,
that is universal history.
But to return to a question which I have still left unanswered,
wherein lies the profit for men not of the military profession, of
studying the principles and the history of war, with the terrible
details in which the history abounds so frequently? One chief
profit, as I take it, is to learn the nature of the supreme test
to which a nation may be subjected, so that she may equip herself
morally and physically to pass through the ordeal with success.
Let me repeat to you that war is less a matter of courage than of
endurance. Of really brave men, men who from sheer love of fighting
cannot be kept out of fire, the proportion is about one in a
thousand. Of real cowards, men who literally cannot be induced to
face fire in any circumstances, the proportion is about the same.
The remainder can by training and discipline be brought to do their
duty with more or less bravery, which is sufficient--or at any
rate must be considered sufficient--for the purpose. Such training
and discipline are a purely military matter, to which I shall
presently return. But endurance depends upon moral and physical
attributes which, though a great leader or regimental pride may do
much to enhance them, are principally the concern of the statesman.
Let us deal first with the physical requirements of a soldier.
First and foremost he must be mature, a man and not a boy;
otherwise, no matter how great his pluck, he will never be able
to withstand the hard work of a campaign. There is hardly a
country which has not again and again filled up its muster-rolls
with children, and deceived itself into the belief that it was
enlarging its armies, instead of filling up its military hospitals
and graveyards. Boys can of course do the work of garrisons within
certain limits; but it is (to speak brutally) cheaper to knock them
on the head at once and bury them at home than to send them upon
active service in the field. On the other hand, men must not be too
old, otherwise they succumb to rheumatic complaints in consequence
of exposure to cold and wet. For the rest, the soundness of the
feet, in order that men may be able to march; of the eyes, so that
they may be able to see; and of the teeth, are of the greatest
importance. An enormous proportion of men on active service die of
dysentery or enteric fever, due to bad and ill-cooked food; and
want of teeth to masticate that food aggravates the evil immensely.
Bad sight and bad teeth are very common in the inhabitants of large
towns, as also of course is inferior physique generally. Such
defects weaken a nation for war; and a wise government will not let
them continue without endeavouring to arrest them.
But, apart from this, much may often be done by care and foresight
to abate the hardships of a campaign. It is often inevitable
that the men's clothing should be in rags, and their feet almost
if not quite shoeless for a time; as also that they should be
scantily fed and then not on the best of food; but, if this be
borne in mind, and measures taken to keep abundant supplies of
everything at the seat of war, together with transport to convey
such supplies to the front, privation and suffering may be greatly
lessened, and sickness proportionately decreased. People who have
never studied military history do not realise that a campaign is a
gigantic picnic, and that, unless careful arrangement be made long
beforehand for every detail of food, forage, clothing and carriage,
an army may perish before it can reach its enemy. Such arrangement
involves a nicety of organisation of which the ordinary civilian
never dreams. One great lesson therefore that all may learn from
the study of military history is, that the casualties through lead
and steel are a trifle to those from hardship and the resultant
sickness; and that these last may be very appreciably diminished by
experience, forethought and organisation.
So much for the purely physical side of an army. The question of
inspiring it with moral force could easily lead me into an endless
disquisition upon the merits of different forms of civil government
and different systems of education. I shall not be so foolish as
to attempt anything of the kind; but I shall content myself with
stating that the great secret of an army's moral force is that (in
Cromwell's words) all ranks shall "know what they are fighting
for, and love what they know." The most powerful of all purely
moral forces is undoubtedly religious fanaticism, of which many
instances will at once occur to you; but I question if among all
its countless manifestations there are any quite so thorough as are
found in the hosts of Islam. There are many instances of desperate
courage and devotion among all races and all creeds, but I do
not know where you will find a parallel, except in the annals of
Mohammedan warfare, to the attack of the hordes of the Khalifa at
Omdurman.
Another great moral force is political fanaticism; but as a rule
there underlies all combative fanaticism, either consciously or
unconsciously, that less exalted element of human nature which
is known as greed. Greed of course is of many kinds. It may arise
from honest hunger and poverty; or from the less honourable,
though hardly less cogent, persuasion that those who have are the
legitimate prey of those who have not. But its manifestations are
uniformly the same, though they are often embellished by titles of
honour. People who would not dream of robbing their neighbours,
if the process were described to them in as many words, will take
credit to themselves for spoiling the heathen or the Amalekites.
Primitive tribes and clans, which have outgrown or exhausted the
territory that at one time sufficed for their support, are not
always so squeamish. They see a weak and prosperous neighbour,
fall upon him without more ado, and eat him up. Christian nations
and Mohammedans have frequently extinguished aboriginal tribes
as heretics and unbelievers. We ourselves used to excuse our
predatory excursions against the Spaniards upon the ground that
Popish idolaters deserved nothing better. Turn now to a case
which is generally adduced as an example of an army inspired by
political fanaticism--the levies which burst out from France
against her neighbours on all sides in 1792 and 1793. They came,
as they proclaimed, to carry the gospel of liberty, equality and
fraternity into all lands; their evangel was to be for the healing
of the nations; they menaced war only to the nobleman's castle;
they brought peace to the poor man's cottage. Were they really
inspired by any such exalted sentiments? A few enthusiasts may have
been; but not many. Did their faith in their new creed suffice to
make them die for it cheerfully? Not in the least; for they ran
away like sheep, until habit and discipline inured them to war.
Did they conduct themselves, where successful, according to their
noble professions? Not in the least. They plundered all classes
impartially, and were loathed by all impartially. The truth is that
their real object was not to preach a gospel at all, but to gather
plunder. France had been ruined by the incredible follies of the
Revolution; her resources were exhausted; and there was nothing for
her but to rob her neighbours or perish. Her robberies prospered; a
soldier of fortune rose up to take command of her armies; and under
his leadership the principle of robbery was indefinitely extended.
As Wellington put it with his usual shrewd insight, war to Napoleon
was a financial resource.
Must hope of plunder then be reckoned as a great moral force in
war? The question is extremely difficult to answer. Astonishing
military successes have been achieved under no other stimulating
influence than this--I would instance the sack of Rome by Charles
of Bourbon in 1527--but plunder, speaking generally, demoralises
both the army and the nation that lives by it, for it leads to
jealousy and divisions. You will remember at once, when I recall
it to you, the story in the Old Testament of Saul's preservation
of flocks, herds and prisoners in the face of Samuel's order that
they should be annihilated. I strongly suspect that Samuel's motive
for commanding the destruction of the plunder was apprehension
lest the King, by offering to his followers a reward for their
services, should steal away the hearts of the people and undermine
the authority of the priesthood. On the other hand Saul may perhaps
have been justified in supposing that his men would not fight the
Amalekites without the assurance of a share in the spoil, and had
consequently promised them a share beforehand. At any rate, it is
certain that the incident so far estranged the ecclesiastical from
the civil authorities that the former put forward a rival to oust
Saul from the Kingship. This is a curious instance of an entire
community being driven into civil war by a dispute as to plunder.
Of its demoralising influence on an army the examples are endless,
but I may mention to you the furious combats of the Spaniards and
Germans over the spoil of Rome, which they had combined to capture
and sack; the practical dissolution for a time of Wellington's
troops after the storm of Badajoz, and the insubordination and
disunion of Napoleon's armies in Spain, when nearly every officer
of rank was seeking to enrich himself, and employing his men to
enrich him, instead of using them in the legitimate operations of
war.
Nevertheless men will not go a-fighting continuously unless there
is plunder, or some composition in lieu thereof, to stimulate them
to constant exertion. In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries the
military profession was very nearly a mercantile affair, pure and
simple. Capitalists formed companies of soldiers for hire, and
sought to indemnify themselves by plunder for their venture, very
much after the fashion of a privateer or private man-of-war. The
"purchase-system" under which, when I was a boy, British officers
still purchased their commissions for a sum of money, was a relic
of the old practice of buying shares in a military company. In many
of our wars there was no individual plunder, but all captures were
lumped together, sold, and divided in due proportion between all
ranks of the army engaged. The army which stormed Seringapatam in
1799 divided £1,300,000 in this way; and beyond all doubt the hope
of large profits was a great incentive to the men to endure many
things and fight hard. Soldiers are almost invariably ill-paid.
Very often their health is permanently impaired by the hardship and
privation which they undergo; and they demand, not unreasonably,
some compensation for all their sufferings and peril. This is a
fact which no statesman can afford to overlook. Even in the middle
of the late South African war it was necessary to give to every
private five pounds, and to every non-commissioned officer and
officer still larger sums, according to their rank, as prize money
in lieu of plunder.
I come next to patriotism as a moral force. We are apt to take it
for granted that it always exists in every country; but this is
not so, as the earlier wars of the French Revolution most plainly
prove. Nor is it sufficient to say that the countries over which
the French armies rode rough-shod were autocratically governed,
while France enjoyed a freer form of government, for a democracy
can, and very frequently does, govern quite as abominably as any
autocrat or oligarchy. If a large proportion of a community be
discontented with its condition it will feel no patriotism, and
will do little or nothing towards defence of its country. It
sees no object in fighting to maintain a state of things which
it disapproves, and will not do so. Then, in case of invasion it
will submit quietly and without an effort to the enemy's will, and
allow him to take peaceful possession of its territory. If, on the
contrary, the war be not defensive but offensive, the malcontents
will lay themselves out to embarrass the ruling authorities as
much as possible, in order to secure political changes which
they conceive to be political advantages. So long as the seat of
operations is at a distance, the behaviour of the malcontents
is always the same, whether they are of the highest or of the
lowest class, whether the government under which they live be
popular or despotic. Thus during the American War of Independence
a considerable section of the English aristocracy threw the whole
weight of its power and influence in favour of the revolting
colonies, and to all intents assured their triumph. Thus also in
the recent war between Russia and Japan a large section of the
educated classes in Russia spared no efforts to stir up internal
trouble, and crippled their country at the very moment when she
bade fair to redeem all past failures and enter upon a successful
campaign. In both cases the disaffected parties claimed to be the
truest patriots, inasmuch as they had acted in the best interests
of their country; though whether such a claim can be justified is
a matter upon which men will differ until the end of time. It may,
however, be doubted whether men can, unless in most exceptional
circumstances, benefit their country by seconding their country's
enemies; and it is probable that, when they profess to do so, they
are animated rather by an intense desire to injure and humiliate
their rulers than by any principle of well-doing towards any one.
If the war were brought home to their own hearths, they would in
all likelihood make a stubborn fight for their defence; either from
dread lest their neighbours should hang them; or, as it is more
reasonable to suppose, from honest jealousy for their country and
indignation against the invader. But because the scene of fighting
is at a distance, they think that they may legitimately play fast
and loose with their country's fortunes.
Now I cannot help thinking that if those who aspire to govern men,
and even to lay claim to the title of statesmen, were to study
military history, they might learn enough about the moral force
of nations and armies to set them thinking very seriously. It is
a force that is very difficult to build up and not very difficult
to destroy; and yet politicians of all parties trifle with it
as though it were an insignificant matter. It is impossible to
devise a form of Government or to collect an administration which
will satisfy all men; but, though everyone recognises the fact in
theory, few make allowances for it in practice. It is sufficient
for politicians of all ways of thinking in these days to say
solemnly that the will of the majority must prevail. But why must
it prevail? Because the majority is more likely to be right than
the minority? Far from it: if we could believe that this were
the rule, the government of the world would be much easier than
it is. No, the will of the majority must prevail because it can
be enforced on the minority, which is only another way of saying
that Might is Right. See how in this world of cant the terrible
maxim, which men think applicable to war only, is daily in force
all round us. Wise men therefore will be always moderate in their
dealing with honest and respectable minorities, whether they differ
from the majority in matters of religious, political or social
faith, provided always that their dissent is not merely a cloak for
evading the obligations of ordinary morality. Yet such moderation,
though of the last importance towards amity and good understanding
in a community and therefore towards its moral force in the event
of war, is little more common to-day than at other periods of human
history. There is really only one political or social principle
which has any permanent worth, and it is expressed in the homely
proverb "Give and take."
What is the civic form of this proverb? It is this, No rights
without duties, no duties without rights. In England I am
afraid--though I may be wrong--that for some time past there has
been too much prating of rights, and too little reflection upon
duties; though the commonwealth depends for its stability upon the
equal recognition of both. What, you may ask, do you owe to the
State? Well, you owe to it gratitude for the fact that you can for
the most part walk about decently clad and purse in pocket without
danger of being knocked on the head; and that you can pursue your
lawful avocation in peace. But how if your clothes are in rags and
you have no purse? Well then, apart from all possible benefits
from the poor law, you at least enjoy immunity from being knocked
on the head as an unprofitable member of the tribe. The great
difference between primitive and civilised societies is that the
civilised recognise misfortune as a palliative to inefficiency,
which the primitive cannot afford to do. We have still a right
to say that a criminal is an inefficient citizen, but no longer
that an inefficient citizen is a criminal; and this, for some of
us, is a considerable gain. Even if the State gave us no more
than this, we are everyone of us debtors for more than we can
repay. But, in the most highly organised states of the present
time, the tendency is that the community at large shall contribute
more and more towards making men physically and mentally into
efficient citizens and towards saving them from the consequences
of misfortune, but in return shall claim from them more exacting
duties. It would perhaps be historically more accurate to say that
in some cases the duties came first and the benefits afterwards;
but the point is that the principle of rights for duties and
duties for rights has been faithfully observed. Thus in Germany the
State has set up machinery for education, for insurance against
misfortune, for provision against old age, claiming in return
from able-bodied citizens two years of military training, with
liability to be recalled to the colours up to a certain age in the
event of war. There are other states in which the same or less is
given or claimed; but there are few of importance in Europe in
which free education is not the right, and military training the
countervailing duty. And this system has been adopted in every
case, not only from bitter experience of disastrous defeat in war,
but because foreign statesmen read military history. The bond of a
common duty, impartially imposed upon all classes from the highest
to the lowest, tends to soften minor differences and discontents,
and constitutes in itself a great moral force.
So much for the moral force that can be instilled into a community
by its statesmen: I come now to that which can be inspired only by
the soldier, the unity, artificial but incomparably strong, which
is bound up with the name of discipline. Military discipline--how
some people loathe and others worship it; and how little the
majority of both have really thought about it! What is its
principle? The organised abnegation of the individual self in
favour of the corporate self. What is its object? That tens of
thousands may act together as one under the guidance of a single
will. What are its methods? Immediate and unquestioning obedience
to superior command. Immediate and unquestioning obedience--that
is what is the stumbling block, the _skandalon_ to so many. There
are of course a certain number of people who can obey no one,
but must always be a law--and an exceedingly erratic law--unto
themselves. The name of the poet Shelley will probably occur to
some of you, but I am not thinking of such as Shelley. I have in my
mind rather those excellent but generally unthinking persons who
shrink with horror from the idea of a man's abdicating his civil
rights. "What," they say, "a man must obey even an unjust command,
under pain it may be of death! It is monstrous!" For purposes of
civil life it might be monstrous, but not for purposes of implicit
obedience, which is the thing that matters in an army. Let there
be justice as far as possible by all means; but, as a general
principle, it is better for an army that an injustice should be
done than that an order should be disobeyed. This, however, is an
argument that cannot appeal to our imaginary objector, because he
has read no military history.