A Change Of Scene

: The World Peril Of 1910

The Ithuriel had orders to call at Folkestone and Dover in order to

report the actual state of affairs there to the Commander-in-Chief by

telegraph if Erskine could get ashore or by flash-signal if he could

not, and incidentally to do as much damage as he could without undue

risk to his craft if he considered that circumstances demanded it.



He arrived off Folkestone just before dusk, and, as he expected, found
<
r /> that there were half a dozen large transports, carrying probably eight

thousand men and a proportionate number of horses and quick-firing guns,

convoyed by four cruisers and ten destroyers, lying off the harbour.

There were evidently no airships with the force, as, if there had been,

they would certainly have been hovering over the town and shelling

Shorncliffe Barracks and the forts from the air. A brisk artillery duel

was proceeding between the land batteries and the squadron, and the

handsome town was already in flames in several places.



Erskine, of course, recognised at once that this attack was simultaneous

with that on Dover; the object of the enemy being obviously the capture

of the shore line of railway between the two great Channel ports, which

would provide the base of a very elongated triangle, the sides of which

would be roughly formed by the roads and railways running to the

westward and southward through Ashford and Maidstone, and to the

northward and eastward through Canterbury, Faversham and Sittingbourne,

and meeting at Rochester and Chatham, where the land forces of the

invaders would, if all went well, co-operate with the sea forces in a

combined attack on London, which would, of course, be preceded by a

bombardment of fortified positions from the air.



Knowing what he did of the disastrous results of the battle of

Portsmouth, he came to the conclusion that it was his duty to upset this

plan of attack at all hazards, so he called Castellan up into the

conning-tower and asked his advice on the situation.



"I see just what you mean, Erskine," replied the Lieutenant, when he had

taken a good look at the map of Kent, "and it's my opinion that you'll

do more to help London from here and Dover just now than you will from

the Thames. Those French cruisers are big ones, though I don't quite

recognise which they are, and they carry twice or three times the metal

that those miserable forts do--which comes of trusting everything to the

Fleet, as though these were the days of wooden walls and sails instead

of steam battleships, fast cruisers and destroyers, to say nothing of

submarines and airships. These Frenchies here don't know anything about

the hammering they've got at Portsmouth and the capture of the

transports, so they'll be expecting that force to be moving on London by

the Brighton and South Coast line instead of re-building our forts and

dockyards; so you go in and sink and smash everything in sight. That's

just my best advice to you."



"It seems pretty rough on those chaps on the transports, doesn't it?"

said Erskine, with a note of regret in his voice. "We sha'n't be able to

pick up any of them. It will be pretty like murder."



"And what's that?" exclaimed Castellan, pointing to the fires in the

town. "Don't ye call shelling a defenceless watering-place and burning

unarmed people to death in their own homes murder? What if ye had your

sister, or your mother, or your sweetheart there? How would ye feel

about murder then?"



Denis Castellan spoke feelingly, for his captain possessed not only a

mother, but also a very charming sister in connection with whom he

cherished certain not altogether ill-founded hopes which might perchance

be realised now that war had come and promotion was fairly sure for

those who "got through all right."



Erskine nodded and said between his teeth:



"Yes, you're right, old man. Such mercy as they give--such shall they

have. Get below and take charge. We'd better go for the cruisers first

and sink them. That'll stop the shelling of the town anyhow. Then we'll

tackle the destroyers, and after that, if the transports don't

surrender--well, the Lord have mercy on them when those shells of

Lennard's get among them, for they'll want it."



"And divil a bit better do they deserve. What have we done to them that

they should all jump on us at once like this?" growled Denis as the

platform sank with him. "There isn't one, no, nor two of them that dare

tackle the old sea-dog alone."



Which remark was Irish but perfectly true.



By this time it was dusk enough for the Ithuriel to approach the

unsuspecting cruisers unseen, as nothing but her conning-tower was soon

visible, even at five hundred yards, and this would vanish when she sank

to make her final rush.



The cruisers were the Charner, Chanzy, Bruix and

Latouche-Treville, all of about five thousand tons, and carrying two

7.6 in., six 5.5 in. and six 9 pounders in addition to their small

quick-firers. They were steaming in an oval course of about two miles

long in line ahead, delivering their bow, stern and broadside fire as

they circled. The effect of the shells along the strip of coast was

terrible, and by the time the Ithuriel came on the scene of action

Sandgate, Shorncliffe and Folkestone were ablaze. The destroyers were of

course shepherding the transports until the cruisers had silenced the

shore batteries and prepared the way for the landing.



The Latouche-Treville was leading the French line when Erskine gave

the order to sink and ram. Her captain never so much as suspected the

presence of a British warship until his vessel reeled under the shock of

the ram, trembled from stem to stern, and began to settle quickly by the

head. Before she had time to sink the Ithuriel had shaken herself

free, swung round in half a curve, and ripped the port quarter of the

Chanzy open ten feet below the water line. Then she charged the

Bruix amidships and nearly cut her in half, and as the Charner

steamed up to the rescue of her stricken consorts her screws dragged her

back from the sinking ship and her stern ram crashed into the

Frenchman's starboard side under the foremast, and in about a quarter of

an hour from the delivery of the mysterious attack the four French

cruisers were either sunk or sinking.



It would be almost impossible to describe the effect which was produced

by this sudden and utterly unexpected calamity, not only upon the

astounded invaders, but upon the defenders, who, having received the

welcome tidings of the tremendous disaster which had befallen the French

Expedition at Portsmouth, were expecting aid in a very different form.

Like their assailants, they had seen nothing, heard nothing, until the

French cruisers suddenly ceased fire, rolled over and disappeared.



But a few minutes after the Charner had gone down, all anxiety on the

part of the defenders was, for the time being, removed. The Ithuriel

rose to the surface; her searchlight projector turned inshore, and she

flashed in the Private Code:





"Suppose you have the news from Portsmouth. I am now going to smash

destroyers and sink transports if they don't surrender. Don't

shoot: might hurt me. Get ready for prisoners.

ERSKINE, Ithuriel."





It was perhaps the most singular message that had ever been sent from a

sea force to a land force, but it was as well understood as it was

welcome, and soon the answering signals flashed back:





"Well done, Ithuriel. Heard news. Go ahead!"





Then came the turn of the destroyers. The Ithuriel rose out of the

water till her forward ram showed its point six feet above the waves.

Erskine ordered full speed, and within another twenty-five minutes the

tragedy of Spithead had been repeated on a smaller scale. The destroying

monster rushed round the transports, hunting the torpilleurs de haute

mer down one after the other as a greyhound might run rabbits down,

smashed them up and sank them almost before their officers and crew had

time to learn what had happened to them--and then with his searchlight

Erskine signalled to the transports in the International Code, which is

universally understood at sea:





"Transports steam quarter speed into harbour and surrender. If a

shot is fired shall sink you as others."





Five of the six flags came down with a run and all save one of the

transports made slowly for the harbour. Their commanders were wise

enough to know that a demon of the deep which could sink cruisers before

they could fire a shot and smash destroyers as if they were pleasure

boats could make very short work of liners and cargo steamers, so they

bowed to the inevitable and accepted with what grace they could defeat

and capture instead of what an hour or so ago looked like certain

victory. But the captain of the sixth, the one that was farthest out to

sea, made a dash for liberty--or Dover.



Erskine took down the receiver and said quietly:





"Centre forward gun. Train: fire!"





The next moment a brilliant blaze of flame leapt up between the

transport's funnels. They crumpled up like scorched parchment. Her

whole super-structure seemed to take fire at once and she stopped.



Again flashed the signal:





"Surrender or I'll ram."





The Tricolor fluttered slowly down through the damp, still evening air

from the transport's main truck, and almost at the same moment a fussy

little steam pinnace--which had been keeping itself snugly out of harm's

way since the first French cruiser had gone down--puffed busily out of

the harbour, and the proudest midshipman in the British Navy--for the

time being, at least--ran from transport to transport, crowded with

furious and despairing Frenchmen, and told them, individually and

collectively, the course to steer if they wanted to get safely into

Folkestone harbour and be properly taken care of.



Then out of the growing darkness to the westward long gleams of silver

light flashed up from the dull grey water and wandered about the

under-surface of the gathering clouds, coming nearer and growing

brighter every minute, jumping about the firmament as though the men

behind the projectors were either mad or drunk; but the signals spelt

out to those who understood them the cheering words:





"All right. We'll look after these fellows. Commander-in-Chief's

orders: Concentrate on Chilham, Canterbury and Dover."





"That's all right," said Erskine to himself, as he read the signals.

"Beresford's got them comfortably settled already, and he's sending

someone to help here. Well, I think we've done our share and we'd better

get along to Dover and London."



He flashed the signal: "Good-bye and good luck!" to the shore, and

shaped his course for Dover.



So far, in spite of the terrible losses that had been sustained by the

Reserve Fleet and the Channel Fleet, the odds of battle were still a

long way in favour of Britain, in spite of the enormous forces ranged

against her. At least so thought both Erskine and Castellan until they

got within about three miles of Dover harbour, and Castellan, looking on

sea and land and sky, exclaimed:



"Great Heaven help us! This looks like the other place let loose!"



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