The Night Of Terror Begins

: The World Peril Of 1910

Denis Castellan had put the situation tersely, but with a considerable

amount of accuracy. Earth and sea and sky were ablaze with swarms of

shooting, shifting lights, which kept crossing each other and making

ever-changing patterns of a magnificent embroidery, and amidst these,

huge shells and star-rockets were bursting in clouds of smoke and

many-coloured flame. The thunder of the big guns, the grinding rattle of

the
uick-firers, and the hoarse, whistling shrieks of the shells,

completed the awful pandemonium of destruction and death that was raging

round Dover.



The truth was that the main naval attack of the Allies was being

directed on the south-eastern stronghold. I am aware that this is not

the usual plan followed by those who have written romantic forecasts of

the invasion of England. It seems at first sight, provided that the

enemy could pass the sentinels of the sea unnoticed, easy to land troops

on unprotected portions of our shores; but, in actual warfare, this

would be the most fatal policy that could be pursued, simply because,

whatever the point selected, the invaders would always find themselves

between two strong places, with one or more ahead of them. They would

thus be outflanked on all sides, with no retreat open but the sea, which

is the most easily closed of all retreats.



From their point of view, then, the Allies were perfectly right in their

project of reducing the great strongholds of southern and eastern

England, before advancing with their concentrated forces upon London.

It would, of course, be a costly operation. In fact Britain's long

immunity from invasion went far to prove that, to enemies possessing

only the ordinary means of warfare, it would have been impossible, but,

ever since the success of the experiment at Potsdam, German engineering

firms had been working hard under John Castellan's directions turning

out improved models of the Flying Fish. The various parts were

manufactured at great distances apart, and no one firm knew what the

others were doing. It was only when the parts of the vessels and the

engines were delivered at the closely-guarded Imperial factory at

Potsdam, that, under Castellan's own supervision, they became the

terrible fighting machines that they were.



The Aerial Fleet numbered twenty when war broke out, and of these five

had been detailed for the attack on Dover. They were in fact the

elements which made that attack possible, and, as is already known, four

were co-operating with the Northern Division of the Allied Fleets

against the forts defending Chatham and London.



Dover was at that time one of the most strongly fortified places in the

world. Its magnificent new harbour had been completed, and its

fortifications vastly strengthened and re-armed with the new

fourteen-inch gun which had superseded the old sixteen-inch gun of

position, on account of its greater handiness, combined with greater

penetrating power.



But at Dover, as at Portsmouth, the forts were powerless against the

assaults of these winged demons of the air. They were able to use their

terrible projectiles with reckless profusion, because only twenty-two

miles away at Calais there were inexhaustible stores from which they

could replenish their magazines. Moreover, the private factory at Kiel,

where alone they were allowed to be manufactured, were turning them out

by hundreds a day.



They had, of course, formed the vanguard of the attacking force which

had advanced in three divisions in column of line abreast from Boulogne,

Calais and Antwerp. The Boulogne and Calais divisions were French, and

each consisted of six battleships with the usual screens of cruisers,

destroyers and torpedo boats: these two divisions constituted the French

North Sea Squadron, whose place had been taken by the main German Fleet,

assisted by the Belgian and Dutch squadron.



Another German and Russian division was advancing on London. It included

four first-class battleships, and two heavily-armed coast defence ships,

huge floating fortresses, rather slow in speed, but tremendous in power,

which accompanied them for the purpose of battering the fortifications,

and doing as much damage to Woolwich and other important places on both

sides as their big guns could achieve. Four Flying Fishes accompanied

this division.



Such was the general plan of action on that fatal night. Confident in

the terrific powers of their Aerial Squadrons, and ignorant of the

existence of the Ithuriel, the Allied Powers never considered the

possibilities of anything but rapid victory. They knew that the forts

could no more withstand the shock of the bombardment from the air than

battleships or cruisers could resist the equally deadly blow which these

same diabolical contrivances could deliver under the water.



They had not the slightest doubt but that forts would be silenced and

fleets put out of action with a swiftness unknown before, and then the

crowded transports would follow the victorious fleets, and the military

promenade upon London would begin, headed by the winged messengers of

destruction, from which neither flight nor protection was possible.



Of course, the leaders of the Allies were in ignorance of the

misfortunes they had suffered at Portsmouth and Folkestone. All they

knew they learned from aerograms, one from Admiral Durenne off the Isle

of Wight saying that the Portsmouth forts had been silenced and the

Fleet action had begun, and another from the Commodore of the squadron

off Folkestone saying that all was going well, and the landing would

shortly be effected: and thus they fully expected to have the three

towns and the entrance to the Thames at their mercy by the following

day.



Certainly, as far as Dover was concerned, things looked very much as

though their anticipations would be realised, for when the Ithuriel

arrived upon the scene, Dover Castle and its surrounding forts were

vomiting flame and earth into the darkening sky, like so many volcanoes.

The forts on Admiralty Pier, Shakespear Cliff, and those commanding the

new harbour works, had been silenced and blown up, and the town and

barracks were in flames in many places.



The scene was, in short, so inhumanly appalling, and horror followed

horror with such paralysing rapidity, that the most practised

correspondents and the most experienced officers, both afloat and

ashore, were totally unable to follow them and describe what was

happening with anything like coherence. It was simply an inferno of

death and destruction, which no human words could have properly

described, and perhaps the most ghastly feature of it was the fact that

there was no human agency visible in it at all. There was no Homeric

struggle of man with man, although many a gallant deed was done that

night which never was seen nor heard of, and many a hero went to his

death without so much as leaving behind him the memory of how he died.



It was a conflict of mechanical giants--giant ships, giant engines,

giant guns, and explosives of something more than giant strength. These

were the monsters which poor, deluded Humanity, like another

Frankenstein, had thought out with infinite care and craft, and

fashioned for its own mutual destruction. Men had made a hell out of

their own passions and greed and jealousies, and now that hell had

opened and mankind was about to descend into it.



The sea-defence of Dover itself consisted of the Home Fleet in three

divisions, composed respectively of the England, London, Bulwark

and Venerable, Queen and Prince of Wales battleships, and ten

first-class armoured cruisers, the Duncan, Cornwallis, Exmouth and

Russell battleships, with twelve armoured cruisers, and thirdly, the

reconstructed and re-armed Empress of India, Revenge, Repulse and

Resolution, with eight armoured cruisers. To the north between Dover

and the North Foreland lay the Southern Division of the North Sea

Squadron.



When the battle had commenced these three divisions were lying in their

respective stations, in column of line ahead about six miles from the

English shore. Behind them lay a swarm of destroyers and torpedo boats,

ready to dart out and do their deadly work between the ships, and ten

submarines were attached to each division. The harbour and approaches

were, of course, plentifully strewn with mines.



"It's an awful sight," said Castellan, with a note of awe in his voice,

when they had taken in the situation with the rapidity and precision of

the professional eye. "And to me the worst of it is that it won't be

safe for us to take a share in the row."



"What!" exclaimed Erskine, almost angrily. "Do you mean to tell me we

sha'n't be able to help our fellows? Then what on earth have we come

here for?"



"Just look there, now!" said Castellan, pointing ahead to where huge

shapes, enveloped in a mist of flame and smoke, were circling round each

other, vomiting their thunderbolts, like leviathans engaged in a

veritable dance of death.



"D'ye see that!" continued Denis. "What good would we be among that lot?

The Ithuriel hasn't eyes on her that can see through the dark water,

and if she had, how would we tell the bottom of a French or German ship

from a Britisher's, and a nice thing it would be for us to go about

sinking the King's ships, and helping those foreign devils to land in

old England! No, Erskine, this ship of yours is a holy terror, but she's

a daylight fighter. Don't you see that we came too late, and wait till

to-morrow we can't, and there's the Duke's orders.



"I'll tell you what," he continued more cheerfully, as the Ithuriel

cleared the southern part of the battle, "if we could get at the

transports we might have some fun with them, but they'll all be safe

enough in port, loading up, and there's not much chance that they'll

come out till our boys have been beaten and the roads are clear for

them. Then they'll go across thinking they'll meet their pals from

Portsmouth and Folkestone. Now, you see that line out there to the

north-eastward?"



"Yes," said Erskine, looking towards a long row of dim shapes which

every now and then were brought out into ominous distinctness by the

flashes of the shells and searchlights.



"Well," continued Castellan, "if I know anything of naval tactics,

that's the Reserve lot waiting till the battle's over. They think

they'll win, and I think so too, thanks to those devil-ships my brother

has made for them. Even if Beresford does come up in time, he can no

more fight against them than anybody else. Now, there's just one chance

that we can give him, and that is sinking the Reserve; for, you see, if

we've only half a dozen ships left that can shoot a bit in the morning,

they won't dare to put their transports out without a convoy, and unless

they land them, well, they're no use."



"Castellan," said Erskine, putting his hand on his shoulder, "you'll be

an admiral some day. Certainly, we'll go for the convoy, for I'll be

kicked if I can stand here watching all that going on and not have a

hand in it. We'd better sink, and use nothing but the ram, I suppose."



"Why, of course," replied Castellan. "It would never do to shoot at

them. There are too many, and besides, we don't want them to know that

we're here until we've sent them to the bottom."



"And a lot they'll know about it then!" laughed Erskine. "All right," he

continued, taking down the receiver. "Courtney and Mac can see to the

sinking, so you'd better stop here with me and see the fun."



"That I will, with all the pleasure in life and death," said Castellan

grimly, as Erskine gave his orders and the Ithuriel immediately began

to sink.



Castellan was perfectly right in his conjecture as to the purpose of the

Reserve.



The French and German Squadron, which was intended for the last rush

through the remnants of the crippled British fleet, consisted of four

French and three German battleships, old and rather slow, but heavily

armed, and much more than a match for the vessels which had already

passed through the terrible ordeal of battle. In addition there were six

fast second-class cruisers, and about a score of torpedo boats.



With her decks awash and the conning-tower just on a level with the

short, choppy waves, the Ithuriel ran round to the south of the line

at ten knots, as they were anxious not to kick up any fuss in the water,

lest a chance searchlight from the enemy might fall upon them, and lead

to trouble. She got within a mile of the first cruiser unobserved, and

then Erskine gave the order to quicken up. They had noticed that the

wind was rising, and they knew that within half an hour the tide would

be setting southward like a mill-race through the narrow strait.



Their tactics therefore were very simple. Every cruiser and battleship

was rammed in the sternpost; not very hard, but with sufficient force to

crumple up the sternpost, and disable the rudder and the propellers, and

with such precision was this done, that, until the signals of distress

began to flash, the uninjured ships and the nearest of those engaged in

the battle were under the impression that orders had been given for the

Reserve to move south. But this supposition very soon gave place to

panic as ship after ship swung helplessly inshore, impelled by the

ever-strengthening tide towards the sands of Calais and the rocks of

Gris Nez.



Searchlights flashed furiously, but Erskine and Castellan had already

taken the bearings of the remaining ships, and the Ithuriel, now ten

feet below the water, and steered solely by compass, struck ship after

ship, till the whole of the Reserve was drifting helplessly to

destruction.



This, as they had both guessed, produced a double effect on the battle.

In the first place it was impossible for the Allies to see their

Reserve, upon which so much might depend, in such a helpless plight, and

the admirals commanding were therefore obliged to detach ships to help

them; and on the other hand, the British were by no means slow to take

advantage of the position. A score of torpedo boats, and half as many

destroyers, dashed out from behind the British lines, and, rushing

through the hurricane of shell that was directed upon them, ran past the

broken line of unmanageable cruisers and battleships, and torpedoed them

at easy range. True, half of them were crumpled up, and sent to the

bottom during the process, but that is a contingency which British

torpedo officers and men never take the slightest notice of. The

disabled ships were magnificent marks for torpedoes, and they had to go

down, wherefore down they went.



Meanwhile the Ithuriel had been having a merry time among the torpedo

flotilla of the Reserve Squadron. She rose flush with the water, put on

full speed, and picked them up one after another on the end of her ram,

and tossed them aside into the depths as rapidly as an enraged whale

might have disposed of a fleet of whaleboats.



The last boat had hardly gone down when signals were seen flashing up

into the sky from over Dungeness.



"That's Beresford to the rescue," said Castellan, in a not

over-cheerful voice. "Now if it wasn't for those devil-ships of my

brother's there'd be mighty little left of the Allied Fleet to-morrow

morning; but I'm afraid he won't be able to do anything against those

amphibious Flying Fishes, as he calls them. Now, we'd better be off to

London."



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