CHAPTER VIII.

WARDLAW'S WORKS.

To counteract the dangers arising from the Channel Tunnel, long since an accomplished fact, and to soothe the apprehensions of a large section of the public, new defence works of enormous strength and intricacy had been constructed on the heights of Dover. Always a place of vast importance by reason of its position, the ancient stronghold now had become more notably than ever the key to England. As a watering place it had steadily dwindled in importance. Its neighbour, Folkestone, easily held the palm for all pleasure-seekers; but the commercial development of Dover as a port of call for the great liners had been remarkable, just as its strength for naval purposes had been vastly augmented. The completion of the Admiralty Harbour by the construction of the East Arm and the South Breakwater now afforded a safe haven for the largest warships in the British Navy. Here they might ride at anchor, or safely come and go, always protected by the monster guns which had been mounted in the various forts.

The commercial harbour had been provided with a huge marine station, where transatlantic passengers in ever-increasing numbers were enabled to land or embark under shelter, continuing their journey either on land or sea with a modicum of inconvenience. It was the great aim of competing steam and railway companies to simplify the methods of travel and enable everybody to go everywhere and do everything with the greatest possible amount of comfort. Those who could not trust themselves, invaluable as they were to themselves, amid the chops of the Channel, now might travel by tunnel to and from the Continent, and thus avoid the risks of nausea or the inconsiderate assaults of wind or wave.

By one means or another thousands upon thousands of passengers of all nations and tongues streamed through Dover year after year. It was before all things a place of passage--in so far as it was not a place of arms. If one had repeated to most of these globe-trotters Gloster's question in King Lear: "Dost thou know Dover?" the answer would probably have been: "Well, I just caught a glimpse of it." From the Channel, Shakespeare's Cliff, to the westward of the Admiralty pier, certainly was found less impressive than most people had expected. Like English life, as a whole, it seemed less spacious than it was considered to be in the days of good Queen Bess. But then, of course, Shakespeare, with his cloud-capp'd towers and gorgeous palaces, was always such a very imaginative dramatist. Still, there was the ancient, though slowly-crumbling, cliff remaining in evidence to remind English folk and foreigners of the splendid story of England's past. There, too, on Castle Hill, the ancient Roman Pharos--adjoining St. Mary's-in-Castro--reared its roofless walls towards the clouds. The mariners of England and of Gaul no longer needed the lights of the Pharos to guide them in the Channel, and, of course, the venerable bells that used to ring for matins and evensong were silent many a year before Admiral Rooke removed them to Portsmouth parish church.

The great Castle, close at hand, was visited by very few excursionists. The climb between Castle Hill and the Western heights was found fatiguing. More Americans than Englishmen appeared to interest themselves in the story of the Castle; its occupation by William of Normandy after the Battle of Hastings, its associations with King John's craven submission to the Papal Legate, its victorious defence by Hubert de Burgh, the French attack--fruitless again--of 1278, and other incidents of historic interest. The Long Gun, known as Queen Elizabeth's pocket-pistol, still pointed its muzzle sea-ward, and the inscription in low Dutch, very freely translated, rashly adjured the current generation to--

"Load me well and keep me clean, I'll carry my ball to Calais Green."

But inspection of the Castle was not encouraged, and tourists of foreign appearance who showed a disposition to take snapshots in the vicinity were promptly checked in their pursuit of the pleasing but too common art of photography. Yet it was certain that, pigeon-holed in every war department, of continental and, perhaps, of certain Eastern powers, there were full details, or nearly full, of the elaborate defence works with which Dover was provided. It was known that Castle Hill was honeycombed with subterranean passages and galleries, and that the Castle (nowadays a barrack rather than a fortress) was thus connected with the modern forts in its immediate vicinity.

Fort Burgoyne, to the north of the castle itself, was, until recent times, the strongest link in the chain of defence, its guns being of great calibre, and commanding a vast range over land and sea. But far more powerful, and better equipped with modern armament and military resources, was Fort Warden; such being the name given to the works which had been specially constructed as a safeguard against possible attack by means of the Channel Tunnel. The very hill had been hewn and carved and moulded to meet the needs of such a danger. Commanding the gradual sweep by which the railway descended towards the Tunnel, the great guns of Fort Warden were always trained upon the gaping archway from which the incoming trains were constantly emerging.

The highest battery of the Fort occupied a dominating position overlooking all the _enceinte_ fortifications, which were armed with machine guns and small cannon. There was a subterranean passage connecting the fort with the waterworks of a large service reservoir in a hollow of the hill, which had been constructed in modern times to ensure an adequate supply of water for the troops and the Duke of York's School. Fort Warden was complete in itself; but, linked up with the other fortifications, it formed, as it were, the citadel of a composite fortress where, in the event of attack, the last stand would be made by England's defenders. Round the fort extended a double row of trenches, and within these was a moat. Strong wire entanglements defended the trenches, and the loopholes in the breastworks were protected by 3/4-inch steel plates with a cross-shaped opening for the rifles. In addition, strong bomb-proofs were provided for the reserves, with wide bomb-proof passages leading to certain of the other forts. In all directions on the hill were placed howitzers and mortars, most of the battery positions and gun epaulements being ingeniously masked and difficult for an advancing enemy to locate. The military scientist who had designed most of the elaborate defences and put finishing touches to those of earlier construction was Major Edgar Wardlaw of the Royal Engineers. His old friend General Hartwell held that from the point of view of an invading enemy, this quiet, unassuming officer was the most dangerous man in all the British army. Major Wardlaw certainly knew better than anyone else of what Dover Castle Hill was capable. The military authorities were very chary of rehearsing its possible performances, because, in the vulgar parlance of an earlier period, it would give the show away. It was a "show" that must be closely reserved and kept dark in times of international peace and quietness.

Meanwhile, the hillside showed but few signs of life; the winds of heaven blew over it, the rains descended, or the sun shone. Birds hopped about, and people came and went. Often there was hardly a sound to break the silence of the hill. A visitor who had climbed the heights could gaze over the town of Dover and the hills and valleys behind it, or look right across the Channel to the coast of France, quite undisturbed by human voice or sound of busy life. But Major Wardlaw could have told that visitor that on the instant, at a signal, this placid scene could be converted into one of awful violence and furious sound; that in a flash the hill would vomit forth, as if from many avenues of hell, wholesale, fiery death and indiscriminate destruction. On every side would rise the roar of monster ordnance, the ceaseless rattle of machine guns, the deafening crack of musketry.

Woe betide the foe that dared to rouse the sleeping monster of the hill!

Such were Wardlaw's Works, as they were called throughout the British army. When the Major retired from active service, he still lingered in the neighbourhood of his _magnum opus_. In a charming bungalow, perched on the hillside of Folkestone Warren, he and Miss Flossie spent unruffled days amid eminently healthy surroundings.

The Warren, a bay of much natural beauty, had been rescued from neglect. A station on the line from Folkestone proper to Dover afforded easy access to the Bay; trees had been planted and roads cut in the hillside. Everywhere on summer nights the lights gleamed from villas and bungalows, and down below on the new jetty, and at the mastheads of scores of pleasure craft. The place suited Major Wardlaw admirably, and even little Miss Wardlaw, who was by way of being exacting, seemed quite satisfied with her surroundings. Her father kept a small cutter in the bay, and frequently took the young lady for health-giving sails upon the dancing sea. Usually their port of call was Dover. The Major was always going to Dover. He couldn't keep away from it. When the cutter was laid up for the winter, he went by train, or sometimes walked across the wind-swept downs. Dover town itself had no particular attractions for him. The magnet lay on Castle Hill. In short, Wardlaw could not keep away from Wardlaw's Works. Even when he was not visiting the Works, he was always thinking about them. When military friends of his came over from the Castle or from Shorncliffe, they seemed to talk of nothing else but Fort Warden--all that it was, and all that it would be if the critical hour of conflict or invasion ever came.

Flossie Wardlaw disapproved of the whole thing. It annoyed her--this constant absorption, this ever recurring topic of conversation. Personally, she refused to discuss the Works, and had it been possible would have forbidden all allusion to the Fort when those tiresome friends dropped in and talked "shop" with her father. Poor Wardlaw, torn with conflicting emotions, knowing that the child was jealous of the Works, used to look at her apologetically when one of his cronies started the everlasting topic. But Flossie was not easily to be mollified. With her little nose in the air, she would glance severely, disdainfully, at the author of her being, tossing back that mass of silky, sunny hair from which her pet name was derived.

And now the hated subject of the "Works" was more to the fore than ever, for the military movement among the women of England had brought Fort Warden into prominence in the newspapers. The Vice-President of the Council, in pursuance of her policy, was turning the Fort to unforeseen account. The First Amazons, as they were popularly called, had been "enrolled and uniformed," and now the Fighting Girls (as some people styled them) were to have this wonderful fort placed at their disposal for the purpose of training and instruction in the art of war. The idea was very popular among the Amazons. Some two hundred of them were to spend a fortnight in the Fort, and then give place to another batch, the Fort meanwhile being vacated by the artillerymen, save only a handful of gunnery instructors and lecturers. So the men marched out of the tortoise-backed "Works," and the Amazons, very smart in their new uniforms, and full of gleeful excitement, briskly and triumphantly marched in.

It was a picturesque episode in martial history which afforded excellent scope for lively descriptive reporting. Great numbers of people seemed to be pleasurably interested in the event, just as they used to be in the volunteer military picnics on Easter Monday. There were others, however, who, like General Hartwell noisily, and Edgar Wardlaw quietly, condemned the whole thing as monstrous, unseemly, and fraught with danger to the nation. The majority, however, laughed at the minority. What was there to be afraid of? There was not a cloud in the international sky. England's difficulties, they said, now were purely domestic. Greater Britain had been so cut up and divided that we had nothing further to fear. Surely no greedy Jezebel would dream of stirring up a Continental Ahab to covet and lay violent hands on the remnant of Naboth's Vineyard.