XXXVII.
The cradle of oversea traffic and of the art of naval combats, the
Mediterranean, apart from all the associations of adventure and
glory, the common heritage of all mankind, makes a tender appeal to
a seaman. It has sheltered the infancy of his craft. He looks
upon it as a man may look at a vast nursery in an old, old mansion
where innumerable generations of his own people have learned to
walk. I say his own people because, in a sense, all sailors belong
to one family: all are descended from that adventurous and shaggy
ancestor who, bestriding a shapeless log and paddling with a
crooked branch, accomplished the first coasting-trip in a sheltered
bay ringing with the admiring howls of his tribe. It is a matter
of regret that all those brothers in craft and feeling, whose
generations have learned to walk a ship's deck in that nursery,
have been also more than once fiercely engaged in cutting each
other's throats there. But life, apparently, has such exigencies.
Without human propensity to murder and other sorts of
unrighteousness there would have been no historical heroism. It is
a consoling reflection. And then, if one examines impartially the
deeds of violence, they appear of but small consequence. From
Salamis to Actium, through Lepanto and the Nile to the naval
massacre of Navarino, not to mention other armed encounters of
lesser interest, all the blood heroically spilt into the
Mediterranean has not stained with a single trail of purple the
deep azure of its classic waters.
Of course, it may be argued that battles have shaped the destiny of
mankind. The question whether they have shaped it well would
remain open, however. But it would be hardly worth discussing. It
is very probable that, had the Battle of Salamis never been fought,
the face of the world would have been much as we behold it now,
fashioned by the mediocre inspiration and the short-sighted labours
of men. From a long and miserable experience of suffering,
injustice, disgrace and aggression the nations of the earth are
mostly swayed by fear--fear of the sort that a little cheap oratory
turns easily to rage, hate, and violence. Innocent, guileless fear
has been the cause of many wars. Not, of course, the fear of war
itself, which, in the evolution of sentiments and ideas, has come
to be regarded at last as a half-mystic and glorious ceremony with
certain fashionable rites and preliminary incantations, wherein the
conception of its true nature has been lost. To apprehend the true
aspect, force, and morality of war as a natural function of mankind
one requires a feather in the hair and a ring in the nose, or,
better still, teeth filed to a point and a tattooed breast.
Unfortunately, a return to such simple ornamentation is impossible.
We are bound to the chariot of progress. There is no going back;
and, as bad luck would have it, our civilization, which has done so
much for the comfort and adornment of our bodies and the elevation
of our minds, has made lawful killing frightfully and needlessly
expensive.
The whole question of improved armaments has been approached by the
governments of the earth in a spirit of nervous and unreflecting
haste, whereas the right way was lying plainly before them, and had
only to be pursued with calm determination. The learned vigils and
labours of a certain class of inventors should have been rewarded
with honourable liberality as justice demanded; and the bodies of
the inventors should have been blown to pieces by means of their
own perfected explosives and improved weapons with extreme
publicity as the commonest prudence dictated. By this method the
ardour of research in that direction would have been restrained
without infringing the sacred privileges of science. For the lack
of a little cool thinking in our guides and masters this course has
not been followed, and a beautiful simplicity has been sacrificed
for no real advantage. A frugal mind cannot defend itself from
considerable bitterness when reflecting that at the Battle of
Actium (which was fought for no less a stake than the dominion of
the world) the fleet of Octavianus Caesar and the fleet of
Antonius, including the Egyptian division and Cleopatra's galley
with purple sails, probably cost less than two modern battleships,
or, as the modern naval book-jargon has it, two capital units. But
no amount of lubberly book-jargon can disguise a fact well
calculated to afflict the soul of every sound economist. It is not
likely that the Mediterranean will ever behold a battle with a
greater issue; but when the time comes for another historical fight
its bottom will be enriched as never before by a quantity of jagged
scrap-iron, paid for at pretty nearly its weight of gold by the
deluded populations inhabiting the isles and continents of this
planet.
