The special circumstances which have attended the building of the battleship Dreadnought brought to her launch today an atmosphere of excitement and expectation which was not diminished by the sudden change in the scale of the ceremony caused by the death of the Danish King.
Rather it seemed that the absence of ╥dressed╙ ships and Venetian masts, troops, and organised spectators assisted the event by increasing the workmanlike character and reducing it to its most industrial terms.
The great gangs of men in their overalls roaring their chanties far below the Royal platform as they swung their rams at the shores upon which the great ship was wedged, and waving their arms as the water leapt to her bows when she had entered the sea, formed the right background for the ceremonial finish to this great effort of organised industry.
One felt that the workmen from Barrow and Sheffield and Renfrew who have worked at her armour and machinery and boilers ought also to have been here to toss their caps, for if our supremacy is based upon our constructing improved types of warships, even more than in fighting them, it is not the sailor and the marine who should have the first place in a launching ceremony.
To-day it was the ╥Yo-ho╙ of the chanty man and the noise of iron on wood that took the central place. The bluejackets in their summer straw hats and the marines in their overcoats were hidden behind the blocks of sheds, and the King and his brilliant little company of courtiers, admirals, attaches, and clerics could not be seen until the ship went down the ways.
It was the white jackets of the workmen that cut the great figure.
The day was in the best Portsmouth manner. The dismal sky of the morning broke just when people were beginning to lose hope, and poured down floors of sunshine and sent gay winds to tease the flags. Work was stopped at breakfast-time in the Dockyard, and all the possible places were soon crowded by townsmen and their wives. There was only a small invited company of spectators and a little choir of boys.
It was a very keen-eyed company, however, and one noticed many of the chiefs from the private shipbuilding yards, a couple of Japanese, one Chinese, and several other foreigners. From their position there was not much to see of this mysterious ship, whose secrets had furnished so many interesting articles from the quidnuncs. The bow towered 30ft. overhead and 20ft. below the platform, but the view was sufficient to upset one of the leading disclosures.
The Dreadnought╒s bow had the usual ram formation. The forecastle is cut away at each side, bearing out the theory that the first pair of 12in. guns will be mounted in a barbette on the forecastle, and two other pairs a little aft on the upper deck, the cut-away allowing them to be fired ahead.
The only other point of interest was the huge slice, 12in. deep, that seemed gouged out of the hull right along from the bow to the stern. This is the space on which the protecting belt of armour will be riveted. The sharp lines of the bow towered overhead, the perspective ran swiftly aft to the cup-like bulge amidships, and beyond one looked on white sails and tall-funnelled tugs. The standing ways had all been cut down except those supporting the gangways to her decks amidships.
Tremendous preparation had been made to ensure a safe delivery to the sea. The massive cradle which held the ship in position when the other supports were removed was built of huge logs and held in position by huge iron clamps riveted into the ship╒s side. The ways were partly greased with margarine.
On the platform at the bow a worried-looking, greyish man with a tall hat moved uneasily about; the German, French, Italian, and American attaches pulled their cloaks around their splendid uniforms and smiled gravely at the bow of the Dreadnought; the Mayor of Portsmouth guarded his blue robe with both hands from the disorderly wind, and light-footed elderly admirals talked together.
General Sir Ian Hamilton was one of a little group of soldiers in elegant grey-blue cloaks. Sir Philip Watts, with his black-feathered cocked hat, turned to Lord Tweedmouth with the slow, discreet smile of a practical man and an authority. The Bishop of Winchester and his crozier-bearer were the centre of another group.
Very quietly, the King arrived at the appointed hour, leaning heavily on his stick after the steep climb up the gangway. His Majesty did not look quite in his usual health, and it was obvious as the ceremony went on that the effort of speaking with his officers and the attaches, although carried through with his customary heartiness and vivacity, entailed considerable fatigue.
Sir John Fisher, wearing the crimson ribbon of the Bath, attended the King closely throughout the ceremony. The dockyard chaplain conducted the religious service observed at the birth of our ships of war. The singing of the choir was lost in the wind, but the voice of the Bishop of Winchester pronouncing a benediction was distinctly heard in a lull. Afterwards came the profaner music from the workmen. An unusually loud chorus from the standing ways attracted the King╒s curiosity, and with Lord Tweedmouth and Sir John Fisher he moved out to the end of the platform and gazed down on the crowd of little white figures that swarmed beneath the great curve of the ship.
Immediately the King was seen there was a loud roar of welcome, the workmen hammering their tools on whatever was to hand. At this moment Admiral Barry came with word that all was ready. The King turned and walked into the little stall and grasped the flower-decked bottle of wine that was held in its place by a cord above and another to the bows below, attached to a running weight in the shape of a golden crown. The King pulled out the bottle and let it go, but the flowers prevented it from breaking. A second attempt cracked it, and the wine trickled down the grey bows.
Then came the last act of the ceremony. A rope on each side which held the balancing weight that kept the last dogshores in position was joined by strands across the bow upright, and these the King severed by a series of taps with a mallet on a chisel held by an official. As the last strand was severed the enormous bulk that seemed as immovable as a cathedral made a sudden perceptible little spring backwards and, as it seemed, upwards.
This changed at once to a sliding motion, and before the mind, for all its preparation, had conceived what had happened one was looking down on another great field of faces where a second before had stood this vast grey structure. The ship diminished sharply before one╒s eyes. Then a crash of waters aroused one╒s other senses. There came a roar of hurrahs, the first sounds of the band playing ╥God save the King╙ and tugs blowing their horns, and the perfume of spilt wine and of flowers.
The sunlight now penetrated into the platform that had been overshadowed before, and showed the king and his admirals saluting Britain╒s greatest battleship, which stood well out in the harbour, with her forward anchors out and gripping and the waves flecking her monstrous sides. A host of small boats had put out in a moment and were fighting for the floating shores and splinters and the masses of fat that the cradle had stripped from the ways.
