First came the outriders of majesty, the destroyers; then the graceful light cruisers.  How many destroyers has the British navy?  I am only certain that it has not as many as it seems to have, which would mean thousands.  Trying to count them is like trying to count the bees in the garden.  You cannot keep your eye on the individual bees.  You are bound to count some twice, so busy are their manoeuvres.

“Don’t you worry, great ladies!” you imagined the destroyers were saying to the battleships.  “We will clear the road.  We will keep watch against snipers and assassins.”

“And if any knocks are coming, we will take them for you, great ladies!” said the cruisers.  “If one of us went down, the loss would not be great.  Keep your big guns safe to beat other battleships into scrap.”

For you may be sure that Fritz was on the watch in the open.  He always is, like the highwayman hiding behind a hedge and envying people who have comfortable beds.  Probably from a distance he had a peep through his periscope at the Grand Fleet before the approach of the policeman destroyers made him duck beneath the water; and probably he tried to count the number of ships and identify their classes in order to take the information home to Kiel.  Besides, he always has his fingers crossed.  He hopes that some day he may get a shot at something more warlike than a merchant steamer or an auxiliary; only that prospect becomes poorer as life for him grows harder.  Except a miracle happened, the steaming fleet, with its cordons of destroyers, is as safe from him as from any other kind of fish.

The harbour which is the fleet’s home is landlocked by low hills.  There is an eclipse of the sun by the smoke from the ships getting under way; streaming, soaring columns of smoke on the move rise above the skyline from the funnels of the battleships before they appear around a bend.  Indefinite masses as yet they are, under their night-black plumes.  Each ship seems too immense to respond to any will except its own.  But there is something automatic in the regularity with which, one after another, they take the bend, as if a stop watch had been held on twenty thousand tons of steel for a second’s variation.  As they approach they become more distinct and, showing less smoke, there seems less effort.  Their motive-power seems inherent, perpetual.

There is some sea running outside the entrance, enough to make a destroyer roll.  But the battleships disdain any notice of its existence.  It is no more to them than a ripple of dust to a motor truck.  They plough through it.

Though you were within twenty yards of them you would feel quite safe.  An express train was in no more danger of jumping the track.  Mast in line with mast, they held the course with a majestic steadiness.  Now the leading ship makes a turn of a few points.  At the same spot, as if it were marked by the grooves of tyres in a road, the others make it.  Any variation of speed between them would have been instantly noticeable, as one forged ahead or lagged; but the distance between bows and sterns did not change.  A line of one length would do for each interval so far as one could discern.