In one sense, Tryon’s unorthodoxy and swagger was just what England expected – proof again that the Nelsonian spirit was alive and well – and yet at the same time, if a Royal Navy admiral could do this, what was to stop an enemy doing the same? ‘It is enough to make one tremble to think of what would befall [Liverpool],’ wrote The Times’s correspondent, on board Tryon’s Ajax as his six ironclads, three torpedo boats and five cruisers dropped anchor unopposed in the Mersey, ‘if we were really a foreign enemy’s fleet, and there is evidently no reason in the world why one should not some fine day do as we have done unless some more efficient means are taken to prevent it. It seems to me almost incredible that an enemy’s fleet of inferior – and very much inferior – strength should be able, without the slightest attempt at resistance by the British naval forces, to force a blockade in one port and then still without opposition, to storm up the Mersey and exact whatever ransom it pleases, with the alternative of utterly destroying Liverpool … What Sir George Tryon has done a French or German admiral might do and could do.’
In the short term this exercise had profound effects, leading in the Naval Defence Act of the following year to the adoption of the ‘two-power standard’ – the idea that the Royal Navy should equal the combined strength of any two foreign powers – and in the longer term it fed into the invasion paranoia of the years before the First World War. For any impartial observer Tryon’s triumph had also revealed the fundamental flaws that radicals within the service had long recognised, and if anything was needed to point up the moral it was the fact that Albert Markham – polar explorer, ‘authoritarian’ supreme, and the man who six years later would ram the Victoria and kill Tryon – was the hapless commodore of the ‘British’ force that had let the ‘enemy’ ‘B’ Fleet give it the slip.
These manoeuvres were Scott’s last excitement for some time, and at the end of August 1888 he left Spider for the second-class cruiser Amphion, and another long haul away from England and family on the Pacific Station. ‘My dearest old Gov,’ he wrote to his father on the voyage out, with ‘a heavy following sea’ the Amphion ‘nearly turned on end & performed capers. Everything on board was miserable – I was cold, I was dirty, I was slightly seasick, very homesick, hungry, tired & desperately angry – the wardroom was upside down, my cabin was chaotic & stuffy. In dull despair I sat myself in an armchair in the wardroom & determined not to move till the weather moderated – I should have kept my promise if the chair hadn’t broken – I was cursed by the infuriated owner. Shall I describe to you what sleeping over [the] screw is? First the bunk shakes from under you (in itself a pleasant sensation – very) then a sudden stop with a loud noise best written as “Wumph” that’s when the sea strikes the stem – then the screw seems to stop – up goes the stem again accompanied by the most infernal rattling … shaking the whole ship. Imagine all this accompanied by a motion which would land you on the floor if you were not tucked in. And yet through all this I slept a sweet, gentle refreshing sleep accompanied by a hideous nightmare and from which I woke with a very bad head and promptly spilled my water can over my cabin … My dear old chap! I don’t think I can really go on. I will say goodnight and goodbye with heaps of love to everyone.’
Scott was always good on the physical miseries of ship’s life, but it was the Amphion’s captain, Edward Hulton, who was guaranteed to bring out the best in him as a letter-writer. ‘Alas! the skipper remains fussy,’ he complained on the same voyage; ‘he is an extraordinary man – at all hours of the night on watch you are liable to a flying visit from a spectral figure. There is no waste of time, from the moment he sees you until he is again lost from view, you are subjected to a running fire of orders (all utterly unnecessary – par parenthesis). The end of this storm gradually lessens in sound until the words become indistinct. After a time you don’t pay much attention, but it still would be annoying if it were only for the number of times you have to say “yes sir” in reply.’
‘Captain Hulton still affords great amusement,’ he could still write at the end of his time in Amphion. ‘I was walking back with him at Gibraltar from a dance the other day; he said he knew a short cut which we proceeded to find, we hadn’t got very far when we heard the familiar “alt, who goes there” (Gib simply bristles with sentries). “Friend” said the Captain. “There ain’t no friends in Gibraltar” answered the voice. “But my good man I am the Captain of the man of war etc etc” “Can’t ’elp that – yer can’t pass” “But really my good man I belong to the Navy, the Royal Navy, I’m a Captain.” “Can’t ’elp that – there’s soldiers and there’s officers and there’s ’nabitants but there ain’t no friend and yer’d better go back again.” He went.’
Scott was not always so elastic in his spirits, and sandwiched between these two letters is a fragment of diary, undated but probably belonging to the summer of 1890, that conveys a very different picture. ‘After many more or less futile efforts,’ he wrote, ‘I again decide on starting a diary. It being therefore my wish in starting such a work (for work in the sense of labour it undoubtedly is) merely to please myself, I make the experiment of transcribing my thoughts, hoping that the disappointment that will necessarily meet me in the inefficiency of my pen, will in some measure be compensated by the interest stored up for future years, when the mutability of time, ideas and sentiments will have undergone their common evolution … How I have longed to fix some idea, only so I may build from it – but though the words or general meaning may remain in what is written, the attraction has vanished like some will-o’-the-wisp and I find myself sitting idea-less and vacant … The vague argument that something must be done to express myself on paper even as an ordinary gentleman should, urges me on; there comes too a growing fear of my own thoughts; at times they almost frighten me … ’
There is nothing unusual in these juvenile maunderings, except perhaps that a young naval sub-lieutenant’s anxieties and ambitions should take so specifically literary a form. Of all the great explorers of the Heroic Age Scott was the only one – Nansen not excepted – who had the literary talent to make imaginative sense of his life, and if this early diary shows an almost embarrassing lack of promise it is fascinating that the same compulsion to give shape to his experience that filled his last hours should have equally exercised the young Scott.
There has never been a shortage of men of action who have wanted to be artists – General Wolfe famously declared that he would rather have written Gray’s ‘Elegy’ than take Quebec (which must have been a bit of a ‘facer’ to the men under his command) – but the man who is both is a rarer animal. The conditions of the First World War inevitably threw up a number of poets who were forced into the unfamiliar world of their natural opposites, but in the deeply philistine naval culture within which Scott was brought up – a culture suspicious of the intellectual life in any form – the rarity of such an ambition must have brought an acute sense of loneliness.
And it was not just his inability to express himself that troubled him, but a deeper malaise that hovers somewhere between adolescent mawkishness and the ‘black dog’ from which he never escaped. ‘It is only given to us cold slowly wrought natures to feel this drear deadly tightening at the heart,’ the diary continues after a half-page has been ripped out, ‘this slow sickness that holds one for weeks. How can I bear it. I write of the future; of the hopes of being more worthy; but shall I ever be – can I alone, poor weak wretch that I am, bear up against it all. The daily round, the petty annoyances, the ill-health, the sickness of heart – how can one fight against it all. No one will ever see these words, therefore I may freely write – what does it all mean?’
If it seems impossible now to know what – if anything specific – lay behind this passage, its tone inevitably draws attention to the one period of Scott’s naval life over which there is any uncertainty. A lot has been made of a brief gap in his service record while he was on the Pacific Station, and while there is not a shred of evidence