Yet experienced officers were well aware that, with all the foresight and sagacity that could be brought to bear, the fortune of war at sea depended very much on what men still called chance. “Right or left,” said Nelson, “it is all a matter of guess, and the world attributes wisdom to him who guesses right.” Nelson himself had to hunt for the French fleet many a time and oft; the American fleet had no news of the Spanish ships for something like a fortnight in the fight for Cuba; and in the war between Russia and Japan, the fleet of the former was “a dark horse” to Admiral Togo for considerable periods. The game of wits at sea, for which the other term is naval strategy, depends on distances, the elements, the unforeseen. Specific programmes are impossible, and the best-laid plans of admirals “gang oft agley.” Thus it came about that in this critical juncture the British scouts failed to get in touch with the potential enemy,--a failure almost attended with dire results for England. The Germans having given our scouts the slip (whether by luck or skill was never known) crept back in the dark hours towards Plymouth. Then, suddenly, their whole flotilla of destroyers, with lights out, and steaming at full speed, made a desperate attempt to force an entrance to the harbour. The rush was admirably planned. Anticipating partial detection, and by means of clever feints, the torpedo craft sought to attract the search-lights of the defence works to one particular destroyer, hoping that the main division might thus be enabled to make a successful dash, under the shadow of the shore, to the eastern and western channels of the breakwater. But the manœuvre failed. In the very nick of time the flashlights exposed the real and formidable nature of the onslaught. The roar of the battery guns burst forth upon the night, continuing with unabated fury until all but one of the flotilla--which ran headlong upon the breakwater--were sunk or driven off, damaged and defeated. The projected supplementary action of the German battleships, now looming into view, thus became hopeless, if not impossible. A mighty cheer went up from all the British ships when this was realised. It was their turn now to take the warpath, and the Admiral,--Sir Lambert Meade,--saw that they took it instantly. In the hearts of all, if not upon their lips, was the spirit of the stirring English war-song: “Who fears to die? Who fears to die? Is there any here who fears to die * * * * * Shout for England! Ho! for England! George for England! Merry England! England for aye!”