BEFORE CADIZ.
"For honour, glory, and the laws,
Is native courage given;
And he who fights his country's cause,
Fights in the cause of Heaven."--DIBDIN.
It may be doubted whether the awful bombardment of Cadiz was a necessity
of war. A bombardment is always a cruel undertaking, and often seems
positively cowardly. But Sir John had one particular reason of his own,
independent of exigency, for this cannonade. There was still a
smouldering fire of disaffection among the seamen of the fleet, and he
therefore determined to keep the sailors busy. Busy with a terrible
busy-ness surely, for day and night, night and day, the firing went on,
while many a daring cutting-out expedition was organized; and in some of
these, deeds of heroism were accomplished that the British nation may
well be proud of, even till this day. In one of these, during a boat
action, Nelson himself was overpowered, and narrowly escaped being
slain. But for his coxswain, who twice or thrice interposed his own body
betwixt the swords of the assailants and the commodore, the battle of
the Nile would never have been fought.[C]
[C] This man was for his gallantry promoted to be a gunner, and not long
afterwards was killed at his gun.
In the cutting-out expeditions and boat actions, in or near to the
harbour, and in repelling attempts to run the blockade from the town,
our officers, even our captains, fought side by side with their men.
The marines were particularly gallant and courageous. Sir John Jervis
delighted to honour this gallant body of men. They certainly deserved to
be petted and made much of; but the admiral had another reason for his
treatment of them. He thought he might possibly have eventually to play
them off against the seamen in case of revolt.
Surely, upon the whole, this year 1797 was one of the most eventful in
the whole history of this long and bloody war. A dark cloud seemed
hanging over our native land, which at any moment might burst into a
storm that would end in our utter collapse, if not destruction. And the
shadow of this cloud was in every heart. Nor is this to be wondered at.
The people were positively an-hungered, the children were crying for
bread. Far away in the north, the crops had all but failed, and famine
and death stared the people in the face. Britain's best blood was being
drained off to the wars; her sturdiest sons--those who ought to have
stayed at home to work for the women and children--were "weeded away."
Money seemed to have taken unto itself wings and flown off; and in
February the Bank of England itself came down with a crash, and closed
its doors. Even those who in wild disorderly mobs did not preach anarchy
or cry for bread, called aloud for "Peace." Peace, indeed! what would
peace have meant at such a time but dishonour and ruin. No, no! peace
could not again hover on her white wings over our distracted country for
many a day. To make matters worse, Ireland was ripe for rebellion, and
our British forces by land had been unsuccessful; for we had been beaten
and thrashed by the French in Holland. Is it not a pretty picture?
But the darkest hour had yet to come. I have already told you about the
combination formed against us. Well, had the Dutch fleet been able to
join forces with the French, this brave Britain of ours would no longer
have ruled the ocean, and all the horrors of invasion, massacre, and
rapine would have been added to our other troubles. We were depending
upon our Channel fleet to avert the last and overwhelming calamity, when
all at once, to the horror of every one, this fleet mutinied and refused
to go to sea. They even seized their officers, and though they lifted no
hand against them, they disarmed them, and either made them prisoners or
allowed a few, among whom were medical officers, to go on shore.
The men demanded increase in pay and other allowances; and it must be
confessed that, upon the whole, they had their grievances. It was not
before several anxious weeks had gone by that the differences were
settled.
It was the good old admiral Lord Howe who himself brought the king's
free pardon to the men, and the Act of Parliament granting them their
just demands. He was a very great favourite, and looked upon as quite a
father to the fleet.
Then on the 17th of May the ships put to sea.
[Illustration: "_Up and down the streets, carrying red flags, his
fellows marched._" Page 133.]
We must remember that seamen in the royal navy in those old days had a
good deal to complain of. The pay was inadequate, the food was often
unfit for human consumption, leave was seldom given in port, and
discipline was often maintained by the cat-o'-nine-tails, the services
of which might in nine cases out of ten have been dispensed with.
Just a word or two about the mutiny at the Nore, and I have done, for
ever I trust, with so shocking a subject. The men here were far more
insolent and overbearing in their demands. The president of the
mutineers--fancy calling a mutineer a president!--was, worse luck, a
Scotsman from Perth, of the name of Parker. He indeed ruled it for a
time with a high hand, and was virtually admiral of the fleet at
Sheerness, up and down the streets of which, carrying red flags, his
fellows marched, in order to secure the sympathy of civilians.
At this time, it will be remembered, Admiral Duncan was blockading the
Texel, hemming in the Dutch fleet so that they might not join the
French. Was it not a terrible thing that with the exception of two
ships--the _Venerable_ (the flagship) and the _Adamant_--his fleet
should desert him, sail across the water and join the scoundrel Parker
at the Nore?
Poor Scotch Duncan! When even the men of the flagship showed signs of
revolting, he drew them around him, and in a voice which seemed almost
choked with rising tears addressed them in words that were at once
simple and touching. His concluding sentences were somewhat as
follows:--
"Often and often, men, it has been my pride with you to look into the
Texel on a foe which dreaded to come out to meet us. But my pride is
humbled now indeed; and no words of mine can express to you the anguish
and sorrow in my heart. To be deserted by my fleet in the presence of
the enemy is a disgrace that is hard, hard to bear, for never could I
have deemed it possible."
That speech settled Jack as far as the flagship was concerned; for
British sailors really have soft, kind hearts. It is as true even to
this hour what Dibdin wrote about Jack as it was in the dashing days of
old:--
"'Longside of an enemy, boldly and brave,
He'll with broadside on broadside regale her;
Yet he'll sigh to the soul o'er that enemy's grave,
So noble's the mind of a sailor.
"Let cannons roar loud, burst their sides let the bombs,
Let the winds a dread hurricane rattle,
The rough and the pleasant he takes as it comes,
And laughs at the storm and battle.
"To rancour unknown, to no passion a slave,
Nor unmanly, nor mean, nor a railer,
He's gentle as mercy, as fortitude brave,
And this is a true British sailor."
President Parker of the "Republic Afloat" formed a cordon across the
mouth of the Thames, and intercepted all traffic. But he did not burn a
long peat stack, to use a Scotticism; for the nation was enraged at him,
and one by one his ships went back to their allegiance. He was seized,
and after a three days' trial was condemned and executed, cool and
intrepid to the very last.
The battle of St. Vincent--by no means a crowning victory--did much to
cheer the drooping hearts of the people of England. It was an earnest of
what was to follow, and probably did more to restrain the crawling demon
Revolution than anything else could have done; for Britain ever loved
her ships and her sailors.
But none knew the state of our country at this time better than Sir John
Jervis, nor how much depended upon the success of our arms at sea. It
was for this reason that he threw himself so thoroughly heart and soul
into the great game of naval warfare, and became the pivot around which
the whole fleet lived and moved.
There were many petty officers, and men too, among the ships who were
fully aware that we were fighting against fearful odds. But a sailor is
so constituted that he never lets care trouble him. Jack Mackenzie was
a very great favourite with his men. He knew the way to their hearts. It
was not his young friend Murray's bedside only that he visited. There
was not a wounded or a sick man in the whole ship who did not see him at
least once a day, and he freely distributed wine, jellies, and many
another dainty from his own mess to comfort and sustain the sick.
Jack spliced the main-brace sometimes too. One Saturday evening he
returned from a very daring and extra-well-carried-out brush with the
enemy's river craft, in which his gallant fellows had cut out a barque
from the very harbour's mouth, without the loss of a man. As soon as he
had refreshed himself somewhat with a bath and change of clothes, he
visited young Murray, whom he found doing well, and hopeful now that he
would live to see his little sweetheart once again. Then he saw the sick
men, after which he gave orders to splice the main-brace.
Walking forward some hours after this, you might have heard such songs
as "Tom Bowling" rolled up from near the forecastle, or Dibdin's
"Saturday Night at Sea."
"'Twas Saturday night: the twinkling stars
Shone on the rippling sea;
No duty called the jovial tars,
The helm was lashed a-lee.
The ample can adorned the board:
Prepared to see it out,
Each gave the lass that he adored,
And pushed the can about."
Jack on this particular evening had M'Hearty and Tom Fairlie to dine
with him, and they were still lingering over dessert, when the steward
informed the captain that Jones the boatswain desired to speak to him.
It was an odd request at such a time, but Jones was immediately
admitted. His face was very serious indeed. He glanced uneasily at the
servants, and interpreting the look to mean that he wished privacy,
Captain Mackenzie ordered them to retire.
If Jones was serious, Jack was much more so when he made his statement,
which he did in straightforward British sailor's English.