But the peace of which we spoke in our last chapter was nothing but a
hollow and armed truce, which gave both parties time to breathe for a few
months. England was suspicious. Napoleon was ambitious. The press
galled him to the quick. At all events, “the dogs of war” were hardly
tied up before they were again “let slip”; and then into what a bustle,
and what a fever of excitement, do we remember old Liverpool to have been
plunged. What cautions and precautions we used to take, both by land and
water. We had a venerable guard ship in the river, the “Princess,” which
we believe had originally been a Dutch man-of-war, and, if built to swim,
was certainly never intended to sail. There she used to lie at her
moorings, opposite the old George’s Dock pier, lazily swinging backwards
and forwards, with the ebbing and flowing of the tide, and looking as if
she had been built expressly for that very purpose and no other. Her very
shadow seemed to grow into that part of the river on which she lay. But,
besides her, we had generally some old-fashioned vessel of war, which had
come round from Portsmouth or Plymouth to receive volunteers, or
impressed men. A word about these last. Those who live in these “piping
times of peace” have no idea of the means which were employed in the days
of which we are speaking, to man our vessels of war. The sailors in our
merchant service had to run the gauntlet, as it were, for their liberty,
from one end of the world to the other. A ship of war, falling in with a
merchant vessel in any part of the globe, would unceremoniously take from
her the best seamen, leaving her just hands enough to bring her home. As
they approached the English shore, our cruisers, hovering in all
directions, would take their pick of the remainder. But the great terror
of the sailor was the press gang. Such was the dread in which this force
was held by the blue-jackets, that they would often take to their boats
on the other side of the Black Rock, that they might conceal themselves
in Cheshire; and many a vessel had to be brought into port by a lot of
riggers and carpenters, sent round by the owner for that purpose. And,
truly, according to our reminiscences, the press-gang was, even to look
at, something calculated to strike fear into a stout man’s heart. They
had what they called a “Rendezvous,” in different parts of the town.
There was one we recollect, in Old Strand-street. From the upper window
there was always a flag flying, to notify to volunteers what sort of
business was transacted there. But look at the door, and at the people
who are issuing from it. They are the Press-gang. At their head there
was generally a rakish, dissipated, but determined looking officer, in a
very seedy uniform and shabby hat. And what followers! Fierce, savage,
stern, villainous-looking fellows were they, as ready to cut a throat as
eat their breakfast. What an uproar their appearance always made in the
streets! The men scowled at them as they passed; the women openly
scoffed at them; the children screamed, and hid themselves behind doors
or fled round the corners. And how rapidly the word was passed from
mouth to mouth, that there were “hawks abroad,” so as to give time to any
poor sailor who had incautiously ventured from his place of concealment
to return to it. But woe unto him if there were no warning voice to tell
him of the coming danger; he was seized upon as if he were a common
felon, deprived of his liberty, torn from his home, his friends, his
parents, wife or children, hurried to the rendezvous-house, examined,
passed, and sent on board the tender, like a negro to a slave-ship. And
so it went on, until the floating prison was filled with captives, when
the living cargo was sent round to one of the outports, and the prisoners
were divided among the vessels of war which were in want of men. Persons
of the present generation have certainly heard of the press-gang, but
they never attempt to realise the horrors by which it was accompanied.
Nay, the generality seem to us to hardly believe in its existence, but
rather to classify it with _Gulliver’s Travels_, _Don Quixote_, _Robinson
Crusoe_, or the _Heathen Mythology_. But we can recollect its working.
We have seen the strong man bent to tears, and reduced to woman’s
weakness by it. We have seen parents made, as it were, childless,
through its operation; the wife widowed, with a husband yet alive;
children orphaned by the forcible abduction of their fathers. And yet,
there were many in those days, not only naval men, but statesmen and
legislators, who venerated the press-gang as one of the pillars and
institutions of the country. In those days, indeed! We much fear that,
if even now we could look into the heart of hearts of many a veteran
admiral and captain, we should find that they have, in the event of a
war, no other plan in their heads for manning the navy but a return to
this dreadful and oppressive system. We would, however, recommend those
in whose department it lies to be devising some other scheme, as we are
strongly impressed with the conviction that public opinion will not in
these days tolerate, under any plea or excuse of necessity, such an
infringement upon the liberty of the subject. But we are not writing a
political article, but only describing our old-world fashions. Pretty
rows and riots, you may suppose, now and then occurred between the
press-gang and the fighting part of the public; and not a few do we
remember to have witnessed in our younger days. On more than one
occasion we have seen a rendezvous-house gutted and levelled to the
ground.
Sometimes the sailors and their friends would show fight, and, as the mob
always joined them, the press-gang invariably got the worst of it in such
battles. Sometimes, too, the press-gangers would “get into the wrong
box,” and “take the wrong sow by the ear,” by seizing an American sailor
or a carpenter, and then there was sure to be a squall. The bells from
the shipbuilding yards would boom out their warning call in the latter
case, and thousands would muster to set their companion at liberty. A
press-gangman was occasionally tarred and feathered in those days, when
caught alone. We remember, as if it were only yesterday, walking down
South Castle Street (it was Pool Lane then), with the Old Dock, where the
Custom-house now stands, before us. It was, for some reason or other,
tolerably clear of ships at the time. We well remember, however, that
there was one large vessel, or hulk, somewhere about the middle. Before
we tell what happened, we must observe that, attached to the Strand
Street press-gang, there was one most extra piratical-looking scoundrel,
named Jack Something-or-other. Perhaps, as is often the case, “they gave
the devil more than his due;” but, if one half of the things said against
this Jack were true, he deserved to be far and away prince and potentate
and prime minister in Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors. Well, as
aforesaid, the Old Dock was in front of us, when all at once we heard a
noise behind us, which told us that the game was up, and the hounds well
laid on and in full cry.
At the same moment, Jack shot past us, like an arrow from a bow, while
hundreds of men, women, and children, were howling, shouting, screaming,
yelling, threatening close behind him. Every street sent forth its crowd
to intercept him. There was no turning until he reached the dock-quay,
but there the carters and porters rushed forward to stop him. What was
to be done? How was he to escape? The dock, as we said before, was in
front, and there was the vessel in the middle. Without a moment’s
hesitation, the terrified wretch took the water, dived, like Rob Roy, to
baffle his pursuers, and soon gained the deck of the hulk. Some talked
of boarding her, and dragging him from his concealment; but the majority
of the mob decided that justice was better than vengeance, and, satisfied
with Jack’s fright and ducking, concluded that although he was a bad one,
he was game, and would make them more sport another time, and so
dispersed.