We spoke of the old guardship, the “Princess,” in our last chapter. Many
and many a time have we walked on her deck, until we thought that we
ourselves might grow into a Nelson, a St. Vincent, or a Collingwood. Her
captain, who used to take us on board with him, in the days of which we
speak, was Colquitt—Captain Colquitt, of course, when afloat, but, on
shore, among his friends, and he had many, Sam Colquitt, glorious Sam,
pleasant Sam, clever Sam, up to anything, equal to anything, with a
never-failing amount of fun and frolic, and an untiring fund of
conversation, generally instructive, always agreeable, a giver and taker
of a joke, full of anecdote, and the best teller of a good story we ever
met with. We like to dwell upon his name. Much of the happiness of our
boyhood sprung from our acquaintance with him. Beyond him, we recollect
but the name of one of the crowd of faces which we used to see in the
“Princess,” the purser’s clerk, named Vardy, a tall, fine looking fellow,
some six feet two in height. And where are all the rest of them? How
many survive? And where, and how, are those who do, supported?
Besides the “Princess,” and the tubs of tenders which came round for the
impressed men, we had occasionally a livelier and more interesting kind
of craft in the Mersey. A dashing sloop of war would now and then look
in, after a cruise in the Channel, and occasionally would act as convoy
to any fleet of vessels bent upon a long voyage. It was interesting to
see the start of one of these accumulations of ships, under the care of
their watchful guardian. There they lay in the river, all prepared to
make sail whenever she made the signal, with all sorts of noises and
confusion going on among their crews. In the midst of them she was at
anchor, with everything made snug on board, lying like a duck on the
water, with silence and order prevailing from one end of her to the
other. Spying glasses are turned towards her, but there is no appearance
of hurry or anxiety. The wind chops round, and is favourable for
outward-bound vessels. Still all is quiet and motionless in the
man-of-war. We are not nautical, recollect, and only speak in landsman’s
phraseology. What we cannot accomplish we will not attempt. All eyes
are now anxiously bent towards her, and the skippers of the merchantmen
begin inwardly, and perhaps outwardly, some of them, to curse the
caprice, or ignorance, or indolence of her captain; but, all in good
time, gentlemen. Let him alone, if you please. He knows what he is
about. He is only doubting whether the change of wind will hold. At
last he is satisfied, and look!—a flash—a smoke—bang! It is the signal
gun to make ready; another to weigh anchor—another to set sail—and away
she goes, gracefully, like a hen followed by her chickens; or, to speak
more appropriately, like a sheep-dog marshalling the flock. Sailing in
convoy was certainly all equality and fraternity, but there was no
liberty. The fast-sailing vessels were compelled to hoist no more
canvass than would enable their slow companions to keep up with them. It
was like the bed of Procrustes applied to sea affairs. And what fun it
was to watch the crowd of vessels as they rounded the narrow channel by
the Rock; such bumping and thumping, such fidgeting and signal-firing on
the part of the guardian angel to check the fast ones, and stimulate the
slow ones, and keep them all well together.
Nor must we forget here to mention another class of vessels, which made a
very remarkable and prominent feature of the days which we are
describing. We speak of the privateer. Liverpool was famous for this
kind of craft. The fastest sailing vessels were, of course, selected for
this service; and, as the men shipped on board of them were safe, in
virtue of the letter of marque, from impressment, the most dashing and
daring of the sailors came out of their hiding-holes to take service in
them. On the day when such a vessel left the dock, the captain, or
owner, generally gave a grand dinner to his friends, and it was a great
treat to be of the party. While the good things were being discussed in
the cabin, toasts given, speeches made, and all the rest of it, she
continued to cruise in the river, with music playing, colours flying, the
centre of attraction and admiration, “the observed of all observers,” as
she dashed like a flying-fish through the water. And then the crew? The
captain was always some brave, daring man, who had fought his way to his
position. The officers were selected for the same qualities; and the
men—what a reckless, dreadnaught, dare-devil collection of human beings,
half-disciplined, but yet ready to obey every order, the more desperate
the better. Your true privateer’s-man was a sort of “half-horse,
half-alligator, with a streak of lightning” in his composition—something
like a man-of-war’s man, but much more like a pirate—generally with a
superabundance of whisker, as if he held, with Samson, that his strength
was in the quantity of his hair. And how they would cheer, and be
cheered, as we passed any other vessel in the river; and when the eating
and drinking and speaking and toasting were over, and the boat was
lowered, and the guests were in it, how they would cheer again, more
lustily than ever, as the rope was cast off, and, as the landsmen were
got rid of, put about their own vessel, with fortune and the world before
them, and French West Indiamen and Spanish galleons in hope and prospect.
Those were jolly days to some people, but we trust we may never see the
like of them again. The dashing man-of-war, and the daring privateer,
dazzled the eyes of the understanding, and kindled wild and fierce
enthusiasm on all sides. The Park and Tower guns and the _Extraordinary
Gazette_ confirmed the madness, and kept up a constant fever of
excitement. But count the cost. Lift up the veil, and peep at the
hideous features of the demon of war. Look at the mouldering corruption
beneath the whited sepulchre of glory! But no sermons, if you please.
And there were the old Dublin packets in those days, before steam had
turned sailor. If you took a passage in one of them, and had a fair
wind, and were lucky, you might hope to arrive in Dublin some time, but
if the wind were against you, then, as the old coachman said of the
railway smash, “Where were you?” You would be heard of eventually, when
worn to a skeleton, and in a fit of indigestion from eating your shoe
soles in the agony of starvation. And some of us used to get an annual
voyage to Hilbre Island, an exploit which set us up as sailors for life.
Occasionally visitors penetrated about as often to the one good house
which was near the magazines. The Old Priory at Birkenhead was then
“alone in its glory.” All Cheshire, indeed, was in those days a kind of
Africa, inviting and daring the young Bruces and Mungo Parks of Liverpool
to explore it. We considered it to abound in deserts and Great Saharas.
To penetrate to Wallasey, or to Upton, was to reach Timbuctoo. Bidston
and the Lighthouse were our Cairo and the Pyramids; and as to Leasowe
Castle, we cared not to approach it, under especial guardianship of so
many fairies, ghosts, and hobgoblins was it supposed to be. These things
sound like so many fables at the present day, when our steamboats,
bridging the river, carry us across by thousands every hour. But in
those times, an occasional ferry-boat was the only communication between
the Lancashire and Cheshire shores of the Mersey. Few loved to cross
from the one to the other, except under the pressure of business or
necessity. Many persons, indeed, going from Liverpool to Chester, would
travel round by Warrington, rather than chance a rough passage across the
river in a small dangerous-looking boat. But _nous avons changé tout
cela_. The things which we have been telling only live in the memory of
a very few old fellows like ourselves.