IMPRESSMENT, OR KIDNAPPING WHITE MEN FOR SLAVES IN THE NAVAL SERVICE.
One of the most repulsive features of the general system of slavery in
Great Britain, is called impressment. It is the forcible removal of
seamen from their ordinary employment, and compelling them to serve,
against their will, in the ships of war. Long ago, some of the maritime
nations condemned men to the galleys for crime. But Great Britain dooms
peaceable and unoffending men to her vessels of war, severs all the
ties of home and kindred, and outrages every principle of justice,
in this practice of impressment. The husband is torn from his wife,
the father from his children, the brother from the sister, by the
press-gangs—the slave-hunters of Britain.
[Illustration: KIDNAPPING OF WILLIE MORRISON.]
This practice is not expressly sanctioned by any act of Parliament, but
it is so, indirectly, by the numerous statutes that have been passed
granting exemptions from it. According to Lord Mansfield, it is "a
power founded upon immemorial usage," and is understood to make a part
of the common law. All _seafaring_ men are liable to impressment,
unless specially protected by custom or statute. Seamen executing
particular services for government, not unfrequently get protections
from the Admiralty, Navy Board, &c. Some are exempted by local custom;
and _ferrymen_ are everywhere privileged from impressment. The
statutory exemptions are as follows:—
I. _Every ship in the coal-trade_ has the following persons
protected, viz. two able seamen (such as the master shall
nominate) for every ship of one hundred tons, and one for every
fifty tons for every ship of one hundred tons and upward; and
every officer who presumes to impress any of the above, shall
forfeit, to the master or owner of such vessel, £10 for every man
so impressed; and such officers shall be incapable of holding any
place, office, or employment in any of his majesty's ships of
war.—6 and 7 Will. 3, c. 18, § 19.[93]
II. _No parish apprentice_ shall be compelled or permitted to
enter into his majesty's sea-service, until he arrives at the age
of eighteen years.—2 and 3 Anne, c. 6, § 4.
III. Persons voluntarily binding themselves apprentices to
sea-service, shall not be impressed for three years from the date
of their indentures. [This is a protection for the master—not
for the parish apprentice.] But no persons above eighteen
years of age shall have any exemption or protection from his
majesty's service, if they have been at sea before they became
apprentices.—2 and 3 Anne, c. 6, § 15; 4 Anne, c. 19, § 17; and
13 Geo. 2, c. 17, § 2.
IV. _Apprentices._—The act 4 Geo. 4, c. 25, enacts some new
regulations with respect to the number of apprentices that ships
must have on board, according to their tonnage, and grants
protection to such apprentices till they have attained the age of
twenty-one years.
V. _Persons employed in the fisheries._—The act 50 Geo. 3, c.
108, grants the following exemptions from impressment, viz.:
1. _Masters of fishing vessels or boats_, who, either themselves
or their owners, have, or within six months before applying for a
protection shall have had, one apprentice or more, under sixteen
years of age, bound for five years, and employed in the business
of fishing.
2. All such apprentices, not exceeding _eight_ to every master
or owner of any fishing vessel of fifty tons or upward; not
exceeding _seven_ to every vessel or boat of thirty-five
tons, and under fifty; not exceeding _six_ to every vessel of
thirty tons, or under thirty-five; and not exceeding _four_
to every boat under thirty tons burden, during the time of
their apprenticeship, and till the age of twenty years; they
continuing, for the time, in the business of fishing only.
3. _One mariner_, besides the master and apprentices, to every
fishing vessel of one hundred tons or upward, employed on the
sea-coast, during his continuance in such service.
4. _Any landsman_, above the age of eighteen, entering and
employed on board such vessel for two years from his first going
to sea and to the end of the voyage then engaged in, if he so
long continue in such service. [The ignorance of a landsman seems
to be the only reason for this exemption.]
An affidavit sworn before a justice of the peace, containing
the tonnage of such fishing vessel or boat, the port or place
to which she belongs, the name and description of the master,
the age of every apprentice, the term for which he is bound and
the date of his indenture, and the name, age, and description of
every such mariner and landsman respectively, and the time of
such landsman's first going to sea, is to be transmitted to the
Admiralty; who, upon finding the facts correctly stated, grant
a separate protection to every individual. In case, however,
"_of an actual invasion of these kingdoms, or imminent danger
thereof_," such protected persons may be impressed; but except
upon such an emergency, any officer or officers impressing
such protected person, shall respectively forfeit £20 to the
party impressed, if not an apprentice, or to his master if he
be an apprentice.—§§ 2, 3, 4 [The phrase, "imminent danger
of invasion," is susceptible of a wide interpretation for the
purposes of tyranny.]
VI. _General exemptions._—All persons fifty-five years of age
and upward, and under eighteen years. Every person being a
foreigner, who shall serve in any merchant ship, or other trading
vessels or privateers, belonging to a subject of the crown of
Great Britain; and all persons, of what age soever, who shall
use the sea, shall be protected for two years, to be computed
from the time of their first using it.—13 Geo. 2, c. 17. [The
impressment of American seamen, before the war of 1812, shows how
easily these exemptions may be disregarded.]
VII. _Harpooners_, line-managers, or boat-steerers, engaged in
the Southern whale fishery, are also protected.—26 Geo. 3, c. 50.
VIII. _Mariners employed in the herring fisheries_ are exempted
while actually employed.—48 Geo. 3, c. 110.
"The practice of impressment," says McCulloch, "so subversive of
every principle of justice, is vindicated on the alleged ground
of its being absolutely necessary to the manning of the fleet.
But this position, notwithstanding the confidence with which it
has been taken up, is not quite so tenable as has been supposed.
The difficulties experienced in procuring sailors for the fleet
at the breaking out of a war are not natural, but artificial,
and might be got rid of by a very simple arrangement. During
peace, not more than a fourth or fifth part of the seamen are
retained in his majesty's service that are commonly required
during war; and, if peace continue for a few years, the total
number of sailors in the king's and the merchant service is
limited to that which is merely adequate to supply the reduced
demand of the former and the ordinary demand of the latter. When,
therefore, war is declared, and 30,000 or 40,000 additional
seamen are wanted for the fleet, they cannot be obtained, unless
by withdrawing them from the merchant service, which has not
more than its complement of hands. But to do this by offering
the seamen higher wages would be next to impossible, and would,
supposing it were practicable, impose such a sacrifice upon the
public as could hardly be borne. And hence, it is said, the
necessity of impressment, a practice which every one admits can
be justified on no other ground than that of its being absolutely
essential to the public safety. It is plain, however, that a
necessity of this kind may be easily obviated. All, in fact, that
is necessary for this purpose, is merely to keep such a number of
sailors in his majesty's service during peace, as may suffice,
with the ordinary proportion of landsmen and boys, to man the
fleet at the breaking out of a war. Were this done, there would
not be the shadow of a pretence for resorting to impressment; and
the practice, with the cruelty and injustice inseparable from it,
might be entirely abolished.
"But it is said that, though desirable in many respects, the
_expense_ of such a plan will always prevent its being adopted.
It admits, however, of demonstration, that instead of being
dearer, this plan would be actually cheaper than that which is
now followed. Not more than 1,000,000_l._ or 1,200,000_l._ a year
would be required to be added to the navy estimates, and that
would not be a real, but merely a nominal advance. The violence
and injustice to which the practice of impressment exposes
sailors operates at all times to raise their wages, by creating
a disinclination on the part of many young men to enter the
sea-service; and this disinclination is vastly increased during
war, when wages usually rise to four or five times their previous
amount, imposing a burden on the commerce of the country,
exclusive of other equally mischievous consequences, many times
greater than the tax that would be required to keep up the peace
establishment of the navy to its proper level. It is really,
therefore, a vulgar error to suppose that impressment has the
recommendation of cheapness in its favour; and, though it had,
no reasonable man will contend that that is the only, or even
the principal, circumstance to be attended to. In point of fact,
however, it is as costly as it is oppressive and unjust."
These remarks are creditable to the good sense and humanity of
McCulloch; but are too much devoted to the _expediency_ of outrage. To
speak more clearly, the discussion is conducted in too cool-blooded a
style. We defy any man of ordinary sensibility to read the accounts of
scenes attending many cases of impressment, without feeling the deepest
pity for the enslaved seaman and his bereaved relatives and friends,
and burning with indignation at the heartless tyranny displayed by the
government. After a long and laborious voyage in a merchant vessel, the
sun-burned seamen arrives in sight of home. His wife and children, who
have long bewailed his absence and feared for his fate, stand, with
joyous countenances, upon the shore, eager to embrace the returned
wanderer. Perhaps a government vessel, on the search for seaman, then
sends its barbarous press-gang aboard the merchantman, and forces the
husband and father once more from the presence of the beloved ones. Or,
he is permitted to land. He visits his home, and is just comfortably
settled, resolved to pass the rest of his days with his family, when
the gang tears him from their arms—and years—long, dragging years
will pass away before he will be allowed to return. Then, the wife
may be dead, the children at the mercy of the parish. This is English
freedom! A gang of manacled negroes shocks humanity, and calls down the
vengeance of heaven upon the head of the slave-driver; but a press-gang
may perform its heart-rending work in perfect consistency with the
free and glorious institutions of Britain.
By far the most thrilling narrative of the scenes attending
impressments, with which we are acquainted, is to be found in the
romance of "Katie Stewart," published in Blackwood's Magazine, without
the author's name. We quote:—
"The next day was the Sabbath, and Willie Morison, with his
old mother leaning on his arm, reverently deposited his silver
half-crown in the plate at the door of West Anster Church, an
offering of thankfulness, for the parish poor. There had been
various returns during the previous week; a brig from the Levant,
and another from Riga—where, with its cargo of hemp, it had been
frozen in all the winter—had brought home each their proportion
of welcome family fathers, and young sailor men, like Willie
Morison himself, to glad the eyes of friends and kindred. One of
these was the son of that venerable elder in the lateran, who
rose to read the little notes which the thanksgivers had handed
to him at the door; and Katie Stewart's eyes filled as the old
man's slow voice, somewhat moved by reading his son's name just
before, intimated to the waiting congregation before him, and to
the minister in the pulpit behind, also waiting to include all
these in his concluding prayer, that William Morison gave thanks
for his safe return.
"And then there came friendly greetings as the congregation
streamed out through the churchyard, and the soft, hopeful
sunshine of spring threw down a bright flickering network of
light and shade through the soft foliage on the causewayed
street;—peaceful people going to secure and quiet
homes—families joyfully encircling the fathers or brothers for
whose return they had just rendered thanks out of full hearts,
and peace upon all and over all, as broad as the skies and as
calm.
"But as the stream of people pours again in the afternoon from
the two neighbour churches, what is this gradual excitement
which manifests itself among them? Hark! there is the boom of
a gun plunging into all the echoes; and crowds of mothers and
sisters cling about these young sailors, and almost struggle
with them, to hurry them home. Who is that hastening to the
pier, with his staff clenched in his hand, and his white 'haffit
locks' streaming behind him? It is the reverend elder who to-day
returned thanks for his restored son. The sight of him—the sound
of that second-gun pealing from the Firth puts the climax on the
excitement of the people, and now, in a continuous stream from
the peaceful churchyard gates, they flow toward the pier and the
sea.
"Eagerly running along by the edge of the rocks, at a pace which,
on another Sabbath, she would have thought a desecration of
the day, clinging to Willie Morison's arm, and with an anxious
heart, feeling her presence a kind of protection to him, Katie
Stewart hastens to the Billy Ness. The gray pier of Anster is
lined with anxious faces, and here and there a levelled telescope
under the care of some old shipmaster attracts round it a still
deeper, still more eager knot of spectators. The tide is out,
and venturous lads are stealing along the sharp low ranges of
rock, slipping now and then with incautious steps into the little
clear pools of sea-water which surround them; for their eyes are
not on their own uncertain footing, but fixed, like the rest, on
that visible danger up the Firth, in which all feel themselves
concerned.
"Already there are spectators, and another telescope on the Billy
Ness, and the whole range of 'the braes' between Anstruther and
Pittenweem is dotted with anxious lookers-on; and the far away
pier of Pittenweem, too, is dark with its little crowd.
"What is the cause! Not far from the shore, just where that
headland, which hides you from the deep indentation of Largo Bay,
juts out upon the Firth, lies a little vessel, looking like a
diminutive Arabian horse, or one of the aristocratic young slight
lads who are its officers, with high blood, training, and courage
in every tight line of its cordage and taper stretch of its
masts. Before it, arrested in its way, lies a helpless merchant
brig, softly swaying on the bright mid-waters of the Firth, with
the cutter's boat rapidly approaching its side.
"Another moment and it is boarded; a very short interval of
silence, and again the officer—you can distinguish him with that
telescope, by his cocked hat, and the flash which the scabbard
of his sword throws on the water as he descends the vessel's
side—has re-entered the cutter's boat. Heavily the boat moves
through the water now, crowded with pressed men—poor writhing
hearts, whose hopes of home-coming and peace have been blighted
in a moment; captured, some of them, in sight of their homes, and
under the anxious, straining eyes of wives and children, happily
too far off to discern their full calamity.
"A low moan comes from the lips of that poor woman, who, wringing
her hands and rocking herself to and fro, with the unconscious
movement of extreme pain, looks pitifully in Willie Morison's
face, as he fixes the telescope on the scene. She is reading the
changes of its expression, as if her sentence was there; but he
says nothing, though the very motion of his hand, as he steadies
the glass, attracts, like something of occult significance, the
agonized gaze which dwells upon him.
"'Captain, captain!' she cried at last, softly pulling his coat,
and with unconscious art using the new title: 'Captain, is't the
Traveller? Can ye make her out? She has a white figure-head at
her bows, and twa white lines round her side. Captain, captain!
tell me for pity's sake!'
"Another long keen look was bent on the brig, as slowly and
disconsolately she resumed her onward way.
"'No, Peggie,' said the young sailor, looking round to meet her
eye, and to comfort his companion, who stood trembling by his
side: 'No, Peggie—make yourself easy; it's no the Traveller.'
"The poor woman seated herself on the grass, and, supporting her
head on her hands, wiped from her pale cheek tears of relief and
thankfulness.
"'God be thanked! and oh! God pity thae puir creatures, and their
wives, and their little anes. I think I have the hardest heart in
a' the world, that can be glad when there's such misery in sight.'
"But dry your tears, poor Peggie Rodger—brace up your trembling
heart again for another fiery trial; for here comes another white
sail peacefully gliding up the Firth, with a flag fluttering
from the stern, and a white figure-head dashing aside the
spray, which seems to embrace it joyfully, the sailors think,
as out of the stormy seas it nears the welcome home. With a
light step the captain walks the little quarter-deck—with
light hearts the seamen lounge amidship, looking forth on the
green hills of Fife. Dark grows the young sailor's face, as he
watches the unsuspicious victim glide triumphantly up through
the blue water into the undreaded snare; and a glance round,
a slight contraction of those lines in his face which Katie
Stewart, eagerly watching him, has never seen so strongly marked
before, tells the poor wife on the grass enough to make her
rise hysterically strong, and with her whole might gaze at the
advancing ship; for, alas! one can doubt its identity no longer.
The white lines on its side—the white figure-head among the
joyous spray—and the Traveller dashes on, out of its icy prison
in the northern harbour—out of its stormy ocean voyage—homeward
bound!
"Homeward bound! There is one yonder turning longing looks to
Anster's quiet harbour as the ship sails past; carefully putting
up in the coloured foreign baskets those little wooden toys which
amused his leisure during the long dark winter among the ice, and
thinking with involuntary smiles how his little ones will leap
for joy as he divides the store. Put them up, good seaman, gentle
father!—the little ones will be men and women before you look on
them again.
"For already the echoes are startled, and the women here on
shore shiver and wring their hands as the cutter's gun rings out
its mandate to the passenger; and looking up the Firth you see
nothing but a floating globe of white smoke, slowly breaking
into long streamers, and almost entirely concealing the fine
outline of the little ship of war. The challenged brig at first
is doubtful—the alarmed captain does not understand the summons;
but again another flash, another report, another cloud of white
smoke, and the Traveller is brought to.
"There are no tears on Peggie Rodger's haggard cheeks, but a
convulsive shudder passes over her now and then, as, with intense
strained eyes, she watches the cutter's boat as it crosses the
Firth toward the arrested brig.
"'God! an' it were sunk like lead!' said a passionate voice
beside her, trembling with the desperate restraint of impotent
strength.
"'God help us!—God help us!—curse na them,' said the poor woman
with an hysteric sob. 'Oh, captain, captain! gie _me_ the glass;
if they pit him in the boat _I'll_ ken Davie—if naebody else
would, I can—gie me the glass.'
"He gave her the glass, and himself gladly turned away, trembling
with the same suppressed rage and indignation which had dictated
the other spectator's curse.
"'If ane could but warn them wi' a word,' groaned Willie Morison,
grinding his teeth—'if ane could but lift a finger! but to see
them gang into the snare like innocents in the broad day—Katie,
it's enough to pit a man mad!'
"But Katie's pitiful compassionate eyes were fixed on Peggie
Rodger—on her white hollow cheeks, and on the convulsive
steadiness with which she held the telescope in her hand.
"'It's a fair wind into the Firth—there's another brig due.
Katie, I canna stand and see this mair!'
"He drew her hand through his arm, and unconsciously grasping
it with a force which at another time would have made her cry
with pain, led her a little way back toward the town. But the
fascination of the scene was too great for him, painful as it
was, and far away on the horizon glimmered another sail.
"'Willie!' exclaimed Katie Stewart, 'gar some of the Sillardyke
men gang out wi' a boat—gar them row down by the coast, and then
strike out in the Firth, and warn the men.'
"He grasped her hand again, not so violently. 'Bless you, lassie!
and wha should do your bidding but myself? but take care of
yourself, Katie Stewart. What care I for a' the brigs in the
world if any thing ails you? Gang hame, or'—
"'I'll no stir a fit till you're safe back again. I'll never
speak to you mair if ye say anither word. Be canny—be canny—but
haste ye away.'
"Another moment, and Katie Stewart stands alone by Peggie
Rodger's side, watching the eager face which seems to grow old
and emaciated with this terrible vigil, as if these moments were
years; while the ground flies under the hounding feet of Willie
Morison, and he answers the questions which are addressed to him,
as to his errand, only while he himself continues at full speed
to push eastward to Cellardyke.
"And the indistinct words which he calls back to his comrades,
as he 'devours the way,' are enough to send racing after him
an eager train of coadjutors; and with his bonnet off, and
his hands, which tremble as with palsy, clasped convulsively
together, the white-haired elder leans upon the wall of the pier,
and bids God bless them, God speed them, with a broken voice,
whose utterance comes in gasps and sobs; for he has yet another
son upon the sea.
"Meanwhile the cutter's boat has returned from the Traveller with
its second load; and a kind bystander relieves the aching arms
of poor Peggie Rodger of the telescope, in which now she has no
further interest.
"'Gude kens, Gude kens,' said the poor woman slowly, as Katie
strove to comfort her. 'I didna see him in the boat; but ane
could see nothing but the wet oars flashing out of the water, and
blinding folks e'en. What am I to do? Miss Katie, what am I to
think? They maun have left some men in the ship to work her. Oh!
God grant they have ta'en the young men, and no heads of families
wi' bairns to toil for. But Davie's a buirdly man, just like
ane to take an officer's ee. Oh, the Lord help us! for I'm just
distraught, and kenna what to do.'
"A faint cheer, instantly suppressed, rises from the point of
the pier and the shelving coast beyond; and yonder now it glides
along the shore, with wet oars gleaming out of the dazzling sunny
water, the boat of the forlorn hope. A small, picked, chosen
company bend to the oars, and Willie Morison is at the helm,
warily guiding the little vessel over the rocks, as they shelter
themselves in the shadow of the coast. On the horizon the coming
sail flutters nearer, nearer—and up the Firth yonder there is a
stir in the cutter as she prepares to leave her anchor and strike
into the mid-waters of the broad highway which she molests.
"The sun is sinking lower in the grand western skies, and
beginning to cast long, cool, dewy shadows of every headland and
little promontory over the whole rocky coast; but still the Firth
is burning with his slanting fervid rays, and Inchkeith far away
lies like a cloud upon the sea, and the May, near at hand, lifts
its white front to the sun—a Sabbath night as calm and full of
rest as ever natural Sabbath was—and the reverend elder yonder
on the pier uncovers his white head once more, and groans within
himself, amid his passionate prayers for these perilled men upon
the sea, over the desecrated Sabbath-day.
"Nearer and nearer wears the sail, fluttering like the snowy
breast of some sea-bird in prophetic terror; and now far off
the red fishing-boat strikes boldly forth into the Firth with a
signal-flag at its prow.
"In the cutter they perceive it now; and see how the anchor
swings up her shapely side, and the snowy sail curls over the
yards, as with a bound she darts forth from her lurking-place,
and flashing in the sunshine, like an eager hound leaps forth
after her prey.
"The boat—the boat! With every gleam of its oars the hearts
throb that watch it on its way; with every bound it makes
there are prayers—prayers of the anguish which will take no
discouragement—pressing in at the gates of heaven; and the
ebbing tide bears it out, and the wind droops its wings, and
falls becalmed upon the coast, as if repenting it of the evil
service it did to those two hapless vessels which have fallen
into the snare. Bravely on as the sun grows lower—bravely out as
the fluttering stranger sail draws nearer and more near—and but
one other strain will bring them within hail.
"But as all eyes follow these adventurers, another flash from
the cutter's side glares over the shining water; and as the
smoke rolls over the pursuing vessel, and the loud report again
disturbs all the hills, Katie's heart grows sick, and she
scarcely dares look to the east. But the ball has ploughed the
water harmlessly, and yonder is the boat of rescue—yonder is
the ship within hail; and some one stands up in the prow of the
forlorn hope, and shouts and waves his hand.
"It is enough. 'There she goes—there she tacks!' cries exulting
the man with the telescope, 'and in half an hour she'll be safe
in St. Andrew's Bay.'
"But she sails slowly back—and slowly sails the impatient
cutter, with little wind to swell her sails, and that little in
her face; while the fisherboat, again falling close inshore with
a relay of fresh men at the oars, has the advantage of them both.
"And now there is a hot pursuit—the cutter's boat in full chase
after the forlorn hope; but as the sun disappears, and the long
shadows lengthen and creep along the creeks and bays of the rocky
coast so well known to the pursued, so ill to the pursuer, the
event of the race is soon decided; and clambering up the first
accessible landing-place they can gain, and leaving their boat on
the rocks behind them, the forlorn hope joyously make their way
home.
"'And it's a' Katie's notion and no a morsel of mine,' says
the proud Willie Morison. But alas for your stout heart,
Willie!—alas for the tremulous, startled bird which beats
against the innocent breast of little Katie Stewart, for no
one knows what heavy shadows shall vail the ending of this
Sabbath-day.
* * * * *
"The mild spring night has darkened, but it is still early, and
the moon is not yet up. The worship is over in John Stewart's
decent house, and all is still within, though the miller and
his wife still sit by the 'gathered' fire, and talk in half
whispers about the events of the day, and the prospects of 'the
bairns.' It is scarcely nine yet, but it is the reverent usage
of the family to shut out the world earlier than usual on the
Sabbath; and Katie, in consideration of her fatigue, has been
dismissed to her little chamber in the roof. She has gone away
not unwillingly, for, just before, the miller had closed the door
on the slow, reluctant, departing steps of Willie Morison, and
Katie is fain to be alone.
"Very small is this chamber in the roof of the Milton, which
Janet and Katie used to share. She has set down her candle on the
little table before that small glass in the dark carved frame,
and herself stands by the window, which she has opened, looking
out. The rush of the burn fills the soft air with sound, into
which sometimes penetrates a far-off voice, which proclaims the
little town still awake and stirring: but save the light from
Robert Moulter's uncurtained window—revealing a dark gleaming
link of the burn, before the cot-house door—and the reddened
sky yonder, reflecting that fierce torch on the May, there is
nothing visible but the dark line of fields, and a few faint
stars in the clouded sky.
"But the houses in Anster are not yet closed or silent. In
the street which leads past the town-house and church of West
Anster to the shore, you can see a ruddy light streaming out
from the window upon the causeway, the dark churchyard wall, and
over-hanging trees. At the fire stands a comely young woman,
lifting 'a kettle of potatoes' from the crook. The 'kettle' is
a capacious pot on three feet, formed not like the ordinary
'kail-pat,' but like a little tub of iron; and now, as it is
set down before the ruddy fire, you see it is full of laughing
potatoes, disclosing themselves, snow-white and mealy, through
the cracks in their clear dark coats. The mother of the household
sits by the fireside, with a volume of sermons in her hand; but
she is paying but little attention to the book, for the kitchen
is full of young sailors, eagerly discussing the events of the
day, and through the hospitable open door others are entering
and departing with friendly salutations. Another such animated
company fills the house of the widow Morison, 'aest the town,'
for still the afternoon's excitement has not subsided.
"But up this dark leaf-shadowed street, in which we stand, there
comes a muffled tramp as of stealthy footsteps. They hear nothing
of it in that bright warm kitchen—fear nothing, as they gather
round the fire, and sometimes rise so loud in their conversation
that the house-mother lifts her hand, and shakes her head, with
an admonitory, 'Whist bairns; mind, it's the Sabbath-day.'
"Behind backs, leaning against the sparkling panes of the window,
young Robert Davidson speaks aside to Lizzie Tosh, the daughter
of the house. They were 'cried' to-day in West Anster kirk, and
soon will have a blithe bridal—'If naething comes in the way,'
says Lizzie, with her downcast face; and the manly young sailor
answers—'Nae fear.'
"'Nae fear!' But without, the stealthy steps come nearer; and if
you draw far enough away from the open door to lose the merry
voices, and have your eyes no longer dazzled with the light, you
will see dim figures creeping through the darkness, and feel that
the air is heavy with the breath of men. But few people care to
use that dark road between the manse and the churchyard at night,
so no one challenges the advancing party, or gives the alarm.
"Lizzie Tosh has stolen to the door; it is to see if the moon
is up, and if Robert will have light on his homeward walk to
Pittenweem; but immediately she rushes in again, with a face as
pale as it had before been blooming, and alarms the assembly. 'A
band of the cutter's men;—an officer, with a sword at his side.
Rin, lads, rin, afore they reach the door.'
"But there is a keen, eager face, with a cocked hat surmounting
it, already looking in at the window. The assembled sailors make
a wild plunge at the door; and, while a few escape under cover of
the darkness, the cutter's men have secured, after a desperate
resistance, three or four of the foremost. Poor fellows! You
see them stand without, young Robert Davidson in the front, his
broad, bronzed forehead bleeding from a cut he has received in
the scuffle, and one of his captors, still more visibly wounded,
looking on him with evil, revengeful eyes: his own eye, poor lad,
is flaming with fierce indignation and rage, and his broad breast
heaves almost convulsively. But now he catches a glimpse of the
weeping Lizzie, and fiery tears, which scorch his eyelids, blind
him for a moment, and his heart swells as if it would burst. But
it does not burst, poor desperate heart! until the appointed
bullet shall come, a year or two hence, to make its pulses quiet
for ever.
"A few of the gang entered the house. It is only 'a but and a
ben;' and Lizzie stands with her back against the door of the
inner apartment, while her streaming eyes now and then cast a
sick, yearning glance toward the prisoners at the door—for her
brother stands there as well as her betrothed.
"'What for would you seek in there?' asked the mother, lifting up
her trembling hands. 'What would ye despoil my chaumer for, after
ye've made my hearthstane desolate. If ye've a license to steal
men, ye've nane to steal gear. Ye've dune your warst: gang out o'
my house ye thieves, ye locusts, ye'—
"'We'll see about that, old lady,' said the leader:—'put the
girl away from that door. Tom, bring the lantern.'
"The little humble room was neatly arranged. It was their best,
and they had not spared upon it what ornament they could attain.
Shells far travelled, precious for the giver's sake, and many
other heterogeneous trifles, such as sailors pick up in foreign
parts, were arranged upon the little mantel-piece and grate.
There was no nook or corner in it which could possibly be used
for a hiding-place; but the experienced eye of the foremost
man saw the homely counterpane disordered on the bed; and
there indeed the mother had hid her youngest, dearest son. She
had scarcely a minute's time to drag him in, to prevail upon
him to let her conceal him under her feather-bed, and all its
comfortable coverings. But the mother's pains were unavailing,
and now she stood by, and looked on with a suppressed scream,
while that heavy blow struck down her boy as he struggled—her
youngest, fair-haired, hopeful boy.
"Calm thoughts are in your heart, Katie Stewart—dreams of
sailing over silver seas under that moon which begins to rise,
slowly climbing through the clouds yonder, on the south side of
the Firth. In fancy, already, you watch the soft Mediterranean
waves rippling past the side of the Flower of Fife, and see
the strange beautiful countries of which your bridegroom has
told you shining under the brilliant southern sun. And then the
home-coming—the curious toys you will gather yonder for the
sisters and the mother; the pride you will have in telling them
how Willie has cared for your voyage—how wisely he rules the one
Flower of Fife, how tenderly he guards the other.
"Your heart is touched, Katie Stewart, touched with the calm
and pathos of great joy; and tears lie under your eyelashes,
like the dew on flowers. Clasp your white hands on the sill of
the window—heed not that your knees are unbended—and say your
child's prayers with lips which move but utter nothing audible,
and with your head bowed on the moonbeam, which steals into your
window like a bird. True, you have said these child's prayers
many a night, as in some sort a charm, to guard you as you slept;
but now there comes upon your spirit an awe of the great Father
yonder, a dim and wonderful apprehension of the mysterious Son
in whose name you make those prayers. Is it true, then, that he
thinks of all our loves and sorrows, this One, whose visible
form realizes to us the dim, grand, glorious heaven—knows us by
name—remembers us with the God's love in his wonderful human
heart;—_us_, scattered by myriads over his earth, like the motes
in the sunbeam? And the tears steal over your cheeks, as you end
the child's prayer with the name that is above all names.
"Now, will you rest? But the moon has mastered all her hilly way
of clouds, and from the full sky looks down on you, Katie, with
eyes of pensive blessedness like your own. Tarry a little—linger
to watch that one bright spot on the Firth, where you could
almost count the silvered waves as they lie beneath the light.
"But a rude sound breaks upon the stillness—a sound of
flying feet echoing over the quiet road; and now they become
visible—one figure in advance, and a band of pursuers
behind—the same brave heart which spent its strength to-day
to warn the unconscious ship—the same strong form which Katie
has seen in her dreams on the quarter-deck of the Flower of
Fife;—but he will never reach that quarter-deck, Katie Stewart,
for his strength flags, and they gain upon him.
"Gain upon him, step by step, unpitying bloodhounds!—see him
lift up his hands to you, at your window, and have no ruth
for his young hope, or yours;—and now their hands are on his
shoulder, and he is in their power.
"'Katie!' cries the hoarse voice of Willie Morison, breaking the
strange fascination in which she stood, 'come down and speak
to me ae word, if ye wouldna break my heart. Man—if ye are a
man—let me bide a minute; let me say a word to her. I'll maybe
never see her in this world again.'
"The miller stood at the open door—the mother within was wiping
the tears from her cheeks. 'Oh Katie, bairn, that ye had been
sleeping!' But Katie rushed past them, and crossed the burn.
"What can they say?—only convulsively grasp each other's
hands—wofully look into each other's faces, ghastly in the
moonlight; till Willie—Willie, who could have carried her like
a child, in his strength of manhood—bowed down his head into
those little hands of hers which are lost in his own vehement
grasp, and hides with them his passionate tears.
"'Willie, I'll never forget ye,' says aloud the instinctive
impulse of little Katie's heart, forgetting for the moment that
there is any grief in the world but to see his. 'Night and day
I'll mind ye, think of ye. If ye were twenty years away, I would
be blither to wait for ye, than to be a queen. Willie, if ye must
go, go with a stout heart—for I'll never forget ye, if it should
be twenty years!'
"Twenty years! Only eighteen have you been in the world yet,
brave little Katie Stewart; and you know not the years, how they
drag their drooping skirts over the hills when hearts long for
their ending, or how it is only day by day, hour by hour, that
they wear out at length, and fade into the past.
"'Now, my man, let's have no more of this,' said the leader of
the gang. 'I'm not here to wait your leisure; come on.'
"And now they are away—truly away—and the darkness settles down
where this moment Katie saw her bridegroom's head bowing over the
hands which still are wet with his tears. Twenty years! Her own
words ring into her heart like a knell, a prophecy of evil—if he
should be twenty years away!"
There is no exaggeration in the above narrative. Similar scenes have
occurred on many occasions, and others of equally affecting character
might be gathered from British sailors themselves. In the story of
"Katie Stewart," ten years elapse before Willie Morison is permitted to
return to his betrothed. In many cases the pressed seamen never catch
a glimpse of home or friends again. Sometimes decoys and stratagems
are used to press the seamen into the service of the government. Such
extensive powers are intrusted to the officers of men-of-war, that
they may be guilty of the grossest violations of right and justice with
impunity, and even those "protections" which the government extends to
certain persons, are frequently of no effect whatever. In the novel of
"Jacob Faithful," Captain Marryatt has given a fine illustration of
the practice of some officers. The impressment of Jacob and Thomas the
waterman, is told with Marryatt's usual spirit. Here it is:—
"'I say, you watermen, have you a mind for a good fare?' cried
a dark-looking, not over clean, square built, short young man
standing on the top of the flight of steps.
"'Where to, sir?'
"'Gravesend, my jokers, if you a'n't afraid of salt water.'
"'That's a long way, sir!' replied Tom, 'and for salt water we
must have salt to our porridge.'
"'So you shall, my lads, and a glass of grog into the bargain.'
"'Yes, but the bargain a'n't made yet, sir. Jacob, will you go?'
"'Yes, but not under a guinea.'
"'Not under two guineas,' replied Tom, aside.
"'Are you in a great hurry, sir?' continued he, addressing the
young man.
"'Yes, in a devil of a hurry; I shall lose my ship. What will you
take me for?'
"'Two guineas, sir.'
"'Very well. Just come up to the public-house here, and put in my
traps.'
"We had brought down his luggage, put it into the wherry
and started down the river with the tide. Our fare was very
communicative, and we found out that he was master's mate of
the Immortalité, forty-gun frigate, lying off Gravesend, which
was to drop down the next morning, and wait for sailing orders
at the Downs. We carried the tide with us, and in the afternoon
were close to the frigate, whose blue ensign waved proudly over
the taffrail. There was a considerable sea arising from the wind
meeting the tide, and before we arrived close to her, we had
shipped a great deal of water; and when we were alongside, the
wherry, with the chest in her bows, pitched so heavily, that
we were afraid of being swamped. Just as a rope had been made
fast to the chest, and they were weighing it out of the wherry,
the ship's launch with water came alongside, and whether from
accident or wilfully I know not, although I suspect the latter,
the midshipman who steered her, shot her against the wherry,
which was crushed in, and immediately filled, leaving Tom and
me in the water, and in danger of being jammed to death between
the launch and the side of the frigate. The seamen in the boat,
however, forced her off with their oars, and hauled us in, while
our wherry sank with her gunnel even with the water's edge, and
floated away astern.
"As soon as we had shaken ourselves a little, we went up the
side and asked one of the officers to send a boat to pick up our
wherry.
"'Speak to the first lieutenant—there he is,' was the reply.
"I went up to the person pointed out to me: 'If you please
sir'—
"'What the devil do you want?'
"'A boat, sir, to'—
"'A boat! the devil you do!'
"'To pick up our wherry, sir,' interrupted Tom.
"'Pick it up yourself,' said the first lieutenant, passing us
and hailing the men aloft. 'Maintop there, hook on your stay.
Be smart. Lower away the yards. Marines and afterguard, clear
launch. Boatswain's-mate.'
"'Here, sir.'
"'Pipe marines and afterguard to clear launch.'
"'Ay, ay, sir.'
"'But we shall lose our boat, Jacob,' said Tom, to me. 'They
stove it in, and they ought to pick it up.' Tom then went up to
the master's-mate, whom we had brought on board, and explained
our difficulty.
"'Upon my soul, I dar'n't say a word. I'm in a scrape for
breaking my leave. Why the devil didn't you take care of your
wherry, and haul ahead when you saw the launch coming.'
"'How could we when the chest was hoisting out?'
"'Very true. Well, I'm very sorry for you, but I must look after
my chest.' So saying, he disappeared down the gangway ladder.
"'I'll try it again, any how,' said Tom, going up to the first
lieutenant. 'Hard case to lose our boat and our bread, sir,' said
Tom, touching his hat.
"The first lieutenant, now that the marines and afterguard were
at a regular stamp and go, had, unfortunately, more leisure
to attend to us. He looked at us earnestly, and walked aft to
see if the wherry was yet in sight. At that moment up came the
master's-mate who had not yet reported himself to the first
lieutenant.
"'Tom,' said I, 'there's a wherry close to; let us get into it,
and go after our boat ourselves.'
"'Wait one moment to see if they will help us—and get our money,
at all events,' replied Tom; and we walked aft.
"'Come on board, sir,' said the master's mate, touching his hat
with humility.
"'You've broke your leave, sir,' replied the first lieutenant,
'and now I've to send a boat to pick up the wherry through your
carelessness.'
"'If you please, they are two very fine young men,' observed the
mate. 'Make capital foretop-men. Boat's not worth sending for,
sir.'
"This hint, given by the mate to the first lieutenant, to regain
his favour, was not lost. 'Who are you, my lads?' said the first
lieutenant to us.
"'Watermen, sir.'
"'Watermen, hey! was that your own boat?'
"'No, sir,' replied I, 'it belonged to the man that I serve with.'
"'Oh! not your own boat? Are you an apprentice then?'
"Yes, sir, both apprentices.'
"'Show me your indentures.'
"'We don't carry them about with us.'
"'Then how am I to know that you are apprentices?'
"'We can prove it, sir, if you wish it.'
"'I do wish it; at all events, the captain will wish it.'
"'Will you please to send for the boat, sir? she's almost out of
sight.'
"'No, my lads, I can't find king's boats for such service.'
"'Then, we had better go ourselves, Tom,' said I, and we went
forward to call the waterman who was lying on his oars close to
the frigate.
"'Stop—stop—not so fast. Where are you going, my lads?'
"'To pick up our boat, sir.'
"'Without my leave, hey!'
"'We don't belong to the frigate, sir.'
"'No; but I think it very likely that you will, for you have no
protections.'
"'We can send for them and have them down by to-morrow morning.'
"'Well, you may do so, if you please, my lads; you cannot expect
me to believe every thing that is told me. Now, for instance, how
long have you to serve, my lad?' said he, addressing Tom.
"'My time is up to-morrow, sir.'
"'Up to-morrow. Why, then, I shall detain you until to-morrow,
and then I shall press you.'
"'If you detain me now, sir, I am pressed to-day.'
"'Oh no! you are only detained until you prove your
apprenticeship, that's all.'
"'Nay, sir, I certainly am pressed during my apprenticeship.'
"'Not at all, and I'll prove it to you. You don't belong to
the ship until you are victualled on her books. Now, I shan't
_victual_ you to-day, and therefore, you won't be _pressed_.'
"'I shall be pressed with hunger, at all events,' replied Tom,
who never could lose a joke.
"'No, you shan't; for I'll send you both a good dinner out of
the gun-room, so you won't be pressed at all,' replied the
lieutenant, laughing at Tom's reply.
"You will allow me to go, sir, at all events,' replied I; 'for I
knew that the only chance of getting Tom and myself clear was by
hastening to Mr. Drummond for assistance.
"'Pooh! nonsense; you must both row in the same boat as you have
done. The fact is, my lads, I've taken a great fancy to you both,
and I can't make up my mind to part with you.'
"'It's hard to lose our bread, this way,' replied I.
"'We will find you bread, and hard enough you will find it,'
replied the lieutenant, laughing; 'it's like a flint.'
"'So we ask for bread, and you give us a stone,' said Tom;
'that's 'gainst Scripture.'
"'Very true, my lad; but the fact is, all the scriptures in the
world won't man the frigate. Men we must have, and get them how
we can, and where we can, and when we can. Necessity has no law;
at least it obliges us to break through all laws. After all,
there's no great hardship in serving the king for a year or two,
and filling your pockets with prize-money. Suppose you volunteer?'
"'Will you allow us to go on shore for half an hour to think
about it?' replied I.
"'No; I'm afraid of the crimps dissuading you. But, I'll give you
till to-morrow morning, and then I shall be sure of one, at all
events.'
"'Thanky, for me,' replied Tom.
"'You're very welcome,' replied the first lieutenant, as,
laughing at us, he went down the companion ladder to his dinner.
"'Well, Jacob, we are in for it,' said Tom, as soon as we were
alone. 'Depend upon it, there's no mistake this time.'
"'I'm afraid not,' replied I, 'unless we can get a letter to your
father, or Mr. Drummond, who, I am sure, would help us. But that
dirty fellow, who gave the first lieutenant the hint, said the
frigate sailed to-morrow morning; there he is, let us speak to
him.'
"'When does the frigate sail?' said Tom to the master's-mate, who
was walking the deck.
"'My good fellow, it's not the custom on board of a man-of-war
for men to ask officers to answer such impertinent questions.
It's quite sufficient for you to know that when the frigate
sails, you will have the honour of sailing in her.'
"'Well, sir,' replied I, nettled at his answer, 'at all events,
you will have the goodness to pay us our fare. We have lost our
wherry, and our liberty, perhaps, through you; we may as well
have our two guineas.'
"'Two guineas! It's two guineas you want, heh?'
"'Yes, sir, that was the fare agreed upon.'
"'Why, you must observe, my men,' said the master's-mate, hooking
a thumb into each arm-hole of his waistcoat, 'there must be a
little explanation as to that affair. I promised you two guineas
as watermen; but now that you belong to a man-of-war, you are no
longer watermen. I always pay my debts honourably when I can find
the lawful creditors; but where are the watermen?'
"'Here we are, sir.'
"'No, my lads, you are men-of-war's men now, and that quite
alters the case."
"'But we are not so yet, sir: even if it did alter the case, we
are not pressed yet.'
"'Well, then, you will be to-morrow, perhaps; at all events we
shall see. If you are allowed to go on shore again, I owe you two
guineas as watermen; and if you are detained as men-of-war's men,
why then you will only have done your duty in pulling down one of
your officers. You see, my lads, I say nothing but what's fair.'
"'Well, sir, but when you hired us, we were watermen,' replied
Tom.
"'Very true, so you were; but recollect the two guineas were not
due until you had completed your task, which was not until you
came on board. When you came on board you were pressed and became
men-of-war's men. You should have asked for your fare before the
first lieutenant got hold of you. Don't you perceive the justice
of my remarks?'
"'Can't say I do, sir; but I perceive that there is very little
chance of our being paid,' said Tom.
"'You are a lad of discrimination,' replied the master's-mate;
'and now I advise you to drop the subject, or you may induce me
to pay you man-of-war fashion.'
"'How's that, sir?'
"'Over the face and eyes, as the cat paid the monkey,' replied
the master's-mate, walking leisurely away.
"No go, Tom,' said I, smiling at the absurdity of the arguments.
"'I'm afraid it's _no go_, in every way, Jacob. However, I don't
care much about it. I have had a little hankering after seeing
the world, and perhaps now's as well as any other time; but I'm
sorry for you, Jacob.'
"'It's all my own fault,' replied I; and I fell into one of
those reveries so often indulged in of late as to the folly of
my conduct in asserting my independence, which had now ended in
my losing my liberty. But we were cold from the ducking we had
received, and moreover very hungry. The first lieutenant did not
forget his promise: he sent us up a good dinner, and a glass of
grog each, which we discussed under the half-deck between two
of the guns. We had some money in our pockets, and we purchased
some sheets of paper from the bumboat people, who were on the
main-deck supplying the seamen; and I wrote to Mr. Drummond and
Mr. Turnbull, as well as to Mary and old Tom, requesting the
two latter to forward our clothes to Deal, in case of our being
detained. Tom also wrote to comfort his mother, and the greatest
comfort he could give was, as he said, to promise to keep sober.
Having intrusted these letters to the bumboat women, who promised
faithfully to put them into the post-office, we had then nothing
else to do but to look out for some place to sleep. Our clothes
had dried on us, and we were walking under the half-deck, but
not a soul spoke to, or even took the least notice of us. In
a newly manned ship, just ready to sail, there is a universal
feeling of selfishness prevailing among the ship's company. Some,
if not most, had, like us, been pressed, and their thoughts
were occupied with their situation, and the change in their
prospects. Others were busy making their little arrangements with
their wives or relations; while the mass of the seamen, not yet
organized by discipline, or known to each other, were in a state
of dis-union and individuality, which naturally induced every
man to look after himself, without caring for his neighbour. We
therefore could not expect, nor did we receive any sympathy;
we were in a scene of bustle and noise, yet alone. A spare
topsail, which had been stowed for the present between two of the
guns, was the best accommodation which offered itself. We took
possession of it, and, tired with exertion of mind and body, were
soon fast asleep."
In the mean time, doubtless, there was weeping and wailing at the
homes of the pressed seamen. Parents, tottering on the verge of the
grave, and deprived of their natural support—wives and children at the
fireside uncheered by the presence of the head of the family—could
only weep for the absent ones, and pray that their government might one
day cease to be tyrannical.