1852--H.M.S. _QUEEN_, 116 GUNS
Drill aloft--A daring but unpopular Captain defies a riotous crew,
but is removed--Captain F. T. Michell succeeds him--Disappoints
a Patronage Secretary--Officers of H.M.S. _Queen_--Some hard
drinkers--Hugh Burgoyne--His stoical endurance.
I joined H.M.S. _Victory_ on the 15th May, and five days later was
transferred to H.M.S. _Queen_, 116 guns (a first-rate, of 3000 tons,
launched in 1839, costing about £100,000). She had just returned from
the Mediterranean, where she bore the Vice-Admiral’s flag, and was
by universal consent allowed to be the smartest three-decker in the
Fleet. She had “held the record,” to employ a term not then in use, for
reefing topsails, an operation curtailing the spread of canvas, which
was frequently practised every week in the summer in the Vice-Admiral’s
squadron. The “yard,” or spar supporting the canvas, is lowered to
the cap, and the sailors crawling out on the yard, take in a reef by
passing the reef points, or in other words fasten up the upper part
of the sail in a roll on to the yard. The Fleet Orders ordained time
was to be recorded from the words “lower away,” which was in practice
“let go,” to “belay,” as the reduced canvas was raised again to the
required height. No man was supposed to be on the yard while it was
being moved down or up, but usually the yardarm men, selected for
activity and courage, reached the outer clew before the yard was down,
and were seldom in from it till the sail was half-way up. Loss of life
occasionally resulted, but the spirit of emulation always produced
successors for the dangerous task.
[Illustration: H.M.S. _QUEEN_ IN PLYMOUTH SOUND, 1852]
In 1853 I saw this operation, which was not directly useful when
completed in such haste, for the greater the speed the more
ineffective was the reefing, done many times in 63 seconds; but in 1851
the _Queen’s_ men did it more than once in 59 seconds. Such almost
incredible rapidity was in a measure due to the Captain, a man under
whose command I now came for a few weeks. He was a strongly-built,
active man, much feared, and still more disliked, by all hands on
account of his severity. Nevertheless, he was respected for his
activity, indomitable courage, and practical seamanship. His face was
scarred by powder marks, a Marine having fired at him close up, when
defending a position at Malta, which the Captain attacked at the head
of a landing party.
Before H.M.S. _Queen_ left the Mediterranean, one morning a
treble-reefed topsail broke loose in a gale of wind, and the mass of
canvas, flapping with violence, daunted the topsail yardmen, who feared
they would be knocked off the yard, on which they hesitated to venture,
till the Captain reached them from the deck, and “laying out,” passed
a rope round the sail and secured it. A few days after I joined, when
we were weighing anchor from St. Helen’s, Isle of Wight, and had got
the stock of our best bower anchor awash, the forecastle man,[9] whose
duty it was to shin down the cable and pass a rope through the ring on
the stock, to run a hawser in order to “cat” the anchor, twice went
half-way down and then climbed back, fearing to be washed off the
stock, for the ship’s bow rising and falling quickly, gave but little
time to pass the rope, and each time the bow fell, the stock went out
of sight under water. The Captain, who was as usual dressed in loose
frock coat and gold-band cap, cursing the sailor for “a lubberly
coward,” slid down the chain cable with the rope in his hand on to the
stock, and went with it right under water, but when he reappeared he
had passed the rope end through the ring.
On the 24th May 1852, H.M.S. _Queen_ was lying moored to the Dockyard
wall. Now, some fifty years later, attendant tugs are in readiness
for outgoing ships, and in those days Captains preferred to have the
assistance of a steamer when passing through the narrow exit of the
harbour. Our man, however, disdained all such aid. Due honours to the
Sovereign’s birthday having been paid, at high tide we set sail, and,
casting off, proceeded to Spithead, where, as was then the custom, all
the heavy guns, and water for the cruise, were shipped. The _Queen_
passed so close to the northern shore that it was necessary to run in
our flying-jib boom to save the windows of the “Quebec Hotel,” which
has since disappeared. Most Captains would have been sufficiently
preoccupied with the ship’s safety to disregard a small boy. Not so,
however, was our Chief. His eye rested on me, standing with hands in
both pockets. “What are you doing, sir, with hands in pockets? Aft
here, sail-maker’s mate, with needle and tar.” A big hairy seaman
came aft, with his needle and tar bucket. “Sew this young gentleman’s
hands up in his pockets.” I was seized, but as the first stitch was
put in the Captain said, “Not this time, but if I see your hands there
again, there they’ll be for a week.” Ten days later, when we were lying
inside Plymouth Breakwater, I was ordered to the Captain’s cabin. He
was writing when the Marine sentry ushered me in, and did not look up.
Presently he glanced at me, and said, “Youngster, your uncle, Captain
Michell, writes asking me to see after you,” and then went on writing.
I stood silent, respectful, cap in hand, till raising his head he
shouted, “Well, get out of the cabin.”
Orders were issued to “pay down” the ship’s company, but they had
served long enough with their Chief, and the whole crew of Bluejackets,
about 770, the 200 Marines standing aloof, came aft in a body, and
demanded to be “paid off.” When asked for their reasons, they said
anything but what they meant, but gained their point, and were by
orders of the Admiralty “paid off” on the 2nd July. When nearly all the
men had landed, the Captain “called” his gig, and ordered the coxswain
to pull for Mutton Cove. Robert Cowling, his coxswain, when the boat
was opposite to Drake’s Island, said, “Beg your pardon, your honour,
but might I be allowed to land you at Mount Wise?”[10] The Captain
growled, “Mutton Cove.” After another quarter-mile, Cowling began
again: “Your honour, might we land you this last time at Mount Wise?
There are a good many waiting for you at the Cove ----” “Curse you,
do you hear me?” And the boat went on. There was a large crowd of men
just paid off, of wives lawful as well as temporary, whose demeanour
and language indicated their hostile intentions. Undaunted, the Captain
shouted, as he jumped on to the slimy stone step, “Put the women back,
and I’ll fight the d----d lot of you, one after the other.” Then the
Bluejackets, who had been waiting to throw him into the water, ran at
him in a body, and raising him shoulder high, carried him, the centre
of a cheering mob, to his hotel.
The pennant having been hauled down on the 2nd July, was rehoisted next
day by my mother’s elder brother, Captain Frederick Michell, a man
differing in all characteristics from his predecessor, except that each
was courageous, had a strong sense of duty as understood, and possessed
a consummate knowledge of seamanship.
My uncle, born A.D. 1788, was in his sixty-fourth year, of middle
height, and slight in figure. A courteous, mild manner hid great
determination and force of character. In his earlier service he had
repeatedly shown brilliant dash, and had been awarded by the Patriotic
Fund a Sword of Honour and a grant of a hundred guineas, for gallantry
in a boat attack, when he was wounded; and was warmly commended in
despatches for the remarkable determination he had shown in the attack
on Algiers in 1816. When re-employed in 1852 he had been living at
Totnes, Devon, for many years, his last command having been H.M.S.
_Inconstant_, paid off in 1843. His influence in the little borough
where he lived in an unostentatious manner, befitting his means, was
unbounded. He paid his household bills weekly, never owed a penny, was
universally respected, and had been twice Mayor.
A vacancy for the Parliamentary representation, impending for some
time, occurred within a few weeks of Michell’s re-employment. Every
voter but the Captain knew, and had told the election agents who
solicited the electors, mostly shopkeepers, for their votes and
interest, that they “would follow the Captain.”
On the morning of the polling-day, Captain Michell called on the Port
Admiral and asked for a day’s leave to record his vote. The Admiral
said somewhat shortly, “I do not like officers asking for leave often;
pray when did you have leave last?” “Well, sir, Lord Collingwood gave
me six weeks’ leave in 1806.” This settled the question. My uncle went
to Totnes, plumped against the Government candidate, and then returned
to his ship. The bulk of the electors had waited for him, and the
Government candidate was badly defeated. Within a few days Captain
Michell received an indignant letter from a Secretary in Whitehall to
the effect, “My Lords were astonished at his ingratitude.” My uncle,
the most simple-minded of men, was painfully affected. He had imagined
that he owed his appointment to his merits, and to the consideration
that the troubled Political horizon necessitated the nomination of
tried seamen to command. He wrote officially to the Admiralty, stating
that unless the Secretary’s letter was repudiated, he must resign, and
ask for a Court of Inquiry. In replying, “My Lords much regretted the
entirely unauthorised and improper letter,” etc.
Captain Michell had the reputation of being strict and autocratic with
relatives, and my messmates in the gunroom concurred in advising me to
ask for a transfer to another ship, so I asked to be sent to H.M.S.
_Spartan_, then in the Sound; but another cadet was selected. Later,
when two cadets were required for H.M.S. _Melampus_, bound for the Cape
of Good Hope, I volunteered; but two boys junior to me were chosen. If
I had gone to the Cape, I should have missed the Crimea. My uncle asked
me why I had volunteered, and I said frankly mainly to get away from
him.
When Michell took command, the crew consisted of a draft of
Seamen-gunners and 200 Marines, and his task was to train the large
numbers of West Country lads who made up the balance of 970, all told.
Very patient, methodical, and precise in all his ways, he always
put back every serious case, which might take a prisoner to the
gratings,[11] for twenty-four hours’ consideration. Some weeks after
he joined, overhearing me speak of the third cutter as “My boat,” he
called me up and rebuked me, saying, “You mean, sir, Her Majesty’s boat
you have the honour to command.”
The Commander of the ship was very different in disposition, manners,
and temperament. A Scotchman, with a high sense of duty, he was much
feared by those inclined to indulge in alcohol.
Drinking to excess was common, and the Midshipmen sent below in the
middle watch to mix the tumbler of spirits and water (gin being then
the favourite beverage) of the officers in charge of the watch, used to
bet who would put in most spirit and least water. In my first year’s
service two of our officers died from alcoholism.
Our Commander, naturally of a choleric though kindly disposition, was
severely tried by some of the older officers in the gunroom, two of
whom he often “Proved,” when they returned on board from shore leave.
He occasionally lost his temper when answered, as he was on many
occasions by a hard-drinking officer. One day giving an answer which
was deemed to be unsatisfactory, he was greeted by an outburst of
passion. “I’ll bring your nose to the grindstone; I’ll reduce you to
a gooseberry.” My messmate calmly replied, in the slow, solemn manner
of a man who is conscious of having drunk too much, “You cannot, sir,
bring my nose to a grindstone, and to reduce me to a gooseberry is a
physical impossibility.” However, sometimes the Commander won in these
wordy contests.
One of our officers, tried in Queenstown Harbour for drunkenness, was
defended by a Cork attorney as his “next friend,” who thus attempted
to trip up the Commander’s evidence:--“You say, sir, the prisoner was
drunk. I suppose you have had much experience? Yes. Well, kindly define
what you mean by being drunk.” “A man may be drunk--very drunk--or
beastly drunk. Your client was beastly drunk.” This settled the case,
and the prisoner was dismissed the Service.
The First Lieutenant knew his duty and did it, but amongst men of
marked characteristics attracted but little notice. Many of the younger
officers were above the average in ability and efficiency, the most
striking personality being a Mate, named Hugh (commonly called Billy)
Burgoyne, a son of the Field Marshal whose statue stands in Waterloo
Place. Mr. Burgoyne was as brave as a lion, as active as a cat, and a
very Mark Tapley in difficulties.
We were intimate, for I worked under his orders for some months in the
maintop, of which I was Midshipman, and he Mate, and I admired him with
boyish enthusiasm for his remarkable courage and endurance of pain, of
which I was an eye-witness. In 1852 we were at sea in a half gale of
wind increasing in force, and the ship rolling heavily, the topmen of
the watch went aloft to send down the topgallant-mast.
I presume that most of my readers are aware that the tall tapering
poles which they see in the pictures of sailing ships were not all
in one piece, but for the sake of those who are unacquainted with
nautical terms I explain that the lower mast has a head which supports
the top-mast, which in its turn supports the topgallant-mast, and at
the head of the topgallant-mast is similarly fixed a royal-mast. When
sailors speak of sending up a topgallant-mast, it means that the mast
is placed alongside the top-mast, and pulled up into position by a
rope which, passing over a pulley in the top of the top-mast, is then
fixed in its position by a wedge-shaped piece of iron called a “Fid,”
which being pushed in a hole in the top of the top-mast, receives and
supports the weight of the topgallant-mast.
When it is desired to “house” or send down the topgallant-mast, the
man at the top-masthead pulls out the fid on which the topgallant-mast
rests. The fid is composed of wood, shod with iron in parts, and for
the purpose of extraction is fitted with a “grummet” of rope, or hemp
handle. In ordinary weather there is not much difficulty in extracting
the fid, and most Able-seamen, holding on with their legs, manage
to get both hands on to the grummet and pull out the fid; on this
occasion, however, continuous rain had caused the mast to swell, and
the fid was embedded tightly; as the ship rolled heavily in the trough
of the sea, the man at the top-masthead did not care to trust to his
legs, and therefore put only one hand on the fid-grummet. We were
losing time, and Burgoyne, with strong language at the man for his want
of courage, ran smartly aloft, and pushing him aside, put both hands on
to the fid and attempted to withdraw it; at first he failed, for the
swollen wood defeated his efforts.
[Illustration: MR. E. WOOD, R.N., 1852]
The Marines on deck, who had the weight of the mast on their arms
during the several minutes which elapsed while the Bluejacket was
making half-hearted efforts with one hand, had got tired of supporting
three-quarters of a ton of dead weight, and thus it happened that just
as Burgoyne, getting his fingers inside the hole, had slightly moved
the fid, the Marines “coming up”--that is, slacking their hold--let the
topgallant-mast down on Burgoyne’s hand, which was imprisoned by the
tips of the fingers.
He felt his hand could not be extricated until the weight was off
it; if he had screamed, the fifty men on the topgallant-fall, _i.e._
the hoisting-rope, would have looked up, and he would have remained
with his hand still imprisoned. With extraordinary fortitude and
self-command, Burgoyne putting his disengaged hand to his mouth,
hailed the deck, making himself heard above the gale. “On deck there.”
“Ay, ay.” “Sway again.” The Marines throwing all their weight on the
rope, lifted the mast, Burgoyne withdrew his hand, and then becoming
unconscious, we sent him down in the bight of a rope.
It is curious that[12] he and two others of our Mess were lost when in
command.