LIFE ON THE HULKS
From a dozen accounts by British, American, and French writers I have
selected the following, as giving as varied a view as possible of this
phase of the War Prison system.
The first account is by the Baron de Bonnefoux, who was captured with
the _Belle Poule_ in the West Indies by the _Ramillies_, Captain
Pickmore in 1806, was allowed on parole at Thame and at Odiham, whence
he broke parole, was captured, and taken to the _Bahama_ at Chatham.
When Bonnefoux was at Chatham, there were five prison ships moored under
the lee of Sheppey between Chatham and Sheerness. He describes the
interior arrangements of a hulk, but it resembles exactly that of the
painter Garneray whose fuller account I give next.
Writing in 1835, the Baron says:
‘It is difficult to imagine a more severe punishment; it is cruel to
maintain it for an indefinite period, and to submit to it prisoners of
war who deserve much consideration, and who incontestably are the
innocent victims of the fortune of war. The British prison ships have
left profound impressions on the minds of the Frenchmen who have
experienced them; an ardent longing for revenge has for long moved their
hearts, and even to-day when a long duration of peace has created so
much sympathy between the two nations, erstwhile enemies, I fear that,
should this harmony between them be disturbed, the remembrance of these
horrible places would be reawakened.’
Very bitterly does the Baron complain of the bad and insufficient food,
and of the ill-fitting, coarse, and rarely renewed clothing, and he is
one of those who branded the commanders of the prison ships as the
‘rebuts’—the ‘cast-offs’ of the British navy.
The prisoners on the _Bahama_ consisted largely of privateer captains,
the most restless and desperate of all the prisoners of war, men who
were socially above the common herd, yet who had not the _cachet_ of the
regular officers of the navy, who regarded themselves as independent of
such laws and regulations as bound the latter, and who were also
independent in the sense of being sometimes well-to-do and even rich
men. At first there was an inclination among some of these to take
Bonnefoux down as an ‘aristo’; they ‘tutoyer’d’ him, and tried to make
him do the fagging and coolie work which, on prison ships as in schools,
fell to the lot of the new-comer.
But the Baron from the first took up firmly the position of an officer
and a gentleman, and showed the rough sea-dogs of the Channel ports that
he meant it, with the result that they let him alone.
Attempted escapes were frequent. Although under constant fear of the
lash, which was mercilessly used in the British army at this time, the
soldiers of the guard were ready enough to sell to the prisoners
provisions, maps, and instruments for effecting escape. One day in 1807
five of the prisoners attempted to get off in the empty water casks
which the Chatham contractor took off to fill up. They got safely enough
into the water boat, unknown of course to its occupants (so it seems, at
any rate, in this case, although there was hardly a man who had dealings
with the hulks who would not help the prisoners to escape for money),
but at nightfall the boat anchored in mid-stream; one of the prisoners
got stuck in his water-cask and called for aid; this was heard by the
cabin-boy, who gave the alarm, the result being that the prisoners were
hauled out of their hiding places, taken on board, and got ten days
Black Hole. The Black Hole was a prison six feet square at the bottom of
the hold, to which air only came through round holes not big enough for
the passage of a mouse. Once and once only in the twenty-four hours was
this _cachot_ visited for the purpose of bringing food and taking away
the latrine box. Small wonder that men often went mad and sometimes died
during a lengthened confinement, and that those who came out looked like
corpses.
The above-mentioned men were condemned to pay the cost of their capture,
and, as they had no money, were put on half rations!
The time came round for the usual sending of aged and infirm prisoners
to shore prisons. One poor chap sold his right to go to Bonnefoux, and
he and his friend Rousseau resolved to escape en route. Bonnefoux,
however, was prevented from going, as his trunk had arrived from Odiham
and he was required to be present to verify its contents.
In December 1807, three Boulogne men cut a hole just above the water
near the forward sentry box on the guard gallery which ran round the
outside of the ship, and escaped. Others attempted to follow, but one of
them cried out from the extreme cold, was fired at and hauled on board.
Three managed to get off to Dover and Calais, one stuck in the mud and
was drowned, and the Baron says that the captain of the _Bahama_ allowed
him to remain there until he rotted away, as a deterrent to would-be
imitators.
Milne, captain of the _Bahama_, the Baron says, was a drunken brute who
held orgies on board at which all sorts of loose and debased characters
from the shore attended. Upon one occasion a fire was caused by these
revels, and the captain, who was drunk, gave orders that the prisoners
should be shot at should the fire approach them, rather than that they
should escape.
A rough code of justice existed between the prisoners for the settlement
of differences among themselves. One Mathieu, a privateersman, kept a
small tobacco stall. A soldier, who already had a long bill running with
him, wanted tobacco on credit. Mathieu refused; the soldier snatched
some tobacco off the stall, Mathieu struck him with a knife and wounded
him badly. Mathieu was a very popular character, but justice had to be
done, even to a captive. Luckily the soldier recovered, and Mathieu got
off with indemnification.
During the very bad weather of March 1808, the sentries ordinarily on
the outer gallery were taken on board. To this gallery a boat was always
made fast, and the Baron, Rousseau, and another resolved to escape by
it. So they cut the painter and got off, using planks for oars, with
holes in them for handhold. They reached land safely, and hid all day in
a field, feeding on provisions they had brought from the _Bahama_. At
nightfall they started, and, meeting a countryman, asked the way to
Chatham. ‘Don’t go there,’ he replied, ‘the bridge is guarded, and you
will be arrested.’ One of the prisoners, not knowing English, only
caught the last word, and, thinking it was ‘arrêtez’, drew a piece of
fencing foil, with which each was armed, and threatened the man. The
others saved him, and in recognition he directed them to a village
whence they could cross the Medway. They walked for a long time until
they were tired, and reaching a cottage, knocked for admission. A big
man came to the door. They asked hospitality, and threatened him in case
of refusal. ‘My name is Cole,’ said the man, ‘I serve God, I love my
neighbour, I can help you. Depend on me.’ They entered and were well
entertained by Cole’s wife and daughter, and enjoyed the luxury of a
night’s rest in a decent bed. Next morning, Cole showed them how to
reach the Dover road across the river, and with much difficulty was
persuaded to accept a guinea for his services.
Such instances of pity and kindness of our country people for escaped
prisoners are happily not rare, and go far to counterbalance the sordid
and brutal treatment which in other cases they received.
That evening the fugitives reached Canterbury, and, after buying
provisions, proceeded towards Dover, and slept in a barn. Freedom seemed
at hand when from Dover they had a glimpse of the French coast, but
fortune still mocked them, for they sought in vain along the beach for a
boat to carry them over. Boats indeed were there, but all oars, sails,
and tackle had been removed from them in accordance with Government
advice circulated in consequence of the frequent escapes of French
officers on parole by stealing long-shore boats.
So they went on to Deal, and then to Folkestone. Here they were
recognized as escaping prisoners and were pursued, but they ran and got
safely away. They held a consultation and decided to go to Odiham in
Hampshire, where all of them had friends among the officers on parole
there, who would help them with money. The writer here describes the
great sufferings they underwent by reason of the continuous bad weather,
their poor clothing, their footsoreness, and their poverty. By day they
sheltered in ditches, woods, and under hedges, and journeyed by night,
hungry, wet to the skin, and in constant dread of being recognized and
arrested. For some unknown reason, instead of pushing westward for their
destination they went back to Canterbury, thence to London, then via
Hounslow Heath to Odiham, where they arrived more dead than alive,
shoeless, their clothing in rags, and penniless. At Odiham they went to
one of the little houses on the outskirts of the town, built especially
for French prisoners. This house belonged to a Mr. R——, and here the
three men remained hidden for eight days. Suddenly the house was
surrounded by armed men, the Baron and his companions were arrested and
put into the lock-up. Céré, a friend of the Baron’s, believed that R——
had betrayed them, and challenged him. A duel was fought in which R——
was badly wounded, and when he recovered he found that feeling among the
Frenchmen in Odiham was so strong, that the Agent sent him away to
Scotland under a false name. At Odiham lock-up, Sarah Cooper, an old
friend of the Baron’s when he was on parole there, who had helped him to
get away, came to see him and left him a note in which she said she
would help him to escape, and would not leave him until she had taken
him to France. The escape was planned, Sarah contrived to get him a rope
ladder and had a conveyance ready to take him away, but just as his foot
was on the ladder the police got the alarm, he was arrested, chained,
and shut up in the _cachot_.
For three days the Baron remained in irons, and then was marched to
Chatham, so closely watched by the guards that every night the
prisoner’s clothes and boots were removed, and were not returned until
the morning. They went to Chatham by way of London where they were
confined in the Savoy prison, then used for British deserters. These men
were friendly to the Frenchmen. All of them had been flogged, one had
received 1,100 lashes, and was to receive 300 more.
On May 1, 1808, the unfortunate men found themselves once more on the
_Bahama_, with a sentence of ten days in the Black Hole.
Captain Milne of the _Bahama_ was exasperated at these escapes, and
attempts to escape, and was brutal in his endeavours to get hold of the
tools with which the prisoners had worked. He tried the effect of
starvation, but this only fanned the spirit of revolt in the ship, the
state of life in which became very bad, threats, disputes, quarrels and
duels being of everyday occurrence. The climax came when bad weather
prevented the delivery of bread, and the prisoners were put on biscuit.
They assembled in the _parc_, the open space between the two batteries,
forty feet square, and declared they would not disperse until other
provisions were served out. Milne was mad with anger and drink, and
ordered the soldiers to fire upon the prisoners, but the young officer
in command would not respect the order, and, instead, counselled a more
moderate action. Bonnefoux managed to calm the prisoners, and determined
personally to interview Milne, and represented to him that to compel
eight hundred desperate, hungry men to descend from the _parc_ would
mean bloodshed. The captain yielded, and peace was temporarily assured.
However, more hole-boring was discovered; Rousseau, the Baron’s friend,
slipped overboard and swam away, but was captured just as he was
landing; the result being that the watch kept was stricter than ever.
The Baron here dilates upon the frightful immorality of the life on the
_Bahama_. He says:
‘Il n’existait ni crainte, ni retenue, ni amour-propre dans la classe
qui n’avait pas été dotée des bienfaits de quelque éducation. On y
voyait donc régner insolemment l’immoralité la plus perverse, les
outrages les plus honteux à la pudeur et les actes les plus dégoûtants,
le cynisme le plus effronté, et dans ce lieu de misère générale une
misère plus grande encore que tout ce qu’on peut imaginer.’
There were three classes of prisoners.
(1) Les Raffalés. (2) Les Messieurs ou Bourgeois. (3) Les Officiers.
The Raffalés were the lowest, and lowest of the Raffalés were the
‘Manteaux impériaux.’ These had nothing in the world but one covering,
which swarmed with lice, hence the facetious allusion in their name to
the bees of the Imperial Mantle. These poor wretches eat nothing during
the day, for their gambling left them nothing to eat, but at night they
crept about picking up and devouring the refuse of the food. They slept
packed closely side by side on the deck. At midnight the officer of the
evening gave the word, ‘Par le flanc droit!’ and all turned on to their
right sides. At 3 a.m. the word rang out ‘Pare à virer!’[3] and all
turned on to their left sides.
They gambled with dice for their rations, hammocks, clothes, anything,
and the winners sold for two sous what often was worth a franc. They had
a chief who was fantastically garbed, and a drummer with a wooden
_gamelle_. Sometimes they were a terror to the other prisoners, but
could always be appeased with something to gamble with.
Bonnefoux’s companions worked in wood and straw. The _Bahama_ had been
captured from the Spaniards and was built of cedar, and the wood
extracted by the prisoners in making escape holes they worked into
razor-boxes and toilette articles. Bonnefoux himself gave lessons in
French, drawing, mathematics, and English, and published an English
Grammar, a copy of which is at Paris, in the Bibliothèque Nationale.
Gradually the spread of the taste for education had a refining and
civilizing effect on board the _Bahama_, and when Bonnefoux finally
obtained parole leave, the condition of affairs was very much improved.
In June 1809 the Baron left the _Bahama_ for Lichfield, and with him was
allowed to go one Dubreuil, a rough typical privateer captain, who never
had any money, but had a constant craving for tobacco. He had been kind
to Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, whom he had taken prisoners, and who had
promised to befriend him should luck turn against him. Bonnefoux had
helped him pecuniarily, and in return Dubreuil promised to teach him how
to smoke through his eyes!
The next relation is that of Louis Garneray, a marine painter of some
note, specimens of whose work during his nine years’ captivity in
England may still be found in Portsmouth and its neighbourhood, and one
at least of whose later pictures is in the Marine Gallery of the Paris
Louvre.
What follows is an analysis in brief of his book _Mes Pontons_ (which
is, so far as I am aware, the most complete picture of life on a prison
ship yet published), and, being but a brief analysis, is incomplete as
to numberless most interesting details, so that I would recommend any
reader who wishes to be minutely informed upon the subject to read the
original volume of 320 pages. It is caustically, even savagely written,
but nine years cut out of a young man’s life cannot serve to sweeten his
disposition.
In May 1806 Garneray, who had been captured in the West Indies, was
taken on board the hulk _Prothée_ at Portsmouth, stripped, plunged into
a cold bath, and clothed in an ill-fitting orange-yellow suit, on the
back of which the large letters T. O. proclaimed him as under the care
of the Transport Office. He describes the _Prothée_,—as he is hustled
into the mob of ‘dead people come out for a moment from their graves,
hollow-eyed, earthy complexioned, round backed, unshaven, their frames
barely covered with yellow rags, their bodies frightfully thin,’—as a
black, shapeless sarcophagus, of which the only parts open to air was
the space between the fo’c’sle and the poop and the fo’c’sle itself,
which was unbearable from the smoke of the many chimneys on it. Each end
of the ship was occupied by the garrison, the officers aft and the
soldiers forward. A stout barrier divided the guard from the prisoners,
which was so garnished with heavy-headed nails as to seem like iron, and
was fitted with loop-holes for inspection, and, if needs be, for firing
through. On the lower deck and in the lower battery were packed seven
hundred human beings.
Only one ladder communicated between the lower deck and the lower
battery. In the latter the only daylight came through port-holes, in the
former through narrow scuttles, all of which had iron gratings.
All round the ship, just above the water-line, ran a gallery with
open-work floor, and along this paced three sentries by day and seven by
night. The ship was commanded by a lieutenant and a master, and was
garrisoned by forty or fifty soldiers under a marine officer and about
twenty sailors. The day guard consisted of three sentries on the
gallery, one on the ladder communicating with the battery, one on the
fo’c’sle, one on each gangway, and on the poop a dozen armed men ready
for instant action. At night there were seven sentries on the gallery,
one on the battery ladder; an officer, a sergeant, a corporal, and a
dozen sailors were continually moving round, and every quarter of an
hour the ‘All’s well’ rang out.
The ship’s boats were slung ten feet above the water, and one was
chained to the gallery aft.
At 6 a.m. in summer and 8 in winter, the port-holes were opened, and the
air thus liberated was so foul that the men opening the port-holes
invariably jumped back immediately. At 6 p.m. in summer and 2 p.m. in
winter, every wall and grating was sounded with iron bars, and one hour
later all the prisoners were driven on deck and counted.
[Illustration:
GARNERAY DRAWING AN ENGLISH SOLDIER.
(_After Louis Garneray._)
]
The only furniture in the ship was a bench along each side and four in
the middle, the prisoners squatting on deck at mess time. Each prisoner
on arrival received a hammock, a thin coverlet, and a hair mattress
weighing from two to three pounds. For a long time no distinction was
made between officers and men, but latterly a special ship was allowed
for officers. Some idea of the crowding on board may be gained from the
facts that each battery, 130 feet long, 40 feet broad, and 6 feet high,
held nearly 400 prisoners, and that the hammocks were so closely slung
that there was no room to sleep on deck.
The alimentation of the prisoners, humane and ample as it looks on
paper, seems to have been a gross sham. Not only did the contractors
cheat in quality and quantity, but what with forfeitures on account of
breaches of discipline, and observance of the law imposed by the
prisoners on themselves, that, deductions or no deductions, no man
should have a larger ration than another, and contributions to men
planning to escape, it was impossible for all to touch full rations.
The prisoners elected their own cooks, and nominally a committee of
fifteen prisoners was allowed to attend at the distribution to see that
quality and quantity were just, but the guards rarely allowed them to do
so. Six men formed a mess; no spoons, knives or forks were supplied,
merely bowls and pannikins. The fish supplied on ‘maigre’
days—Wednesdays and Fridays—was usually uneatable, and the prisoners
often sold the herrings at a penny each to the purveyors, who kept them
for redistribution, so that it was said that some herrings had done duty
for ten years! With the money thus made the prisoners bought butter or
cheese. The cod they re-cooked; the bread was filthy and hard.
Complaints were useless, and the result was constant hunger.
All but the Raffalés, the scum, occupied themselves with trades or
professions. There were tobacco manufacturers, professors of dancing,
fencing, and stick-play, who charged one sou for a lesson, which often
lasted an hour. Mathematics and languages were taught at the same rate.
Whilst these and many other occupations were busy, up and down the
battery passed the ‘merchants’ crying their wares, hungry men who
offered their rags for sale, menders of shoes, and the occupants of
favourable positions in the battery inviting bids for them, so that
despite the rags and the hunger and the general misery, there was plenty
of sound and movement, and general evidence of that capability for
adapting themselves to circumstance which so invariably distinguished
the French prisoners in England from the British prisoners in France.
Garneray’s chief friend on board was a sturdy Breton privateer Captain
named Bertaud. Bertaud hated the English fiercely, and, being somewhat
of a bruiser, had won the esteem of his companions quite as much by his
issue of the following challenge as by his personal qualities.
‘Challenge to the English! Long live French Brittany! The undersigned
Bertaud, native of Saint-Brieuc, annoyed at hearing the English boast
that they are the best boxers in the world, which is a lie, will fight
any two of them, in any style with fists, but not to use legs.
‘He will also, in order to prove his contempt for these boasters,
receive from his two adversaries ten blows with the fist before the
fight wherever his adversaries choose, and afterwards he will thrash
them. Simply, he stipulates that as soon as he has received the ten
blows and before the fight begins he shall be paid two pounds sterling
to compensate him for the teeth which shall have been broken.
‘Done on board the _Prothée_ where Bertaud mopes himself to death!’
Garneray calls him a madman, and says that the ten blows alone will do
for him. What is his game?
‘I shall pocket two pounds, and that will go into our escape fund,’
replied the Breton laughing.
Garneray and Bertaud had been saving up for some time for the escape
they resolved to attempt, and, although Bertaud’s challenge was not
taken up, they at last owned forty-five shillings, to which Garneray’s
writing lessons at a shilling each to the little girl of the _Prothée’s_
commander chiefly contributed. Each made himself a bag of tarred cloth
to hold clothes and provisions, they had bored a hole through the ship’s
side large enough to slip through, and only waited for a dark quiet
night. As it was the month of July this soon came. Bertaud got through
first, Garneray was on the point of following when a challenge rang out,
followed by a musket-shot, and peeping through the hole, to his horror
he saw poor Bertaud suspended over the water by the cord of his bag
which had caught in an unnoticed nail in the ship’s side. Then was a
terrible thing done. The soldiers hammered the helpless Frenchman with
their musket butts, Garneray heard the fall of something heavy in the
water; there was silence; then as if by magic the whole river was lit
up, and boats from all the other vessels put off for the _Prothée_.
Garneray slipped back to his hammock, but was presently turned out with
all the other prisoners to be counted. His anxiety about the fate of his
friend made him ask a sailor, who replied brutally, ‘Rascal, how should
I know? So far as I am concerned I wish every Frenchman was at the
bottom of the sea!’ For a consideration of a shilling, however, the man
promised to find out, and told Garneray that the poor Breton had
received three bayonet thrusts, a sabre-cut on the head, and musket-butt
blows elsewhere, but that the dog still breathed! For twenty days the
man gave his shilling bulletins, and then announced that the Breton was
convalescent.
Garneray and Bertaud made another attempt some months later. Garneray
had saved money he had earned by drawing designs for the straw-workers
among the prisoners, who had hitherto not gone beyond birds and flowers,
and who readily paid for his ships in full sail and other marine
objects.
It was mid-winter and bitterly cold, so the two adventurers prepared
themselves by rubbing themselves with oil saved from the little lamp by
which Garneray taught his pupils. Without attracting notice they slipped
overboard, and swam for the muddy shore of an island. This they crossed
on _patins_ which Bertaud had provided, and reached the river by
Gosport. Only occasional pulls at the rum flask prevented them from
perishing with cold, and their second swim nearly cost both of them
their lives. Each in turn had to support the other, and they were on the
point of giving up when they reached an anchored vessel. Here a watchdog
greeted them, and kept up his barking until he aroused the crew, who
hailed them in what they thankfully recognized to be broken English.
Alas! Their joy was short-lived. The skipper of the vessel was a Dane,
and so far from promising to help them declared he would send them back
to the hulk, abusing them violently. This was too much for the fiery
Breton, who, seizing a knife, sprang upon the Dane and bore him to the
ground. They tied and gagged him, and, said Bertaud, ‘Now let us be
off!’
But Garneray declared himself too exhausted to attempt another swim,
even for liberty, and said he would go back to the hulk. The prospect of
this was too horrible for Bertaud. ‘Better be drowned and be done with
it,’ said he, ‘than live to be killed by inches,’ and before Garneray
could remonstrate, to the amazement of the Danish sailors, he sprang
overboard.
At four the next morning the Danes brought Garneray back to the
_Prothée_. Instantly, although he was wet through and half dead with
cold, he was put into the _cachot_, and but for the fact that the
carpenters had been working there and had left a pile of shavings,
amongst which he nestled, he could not have lived through the night.
Next day he was released and sent back to the battery, but no fresh
clothes were issued to him, and but for the charity of his fellow
prisoners he would have gone naked.
Seeing all the prisoners peering excitedly through the grated
port-holes, Garneray, sick in his hammock, asked the reason: ‘See, the
crows!’ was the reply.
He joined the onlookers, and describes his feelings when he saw
stretched on the mud of the Portchester river the body of Bertaud,
already an attraction for the crows. On the brutal scene which followed,
the dragging of the body to the ship, and the utterly inhuman response
made to Garneray’s prayer for the decent treatment of his friend’s
remains, it is as unnecessary as it is distasteful to dwell.
Garneray was now changed from the _Prothée_ to the _Crown_—a ship with a
bad reputation among the prisoners.
Captain R—— of the _Crown_ was a brute in every sense of the word, and
the prisoners maddened him by winning for the _Crown_ the reputation of
being the most unmanageable, because the worst managed, hulk in
Portchester River. Bully, sot, and coward as he was, he by no means had
his own way. On one occasion five prisoners escaped. Although it was
mid-winter and snowing, R—— had the muster of half-clad wretches made in
the open. The number could never be made right, and count after count
was made, during a space of three days. The whole affair was a cleverly
concocted device to gain for the escaped men time to get safely away. A
master-carpenter among the prisoners had cut a means of communication
between two of the batteries, through which, unseen by the authorities,
men could slip from one to the other, get on deck, and so swell or
diminish the muster roll as arranged. The trick was not discovered, but
that there was a trick was evident, and R—— was determined to be
revenged. He summoned the floating fire-engines in harbour, and,
although it was mid-winter, actually pumped icy water into the lower
deck and batteries until they were drenched, as well as the prisoners,
their hammocks, and their clothes.
[Illustration:
THE _CROWN_ HULK, SEEN FROM THE STERN.
(_After Louis Garneray._)
]
On another occasion when for counting purposes those on the _Crown_ were
transferred _en masse_ on board the _San Antonio_, they returned to find
that during their temporary absence R—— had actually, ‘as a measure of
precaution,’ he said, destroyed all the tools and implements and books
which the prisoners used in their poor little occupations and trades,
and among them Garneray’s canvases, easels, brushes, and colours. The
immediate result was a stupor of impotent rage; this gave way to open
insubordination, insult, and such a universal paroxysm of indignation
that even R—— was cowed, and actually made a show of leniency, offering
terms of mediation which were scornfully rejected.
Garneray relates another boxing episode with great gusto. A certain
Colonel S——, belonging to a well-known English family, came to visit
Captain R—— accompanied by a colossal negro, gorgeously arrayed, called
Little White, and a splendid Danish hound. His purpose was to match
Little White against a French boxer for the entertainment of his
fashionable friends ashore. At first sight there would seem to be very
poor sport in the pitting of a well-fed, well-trained giant against even
the fittest champion of a crowd of half-clad, half-starved, wholly
untrained prisoners of war. Although the real object of the gallant
Colonel was to show off his black pet, and to charm the beauty and
fashion of Portsmouth with an exhibition of prowess, to prove that he
was simply animated by a love of sport, he had the consent of R—— that
the prisoner champion should be prepared in some way for the contest by
extra feeding and so forth.
Robert Lange, a quiet, inoffensive Breton with a quenchless hatred of
the English, and a reputed athlete, at once accepted the challenge,
especially as the (to him) enormous prize of twenty guineas was being
offered.
The day appointed for the contest came. Great preparations had been made
on the poop of the _Crown_ for the reception of the fashionable company
invited to assist at the spectacle of Colonel S——‘s black knocking out
in the first round, and probably killing, a Frenchman.
Colonel S—— arrived, and with him Little White and the big dog, and
flotillas of boats brought out the company, largely consisting of
ladies, ‘parées avec ce luxe éclatant et de mauvais goût si
essentiellement britannique,’ who settled themselves on the stand rigged
up for the occasion, in laughing and chattering anticipation of
something funny.
Robert Lange was playing cards below when he was told that the
entertainment was only wanting him. Very coolly he sent word back that
he would come as soon as he had finished his hand, and nothing would
induce him to hurry. Captain R—— wanted to put Lange into the _cachot_
at once for this impertinence, but Colonel S—— calmed him by assuring
him that it was the custom in England to grant any indulgence to a man
condemned to die.
Meanwhile Little White divested himself of his gorgeous flunkey dress,
and the appearance of his magnificent physique caused a chorus of
admiration for him, and of pity for the presumptuous Frenchman, to burst
from the company.
In due course Robert Lange slouched up, his hands in his pockets, a pipe
in his mouth, and his cotton cap on the back of his head. His appearance
brought out a murmur of disappointment from the visitors, who considered
they were being made the victims of one of Colonel S——‘s famous hoaxes.
The murmurs turned to smiles when Robert confessed ignorance about
seconds, and asked what a watch was wanted for. However, these things
being explained to him, he chose Garneray and a fellow Breton as
seconds, told Garneray to pocket the magnificent watch which the Colonel
offered him, said he was ready for the dance to begin, and placed
himself in a fighting position which occasioned roars of laughter from
the polite crowd.
‘I’m beginning to lose my temper at the mockery of these fools,’ said
Lange to Garneray; ‘what are they waiting for?’
‘Colonel,’ said Garneray, ‘my man is ready. May we begin?’
‘There is just one formality customary on these occasions,’ replied the
Colonel. ‘The combatants ought to shake hands to show there is no
ill-feeling between them.’
The big black thrust forward his hand saying, ‘Shake my hand with
respect. It has bowled over many a Frenchman.’
At this gratuitous insult, which the English applauded, a thrill of
indignation agitated the crowd of French prisoners.
‘What does this chap say?’ asked Lange of Garneray.
Garneray told him. Instantly there sprang into his face and into his
eyes a light of anger very unusual to him, and what Garneray feared was
that the furious Breton would violate the laws of combat and spring upon
the negro before the latter had taken up his fighting position. But it
was not so. Let me translate Garneray’s description of what followed:
‘At length Robert Lange seized the negro’s hand. Their hands entwined,
their gaze fixed, their inflamed faces close together, the two
combatants motionless, resembled a marble group. By degrees, it seemed
to me that on the face of Little White there was a look of pain. I was
not wrong. Suddenly with a cry of pain which he had been suppressing the
negro bit his lip with passion, half closed his eyes, threw his head
back as he raised his shoulder convulsively, and seemed to lose
consciousness. All this time the Breton was as calm and motionless as a
statue. What was going on was something so unforeseen, so extraordinary
that we did not know what to think of it. Robert Lange solved the
riddle.
‘“Wretch!” he cried with a resounding voice. “This hand which has done
for so many Bretons shall not henceforth frighten a child!”
‘In fact, the hand of the Breton had gripped the negro’s with such force
that the blood sprang from its fingers.
‘“Stop! stop!” cried the black in his agony. But Robert was pitiless,
and did not loosen his grasp until the giant was on his knees before
him.’
An enthusiastic burst of cheering rose from the French prisoner
spectators, and, to cut the story short, the Colonel handed Robert Lange
the twenty guineas, and was obliged to apologize to the gay company
assembled to see the triumph of the negro, for the unexpected and brief
character of the entertainment.
Then he called his big Danish hound and prepared to embark. But the dog
did not appear and could not be found. Somebody said he had last been
seen going into the battery. Captain R—— started, and his face reddened
deeply. ‘Then—then,’ he stammered. ‘If your dog has got into the
battery, you will never see him again!’
‘Never see him again! What do you mean?’ roared the Colonel.
‘I mean that by this time he represents two legs of mutton, several
dishes of “ratatouille”, and any number of _beeftaks_! In other words,
the prisoners have eaten him!’
It was even so. The vision of a large plump dog had been too much for
the Raffalés, and as the irate Colonel was rowed shorewards from the
ship, he saw the skin of his pet nailed on to the outer side of it.
Captain R—— revenged himself for the double fiasco by a series of brutal
persecutions and punishments which culminated in open rebellion, severe
fighting, much bloodshed, and at last in a proclamation by the Captain
that unless the ringleaders were delivered up to him, imploring pardon
for what had happened, he would have every man shot.
In the meanwhile the long duration and intensity of Captain R——‘s
persecution had reached the ears of the authorities, and just at the
expiration of the hour which he had given the prisoners for decision,
the great folk of the Admiralty arrived, and the result of a court of
inquiry which lasted the whole day, and which even Garneray admits was
conducted with impartiality, was that he was removed.
A few weeks later Garneray observed two of the worst of the Raffalés
seated on a bench playing ecarté very seriously, and surrounded by a
silent and equally serious crowd. Suspecting that this was no ordinary
gambling bout, he inquired, and was told that by a drawing of lots these
two men had been left to decide who should kill the ship’s master, one
Linch, the worst type of hulk tyrant. In vain Garneray exerted himself
to prevent the committal of so terrible a crime. The game was played
out, and five minutes later the master was stabbed to the heart as he
stood on the upper deck.
Towards the end of 1811 the _Vengeance_, to which hulk Garneray had been
shifted from the _Crown_, received her quota of the unfortunate
Frenchmen who, after the capitulation of Baylen in 1808, had been
imprisoned by the Spaniards on the island of Cabrera, where they had
been submitted to the most terrible sufferings and hardships, and had
died like flies. Garneray describes the appearance of thirty of these
poor creatures who had been apportioned to the _Vengeance_, as they came
alongside.
‘The poor wretches, lying at the bottom of the boat, cried aloud in
their agony and tossed in the delirium of fever; thin as skeletons, pale
as corpses, scarcely covered, although the cold was intense, by their
miserable rags.... Of these thirty only about ten had strength enough to
get on board.’
The doctor of the _Vengeance_ refused to receive them on board, saying
that by their infection they would in a fortnight’s time turn the ship
into one great tomb, and they were ordered to be put on board the
_Pegasus_ hospital ship. While the arrangements for their reception were
being made, the unfortunates were kept in their agony in the boat
alongside, for the captain of the _Vengeance_ said it was not worth
while to disarrange his ship for such men, for so short a time.
[Illustration:
EXTERIOR VIEW OF A HULK.
(_After Louis Garneray._)
]
More brutality followed. The captain of the _Pegasus_ sent word that the
poor wretches should be bathed before being sent to him, saying that his
hospital was so full that he had no accommodation of this sort. And this
was actually done; they were plunged into icy cold water, and then
packed off to the _Pegasus_, the result being that many of them were
hauled on board dying.
As the doctor of the _Vengeance_ predicted, the infection brought by the
survivors of Cabrera spread through the ship with terrible severity, and
Garneray himself was seized with fever, and was sent on board the
_Pegasus_. He tells how by the intervention of a fellow-countryman who
was a hospital assistant, he contrived to avoid the horrors of the
compulsory cold bath on entrance, and proceeds to relate a circumstance
which, horrible as it is, I give for what it is worth.
A neighbour invalid had a diamond ring on his finger. He was a soldier
of Spain, and the ring no doubt had been obtained, as Garneray says, ‘by
the luck of war’. He was very far gone; indeed his death could only be a
matter of a few hours. Garneray, rapidly becoming convalescent, heard
two English attendants conspire to take the dying man away at once to
the mortuary and there to relieve him of his ring. They carried him
away; Garneray called for his French friend, and bid him go at once and
prevent the brutal deed. He did so, and the man actually recovered, but
he told Garneray that it was quite the rule in this crowded hospital
ship for patients to be hurried away before they were dead into the
mortuary in order to make room for others!
Garneray says:
‘It is difficult to give the reader an idea of the barbarous manner in
which the French were treated on this hospital ship. I will only give
one more instance, for my aim is not to horrify, and there were acts of
cruelty which the pen hesitates to describe. One day the English doctor
was asked to authorize wine to be given to a young officer, grievously
ill, in order to strengthen him. “Are you mad?” replied the doctor. “To
dare to ask me to give strength to an enemy? Get out! You must be a
fool!”’
When Garneray returned to the _Vengeance_ he had news of the Baron de
Bonnefoux—extracts from whose life upon the Chatham hulks have already
been given,—and speaks of him as bent upon escaping, and fears he would
be shot one of these days.
Garneray later is allowed to go on parole to Bishop’s Waltham, about his
sojourn at which place something will be said when the story of the
Prisoners on Parole comes to be told. Suffice it therefore to say that
Garneray got away from Bishop’s Waltham to Portsmouth, and well across
the Channel on a smuggling vessel, when he was recaptured by a British
cruiser, and once again found himself a prisoner on the _Vengeance_.
After more sufferings, brutal treatment, and illness, Garneray was at
length made free by the Treaty of Paris in 1814.
[Illustration:
THE VENGEANCE.
(_After Louis Garneray._)
]