After running a few days before a fair wind, the delightful cry of
“Land ho!” was heard from the mast-head; a cry always pleasant to
the inhabitant of a ship, but most especially so when the distant
hills are those of his native land. Soon after the cry of the man
aloft, the land became dimly visible from the deck, and our eyes
glistened, as the bright, emerald fields of old England, in all the
glory of their summer beauty, lay spread out before us. Ascending the
British Channel, we soon made the spacious harbor of Plymouth, where
we came to an anchor. One of our convoy, however, by some unskilful
management, ran ashore at the mouth of the harbor, where she went to
pieces.
We found Plymouth to be a naval station of considerable importance,
well fortified, possessing extensive barracks for the accommodation
of the military, and having a magnificent dock-yard, abundantly
supplied with the means of building and refitting the wooden walls.
Nothing would have afforded me a higher gratification, than a trip
to the pleasant fields and quiet hearth-sides of dear old Bladen. I
longed to pour out my pent-up griefs into the bosom of my mother,
and to find that sympathy which is sought in vain in the cold,
unfeeling world. This privilege was, however, denied to all. No one
could obtain either leave of absence or money, since a man of war is
never “paid off” until just before she proceeds to sea. But, feeling
heartily tired of the service, I wrote to my mother, requesting her
to endeavor to procure my discharge. This, with the promptitude
of maternal affection, she pledged herself to do at the earliest
possible opportunity. How undying is a mother’s love!
When a man of war is in port, it is usual to grant the crew
occasional liberty to go on shore. These indulgences are almost
invariably abused for purposes of riot, drunkenness and debauchery;
rarely does it happen, but that these shore sprees end in bringing
“poor Jack” into difficulty of some sort; for, once on shore, he is
like an uncaged bird, as gay and quite as thoughtless. He will then
follow out the dictates of passions and appetites, let them lead
him whither they may. Still, there are exceptions; there are a few
who spend their time more rationally. Were the principles of modern
temperance fully triumphant among sailors, they would all do so.
I resolved not to abuse my liberty as I saw others doing; so when,
one fine Sabbath morning, I had obtained leave from our surly first
lieutenant, I chose the company of a brother to a messmate, named
Rowe, who lived at Plymouth. At the request of my messmate, I called
to see him. He received me very kindly, and took me in company with
his children into the fields, where the merry notes of the numerous
birds, the rich perfume of the blooming trees, the tall, green
hedges, and the modest primroses, cowslips and violets, which adorned
the banks on the road-side, filled me with inexpressible delight.
True, this was not the proper manner of spending a Sabbath day,
but it was better than it would have been to follow the example of
my shipmates generally, who were carousing in the tap-rooms of the
public houses.
At sunset I went on board and walked aft to the lieutenant, to report
myself. He appeared surprised to see me on board so early and so
perfectly sober, and jocosely asked me why I did not get drunk and
be like a sailor. Merely smiling, I retired to my berth, thinking it
was very queer for an officer to laugh at a boy for doing right, and
feeling happy within myself because I had escaped temptation.
By and by, three other boys, who had been ashore, returned, in a
state which a sailor would call “three sheets in the wind.” They
blustered, boasted of the high time they had enjoyed, and roundly
laughed at me for being so unlike a man-of-war’s-man; while they felt
as big as any man on board. The next morning, however, they looked
rather chop-fallen, when the captain, who had accidentally seen their
drunken follies on shore, ordered them to be flogged, and forbade
their masters to send them ashore while we remained at Plymouth.
Now, then, it was pretty evident who had the best cruise; the joke
was on the other side; for while their drunken behavior cost them a
terrible whipping and a loss of liberty, my temperance gained me the
_real_ approbation of my officers, and more liberty than ever, since
after that day I had to go on shore to do errands for their masters,
as well as for my own. The young sailor may learn from this fact the
benefit of temperance, and the folly of getting drunk, for the sake
of being called a fine fellow.
My frequent visits to the shore gave me many opportunities to run
away; while my dislike of everything about the _Macedonian_ inspired
me with the disposition to improve them. Against this measure my
judgment wisely remonstrated, and, happily for my well being,
succeeded. Such an attempt would inevitably have been followed by
my recovery, since a handsome bounty was paid for the delivery of
every runaway. There are always a sufficient number to be found
who will engage in pursuit for the sake of money--such men as the
Canadian landlord, described by Rev. Wm. Lighton, in his interesting
narrative,[6] a work with which, no doubt, most of my readers are
acquainted, since it has enjoyed an immense circulation. Endurance,
therefore, was the only rational purpose I could form.
Perhaps the hope of a speedy discharge, through my mother’s efforts,
tended somewhat to this result in my case; besides, my situation
had become somewhat more tolerable from the fact, that by dint of
perseverance in a civil and respectful behavior, I had gained the
good will both of the officers and crew. Yet, with this advantage, it
was a miserable situation.
There are few worse places than a man of war, for the favorable
development of the moral character in a boy. Profanity, in its most
revolting aspect; licentiousness, in its most shameful and beastly
garb; vice, in the worst of its Proteus-like shapes, abound there.
While scarcely a moral restraint is thrown round the victim, the
meshes of temptation are spread about his path in every direction.
Bad as things are at sea, they are worse in port. There, boat-loads
of defiled and defiling women are permitted to come alongside; the
men, looking over the side, select whoever best pleases his lustful
fancy, and by paying her fare, he is allowed to take and keep her on
board as his paramour, until the ship is once more ordered to sea.
Many of these lost, unfortunate creatures are in the springtime of
life, some of them are not without pretensions to beauty. The ports
of Plymouth and Portsmouth are crowded with these fallen beings. How
can a boy be expected to escape pollution, surrounded by such works
of darkness? Yet, some parents send their children to sea because
they are ungovernable ashore! Better send them to the house of
correction.
There is one aspect in which life at sea and life in port materially
differ. At sea, a sense of danger, an idea of insecurity, is ever
present to the mind; in harbor, a sense of security lulls the sailor
into indulgence. He feels perfectly safe. Yet, even in harbor, danger
sometimes visits the fated ship, stealing upon her like the spirit of
evil. This remark was fearfully illustrated in the loss of the _Royal
George_, which sunk at Spithead, near Portsmouth, on the 29th of
August, 1782.
This splendid line of battle ship of one hundred and eight guns, had
arrived at Spithead. Needing some repairs, she was “_heeled down_,”
or inclined on one side, to allow the workmen to work on her sides.
Finding more needed to be done to the copper sheathing than was
expected, the sailors were induced to heel her too much. While in
this state, she was struck by a slight squall; the cannon rolled over
to the depressed side; her ports were open, she filled with water,
and sunk to the bottom!
This dreadful catastrophe occurred about ten o’clock in the morning.
The brave Admiral Kempenfeldt was writing in his cabin; most of the
crew, together with some three hundred women, were between decks:
these nearly all perished. Captain Waghorn, her commander, was saved;
his son, one of her lieutenants, was lost. Those who were on the
upper deck were picked up by the boats of the fleet, but nearly one
thousand souls met with a sudden and untimely end. The poet Cowper
has celebrated this melancholy event in the following beautiful lines:
Toll for the brave!
The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore.
Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,
And laid her on her side.
A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;
Down went the _Royal George_,
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave--
Brave Kempenfeldt is gone,
His last sea fight is fought--
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfeldt went down,
With twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up,
Once dreaded by our foes!
And mingle with our cup
The tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again,
Full charged with England’s thunder,
And plough the distant main.
But Kempenfeldt is gone,
His victories are o’er;
And he, and his eight hundred,
Shall plough the wave no more.
To return to my narrative: Our ship, having been at sea two years,
needed overhauling. She was therefore taken into one of the splendid
dry docks in the Plymouth dock-yard, while the crew were placed, for
the time being, on board an old hulk. A week or two sufficed for
this task, when we returned to our old quarters. She looked like a
new ship, having been gaily painted within and without. We, too,
soon got newly rigged; for orders had reached us from the Admiralty
office to prepare for sea, and we were paid off. Most of the men laid
out part of their money in getting new clothing; some of it went to
buy pictures, looking-glasses, crockery ware, &c., to ornament our
berths, so that they bore some resemblance to a cabin. The women were
ordered ashore, and we were once more ready for sea.
The practice of paying seamen at long intervals, is the source of
many evils. Among these, is the opportunity given to pursers to
practise extortion on the men--an opportunity they are not slow in
improving. The spendthrift habits of most sailors leave them with a
barely sufficient quantity of clothing, for present purposes, when
they ship. If the cruise is long, they are, consequently, obliged to
draw from the purser. This gentleman is ever ready to supply them,
but at ruinous prices. Poor articles with high prices are to be
found in his hands; these poor Jack must take of necessity, because
he cannot get his wages until he is paid off. Hence, what with poor
articles, high charges and _false_ charges, the purser almost always
has a claim which makes Jack’s actual receipts for two or three
years’ service, wofully small. Were he paid at stated periods, he
could make his own purchases as he needed them. The sailor is aware
of this evil, but he only shows his apprehension of it in his usually
good-humored manner. If he sees a poor, ill-cut garment, he will
laugh, and say it “looks like a purser’s shirt on a handspike.” These
are small matters, but they go to make up the sum total of a seaman’s
life, and should therefore be remedied as far as possible.
Our preparations all completed, the hoarse voice of the boatswain
rang through the ship, crying, “All hands up anchor, ahoy!” In a
trice, the capstan bars were shipped, the fifer was at his station
playing a lively tune, the boys were on the main deck holding on to
the “nippers,” ready to pass them to the men, who put them round the
“messenger” and cable; then, amid the cries of “Walk round! heave
away, my lads!” accompanied by the shrill music of the fife, the
anchor rose from its bed, and was soon dangling under our bows. The
sails were then shaken out, the ship brought before the wind, and we
were once more on our way to sea. We were directed to cruise off the
coast of France this time; where, as we were then at war with the
French, we were likely to find active service.
We first made the French port of Rochelle; from thence, we sailed
to Brest, which was closely blockaded by a large British fleet,
consisting of one three-decker, with several seventy-fours, besides
frigates and small craft. We joined this fleet, and came to an
anchor in Basque Roads, to assist in the blockade. Our first object
was to bring a large French fleet, greatly superior to us in size
and numbers, to an engagement. With all our manœuvring, we could
not succeed in enticing them from their snug berth in the harbor of
Brest, where they were safely moored, defended by a heavy fort, and
by a chain crossing the harbor, to prevent the ingress of any force
that might be bold enough to attempt to cut them out. Sometimes we
sent a frigate or two as near their fort as they dared to venture, in
order to entice them out; at other times, the whole fleet would get
under weigh and stand out to sea; but without success. The Frenchmen
were either afraid we had a larger armament than was visible to them,
or they had not forgotten the splendid victories of Nelson at the
Nile and Trafalgar. Whatever they thought, they kept their ships
beyond the reach of our guns. Sometimes, however, their frigates
would creep outside the forts, when we gave them chase, but seldom
went beyond the exchange of a few harmless shots. This was what our
men called “boy’s play;” and they were heartily glad when we were
ordered to return to Plymouth.
After just looking into Plymouth harbor, our orders were
countermanded, and we returned to the coast of France. Having
accomplished about one half the distance, the man at the mast-head
cried out, “Sail ho!”
“Where away?” (what direction?) responded the officer of the deck.
The man having replied, the officer again asked, “What does she look
like?”
“She looks small; I cannot tell, sir.”
In a few minutes the officer hailed again, by shouting, “Mast-head,
there! what does she look like?”
“She looks like a small sail-boat, sir.”
This was rather a novel announcement; for what could a small
sail-boat do out on the wide ocean? But a few minutes convinced us
that it was even so; for, from the deck, we could see a small boat,
with only a man and a boy on board. They proved to be two French
prisoners of war, who had escaped from an English prison, and, having
stolen a small boat, were endeavoring to make this perilous voyage
to their native home. Poor fellows! they looked sadly disappointed
at finding themselves once more in British hands. They had already
been in prison for some time; they were now doomed to go with us, in
sight of their own sunny France, and then be torn away again, carried
to England, and imprisoned until the close of the war. No wonder
they looked sorrowful, when, after having hazarded life for home and
liberty, they found both snatched from them in a moment, by their
unlucky rencontre with our frigate. I am sure we should all have been
glad to have missed them. But this is only one of the consequences of
war.
Having joined the blockading fleet again, we led the same sort of
life as before: now at anchor, then giving chase; now standing in
shore, and anon standing out to sea; firing, and being fired at,
without once coming into action.
Determined to accomplish some exploit or other, our captain ordered
an attempt to be made at cutting out some of the French small craft
that lay in shore. We were accustomed to send out our barges almost
every night, in search of whatever prey they might capture. But on
this occasion the preparations were more formidable than usual. The
oars were muffled; the boat’s crew increased, and every man was
armed to the teeth. The cots were got ready on board, in case any
of the adventurers should return wounded. Cots are used to sleep in
by ward-room officers and captains; midshipmen and sailors using
hammocks. But a number of cots are always kept in a vessel of war,
for the benefit of wounded men; they differ from a hammock, in
being square at the bottom, and consequently more easy. The service
on which the barge was sent being extremely dangerous, the cots
were got ready to receive the wounded, should there be any; but
notwithstanding these expressive preparations, the brave fellows
went off in as fine spirits as if they had been going on shore for
a drunken spree. Such is the contempt of danger that prevails among
sailors.
We had no tidings of this adventure until morning, when I was
startled by hearing three cheers from the watch on deck; these were
answered by three more from a party that seemed approaching us. I ran
on deck just as our men came alongside with their bloodless prize--a
lugger, laden with French brandy, wine and Castile soap. They had
made this capture without difficulty; for the crew of the lugger made
their escape in a boat, on the first intimation of danger. As this
was our first prize, we christened her the _Young Macedonian_. She
was sent to the admiral; but what became of her, I never heard.
Before sending her away, however, the officers, having a peculiar
itching for some of the brandy, took the liberty of replenishing
their empty bottles from the hold. This, with true aristocratic
liberality, they kept to themselves, without offering the smallest
portion to the crew. Some of them showed, by their conduct
afterwards, that this brandy possessed considerable strength. We
had no further opportunity to signalize either ourselves or our
frigate by our heroism at Brest; for we were soon after ordered back
to Plymouth, where, for a short time, we lay at our old anchorage
ground.