old plan.” And who can tell how much blood would have remained unshed
had the nations left the settlement of personal affronts to ingenious
individual retaliation? There is a most engaging and delightful history
of England’s navy yet to be written on the plan of Granger’s
entertaining story by biography. James is accurate, but dry; Brenton is
always readable; but James and he are not both wanted. Dr. Campbell is
dull. Tediousness, however, is inevitable in a narrative that does but
tell the same story, somewhat varied, over and over again. One sea
battle is very much like another, and the mind is quickly oppressed with
details of starboard and larboard tacks, of falling top-masts, of
broadsides and lowered colours. But let some diligent collector go to
work on an anecdotal history of the navy, and I should say he can
scarcely miss of a great audience. How lively, for example, would prove
such a chapter as this of the spirit of the naval officer suggested to
me by Admiral Hobart’s book! Let a few plums, picked up here and there
from old records and chronicles, suffice as an example of the sort of
pudding that awaits a cook.
On July 25, 1776, Sir Thomas Rich, in her Majesty’s ship _Enterprise_,
met with a French fleet of two ships of the line and several frigates,
commanded by the Duc de Chartres. The French admiral hailed the
_Enterprise_, and desired the captain to come on board immediately, to
which Sir Thomas replied that if the Duke had anything to communicate he
must come on board the _Enterprise_, as he should not go out of his
ship. The Duke insisted that he should, or he would sink him. “You can
do as you please,” exclaimed Sir Thomas Rich, “but the only orders I
receive are from my own admiral.” On this the Duke begged him _as a
favour_ to come on board, as he wished much to make his acquaintance.
Sir Thomas at once went, and was received with the utmost respect.
Here is another plum from the memoirs of Sir Thomas Graves, Rear-Admiral
at the Battle of Copenhagen. The scene was Noddle’s Island, off Boston.
An American, more daring than the rest, advanced nearly half-way between
his own people and the Marines of the squadron. Graves, who was then
captain, was not a little irritated by the sight of this one Yankee
insolently and contemptuously defiant of the whole of the British seamen
and marines, and, borrowing a musket and bayonet from a brother officer,
went out to meet the American champion in single combat. The Yankee
allowed Graves to come within fifty yards of him. “The eyes of our
respective parties are on us,” shouted Graves, and, after assuring the
other that he had no intention to fire “before he could feel him with
the point of his bayonet,” added that if the battle ended in his favour
he should carry the Yankee’s scalp away with him as a trophy. Just as he
said this he kicked against a stone and fell headlong, whereupon the
American discharged his musket at him, threw it down, and took to his
heels. The shot narrowly missed Graves, who fired in his turn without
hitting his man, and then retreated, receiving as he went the fire of a
score or two of persons who had concealed themselves in order to assist
their American champion. A ludicrous forecast of the fight between the
_Shannon_ and the _Chesapeake_ sixty or seventy years later!
There is wonderful spirit in that saying of old Benbow during the
engagement with Du Casse. His right leg was broken to pieces by a chain
shot. He was carried below to be dressed, and whilst the surgeon was at
work, a lieutenant expressed great sorrow for the loss of the Admiral’s
leg. Benbow replied, “I am sorry for it too, but I had rather have lost
them both than seen this dishonour brought upon the English nation. But,
do ye hear, if another shot should take me off, behave like brave men
and fight it out.” That a man should talk composedly during the agonies
of amputation by such surgical skill as was then to be found in the
cockpit, is, I think, an extraordinary illustration of the fortitude and
self-devotion of the sea-braves of those times.
“The spirit of your fathers” shows in many directions. It is related in
the life of Rodney that when that fine old Admiral’s poverty became a
subject of public notoriety, De Sartine suggested to the Duke de Biron
that the command of the French fleet in the West Indies should be
offered him. On this the Duke invited Rodney to spend some weeks with
him, and one morning, whilst strolling about the grounds, sounded the
Admiral on the subject. Rodney, not catching the Duke’s drift, thought
him deranged, and began to eye him with some alarm. Eventually de Biron
came out boldly with the proposal. “Those,” says the biographer, “who
remember the worthy Admiral, and can recollect the countenance he would
assume when anything unexpectedly broke upon him, may imagine his aspect
and demeanour. He answered thus: ‘My distresses, it is true, have driven
me from my country, but no temptation whatever can estrange me from her
service. Had this offer been a voluntary one of your own, I should have
deemed it an insult; but I am glad to learn that it proceeds from a
source that _can do no wrong_!’”
It is in action, perhaps, that one finds the naval spirit, the wit, the
heroism, the tenderness, the patriotism of the service best illustrated.
I am fond of that anecdote of old Captain Killigrew (related by
Campbell) whilst on a cruise with six frigates in 1695. He met with a
couple of French men-of-war. When Killigrew came up with one of them,
named the _Content_, “the whole French crew,” says Campbell, “were at
prayers, and he might have poured in his broadside with great advantage;
which, however, he refused to do, adding this remarkable expression: ‘It
is beneath the courage of the English nation to surprise their enemies
in such a posture.’” This sort of humanity sometimes finds form in a
kind of ironical politeness. In Howe’s memoirs it is related that whilst
the British fleet lay off Cape Race two large French men-of-war were
discovered. Howe, with a press of sail, arrived just alongside the
sternmost Frenchman, the _Alcide_, the captain of which hailed to know
whether it was peace or war. Howe answered, “Prepare for the worst, as I
expect every moment a signal from the flagship to fire upon you for not
bringing to.” And then, observing a number of officers, soldiers, and
ladies on deck, he pulled off his hat, and, speaking in French, begged
they would go below, as they had no personal concern in the contest, and
he would rather that they retired before he began the action. The French
captain was again requested to go under the English admiral’s stern; he
refused, and then Howe told him that the signal was out to engage—a red
flag hoisted at the fore-topgallant-masthead. The French commander
called out, “Commencez, s’il vous plaît!” to which Howe replied, “S’il
vous plaît, monsieur, de commencer!” The two ships delivered their
broadsides almost simultaneously. The _Alcide_ struck in half an hour.
“My lads,” cried Howe, to his crew, “they have behaved like men, treat
them like men.”[24]
Footnote 24:
She carried fewer seamen than Howe’s ship.
There is a good illustration of spirit in a quaint story told of Admiral
Gayton. He was making his way home to England when a large man-of-war
was sighted. The Admiral’s vessel, the _Antelope_, was a crazy old
craft, under-manned, and half-armed. Every preparation, however, was
made to receive the stranger, and Gayton, himself crawling on deck,
exhorted his people to behave like Englishmen. “I can’t stand by you,”
he said, “but I’ll sit and see you fight as long as you please.” The
stranger turned out to be an English man-of-war. Gayton’s resolution was
based on something more than spirit only. In fact, he had several chests
of dollars belonging to himself in the ship, proceeds of the sale of
American prizes. His friends pointed out the inconvenience of
transporting specie, and advised him to remit his property in bills.
“No,” said the old sailor, “I know nothing so valuable as money itself,
and should be a fool to part with it for paper.” His friends then urged
him to send his money home in a frigate, as the _Antelope_ was old and
might founder on the way. “No,” answered Gayton, “my money and myself
will take our passage in the same bottom, and if we are lost there will
be an end of two bad things at once.”[25]
Footnote 25:
The best humour of the marine annals must be sought in anecdotes of
dry old sea-dogs of the pattern of Gayton. There should be some lively
stories of American naval officers. This given by Nathaniel Hawthorne
in his “Note Books” is good. They are dining aboard a revenue cutter.
“The waiter tells the captain of the cutter that Captain Percival
(commander of the navy yard) is sitting on the deck of the anchor buoy
(which lies inside of the cutter) smoking his cigar. The captain sends
him a glass of champagne and inquires of the waiter what Percival says
to it. He said, sir, ‘What does he send me this damned stuff for?’ but
drinks nevertheless.”
Naval literature is like the ocean; many a gem of purest ray serene lies
hidden in the depths of it. It is always the great conquerors one talks
and thinks of; the Admiral on his quarter-deck, not Jack, half naked and
mutilated, still heroically surging at his hot cannon below. It is a
great many years since that an orphan, belonging to Bonchurch, Isle of
Wight, was apprenticed by the parish to a tailor. As he was one day
sitting alone on the shopboard—the ninth part of a man—he spied a
squadron of men-of-war coming round Dunnose. Possessed by an
unconquerable impulse, he ran down to the beach, cast off the painter
from the first boat he saw, jumped into her, and plied the oars so well
that he quickly reached the Admiral’s ship. He was received as a
volunteer, and the boat sent adrift. Next morning the English fell in
with a French squadron, and a hot action began. The young tailor fought
with great cheerfulness and alacrity, but, growing impatient after
awhile, he inquired of the sailors what was the object for which they
were contending. He was answered that the fight would continue till the
white rag at the enemy’s masthead was struck. “Oh, if that’s all,” he
exclaimed, “I’ll see what I can do.” The vessels were engaged yard-arm
and yard-arm, and enveloped in powder-smoke. The young tailor jumped
aloft, gained the main-yard of the French Admiral, mounted to the
masthead, and brought away the French flag. The English sailors,
believing the enemy had hauled his flag down, shouted Victory! The
French, perceiving their colours gone, ran from their guns, on which the
English boarded and took the vessel. The young tailor’s name was Hopson.
For this heroic action he was appointed to the quarter-deck, and
progressing rapidly through the several ranks of the service became
Admiral, with command of a squadron.[26]
Footnote 26:
This told in the _Naval Chronicle_.
The politeness of Howe as an example of spirit is not quite so common in
the annals as illustrations of heroic bluntness. I find a specimen in
the narrative of the action with the squadrons under Jonquierre and St.
George off Finisterre, when the _Bristol_, Captain Montagu, began to
engage _l’Invincible_. Captain Fincher, in the _Pembroke_, tried to get
in between her and the enemy, but not finding room, he hailed the
_Bristol_, and requested Montagu to put his helm a starboard, or the
_Pembroke_ would run foul of his ship. Montagu answered, “Run foul of me
and be, etc.; neither you nor any man in the world shall come between me
and my enemy.” Similar bluntness is exhibited in a story told of Admiral
Sir Richard King. During an action a shot struck the head of his captain
and blew his brains over King, then commodore, who never flinched.[27]
On being told by the master, towards the close of the fight, that two
more of the enemy’s ships appeared to be coming up, and asked what he
would do with the ship, “Do with her!” he exclaimed contemptuously,
“Fight her, sir! fight her till she sinks.” This is as good as Howe’s
memorable answer to the lieutenant who told him that the fire was
extinguished and that he need no longer be afraid. “Afraid!” exclaimed
Howe; then, fixing his eyes on the lieutenant, “Pray, sir, how does a
man feel when he is afraid? I need not ask how he looks.”
Footnote 27:
“Captain Scott of the cutter told me a singular story of what occurred
during the action between the _Constitution_ and _Macedonian_—he being
powder-monkey aboard the former ship. A cannon shot came through the
ship’s side, and a man’s head was struck off, probably by a splinter,
for it was done without bruising the head or body, as clean as by a
razor. Well, the man was walking pretty briskly at the time of the
accident; and Scott seriously affirmed that he kept walking onward at
the same pace, with two jets of blood gushing from his headless trunk,
till, after going twenty feet without a head, he sunk down at once,
with his legs under him.” _Hawthorne Note Books._ One seems to hear
Mr. Burchell’s “fudge!” here.
The charm of British naval biography lies in its modesty and accuracy. A
pity as much cannot be said for the marine records of other countries.
There is an excellent example of impudent and deliberate lying in the
Memoirs of M. du Gué-Trouin, chief of a squadron in the French navy, in
the time of Louis XIV. The book is scarce. It was translated in 1732, by
“A Sea Officer,” who in his dedication writes, after commenting on the
Frenchman’s account of an action with the English, “But this is scarce
anything to the wonders you will find wrought by Du Gué, his people, and
his consorts. For my part, I had scarce gone through his book before I
expected to hear he had attempted to run away with the Land’s End of
England.... No ’tis in France, and France alone, where you must meet
with these men who can do anything, no matter what stands in the way, no
matter for the difficulties; nay, no matter whether they know what it is
they are to do, they’ll do it.” But the Spanish and Dutch annals are too
full of lies also to suffer us to consider the French singular in this
way. As to the Yankees, one should read James’ “Naval Occurrences” to
appreciate their amazing capacity as romancers.
Lord Bacon amused his leisure by collecting the witty sayings of others;
Horace Walpole delighted in ana; there is no choicer reading than the
Menagiana, Selden’s Table-Talk, and Spence’s anecdotes. In the face of
such precursors no apology can be felt needful from any one who should
think proper to attempt an anecdotal history of the British Navy.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_WOMEN AS SAILORS._
A young lady of Plymouth, having illustrated her able-seamanlike
capacity by diving from the masthead of a vessel at anchor in the Sound,
proceeded some time afterwards to justify her marine enthusiasm by
swimming from the Breakwater to the Hoe in a tumbling sea, the distance
being three miles and the time occupied within an hour and a quarter.
Now, if this young lady took it into her head to start away to sea, for
what aforemast capacity, from boatswain down to boy, would she not be
fit? Even as a skipper might she not excel after a proper course of
ogling the sun through a sextant and a well-digested commitment of Norie
or Raper to heart? A girl capable of measuring three miles of turbulent
surges in seventy odd minutes ought to be equal to a weather top-sail
ear-ring in a whole gale; whilst the lungs that could defy a league of
flying spume should be able to wake some dancing silver pipings out of a
boatswain’s whistle.
A good many ladies have gone to sea as sailors since the first chapters
of the world’s maritime history were written, and the majority of them
not only made excellent seamen, but fought their countries’ enemies with
pike, cutlass, and pistol with a courage and determination equal to any
exhibition of the same qualities in the bravest of their pig-tailed
shipmates. And yet women are deemed unlucky at sea! A French tradition
affirms that the ocean near Cape Finisterre swells at the sight of a
woman. Possibly the old fear originated with the witches. Hideous crones
who wrecked ships for lucre and drowned mariners to gratify their own
spleen or that of others would necessarily taint Jack’s view of “the
sex” in their maritime relations. An American writer[28] quotes from
Sandy’s Ovid: “I have heard of seafaring men, and some of Bristol, how a
quartermaster in a Bristol ship, then trading in the Streights, going
down into the hold saw a sort of women, his own neighbours, making merry
together, and taking their cups liberally; who having espied him, and
threatening that he should report their discovery, vanished suddenly out
of sight; who thereupon was lame for ever after. The ship having made
her voyage, nowe homeward bound, and neere her harbour, stuck fast in
the deep sea before a fresh gaile, to their no small amazement, nor for
all they could doe, together with the help that came from the shore,
could they get her loose, until one (as Cynothea, the Trojan ship)
shoved her off with his shoulder.” For bewitching the ship the ladies
who had been seen taking their cups liberally in the hold were convicted
and executed.
Footnote 28:
Mr. Bassett, of the United States Navy, who has collected much
interesting information in this and the like superstitions in his
work, “Legends of the Sea,” New York, 1886.
But, undeterred by forecastle superstitions, the girls, whenever they
had a mind to go to sea, went. In Von Archenholtz’ “History of the
Pirates” you read of Ann Bonny and Mary Read, two English women, as may
be judged from the names, joining the buccaneers, “not from licentious
motives to gratify their pleasures, but solely by a thirst of plunder,
and as co-partners in their dangers as well as in their profits.” To
appreciate the courage of Mary Read and Ann Bonny it is necessary to
understand the kind of lives the buccaneers led—moral, physical, and
intellectual. The typical pirate of the Antilles—in those times—was a
bruised and battered rogue, dressed in a shirt and a pair of pantaloons,
both made of coarse linen cloth, dyed with the blood of animals he had
killed. His unstockinged feet were protected by boots formed from
hogskins, and his head was covered with a round cap. He tied a raw hide
girdle round him, hung a sabre upon it and filled it with knives. He
also carried a firelock that shot two balls, each weighing an ounce.[29]
Footnote 29:
Bailey says the word Bucanier is said to be derived from the
inhabitants of the Caribee Islands who used to cut their prisoners to
pieces “and laid them on hurdles of Brazil wood erected on sticks,
with fire underneath, and when so broiled or roasted to eat them, and
this manner of dressing was called _bucaning_. Hence our Buccaneers
took their name, in that they, hunting, dressed their meat after their
manner.”
Such was the dainty figure whom Ann Bonny and Mary Read made a comrade
of, themselves retaining the apparel of their sex, to which they added
long sailors’ trousers. With hair dishevelled, hangers at their waists,
pistols on their breasts, and hatchets in their hands, they must have
been objects nicely calculated to excite whatever of romantic enthusiasm
there yet lingered in the bosoms of the cut-throats whose troop they had
joined for love of blood and gold.
A more heroic female sailor, despite a fierceness that, though
warrantable enough, makes an historical tigress of her, offers in the
famous Jean de Belville, who vowing vengeance for the murder of her
husband, De Clisson, at Paris, in 1343, fitted out a squadron of ships
and swooped down upon the coast of Normandy, firing every castle that a
torch could be put to, and reddening the seaboard with burning villages.
She is represented to have been one of the finest women in Europe, and a
sense of her beauty joining with perception of her wrongs and the
brilliant loyalty of her very scheme of revenge, does unquestionably
give a high quality of majesty to that posture of ferocity in which she
is pictured by the historian.
In one of the old Dutch books of voyages—whether De Weert’s, Van
Noort’s, or Schouten’s I cannot be sure—mention is made of a discovery,
when the ship was off the Horn, of one of the crew as a woman. Even in
these days of science, of canned meats, condensing apparatus,
ice-houses, steam-winches, double-top-sail yards, clipper keels, and
short voyages, a woman would find seafaring a calling bitter enough. But
think of one of the sex a member of the crew of the Dutch ship of the
seventeenth century, on a voyage of discovery, struggling against the
western sleet-laden tempests of the bleak, iron melancholy Horn! Ships
were butter-boxes in those times,[30] sawed-off old wagons, as broad as
they were long, with running gear that worked like drawing teeth, and a
discipline composed of keel-hauling, fixing to the mast by driving a
knife through the hand, and marooning, or, in other words, setting the
culprit ashore on an uninhabited island, with a day’s provisions, and
without the means of obtaining more if more was to be had. That men died
by the scores in those days of scurvy, months of bitter bad meat and
foul water, pestiferous ’tween-deck atmosphere, supplemented by the
barbarous ignorance of the chirurgeons, is readily intelligible; but
that a woman should have managed to exist under such conditions all the
way from the Texel to the Straits Le Maire, doing the sailors’ work, and
eating the sailors’ food, and living in the sailors’ quarters, is little
short of a miracle and an amazing instance of female endurance.
Footnote 30: