THE passage from the romantic to the realistic, from the chimerical to
the actual, from the child’s poetic interpretation of life to life’s
practical version of itself, is too gradual to be noticed while the
process is going on. It is only in the retrospect we see the change.
There is still, for yet another stage, the same and even greater
receptivity,—delight in new experiences, in gratified curiosity, in
sensuous enjoyment, in the exercise of growing faculties. But the belief
in the impossible and the bliss of ignorance are seen, when looking back,
to have assumed almost abruptly a cruder state of maturer dulness.
Between the public schoolboy and the child there is an essential
difference; and this in a boy’s case is largely due, I fancy, to the
diminished influence of woman, and the increased influence of men.
With me, certainly, the rough usage I was ere long to undergo materially
modified my view of things in general. In 1838, when I was eleven years
old, my uncle, Henry Keppel, the future Admiral of the Fleet, but then a
dashing young commander, took me (as he mentions in his Autobiography) to
the Naval Academy at Gosport. The very afternoon of my admittance—as an
illustration of the above remarks—I had three fights with three different
boys. After that the ‘new boy’ was left to his own devices,—_qua_ ‘new
boy,’ that is; as an ordinary small boy, I had my share. I have spoken
of the starvation at Dr. Pinkney’s; here it was the terrible bullying
that left its impress on me—literally its mark, for I still bear the scar
upon my hand.
Most boys, I presume, know the toy called a whirligig, made by stringing
a button on a loop of thread, the twisting and untwisting of which by
approaching and separating the hands causes the button to revolve. Upon
this design, and by substituting a jagged disk of slate for the button,
the senior ‘Bull-dogs’ (we were all called ‘Burney’s bull-dogs’)
constructed a very simple instrument of torture. One big boy spun the
whirligig, while another held the small boy’s palm till the sharp
slate-edge gashed it. The wound was severe. For many years a long white
cicatrice recorded the fact in my right hand. The ordeal was, I fancy,
unique—a prerogative of the naval ‘bull-dogs.’ The other torture was, in
those days, not unknown to public schools. It was to hold a boy’s back
and breech as near to a hot fire as his clothes would bear without
burning. I have an indistinct recollection of a boy at one of our
largest public schools being thus exposed, and left tied to chairs while
his companions were at church. When church was over the boy was
found—roasted.
By the advice of a chum I submitted to the scorching without a howl, and
thus obtained immunity, and admission to the roasting guild for the
future. What, however, served me best, in all matters of this kind, was
that as soon as I was twelve years old my name was entered on the books
of the ‘Britannia,’ then flag-ship in Portsmouth Harbour, and though I
remained at the Academy, I always wore the uniform of a volunteer of the
first class, now called a naval cadet. The uniform was respected, and
the wearer shared the benefit.
During the winter of 1839–40 I joined H.M.S. ‘Blonde,’ a 46-gun frigate
commanded by Captain Bouchier, afterwards Sir Thomas, whose portrait is
now in the National Portrait Gallery. He had seen much service, and had
been flag-captain to Nelson’s Hardy. In the middle of that winter we
sailed for China, where troubles had arisen anent the opium trade.
What would the cadet of the present day think of the treatment we small
boys had to put up with sixty or seventy years ago? Promotion depended
almost entirely on interest. The service was entered at twelve or
thirteen. After two years at sea, if the boy passed his examination, he
mounted the white patch, and became a midshipman. At the end of four
years more he had to pass a double examination,—one for seamanship before
a board of captains, and another for navigation at the Naval College. He
then became a master’s mate, and had to serve for three years as such
before he was eligible for promotion to a lieutenancy. Unless an officer
had family interest he often stuck there, and as often had to serve under
one more favoured, who was not born when he himself was getting stale.
Naturally enough these old hands were jealous of the fortunate
youngsters, and, unless exceptionally amiable, would show them little
mercy.
We left Portsmouth in December 1839. It was bitter winter. The day we
sailed, such was the severity of the gale and snowstorm, that we had to
put back and anchor at St. Helens in the Isle of Wight. The next night
we were at sea. It happened to be my middle watch. I had to turn out of
my hammock at twelve to walk the deck till four in the morning. Walk! I
could not stand. Blinded with snow, drenched by the seas, frozen with
cold, home sick and sea sick beyond description, my opinion of the Royal
Navy—as a profession—was, in the course of these four hours, seriously
subverted. Long before the watch ended. I was reeling about more asleep
than awake; every now and then brought to my senses by breaking my shins
against the carronade slides; or, if I sat down upon one of them to rest,
by a playful whack with a rope’s end from one of the crusty old mates
aforesaid, who perhaps anticipated in my poor little personality the
arrogance of a possible commanding officer. Oh! those cruel night
watches! But the hard training must have been a useful tonic too. One
got accustomed to it by degrees; and hence, indifferent to exposure, to
bad food, to kicks and cuffs, to calls of duty, to subordination, and to
all that constitutes discipline.
Luckily for me, the midshipman of my watch, Jack Johnson, was a trump,
and a smart officer to boot. He was six years older than I, and, though
thoroughly good-natured, was formidable enough from his strength and
determination to have his will respected. He became my patron and
protector. Rightly, or wrongly I am afraid, he always took my part, made
excuses for me to the officer of our watch if I were caught napping under
the half-deck, or otherwise neglecting my duty. Sometimes he would even
take the blame for this upon himself, and give me a ‘wigging’ in private,
which was my severest punishment. He taught me the ropes, and explained
the elements of seamanship. If it was very cold at night he would make
me wear his own comforter, and, in short, took care of me in every
possible way. Poor Jack! I never had a better friend; and I loved him
then, God knows. He was one of those whose advancement depended on
himself. I doubt whether he would ever have been promoted but for an
accident which I shall speak of presently.
When we got into warm latitudes we were taught not only to knot and
splice, but to take in and set the mizzen royal. There were four of us
boys, and in all weathers at last we were practised aloft until we were
as active and as smart as any of the ship’s lads, even in dirty weather
or in sudden squalls.
We had a capital naval instructor for lessons in navigation, and the
quartermaster of the watch taught us how to handle the wheel and con.
These quartermasters—there was one to each of the three watches—were
picked men who had been captains of tops or boatswains’ mates. They were
much older than any of the crew. Our three in the ‘Blonde’ had all seen
service in the French and Spanish wars. One, a tall, handsome old
fellow, had been a smuggler; and many a fight with, or narrow escape
from, the coast-guard he had to tell of. The other two had been badly
wounded. Old Jimmy Bartlett of my watch had a hole in his chest half an
inch deep from a boarding pike. He had also lost a finger, and a bullet
had passed through his cheek. One of his fights was in the ‘Amethyst’
frigate when, under Sir Michael Seymour, she captured the ‘Niemen’ in
1809. Often in the calm tropical nights, when the helm could take care
of itself almost, he would spin me a yarn about hot actions,
cutting-outs, press-gangings, and perils which he had gone through,
or—what was all one to me—had invented.
From England to China round the Cape was a long voyage before there was a
steamer in the Navy. It is impossible to describe the charm of one’s
first acquaintance with tropical vegetation after the tedious monotony
unbroken by any event but an occasional flogging or a man overboard. The
islands seemed afloat in an atmosphere of blue; their jungles rooting in
the water’s edge. The strange birds in the daytime, the flocks of
parrots, the din of every kind of life, the flying foxes at night, the
fragrant and spicy odours, captivate the senses. How delicious, too, the
fresh fruits brought off by the Malays in their scooped-out logs, one’s
first taste of bananas, juicy shaddocks, mangoes, and custard
apples—after months of salt junk, disgusting salt pork, and biscuit all
dust and weevils. The water is so crystal-clear it seems as though one
could lay one’s hands on strange coloured fish and coral beds at any
depth. This, indeed, was ‘kissing the lips of unexpected change.’ It
was a first kiss moreover. The tropics now have ceased to remind me even
of this spell of novelty and wonder.