GENERAL TRAINING IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
To a quiet, contemplative character, averse to uproar, undue exercise
of his bodily members, and all kind of useless confusion, nothing can
be more distressing than a proceeding in all men-of-war called
“_general quarters_.” And well may it be so called, since it amounts to
a general drawing and quartering of all the parties concerned.
As the specific object for which a man-of-war is built and put into
commission is to fight and fire off cannon, it is, of course, deemed
indispensable that the crew should be duly instructed in the art and
mystery involved. Hence these “general quarters,” which is a mustering
of all hands to their stations at the guns on the several decks, and a
sort of sham-fight with an imaginary foe.
The summons is given by the ship’s drummer, who strikes a peculiar
beat—short, broken, rolling, shuffling—like the sound made by the march
into battle of iron-heeled grenadiers. It is a regular tune, with a
fine song composed to it; the words of the chorus, being most
artistically arranged, may give some idea of the air:
“Hearts of oak are our ships, jolly tars are our men,
We always are ready, steady, boys, steady,
To fight and to conquer, again and again.”
In warm weather this pastime at the guns is exceedingly unpleasant, to
say the least, and throws a quiet man into a violent passion and
perspiration. For one, I ever abominated it.
I have a heart like Julius Caesar, and upon occasions would fight like
Caius Marcius Coriolanus. If my beloved and for ever glorious country
should be ever in jeopardy from invaders, let Congress put me on a
war-horse, in the van-guard, and _then_ see how I will acquit myself.
But to toil and sweat in a fictitious encounter; to squander the
precious breath of my precious body in a ridiculous fight of shams and
pretensions; to hurry about the decks, pretending to carry the killed
and wounded below; to be told that I must consider the ship blowing up,
in order to exercise myself in presence of mind, and prepare for a real
explosion; all this I despise, as beneath a true tar and man of valour.
These were my sentiments at the time, and these remain my sentiments
still; but as, while on board the frigate, my liberty of thought did
not extend to liberty of expression, I was obliged to keep these
sentiments to myself; though, indeed, I had some thoughts of addressing
a letter, marked _Private and Confidential_, to his Honour the
Commodore, on the subject.
My station at the batteries was at one of the thirty-two-pound
carronades, on the starboard side of the quarter-deck.[1]
[1] For the benefit of a Quaker reader here and there, a word or two
in explanation of a carronade may not be amiss. The carronade is a gun
comparatively short and light for its calibre. A carronade throwing a
thirty-two-pound shot weighs considerably less than a long-gun only
throwing a twenty-four-pound shot. It further differs from a long-gun,
in working with a joint and bolt underneath, instead of the short arms
or _trunnions_ at the sides. Its _carriage_, likewise, is quite
different from that of a long-gun, having a sort of sliding apparatus,
something like an extension dining-table; the goose on it, however, is
a tough one, and villainously stuffed with most indigestible
dumplings. Point-blank, the range of a carronade does not exceed one
hundred and fifty yards, much less than the range of a long-gun. When
of large calibre, however, it throws within that limit, Paixhan shot,
all manner of shells and combustibles, with great effect, being a very
destructive engine at close quarters. This piece is now very generally
found mounted in the batteries of the English and American navies. The
quarter-deck armaments of most modern frigates wholly consist of
carronades. The name is derived from the village of Carron, in
Scotland, at whose celebrated founderies this iron Attila was first
cast.
I did not fancy this station at all; for it is well known on shipboard
that, in time of action, the quarter-deck is one of the most dangerous
posts of a man-of-war. The reason is, that the officers of the highest
rank are there stationed; and the enemy have an ungentlemanly way of
target-shooting at their buttons. If we should chance to engage a ship,
then, who could tell but some bungling small-arm marks-man in the
enemy’s tops might put a bullet through _me_ instead of the Commodore?
If they hit _him_, no doubt he would not feel it much, for he was used
to that sort of thing, and, indeed, had a bullet in him already.
Whereas, _I_ was altogether unaccustomed to having blue pills playing
round my head in such an indiscriminate way. Besides, ours was a
flag-ship; and every one knows what a peculiarly dangerous predicament
the quarter-deck of Nelson’s flag-ship was in at the battle of
Trafalgar; how the lofty tops of the enemy were full of soldiers,
peppering away at the English Admiral and his officers. Many a poor
sailor, at the guns of that quarter-deck, must have received a bullet
intended for some wearer of an epaulet.
By candidly confessing my feelings on this subject, I do by no means
invalidate my claims to being held a man of prodigious valour. I merely
state my invincible repugnance to being shot for somebody else. If I am
shot, be it with the express understanding in the shooter that I am the
identical person intended so to be served. That Thracian who, with his
compliments, sent an arrow into the King of Macedon, superscribed “_for
Philip’s right eye_,” set a fine example to all warriors. The hurried,
hasty, indiscriminate, reckless, abandoned manner in which both sailors
and soldiers nowadays fight is really painful to any serious-minded,
methodical old gentleman, especially if he chance to have systematized
his mind as an accountant. There is little or no skill and bravery
about it. Two parties, armed with lead and old iron, envelop themselves
in a cloud of smoke, and pitch their lead and old iron about in all
directions. If you happen to be in the way, you are hit; possibly,
killed; if not, you escape. In sea-actions, if by good or bad luck, as
the case may be, a round shot, fired at random through the smoke,
happens to send overboard your fore-mast, another to unship your
rudder, there you lie crippled, pretty much at the mercy of your foe:
who, accordingly, pronounces himself victor, though that honour
properly belongs to the Law of Gravitation operating on the enemy’s
balls in the smoke. Instead of tossing this old lead and iron into the
air, therefore, it would be much better amicably to toss up a copper
and let heads win.
The carronade at which I was stationed was known as “Gun No. 5,” on the
First Lieutenant’s quarter-bill. Among our gun’s crew, however, it was
known as _Black Bet_. This name was bestowed by the captain of the
gun—a fine negro—in honour of his sweetheart, a coloured lady of
Philadelphia. Of Black Bet I was rammer-and-sponger; and ram and sponge
I did, like a good fellow. I have no doubt that, had I and my gun been
at the battle of the Nile, we would mutually have immortalised
ourselves; the ramming-pole would have been hung up in Westminster
Abbey; and I, ennobled by the king, besides receiving the illustrious
honour of an autograph letter from his majesty through the perfumed
right hand of his private secretary.
But it was terrible work to help run in and out of the porthole that
amazing mass of metal, especially as the thing must be clone in a
trice. Then, at the summons of a horrid, rasping rattle, swayed by the
Captain in person, we were made to rush from our guns, seize pikes and
pistols, and repel an imaginary army of boarders, who, by a fiction of
the officers, were supposed to be assailing all sides of the ship at
once. After cutting and slashing at them a while, we jumped back to our
guns, and again went to jerking our elbows.
Meantime, a loud cry is heard of “Fire! fire! fire!” in the fore-top;
and a regular engine, worked by a set of Bowery-boy tars, is forthwith
set to playing streams of water aloft. And now it is “Fire! fire!
fire!” on the main-deck; and the entire ship is in as great a commotion
as if a whole city ward were in a blaze.
Are our officers of the Navy utterly unacquainted with the laws of good
health? Do they not know that this violent exercise, taking place just
after a hearty dinner, as it generally does, is eminently calculated to
breed the dyspepsia? There was no satisfaction in dining; the flavour
of every mouthful was destroyed by the thought that the next moment the
cannonading drum might be beating to quarters.
Such a sea-martinet was our Captain, that sometimes we were roused from
our hammocks at night; when a scene would ensue that it is not in the
power of pen and ink to describe. Five hundred men spring to their
feet, dress themselves, take up their bedding, and run to the nettings
and stow it; then he to their stations—each man jostling his
neighbour—some alow, some aloft; some this way, some that; and in less
than five minutes the frigate is ready for action, and still as the
grave; almost every man precisely where he would be were an enemy
actually about to be engaged. The Gunner, like a Cornwall miner in a
cave, is burrowing down in the magazine under the Ward-room, which is
lighted by battle-lanterns, placed behind glazed glass bull’s-eyes
inserted in the bulkhead. The Powder-monkeys, or boys, who fetch and
carry cartridges, are scampering to and fro among the guns; and the
_first and second loaders_ stand ready to receive their supplies.
These _Powder-monkeys_, as they are called, enact a curious part in
time of action. The entrance to the magazine on the berth-deck, where
they procure their food for the guns, is guarded by a woollen screen;
and a gunner’s mate, standing behind it, thrusts out the cartridges
through a small arm-hole in this screen. The enemy’s shot (perhaps red
hot) are flying in all directions; and to protect their cartridges, the
powder-monkeys hurriedly wrap them up in their jackets; and with all
haste scramble up the ladders to their respective guns, like
eating-house waiters hurrying along with hot cakes for breakfast.
At _general quarters_ the shot-boxes are uncovered; showing the
grape-shot—aptly so called, for they precisely resemble bunches of the
fruit; though, to receive a bunch of iron grapes in the abdomen would
be but a sorry dessert; and also showing the canister-shot—old iron of
various sorts, packed in a tin case, like a tea-caddy.
Imagine some midnight craft sailing down on her enemy thus; twenty-four
pounders levelled, matches lighted, and each captain of his gun at his
post!
But if verily going into action, then would the Neversink have made
still further preparations; for however alike in some things, there is
always a vast difference—if you sound them—between a reality and a
sham. Not to speak of the pale sternness of the men at their guns at
such a juncture, and the choked thoughts at their hearts, the ship
itself would here and there present a far different appearance.
Something like that of an extensive mansion preparing for a grand
entertainment, when folding-doors are withdrawn, chambers converted
into drawing-rooms, and every inch of available space thrown into one
continuous whole. For previous to an action, every bulk-head in a
man-of-war is knocked down; great guns are run out of the Commodore’s
parlour windows; nothing separates the ward-room officers’ quarters
from those of the men, but an ensign used for a curtain. The sailors’
mess-chests are tumbled down into the hold; and the hospital cots—of
which all men-of-war carry a large supply—are dragged forth from the
sail-room, and piled near at hand to receive the wounded;
amputation-tables are ranged in the _cock-pit_ or in the _tiers_,
whereon to carve the bodies of the maimed. The yards are slung in
chains; fire-screens distributed here and there: hillocks of
cannon-balls piled between the guns; shot-plugs suspended within easy
reach from the beams; and solid masses of wads, big as Dutch cheeses,
braced to the cheeks of the gun-carriages.
No small difference, also, would be visible in the wardrobe of both
officers and men. The officers generally fight as dandies dance,
namely, in silk stockings; inasmuch as, in case of being wounded in the
leg, the silk-hose can be more easily drawn off by the Surgeon; cotton
sticks, and works into the wound. An economical captain, while taking
care to case his legs in silk, might yet see fit to save his best suit,
and fight in his old clothes. For, besides that an old garment might
much better be cut to pieces than a new one, it must be a mighty
disagreeable thing to die in a stiff, tight-breasted coat, not yet
worked easy under the arm-pits. At such times, a man should feel free,
unencumbered, and perfectly at his ease in point of straps and
suspenders. No ill-will concerning his tailor should intrude upon his
thoughts of eternity. Seneca understood this, when he chose to die
naked in a bath. And men-of-war’s men understand it, also; for most of
them, in battle, strip to the waist-bands; wearing nothing but a pair
of duck trowsers, and a handkerchief round their head.
A captain combining a heedful patriotism with economy would probably
“bend” his old topsails before going into battle, instead of exposing
his best canvas to be riddled to pieces; for it is generally the case
that the enemy’s shot flies high. Unless allowance is made for it in
pointing the tube, at long-gun distance, the slightest roll of the
ship, at the time of firing, would send a shot, meant for the hull,
high over the top-gallant yards.
But besides these differences between a sham-fight at _general
quarters_ and a real cannonading, the aspect of the ship, at the
beating of the retreat, would, in the latter case, be very dissimilar
to the neatness and uniformity in the former.
_Then_ our bulwarks might look like the walls of the houses in West
Broadway in New York, after being broken into and burned out by the
Negro Mob. Our stout masts and yards might be lying about decks, like
tree boughs after a tornado in a piece of woodland; our dangling ropes,
cut and sundered in all directions, would be bleeding tar at every
yard; and strew with jagged splinters from our wounded planks, the
gun-deck might resemble a carpenter’s shop. _Then_, when all was over,
and all hands would be piped to take down the hammocks from the exposed
nettings (where they play the part of the cotton bales at New Orleans),
we might find bits of broken shot, iron bolts and bullets in our
blankets. And, while smeared with blood like butchers, the surgeon and
his mates would be amputating arms and legs on the berth-deck, an
underling of the carpenter’s gang would be new-legging and arming the
broken chairs and tables in the Commodore’s cabin; while the rest of
his _squad_ would be _splicing_ and _fishing_ the shattered masts and
yards. The scupper-holes having discharged the last rivulet of blood,
the decks would be washed down; and the galley-cooks would be going
fore and aft, sprinkling them with hot vinegar, to take out the
shambles’ smell from the planks; which, unless some such means are
employed, often create a highly offensive effluvia for weeks after a
fight.
_Then_, upon mustering the men, and calling the quarter-bills by the
light of a battle-lantern, many a wounded seaman with his arm in a
sling, would answer for some poor shipmate who could never more make
answer for himself:
“Tom Brown?”
“Killed, sir.”
“Jack Jewel?”
“Killed, sir.”
“Joe Hardy?”
“Killed, sir.”
And opposite all these poor fellows’ names, down would go on the
quarter-bills the bloody marks of red ink—a murderer’s fluid, fitly
used on these occasions.