KEEPING WATCH.
With a few exceptions, every person on board a man-of-war keeps watch
in his turn: and as this is one of the most important of the wheels
which go to make up the curious clock-work of a ship’s discipline, it
seems to deserve a word or two in passing.
The officers and midshipmen are generally divided into three
watches—First, Second, and Third. As the senior lieutenant does not
keep watch, the officer next in rank takes the First, the junior
lieutenant the Second, and the master the Third watch, in ships
where there are not more than three lieutenants. Under each of these
chiefs there is placed a squad of midshipmen; the principal one of
whom is mate of the watch, the next in seniority is stationed on the
forecastle, and after him comes the poop mid. The youngsters remain on
the lee-side of the quarter-deck, along with the mate of the watch.
For it must be observed, that no one but the captain, the lieutenants,
the master, surgeon, purser, and marine officer, is ever allowed, upon
any occasion whatsoever, to walk on the weather side. This custom has
become so much a matter of course, that I hardly remember asking myself
before, what may have been the origin of the regulation? The chief
purpose, no doubt, is to draw a strong line of distinction between the
different ranks; although, independently of this, the weather side is
certainly the most convenient to walk upon when the ship is pressed
with sail: it is also the best sheltered from wind and rain; and the
view both low and aloft is more commanding than it is from to leeward.
Every person, also, not excepting the captain, when he comes on the
quarter-deck, touches his hat; and as this salutation is supposed to
be paid to this privileged spot itself, all those who at the moment
have the honour to be upon it are bound to acknowledge the compliment.
Thus, even when a midshipman comes up, and takes off his hat, all the
officers who are walking the deck, the Admiral included, if he happens
to be of the number, touch their hats likewise.
So completely does this form grow into a habit, that in the darkest
night, and when there may not be a single person near the hatchway,
it is invariably attended to, with the same precision. Indeed, when
an officer of the Navy happens to be on board a merchant ship, or a
packet, he finds it difficult to avoid carrying his hand to his hat
every time he comes on deck. I, for one, at least, can never get
over the feeling, that it is rude to neglect this ceremony, and have
often, when on board passage vessels, wondered to see gentlemen so
deficient in good breeding, as to come gaping up the hatchway, as if
their hats were nailed to their heads, and their hands sewed into their
breeches-pockets!
Of course, each person in the watch has a specific duty to attend to,
as I shall endeavour to describe presently; but, first, it may be well
to mention the ingenious arrangement of the hours by which the periods
of watching are equally distributed to all.
In speaking of the three watches, it will perhaps avoid confusion, and
rather simplify the description, to call them, for a moment, not First,
Second, and Third, as they are named on board ship, but to designate
them by the letters A, B, and C.
Let us begin, then, by supposing that A’s watch commences at 8 o’clock
in the evening; the officer and his party remain on deck till midnight,
four hours being one period. This is called the First watch. B is next
roused up, and keeps the Middle watch, which lasts from midnight till 4
o’clock. C now comes up, and stays on deck till 8, which is the Morning
watch. A then returns to the deck, where he walks till noon, when he
is relieved by B, who stays up till 4. If C were now to keep the watch
from 4 to 8, of course A would again have to keep the First watch on
the second night, as he did at first starting; and all the others, in
like manner, would have to keep, over again, exactly the same watches,
every night and day. In order to break this uniform recurrence of
intervals, an ingenious device has been hit upon to produce a constant
and equitable rotation. When or where this plan was invented, I do not
know, but I believe it exists in the ships of all nations.
The period from 4 o’clock in the afternoon till 8 in the evening,
instead of constituting one watch, is divided into two watches, of
a couple of hours each. These, I don’t know why, are called the Dog
watches. The first, which lasts from 4 to 6 o’clock, belongs, on the
second day, according to the order described above, to C, who is,
of course, relieved at 6 o’clock by A. This alteration, it will be
observed, gives the First watch (from 8 to midnight) to B, on the
second night; the Middle (from midnight to 4) to C; and the Morning
watch (from 4 to 8) to A; the Forenoon watch (from 8 to noon) to B; and
the Afternoon (from noon to 4) to C. The first Dog watch (from 4 to 6)
will now be kept by A, the second Dog watch (from 6 to 8) by B, and so
on, round and round. By this mechanism, it will easily be perceived,
the officers, on each succeeding day, have a watch to keep, always
one stage earlier than that which they kept on the day before. Thus,
if A have the Morning watch one night, he will have the Middle watch
on the night following, and the First watch on the night after that
again. The distribution of time which this produces is very unequal,
when the short period of twenty-four hours only is considered; but the
arrangement rights itself in the course of a few days. On the first
day, A has ten hours’ watch to keep out of the twenty-four, B eight,
and C only six. But on the next day, A has only six hours, while B has
ten, and C eight; while, on the third day, A has eight, B six, and C
ten hours’ watching; and so on, round and round, from year’s end to
year’s end.
This variety, to a person in health and spirits, is often quite
delightful. Each watch has its peculiar advantages; and I need hardly
add, that each likewise furnishes an ample store of materials for
complaining, to those discontented spirits whose chief delight is to
coddle up grievances, as if, forsooth, the principal object of life was
to keep ourselves unhappy, and to help to make others so!
The First watch (8 o’clock to midnight) which comes after the labour
of the day is done, and when every thing is hushed and still, carries
with it this great recommendation, that, although the hour of going to
bed is deferred, the night’s rest is not afterwards broken in upon.
The prospect of ‘turning in’ at midnight, and being allowed to sleep
till seven in the morning, helps greatly to keep us alive and merry
during the First watch, and prevents the excitement of the past day
from ebbing too fast. On the other hand, your thorough-bred growlers
are apt to say, it is a grievous task to keep the First watch, after
having gone through all the toil of the day, and, in particular,
after having kept the Afternoon watch (noon to 4 o’clock,) which, in
hot climates, is always a severe trial upon the strength. Generally
speaking, however, I think the First watch is the least unpopular;
for, I suppose, no mortal, whatever he might think, was ever found so
Quixotic as to profess openly that he really liked keeping watch. Such
a paradox would be famously ridiculed on board ship!
The Middle watch is almost universally held to be a great bore; and
certainly it is a plague of the first order, to be shaken out of a warm
bed at midnight, when three hours of sound sleep have sealed up our
eyelids all the faster, and steeped our senses in forgetfulness, and
in repose, generally much needed. It is a bitter break, too, to have
four good hours sliced out of the very middle of the night’s rest,
especially when this tiresome interval is to be passed in the cold and
rain, or, which is often still more trying, in the sultry calm of a
smooth, tropical sea, when the sleepy sails, as wet with dew as if they
had been dipped overboard, flap idly against the masts and rigging, but
so very gently as barely to make the reef points patter-patter along
the canvass, with notes so monotonous, that the bare recollection of
their sound almost sets me to sleep, now.
Nevertheless, the much-abused Middle watch has its advantages, at
least for those ardent young spirits who choose to seek them out,
and whose habit it is to make the most of things. There are full
three hours and a half of sound snooze before it begins, and as long
a ‘spell of sleep’ after it is over. Besides which, the mind, being
rested as well as the body, before the Middle watch begins, both come
to their task so freshly, that, if there be any hard or anxious duties
to execute, they are promptly and well attended to. Even if there be
nothing to do but pace the deck, the thoughts of an officer of any
enthusiasm may contrive to find occupation either in looking back, or
in looking forward, with that kind of cheerfulness which belongs to
youth and health usefully employed. At that season of the night every
one else is asleep, save the quarter-master at the conn, the helmsman
at the wheel, and the look-out men at their different stations, on
the gangways, the bows, and the quarters. And except, of course, the
different drowsy middies, who, poor fellows! keep tramping along the
quarter-deck backwards and forwards, counting the half-hour bells with
anxious weariness; or looking wistfully at the sand-glass, which the
sentry at the cabin-door shakes ever and anon, as if the lazy march of
time, like that of a tired donkey, could be accelerated by jogging.
But the joyous Morning watch is very naturally the universal favourite.
It is the beginning of a new day of activity and enterprise. The duties
are attacked, too, after a good night’s rest; so that, when the first
touches of the dawn appear, and the horizon, previously lost in the
black sky, begins to shew itself in the east, there comes over the
spirits a feeling of elasticity and strength, of which even the dullest
are not altogether insensible. In war time, this is a moment when
hundreds of eyes are engaged in peering all round into the twilight;
and happy is the sharp-sighted person who first calls out, with a voice
of exultation—
“A sail, sir—a sail!”
“Whereabouts?” is the eager reply.
“Three or four points on the lee-bow, sir.”
“Up with the helm!” cries the officer. “Set the top-gallant and royal
studding-sails—rig out the fore-top-mast studding-sail boom! Youngster,
run down and tell the captain there is a stranger on the lee-bow—and
say that we are making all sail. She looks very roguish.”
As the merry morning comes dancing gloriously on, and other vessels
hove in sight, fresh measures must be taken, as to the course steered,
or the quantity of sail to be set. So that this period of the day, at
sea, in a cruising ship, gives occasion, more perhaps than any other
time, for the exercise of those stirring qualities of prompt decision,
and vigour in the execution of every purpose, which, probably, form the
most essential characteristics of the profession.
The Morning watch, also, independent of the active employment it
hardly ever fails to afford, leaves the whole day free, from eight
o’clock till four in the afternoon. Many a previously broken resolution
is put off to this period, only to be again stranded. To those,
however, who choose to study, the certainty of having one clear day in
every three, free from the distraction of all technical duties, is of
the greatest consequence; though, it must be owned that, at the very
best, a ship is but a wretched place for reading. The eternal motion,
and the infernal, noise, almost baffle the most resolute students.
For a hungry midshipman (when are they not hungry!) the Morning watch
has attractions of a still more tender nature. The mate, or senior man
amongst them, is always invited to breakfast with the officers at eight
o’clock; and one or two of the youngsters, in turn, breakfast with the
captain at half-past eight, along with the officer of the morning watch
and the first lieutenant, who, in many ships, is the constant guest of
the captain, both at this meal and at dinner.
The officer of the Forenoon watch, or that from eight to noon,
invariably dines with the captain at three o’clock; and as the
ward-room dinner is at two, exactly one hour before that of the
captain, the officer who has kept the Forenoon watch again comes on
deck, the instant the drum beats “The Roast Beef of Old England,”
the well known and invariable signal that the dinner of the officers
is on the table. His purpose in coming up is to relieve, or take the
place of his brother officer who is keeping the Afternoon watch, till
three o’clock arrives, at which hour the captain’s dinner is ready.
The same interchange of good offices, in the way of relief, as it
is called, takes place amongst the midshipmen of the Forenoon and
Afternoon watches. It is material to observe, however, that all these
arrangements, though they have the graceful air of being pieces of
mutual and voluntary civility, have become quite as much integral parts
of the ordinary course of nautical affairs as any other established
ordinance of the ship.
On Sunday, the captain always dines with the officers in the ward-room;
and although ‘shore-going people’ sometimes take upon themselves to
quiz these periodical, and, Heaven knows! often formal, dinner parties,
there can be no doubt that they do contribute, and that in a most
essential degree, to the maintenance of strict discipline on board
ship. Indeed, I believe it is now generally admitted, that it would
be next to impossible to preserve good order in a man-of-war, for any
length of time, without this weekly ceremonial, coupled, of course,
with that of the officers’ dining, in turn, with their captain.
We know that too much familiarity breeds contempt; but, in situations
where there is of necessity much intercourse, too little familiarity
will as inevitably breed ill-will, distrust, apprehension, and mutual
jealousy. The difficulty lies in regulating with due caution this
delicate sort of intimacy, and in hitting the exact mean between too
much freedom and too much reserve of manner. The proverb points out the
evil clearly enough, but leaves us to find the remedy. In the Navy,
long experience seems to have shewn, that this important purpose can
be best accomplished by the captain and his officers occasionally
meeting one another at table—not capriciously, at irregular intervals,
or by fits and starts of favour, as the humour suits, but in as fixed
an order, as if the whole of this social intercourse were determined by
Admiralty regulation.
It will readily be understood by any one who has attended much to the
subject of discipline, and will be felt, I should think, more or less,
by all persons who have been engaged personally in the management of a
house, a regiment, a ship, a shop, or any other establishment in which
distinctions of rank and subdivisions of labour prevail, that nothing
ever does, or can go on well, unless, over and above the mere legal
authority possessed by the head, he shall carry with him a certain
amount of the good-will and confidence of those under him. For it is
very material, in order to balance, as it were, the technical power
with which the chief of such establishment is armed, that there should
be some heartiness—some real cheerfulness, between him and those he
commands. Accordingly, the obedience which they yield to him should
not be entirely the result either of mere habit, or of the still more
frigid motive of fear, but should be made to spring, if possible, out
of sincere good-will, as an essential, if not the principal ingredient
in the stimulus. In ordinary times, it is true, the duty goes on pretty
well in a ship-of-war, by the sheer momentum of an established routine.
It may be added, that things often proceed with a degree of success
almost as miraculous, in the apprehension of the ignorant, as the
movements of a watch appear to the eyes of a savage. But in times of
danger, when doubts and difficulties beset an officer, or protracted
labours fatigue his crew, and untried resources and exertions are
called for every moment, it is discovered that mere routine, (though,
even at such periods, it does a great deal,) will not accomplish all
that is required. The captain then finds out, often when it is too
late, that unless motives of a more generous and stirring nature come
into play, to give fresh vigour to the formalities of his discipline,
not only his own reputation, but some of the great ends of the public
service, may be lost.
The nature of our profession is so complicated, and the occasions are
so frequent in which these well known principles are brought into
action, that, I believe, it almost invariably happens, when the captain
and his officers are not on terms, or do not pull together, that the
ship falls, more or less, out of discipline. This occurs even when the
officers and their captain are sufficiently public-spirited, to desire
sincerely not to allow private differences to interfere in any degree
with the course of official duty. For the sailors are exceedingly
quick-sighted to such matters, and both they and the midshipmen, not
only discover immediately when there is any coolness between the
captain and his officers, but are naturally prone to exaggerate the
cause and consequences of such differences. If, however, as generally
happens, the crew know nothing of the real points in dispute, they
fall into a worse error by inventing the most preposterous stories
to account for those misunderstandings which they see exist between
the higher powers. Advantage, also, is very soon taken of these
disagreements, by such persons amongst the crew as are always ready to
escape from the restraints of good order, and who imagine, too often
with reason, that the officer who is not on pleasant terms with his
captain will not be duly supported by him. In a word, when the officers
and captain cease to respect one another, or, what comes exactly to the
same thing, appear to have lost that mutual respect for one another,
of which an easy sociability of intercourse is one of the most obvious
proofs, they speedily lose the respect of the people under their
command. I can compare the harsh and grating state of affairs on board
ship, when, unhappily, there exists bad blood between the captain and
officers, to nothing so well as to an engine amongst the machinery of
which a handful of gravel has been cast.
It may be asked, how can the simple operation of dining together once
or twice a week stave off so great an evil? But the answer is easy;
for every one must be aware, that it is by small beginnings and slight
causes of imaginary offence—by trivial misunderstandings unexplained—or
by real but small causes of just indignation not apologised for, that
the bitterest heart-burnings of life too often arise. If, however,
these seeds of dissension can only be weeded out before they begin to
germinate, their evil growth may not only be checked, but actual good,
in most instances, be made to spring up in their place.
In order to make the practical operation of these things quite clear, I
shall state two cases, both of which I have seen occur on board ship a
hundred times, and of which I can speak with some confidence, as I have
myself often acted a part on different sides, and therefore know their
bearings from actual trial.
Suppose, in the first place, that the captain comes upon deck just
before noon, and, on seeing something wrong—the main-yard not braced up
enough, the lee foretop-gallant sheet not home, or the jib not quite
hoisted up; and suppose that, as these are points upon which, whether
whimsically or not, he is very particular, he express himself to the
officer in terms rather too strong for the occasion. Without reflecting
upon the injustice he is guilty of, the captain may perhaps, in this
way, be punishing a zealous and hard-working man, for a mere trifle,
almost as severely as if he had been found sleeping on his watch, or
was guilty of some offence caused by wilful neglect.
The officer, however, who can say nothing, bows and submits. In a few
minutes, the sun comes to the meridian, and it is made twelve o’clock.
The boatswain pipes to dinner, the deck is relieved, and the lieutenant
of the forenoon watch goes down below, in a high state of irritation
with his captain at what he conceives the undue severity of the
reprimand. The first thing he does, on entering the ward-room door, is
to fling his hat the whole length of the apartment; so that, unless it
be adroitly caught by the marine officer, who is generally playing the
flute on the lockers abaft, it would stand a chance of going out of
the stern windows. The soldier, of course, thus called upon to look up,
stops in the middle of the second bar of ‘God save the King,’ or ‘Robin
Adair,’ at which he has been hammering, in company with the master of
the band, for the last three months, and says,
“Holla! man—what’s the matter?”
“Matter!” cries the other. “I’ll be shot if it is not enough to make a
man run stark staring mad!”
“What is the matter, I ask you?” begs the marine, preparing to
recommence the eternal tune.
“Why, there have I been working, and slaving, and wearing my life and
soul out, all the forenoon, to please that ill-tempered, snappish,
ill-to-please knob of a skipper of ours; and what do I get? Why, he
takes mighty good care to shut his eyes to all the good a fellow
does, but catches hold eagerly enough of the smallest omission in his
thousand-and-one whims (none of which are of any consequence!) in order
to indulge himself in one of his reprimands. It’s quite clear,” adds
the officer, warmed by this explosion of his own passion, “that the
captain has a spite at me, and is determined to drive me out of the
ship, to make way for some follower of his own.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” exclaims the peace-making man of war; “the
captain is the best friend you have.”
“Friend!” roars the other; “I tell you what——”
But just at this moment the captain’s steward enters the ward-room,
and going up to the enraged officer of the forenoon watch, says
mechanically to him—
“The captain’s compliments, sir, and will be glad of your company to
dinner.”
To which the officer replies, quite as mechanically—
“My compliments, and I’ll wait on him.”
But as soon as the door is shut, he turns again to the marine, and says—
“I’m deucedly sorry, now, that I did not refuse.”
“Are you?” says the soldier, relapsing into his loyal tune again.
By and by, however, comes two o’clock; the ward-room dinner is placed
on the table; the drum beats the ‘Roast Beef;’ the officer of the
forenoon watch is sent for, as usual, to relieve his messmate on deck,
as I have before described; and, in due course, after strutting and
fretting his hour upon the stage, in ‘full togs,’ nursing his anger, in
order to let the captain see that he is hurt, he is told that dinner
is ready in the cabin. In he marches, accordingly, and there takes
his appointed seat as doggedly as if he were nailed to the chair. The
pea-soup is discussed in pretty solemn silence; but while the remove
is under adjustment, the captain says to his offended officer, “Come,
Mr. Haultight, shall you and I have a glass of wine? What shall it be?”
By these few magical words, and in this single glass of sherry, is
forgotten, for ever and ever, all the previous irritation. It is not
by the words, so much as by the tone and manner of saying them, that
the captain makes the officer feel how anxious he is to have the good
understanding restored, or that he regrets what has passed. Of course,
if the officer be not one of those pig-headed and inflexible fellows,
upon whom all sense of kindness is wasted, he seizes the bottle, and
filling his glass, replies,
“With all my heart, sir.”
And there, in all probability, is an end of a matter which, but for
this early opportunity of putting things to rights, might perhaps have
rankled long in the mind of the officer, and given rise to acts of
insubordination, as injurious to himself as to the public service.
It may not be useless to suggest here, to young people, that in most
cases of dispute that arise between gentlemen, the smallest voluntary
apology is beyond calculation more satisfactory, from its affording a
far more complete reparation to wounded honour, than any conceivable
amount of compulsory acknowledgment. The rough savage, who is
acquainted with no measure in these things, takes his revenge at the
point of the scalping-knife. But a gentleman, in a widely-different
spirit, and who knows that even the slightest admission of error causes
more pain than he can ever deliberately wish to inflict, will always
catch with eagerness at the first symptoms of regret on the part of
his antagonist, being quite certain that the less he exacts, the more
of what is really worthy of his acceptance will be given him. Besides
which, instead of urging another into permanent mortification and
perhaps enmity, he may manage to secure, by well-timed moderation,
both the gratitude and the respect of a man who might otherwise become
permanently his foe.
I am not aware that, by any other means, the numerous misunderstandings
which occur on board ship could be arranged without great risk of
injuring discipline. In cases where the matter in dispute is small,
or where the fault is equally shared between the parties, formal
explanations are not only useless, but often ridiculous, and generally
prove as annoying to one side as to the other. Where the dispute,
on the other hand, is really of consequence, there may often be a
serious and hurtful loss of official dignity, on the part of the
superior, if he make too express an apology. These occasional, but
uniformly-recurring opportunities of meeting at table, however,
furnish not only ready but very ample means of finally accommodating
such things in every case which can fall within the proper range of
compromise. If officers be only influenced by a right spirit of public
duty, and always recollect what is due to private dignity of character,
it will rarely happen that arrangements, creditable alike to both
parties, and useful to the service, may not be easily effected.
The above example is one in which the superior is supposed to have
been in the wrong; but, as may be imagined, the opposite case will
often happen likewise. I have seen an officer go on, for several days
together, purposely teasing his captain, but all the time taking the
greatest possible care to keep within the law. Who, I may ask, that
has had to do with command of any kind, whether afloat or on shore, in
the navy or in the nursery, has not felt the provocation of such petty
hostility? For my part, I can compare it to nothing but the stinging of
a mosquitto, which you spend half the night in trying to catch, losing
your rest and your temper to no purpose, owing to the dexterity of your
antagonist, who thus shews that, though he be small, he is far from
insignificant.
But if, while this sort of snapping and snarling is going on, Sunday
comes about, all is settled. On this day the captain invariably
dines in the ward-room; and when once there, he is received, as a
matter of course, with attention by all—Mr. Mosquitto inclusive. It
is the general custom, on these occasions, to unbend a little of the
straight-lacedness of our discipline, so that a kind of regulated,
starched familiarity is permitted to appear above the surface. This the
captain rather encourages, though, of course, in a cautious way, but
more than he ever permits himself to allow at his own table.
During dinner, all the officers drink wine with their guest; and when
this office of hospitality is performed by the tormenting officer,
above alluded to, the captain, if he be a man of sense, will not fail
to play off a little of his agreeableness upon the person who has
been buzzing round him during the preceding week. By this means, or
some one of the numberless little devices by which people who are met
together professedly to be social, and wish to be on good terms with
one another, always know how to hit upon, all such scores as this,
and many others, may be wiped off. Without some safety-valve of this
kind to the high pressure of naval discipline, I really do not know
how so enormous and complicated a contrivance could go on at all. I
believe, accordingly, it is now pretty generally allowed in the Navy,
that, in those ships where the captain either lives altogether alone,
or altogether with his officers, or where they sometimes dine with
one another, and sometimes not, instead of following the established
routine of the service, and meeting at regular periods, the discipline
is found greatly wanting, and all parties, high and low, speedily
become discontented.
I have already mentioned, that the First watch begins, nominally, at
eight, and ends at midnight; but people are much mistaken, who suppose
that a sleepy-headed midshipman, with the prospect of a cold Middle
watch before him, and just awakened out of a sound nap, is disposed to
jump up at once, dress himself, and run upon deck. Alas! it is far from
this; and no one who has not been exposed to the trial can conceive
the low ebb to which patriotism, zeal, public spirit—call it what you
please—sinks at such an hour, in the breast of the unhappy wretch
who, in the midst of one of those light and airy dreams, which render
the night season of young people such a heaven of repose, is suddenly
roused up. After being awakened by a rude tug at the clews of his
hammock, he is hailed, after the following fashion, by the gruff old
quarter-master.
“Mr. Doughead!”
No answer. Another good tug at the hammock.
“Mr. Doughead! it’s twelve o’clock, sir!”
“Very well—very well; you need not shake me out of bed, need you? What
sort of a night is it?”
“It rains a little, sir, and is just beginning to blow. It looks very
black, sir.”
“Oh, plague take it! Then we shall have to take in a reef, I suppose?”
“It seems very like it, sir. It is beginning to snuffle.”
With this, Mr. Doughead gives himself a good shrug in his
blanket, turns half round, to escape the glare of light from the
quarter-master’s lantern, hung up within six inches of his face,
expressly to keep him awake, and in ten seconds he is again tightly
clasped in the arms of Morpheus, the presiding deity of the cock-pit at
that hour. By and by comes down the quarter-master of the middle watch,
who, unlike the young gentleman, has relieved the deck twenty minutes
before.
“Mr. Doughead! it’s almost one bell, sir.”
“Indeed!” exclaims the youth. “I never knew any thing of it. I never
was called.”
“Oh yes, you were, sir. The man I relieved said you asked him what sort
of weather it was, and whether we should have to take in a reef.”
“I ask about the weather? That’s only one of the lies he always tells,
to get me into a scrape.”
While they are speaking, the bell strikes one, indicating that half an
hour has elapsed since the first conversation took place, touching the
weather; and presently, before Mr. Doughead has got his second foot
over the side of his hammock, the mid who is to be relieved by him
comes rattling down the cock-pit ladder, as wet as a shag, cold, angry,
and more than half asleep.
“I say, Master Doughy, do you mean to relieve the deck to-night? Here
it’s almost two bells, and you have hardly shewn a leg yet. I’ll be
hanged if it is not too bad! You are the worst relief in the whole
ship. I am obliged to keep all my own watch, and generally half of
yours. I’ll not stand it any more; but go to the first lieutenant
to-morrow morning, and see whether he cannot find ways and means of
making you move a little faster. It’s a disgrace to the service!” To
all this Duffy has only one pettish, dogged reply—
“I tell you again, I was not called.”
The appeal to the first lieutenant, however, is seldom made; for all
the parties concerned are pretty much alike. But the midshipmen are
not slow at times to take the law of these cases into their own hands,
and to execute summary justice, according to their own fashion, on any
particularly incorrigibly ‘bad relief,’ as these tardy gentlemen are
aptly termed.
One of the most common punishments, on these occasions, is called
‘cutting down’—a process not quite so fatal as might be imagined from
the term. Most people, I presume, know what sort of a thing a hammock
is. It consists of a piece of canvass, five feet long by two wide,
suspended to the deck overhead by means of two sets of small lines,
called clews, made fast to grummets, or rings of rope, which, again,
are attached by a lanyard to the battens stretching along the beams.
In this sacking are placed a small mattress, a pillow, and a couple of
blankets, to which a pair of sheets may or may not be added. The degree
of nocturnal room and comfort enjoyed by these young gentlemen may be
understood, when it is mentioned that the whole of the apparatus just
described occupies less than a foot and a half in width, and that the
hammocks touch one another. Nevertheless, I can honestly say, that the
soundest sleep, by far, that I have ever known, has been found in these
apparently uncomfortable places of repose; and though the recollection
of many a slumber broken up, and the bitter pang experienced on making
the first move to exchange so cozy a nest, for the snarling of a
piercing north-west gale on the coast of America, will never leave
my memory, yet I look back to those days and nights with a sort of
evergreen freshness of interest, which only increases with years.
The wicked operation of ‘cutting down’ may be managed in three ways.
The mildest form is to take a knife and divide the foremost lanyard or
suspending cord. Of course, that end of the hammock instantly falls,
and the sleepy-headed youth is pitched out, feet foremost, on the
deck. The other plan, which directs the after lanyard to be cut, is
not quite so gentle, nor so safe, as it brings down the sleeper’s head
with a sharp bang on the deck, while his heels are jerked into the
air. The third is to cut away both ends at once, which has the effect
of bringing the round stern of the young officer in contact with the
edge of any of the chests, which may be placed so as to receive it. The
startled victim is then rolled out of bed with his nose on the deck;
or, if he happen to be sleeping in the tier, he tumbles on the hard
bends of the cable coiled under him. This flooring is much more rugged,
and not much softer than the planks, so that his fall is but a choice
of miserable bumps.
The malice of this horse-play is sometimes augmented by placing a line
round the middle part of the hammock, and fastening it to the beams
overhead, in such a way that, when the lanyards at the ends are cut,
the head and tail of the youth shall descend freely; but the nobler
part of him being secured by the belly-band, as it is called, the
future hero of some future Trafalgar remains suspended ingloriously, in
mid air, like the golden fleece over a woollen-draper’s shop.
These are but a few of the tricks played off upon those who will not
relieve the deck in proper time. I remember an incorrigible snooser,
who had been called three or four times, but still gave no symptoms of
any intention of ‘shewing a leg,’ the only allowable test of sincerity
in the process called ‘turning out.’ About five o’clock, on a fine
tropical morning, when the ship was cruising off the Mono Passage,
in the West Indies; and just before the day began to dawn, it was
resolved, in a full conclave of the middies of his own watch, assembled
on the lee side of the quarter-deck, that an example should forthwith
be made of the sleeper.
A detachment, consisting of four stout hands, were sent to the hammock
of the culprit. Two of them held the youth firmly down, while the
others wrapped the bedclothes round him, and then lashed him up—that
is, strapped him tightly in by means of the lashing—a long cord with
which the hammocks are secured when brought upon deck in the day-time.
No part of the unfortunate wight was left exposed except his face. When
he was fairly tied in, the lanyards of his hammock were cast off, and
the bundle, half midshipman half bedding, was dragged along, like a log
of wood, to the square of the hatchway.
Meanwhile the confederates on deck had thrown the end of the signal
haulyards down the cock-pit wind-sail, a wide canvass-pipe, by which,
in hot climates, air is sent to the lower parts of the ship. These
signal haulyards, I must explain, are led through small sheeve-holes
in the truck, a little turban-shaped, wooden cap, fitted on the royal
mast-head. The ordinary purpose of the signal haulyards, as their name
points out, is to display the flags necessary in communicating with
other ships; but, upon this occasion, they were fastened to one of the
grummets of the unhappy sleepy-headed reefer’s hammock.
When all was secure, the word ‘haul up!’ was given from below, upon
which the party on deck hoisted away. The sleeper awakened vanished
from the cock-pit, only to make his appearance, in a few seconds, at
the mouth of the wind-sail, half way between the quarter-deck and
the mizen-stay. Of course, the boys watched their opportunity, when
the officer of the watch had gone forward on the gangway, to see how
the head-yards were trimmed; but long before he came aft again, their
victim was lowered down, and the signal haulyards unbent. What to do
with the wretch next was a great puzzle; till one of them said, “Oh!
let us stick him up on his end, between two of the guns on the weather
side of the deck, and perhaps the officer of the watch may take him for
an Egyptian mummy, and have him sent to the British Museum as a present
to the king.” This advice was instantly followed; and the enraged,
mortified, and helpless youngster, being placed so that the first rays
of the sun should fall on his countenance, there was no mistaking his
identity.
I need scarcely mention, that the lieutenants and other commissioned
officers cannot be ‘served up’ in this way, which is almost a pity,
for they are sometimes as abominably lazy as the most pudding-pated
midshipman of their watch. It too often happens that, instead of
being the first, they are the very last persons to relieve the deck.
There is hardly any thing more annoying than being detained on deck
half an hour, and sometimes more, for want of our relief, after the
watch we have kept is ended. This extra, and most tedious period, often
looks longer than double the same length of time passed in our own
proper turn of duty; and the dislocation of temper it produces is very
difficult of repair. Many a time and oft, when I have been kept waiting
for the officer who was to relieve me, long, long beyond the proper
time, I have inwardly sworn deeply, that, if ever I came to the command
of a ship, I would reform this intolerable abuse; and I flatter myself
I made good my promise. I gave positive orders, and took measures to
have them duly obeyed, that the usual mustering of the watch whose turn
it was to come on deck, should take place, not, as it generally does,
at the half hour, but exactly at ten minutes after the bell struck,
which announced the close of the preceding watch. And I directed—and
carefully enforced my directions—that this ceremony of mustering the
fresh watch should take place under the superintendence of the officer
whose turn of duty it now became. Thus, the deck was always relieved
considerably within a quarter of an hour after the former watch was
ended.
In addition to this, I made it an invariable rule, the instant it
struck eight in the evening, to begin mustering the people of the
First watch, of course under the superintendence of the lieutenant of
that watch: so that the men who were to be called up at midnight might
tumble into their beds at once, and have their full period of four
hours’ rest before being ‘turned out’ to keep the Middle watch. I take
the liberty of recommending these plans to my brother-officers afloat,
as, I can assure them, they answer exceedingly well in practice.
The officers and midshipmen are divided into three watches, as I have
described above; but the crew, in most ships, are divided into only
two watches. By taking a good deal of care, however, in arranging the
people properly, the seamen and marines, almost in every case, may
likewise be put at three watches, instead of what is termed ‘watch and
watch,’ which is simply, turn about.
The illustrious voyager Captain Cook was, I believe, the first who
introduced this admirable practice, as may be seen in his Essay on
the Method of preserving the health of the crew of the Resolution,
printed in the Philosophical Transactions for 1776, vol. lxvi. p. 402.
From that masterly paper we discover that many of the most important
of our modern improvements in naval discipline are essentially due to
the sagacity of that great navigator. Of all officers that ever lived,
Captain Cook may be said to have taken the best way of establishing the
soundness of his principles—that of invariable practical success—not in
one or two situations only, but in the midst of so great a variety of
circumstances, that no part of his system remained untried. His plans
were found applicable in the coldest regions, when his people were
exposed to severe hardships in their attempts to reach the South Pole;
and not less so when they became acquainted with the luxurious climate
and voluptuous manners of the South Sea Islands.
Unfortunately, the science of discipline cannot be reduced to rule
and compass, like that of navigation; but a great deal has already
been done, and may still be done, to establish some leading principles
of this important branch of the profession, round which its numerous
details revolve. It appears, however, that much remains to be
accomplished towards its improvement. Nor am I aware of any greater
benefit that could be conferred upon the Navy, than the composition
of a perfectly intelligible, popular treatise on discipline, which
should include all that is known, and has actually been tried by the
best authorities, together with such examples of the operation of these
principles as appear capable of useful application to general practice.
Such, however, is the diversity of our nature, that, supposing a work
of this kind to be distributed throughout the Navy, and supposing it
possible to have it made as complete as the condition of things will
allow, there would still remain, I suspect, an ample field for the
exercise of any amount of talents and resource on the part of officers.
So far, indeed, from such a methodised system acting as any constraint
upon the conduct of a judicious officer, the chances are, that he
would only derive from it fresh suggestions, or hints, for rendering
his discipline still more perfect; while at each fresh increment of
knowledge he would be made sensible how much more he had still to learn.
I do not state this idea either as new, or as applicable solely
to naval affairs. The same thing occurs, in a still more striking
degree, in politics, and, generally, in all those branches of civil
as well as military authority, or any other kind of rule, where the
passions and interests of men are placed under the guidance of their
fellow-creatures. But, without launching forth on such a sea of
topics, it will be admitted to be highly important that officers, and
particularly young officers, should be made sensible how much caution
is necessary in their discipline, since we know that even the wisest
and the most experienced arrive, at last, only at this conclusion,
that much still remains beyond their grasp, which they have not yet
learned; and that every day may be expected to produce complicated
cases of such doubt and difficulty, as will require the exercise of all
their patience and attention.
But, although we cannot get to the bottom of the subject, or ever hope
to frame a set of regulations to meet one thousandth part of the cases
of ordinary discipline, we ought not to despair upon this point, any
more than upon other perplexing questions. Nor should we relax in our
efforts to investigate those laws in the moral organization of our
nature, merely because they are complicated. It is a fine remark of La
Place, that even the motes which we see dancing in the sun-beam are
regulated, in their apparently capricious movements, by the very same
laws of gravitation and momentum which determine the orbits of the
planets. In like manner, there can be no doubt that, if we only knew
how to trace it, this beautiful analogy would be found to extend to the
laws regulating the minutest of those moral influences, which we are
apt so hastily to pronounce irregular and uncertain.
The science of moral government, whether afloat or on shore, and
whether the scale be great or small, is like that of physical
astronomy, and has what may be called its anomalies and disturbances,
sometimes very difficult to be estimated, and requiring numberless
equations, or allowances, to set them right; but the pursuit is not, on
that account, one whit the less true to our nature, or less worthy of
that patient investigation by which alone truth can ever be reached,
and all such apparent discordances reconciled.