TOUGH YARNS;
A SERIES
OF
NAVAL TALES AND SKETCHES
TO PLEASE ALL HANDS,
From the Swabs on the Shoulders down to the Swabs in the Head.
_BY THE OLD SAILOR_,
AUTHOR OF “GREENWICH HOSPITAL,” ETC.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
_PHILADELPHIA_:
E. L. CAREY & A. HART.
_BALTIMORE_:
CAREY, HART & Co.
_BOSTON_:
WILLIAM D. TICKNOR.
1835.
E. G. DORSEY, PRINTER,
_12 Library Street_.
TO
CAPTAIN MARRYATT, R. N.
AUTHOR OF
‘_The King’s Own_,’ ‘_Newton Foster_,’ ‘_Peter Simple_,’
_etc._, _etc._
THESE PAGES ARE DEDICATED
BY
_THE OLD SAILOR_.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
PAGE
_Greenwich Hospital_, 9
_Tom Brookes_, 145
_Daddy Davy, the Negro_, 159
PREFACE.
Once more I present myself before the Public in a Book; and whatever
all hands may think of it, I can assure them it is no joke to keep
one’s brains like a winch, continually spinning yarns. However, as
my “GREENWICH HOSPITAL” met with a favourable reception, I have been
induced to try another launch--and--here I am at the service of my
readers.
_THE OLD SAILOR._
TOUGH YARNS.
GREENWICH HOSPITAL,
The grand depository of human fragments,--the snug harbour for _docked_
remnants,--Greenwich Hospital! Who is there that has stood upon that
fine terrace, when the calm of evening has shed its influence on the
spirit, and nature’s pencil intermingling light and shade has graced
the landscape with its various tints, without feeling delighted at the
spectacle? No sound is heard to break the stillness of the hour, save
when the sea-boy trills his plaintive ditty, studious to grace the
turnings of his song, for it was his mother taught it him, and her he
strives to imitate. To him the tide rolls on unheeded; he sees not the
tall mast, the drooping sail; ah, no! his heart is in the cottage where
he knew his first affection, when with a smile of infantile delight he
drew his nourishment from that fond bosom lately bedewed with tears at
parting.
Who is there that has not exulted in the scene, when the proud ship
has spread her canvass to the breeze to carry forth the produce of our
country to distant lands? or when returning to her own home-shores,
laden with the luxuries of foreign climes, the gallant tars have
“Hailed each well-known object with delight!”
Ay, there they stand! the veterans of the ocean, bidding defiance to
care and sorrow, full of mirth and jollity although they are moored in
_tiers_. They are critics too, _deep_ critics; but they cannot fancy
the steam vessel with a chimney for a mast, and fifty yards of smoke
for a pendant. These are the men that Smollett pictured,--the Jack
Rattlins and the Tom Pipes of former years. Ay, those were _rattling_
days and _piping_ times! There is no place upon earth, except
Greenwich, in which we can now meet with them, or find the weather-roll
or lee-lurch to perfection. They are all thorough-bred, and a
thorough-bred seaman is one of the drollest compounds in existence; a
mixture of all that is ludicrous and grave,--of undaunted courage and
silly fear. I do not mean the every-day sailor, but the bold, daring,
intrepid man-of-war’s man; he who in the heat of action primed his wit
and his gun together, without a fear of either missing fire.
The real tar has a language peculiarly his own, and his figures of
speech are perfect _stopper_-knots to the understanding of a landsman.
If he speaks of his ship, his eloquence surpasses the orations of a
Demosthenes, and he revels in the luxuriance of metaphor. The same
powers of elocution, with precisely the same terms, are applied to his
wife, and it is a matter of doubt as to which engrosses the greatest
portion of his affection,--to him they are both _lady-ships_. Hear
him expatiate on his _little barkey_, as he calls his wooden island,
though she may carry a hundred-and-fifty guns and a crew of a thousand
men. “Oh! she’s the _fleetest_ of the _fleet_; sits on the water like
a duck; stands under her canvass as stiff as a crutch; and turns to
windward like a witch!” Of his wife he observes, “What a clean run from
stem to starn! She carries her t’gall’nt sails through every breeze,
and in working hank for hank never misses stays!” He will point to the
bows of his ship, and swear she is as sharp as a wedge, never stops
at a sea, but goes smack through all. He looks at his wife, admires
her head-gear, and out-riggers, her braces and bow-lines; compares her
eyes to dolphin-strikers, boasts of her fancy and fashion-pieces, and
declares that she darts along with all the grace of a _bonnetta_. When
he parts with his wife to go on a cruise, no tear moistens his cheek,
no tremulous agitation does discredit to his manhood: there is the
honest pressure of the hand, the fervent kiss, and then he claps on the
topsail-halliards, or walks round at the capstan to the lively sounds
of music. But when he quits his ship, the being he has rigged with his
own fingers, that has stood under him in many a dark and trying hour,
whilst the wild waves have dashed over them with relentless fury,
then--then--the scuppers of his heart are unplugged and overflow with
the soft droppings of sensibility. How often has he stood upon that
deck and eyed the swelling sails, lest the breezes of heaven should
“Visit their face too roughly!”
How many hours has he stood at that helm and watched her coming up and
falling off! and when the roaring billows have threatened to ingulf
her in the bubbling foam of the dark waters, he has eased her to the
sea with all the tender anxiety that a mother feels for her first-born
child. With what pride has he beheld her top the mountain wave and
climb the rolling swell, while every groan of labour that she gave
carried a taut strain upon his own heart-strings!
Place confidence in what he says, and he will use no deception; doubt
his word, and he will indulge you with some of the purest rhodomontade
that ingenious fancy can invent. He will swear that he had a messmate
who knew the man in the moon, and on one occasion went hand-over-hand
up a rainbow to pay him a visit. He himself was once powder-monkey
in the Volcano bomb, and he will tell you a story of his falling
asleep in the mortar at the bombardment of Toulon, and his _body_
being discharged from its mouth instead of a _carcass_. With all the
precision of an engineer, he will describe his evolutions in the air
when they fired him off, and the manner in which he was saved from
being dashed to pieces in his fall. All this he repeats without a smile
upon his countenance, and he expects you to believe it: but you may
soon balance the account, for tell him what absurdity you will, he
receives it with the utmost credulity and is convinced of its truth.
His courage is undoubted, for he will stand on the deck undismayed
amidst the blood and slaughter of battle; yet on shore, he is seized
with indescribable apprehensions at the sight of a coffin. The wailings
of distress find a ready passport to his heart; but to disguise the
real motives which prompt immediate aid, he swears that the object of
his charity does not deserve a copper, yet gives a pound with only this
provision,--that the individual relieved does not bother him about
gratitude. You may know him from a thousand; for though in his dress
conspicuously neat, and his standing and running rigging in exact
order, yet they are arranged with a certain careless ease, as if he had
but just come down from reefing topsails. The truck at the mast-head
does not sit better than his tarpaulin hat, neither does the shoe upon
the pea of the anchor fit tighter than his long quartered pumps. Grog
is his ambrosia, his _necktar_; and he takes it cold, without sugar,
that he may have the full smack of the rum.
And these are the characters at Greenwich Hospital, who after fighting
the battles of their country are honoured with a palace. Oh, it
was a proud display of national gratitude to such brave defenders!
England has been compared to a huge marine animal, whose ports were
its mouths, and whose navy formed its claws. What then is Greenwich
but a receptacle for superannuated claws? I dearly love to get
amongst them,--nearly two thousand shattered emblems of Britain’s
triumphs,--the returned stores of our naval glory. Ay, there they are
with their snug little cabins, like turtles under their shells. But let
us enter the
Painted Wall,
formerly the refectory for the pensioners, but now devoted to the
commemoration of their gallant achievements. There are the portraits
of the heroes of the olden time, whose memorials cannot perish; and
there too is old Van Tromp, the Dutchman, who is honoured with a
distinguished place amongst the brave of England’s pride.
Here the old _blades_ are a _cut_ above the common; the small
iron-bound officers who attend on visiters and point out the
well-remembered features of commanders long since numbered with the
dead.
“That ’ere, sir, on your right, is the battle of Trafflygar,” said
a short thickset man, apparently between sixty and seventy years of
age. His countenance was one of mild benevolence, and yet there was
a daring in his look that told at once a tale of unsubdued and noble
intrepidity; whilst the deep bronze upon his skin was finely contrasted
with the silky white locks that hung straggling on his brow.--“That
’ere, sir, is the battle of Trafflygar, in which I had the honour to be
one.”
“Were you with Nelson?” inquired I.
“I was, your honour,” he replied, “and those were the proudest days of
my life. I was with him when he bore up out of the line off Cape St.
Vincent, and saved old Jarvis from disgrace. I was one of the boarders,
too, when we took the Saint Joseph,--there’s the picture, there in
the middle of the hall;--and I was with him in that ship there,--the
Victory,--though it arn’t a bit like her,--and stationed on the
quarter-deck at Trafflygar.”
This was spoken with such an air of triumph, that the old man’s
features were lighted up with animation; it called to his remembrance
scenes in which he had shared the glory of the day and saved his
country. His eye sparkled with delight, as if he again saw the British
ensign floating in the breeze as the proud signal for conquest; or was
labouring at the oar with his darling chief, like a tutelar deity of
old, guiding the boat through the yielding element, and leading on to
some daring and desperate enterprise.
“I don’t like the picture,” said I; “the perspective is bad, and the
ship is too long and flat; besides the colour is unnatural.”
“Why, as for the matter of the _prospective_, sir,” replied the
veteran, “that’s just what his present Majesty, God bless him! obsarved
when he came to look at it; and for the colour, says the king, says
he, ‘why the painter must have thought he’d been cooking, for he’s
shoved the Victory into the hottest of the fire and done her brown;’
it was too bad, your honour, to singe her in that ’ere fashion, like
a _goose_. Mayhap, your honour arn’t seen them there paintings of
the battle at a place they call Exeter Hall, in the Strand. Now they
are some-ut ship-shape, and the _heat_ of the engagement _warms_ a
fellow’s heart to look at. An ould tar of the name of Huggins painted
’em, and I’m sure it’s right enough, for he’s made the Victory
_hugging_ the enemy just as a bear would a baby. I could stand and look
at them pictures for hours, till I fancied myself once more in the
midst of it, measuring out fathoms of smoke and giving ’em full weight
of metal. The Victory has just fell aboard the French Redhotable and
the Golision, as they calls it, gives each of ’em a _lust_ different
ways that looked so natural-like, that I felt myself getting a heel
to port in the ould Victory as I looked at her. Then there’s the gale
o’wind arter the battle; why, blow my ould wig, but you may feel the
breeze and shake yourself from the spray. God bless his Majesty!--for
they are the king’s, your honour;--long may he live to view ’em, and
long may Huggins _hug_ to windward under royal favour! I went to see
him,--not the king, your honour, but Muster Huggins, and when he
found I was ‘the Old Sailor,’ what gave some account of the life of a
man-of-war’s man in ‘Greenwich Hospital,’ he whips out his old quid,
flings it into the fire, and we sported a fresh bit o’bacca on the
strength of it.--That was a welcome worthy a great man, and he could’nt
ha’ done more for the king, though I arn’t quite sure that his Majesty
does chaw his pig-tail.”
There certainly was ample scope for the remarks of my old friend, and
I could not but consider the picture a complete failure. “And so you
were at Trafalgar,” said I.
“Ay, and a glorious day it was, too, for Old England,” replied the tar.
“Never shall I forget the enthusiasm which animated every breast, as we
bore down to engage; it was indeed a noble sight, and so your honour
would have said, if you had but have seen the winged giants of the deep
as they marched majestically before the breeze, all ready to hurl their
thunders at the foe. But the best scenes were at the quarters, where
the bold captains of each gun stood cool and undaunted, waiting for
the word: but for the matter o’ that, every soul, fore and aft, seemed
to be actuated by one and the same spirit. ‘Look there, Ben,’ said
Sam Windsail, pointing out of the port-hole at the Royal Sovereign,
just entering into action, ‘look there, my Briton; see how she moves
along, like a Phœnix in the midst of fire,--there’s a sight would do
any body’s heart good. I’d bet my grog, (and that’s the _lick-sir_ of
life) I say I’d bet my grog agen a marine’s button, that old Colly’s
having a desperate bowse at his breeches; he’s clapping on a taut hand,
I’ll be bound for him.’ Just then the Sovereign hauled up a little, and
opened her fire. ‘Didn’t I say so,’ continued Sam; ‘look at that! my
eyes but he makes ’em sheer agen! Well behaved my sons of thunder! The
old gemman knows the French are fond of dancing, so he’s giving them
a few _balls_ and _routs_! Ay, ay, we shall be at it presently, never
fear; our old chap arn’t the boy to be long idle, but then, d’ye mind,
he never does things by _halves_; so he loves close _quarters_, and as
he is rather _near_ with his cartridges, why he doesn’t like to throw
a shot away. Howsomever, he’ll go it directly, like a doctor’s written
orders,--this powder and these pills to be taken immediately,--eh, Ben?
Next comes funny-section, or flay-bottomy, as the surgeons call it:--my
eyes, there goes old Colly’s breeches agen, he’ll make a breach in the
enemy’s line directly; ay, he’s a right arnest sallymander.’ By this
time, your honour, we’d got within gun-shot, and the enemy opened a
tremendous fire upon the leading ships of our division, which played up
old Scratch upon the fokstle, poop, and main-deck; for as we bore down
nearly stem on, and there was but a light breeze, they raked us fore
and aft.
“But I should have told you, sir, that just before going into action,
the admiral walked round the quarters attended by the captain and, I
thinks, Mr. Quillem, the first leftenant, but I won’t be sure. The
gunner, Mr. Rivers, was along with ’em, I know, and a worthy old
gemman he was; his son, a midshipman, was stationed on the same deck
with us,--a fine spirited youth, with his light hair flowing about
his ears and his little laughing eyes,--up to all manner of mischief.
Well, round they came, and the hero seemed proud of his men; he stopped
occasionally to speak to one and to another, and his keen eye saw in
a moment if any thing wasn’t ship-shape. His countenance was rather
stern, but there was a look of confidence that told us at once the day
was our own;--nay, for the matter o’ that, Sam Windsail began to reckon
what he should buy for Poll with his prize-money.
“When they reached the quarters where young Rivers was stationed,
Nelson looked at the son and then at the father, as much as to say,
‘he’s a fine youth, you ought to be proud of him,’ as no doubt the old
gemman was, for he knew his gallant boy would do his duty. But still
the tender solicitude of a parent’s heart is not to be repressed,
however it may be concealed; and as he followed the admiral, his head
was frequently turned back to take another look at his child, and
perhaps he thought ‘mayhap it may be the last.’ Well, as I was saying
before, the enemy’s balls began to rattle into us like hail-stones
through a gooseberry bush, and many a poor fellow was laid low. ‘Arrah,
bad manners to ’em, what do they mane by that?’ cried Tim Doyle, as
a whole shoal of shot travelled in one another’s wake, and swept the
entire range of the deck. ‘Come, don’t be skulking down there, Jack
Noggin,’ continued Tim, ‘but lay hoult of the tackle-fall.’ Jack never
moved. ‘Och bother, don’t you mane to get up?’ But poor Jack’s glass
was run, his cable was parted; so we launched his hull out at the port,
stock and fluke.
“Mayhap you never saw a battle, sir. It is no child’s play, take my
word for it. But the worst time is just before engaging, when silence
reigns fore and aft, and a poor fellow douses his jacket without
knowing whether he shall ever clap his rigging on agen. Then it is that
home with all its sweet remembrances clings round the heart. Parents,
or wife, or children, become doubly dear, and the fond ties of kindred
are linked by stronger bonds. Howsomever, as soon as the first shot is
fired, and we get within a sort of shake-hands distance of the enemy,
every other thought gives way to a steady discharge of duty.
“Well, d’ye see, close upon our quarter came the Trimmer-rare, 98,
and as we hauled up a little, we brought our larboard broadside to
bear upon the great Spanish four-decker;--there, that’s she in the
picture showing her galleries, just by the Victory’s starn:--so we
brought our broadside to bear, and oh, if you had but have seen the
eager looks of the men as they pointed their guns, determined to make
every shot tell,--and a famous mark she was, too, looming out of the
water like Beachy-head in a fog. ‘Stand by,’ says Sam Windsail,
looking along the sight with the match in his hand; ‘stand by, my boy;
so, so,--elevate her breech a bit,--that will do. Now, then, for the
Santizzy-mama-Trinny-daddy, and I lay my life I knock day-light through
his ribs. Fire!’ and the barking irons gave mouth with all their
thunder. A few minutes afterward, and slap we poured another raking
broadside into the Spaniard, and then fell aboard a French seventy-four.
“Well, there, d’ye see, we lay, rubbing together with the muzzles of
the lower deckers touching one another. When our guns were run in for
loading, the ports were instantly occupied by the small-arm men, and
several attempts were made to board the enemy. At this time one of the
Frenchmen kept thrusting at us with a boarding-pike, and pricked Tim
Doyle in the face. ‘Och, the divil’s cure to you,’ bawled Tim; ‘what
do you mane by poking at me in that way. A joke’s a joke, but poking a
stick in a fellow’s eye is no joke, any how; be aisey then, darlint,
and mind your civility.’ As soon as we had fired, in came the pike
agen, and Tim got another taste of it. ‘Och bother,’ said Tim, ‘if
that’s your tratement of a neighbour, the divil wouldn’t live next door
to yes! But faith, I’ll make you come out o’ that, and may be you’ll be
after just paying me a visit.’ So he catches hold of a boat-hook that
was triced up in a-midships, and watching his opportunity, he hooked
Johnny Crapeau by the collar and lugged him out of one port-hole in
at the other, without allowing him time to bid his shipmates good-by.
‘Is it me you’d be poking at, ye blackguard?’ said Tim, giving him a
thump with his fist. ‘Is it Tim ye wanted to spit like a cock-sparrow
or a tom-tit? Arrah, swate bad luck to yes,--sit down and make yer life
aisey; by the powers there’ll be a pair o’ ye presently.’ But Tim was
disappointed, for they let down the lower deck ports for fear we should
board them through the port-holes.
“Soon after, both ships dropped aboard the Trimmer-rare; and then
we ploughed up the Frenchman’s decks with our shot, whilst she lay
grinding and groaning in betwixt us. It was just now that young
Rivers was struck, and his leg knocked away; but his spirit remained
unsubdued, and as they took him down to the cock-pit, he cheered
with all his might, and shortly after the hero himself was conveyed
below. At first, the news of his being wounded seemed to stagnate all
hands, and each stood looking at the other in fearful anxiety; but
in a few minutes, resolution again returned, the shots were rammed
home with redoubled strength, though at times the men would struggle
with their feelings, and give vent to their grief and indignation. At
every opportunity inquiries were made, and when the news of his death
reached our quarters,--‘He’s gone!’ said Sam, ‘his anchor’s a-weigh,
and the blessed spirits are towing him to immortality.’
“But who is there, your honour, that remembers Nelson now? Even the
car that carried his body to its last moorings has been broken up as
useless lumber, though I did hear that a gemman offered two thousand
guineas for it. Some parts are down in the store-rooms, and some has
been burnt for fire-wood. There’s his picture and his statue to be
sure, but I think they should have spared the car. Nelson was strict
to his duty, and made all hands perform theirs; and when he punished
one man, it was that he might not have to punish twenty, and every soul
fore and aft knew what they had to do. The brave, the generous, the
humane Collingwood too,--there’s his picture, your honour, he is almost
forgotten. Collingwood detested flogging; and when any captain came to
him with a complaint of being short-handed through desertion, he would
stand and hitch up his breeches, saying, ‘Use your men better, sir; use
your men better, and then they wouldn’t leave you. My men, sir, never
run; because they know they cannot get better treatment elsewhere.’ He
was also an avowed enemy to impressment, being well convinced that the
British navy might be manned with volunteers, if Jack’s peculiarities
were only managed with kindness. But they are gone, sir, they are gone,
and their authority is over; yet there are a few rough knots who can
remember them,--ay, and cherish the remembrance in their hearts.
“Mr. Rivers is still living,--and there he is, your honour,” said
the veteran, pointing to an active man in lieutenant’s uniform, who
flourished his wooden pin as he descended the stone steps; “there he
is, for he’s now lieutenant of the college, and has a fine family
just over the way there in the square. They ought to have made him a
commander, at any rate, for I’ve seen him unbuckle his wooden leg and
go aloft as quick as any topman in the ship; and there was but few
could beat him at dancing, for it was quite delightful to see how he
handled his timber support, and how the ladies and gemmen sheered out
of his way for fear of their toes. Ah, there he goes agen, all life and
spirit,--spinning his tough yarns and cracking his jokes, as full of
fun as ever;--he’s much prized by the governors, because he takes all
the trouble off their hands.”
“Is the portrait of Nelson considered a good likeness?” I inquired.
“My sight gets rather dim, sir,” replied the veteran; “but before they
put it up, when I could see it closer, I did not think it very like.
Lord Collingwood’s is by far the best.”
At this moment I felt somewhat of a mischievous inclination to try
the old man’s temper, and therefore remarked, “Ay, he looks stern and
scowling. Nelson was a brave man, no doubt, but then he was tyrannical
and cruel.”
The hoary tar turned round and stared me full in the face: a storm
was gathering in his heart, or rather, like a vessel taken aback in
a sudden squall, he stood perplexed as to which tack he should stand
on. But it was only for a moment, and as his features relaxed their
sternness he replied, “No matter, your honour,--no matter. You have
been generous and kind, and I’m no dog to bite the hand that deals out
bounty.”
This seemed to be uttered with the mingling emotions of defiance and
melancholy, and to urge him further, I continued,--“But, my friend,
what can you say of the treatment poor Caraccioli experienced? You
remember that, I suppose?”
“I do, indeed,” he replied. “Poor old man! how earnestly he pleaded for
the few short days which nature at the utmost would have allowed him!
But, sir,” added he, grasping my arm, “do you know what it is to have
a fiend at the helm, who when Humanity cries ‘port!’ will clap it hard
a-starboard in spite of you?--one who in loveliness and fascination is
like an angel of light, but whose heart resembles an infernal machine,
ready to explode whenever passion touches the secret spring of
vengeance?”
I had merely put the question to him by way of joke, little expecting
the result; but I had to listen to a tale of horror. “You give a pretty
picture, truly, old friend,” said I; “and pray who may this fiend be?”
“A woman, your honour,--one full of smiles and sweetness; but she
could gaze with indifference on a deed of blood, and exult over the
victim her perfidy betrayed. It is a long story, sir, but I must tell
it you that you may not think Nelson was cruel or unjust. His generous
heart was deceived, and brought a stain upon the British flag, which
he afterwards washed out with his blood. Obedience is the test of a
seaman’s duty--to reverence his king, and to fight for his country.
This I have done, and therefore speak without fear, though I know
nothing of parliaments and politics.
“Well, your honour, it was at the time when there was a mutiny among
the people at Naples, and Prince Caraccioli was compelled to join one
of the parties against the court; but afterwards a sort of amnesty, or
_damnification_ I think they call it, was passed by way of pardon to
the rebels, many of whom surrendered, but they were all made prisoners
and numbers of them were executed.
“Well, one day I was standing at the gangway getting the barge’s sails
ready, when a shore-boat came alongside full of people, who were
making a terrible noise. At last they brought a venerable old man up
the side; he was dressed as a peasant, and his arms were pinioned so
tight behind that he seemed to be suffering considerable pain. As
soon as they had all reached the deck, the rabble gathered round him,
some cursing, others buffeting, and one wretch, unmindful of his gray
hairs, spat upon him. This was too much to see and not to speak about;
the man was their prisoner and they had him secure,--the very nature
of his situation should have been sufficient protection; so I gave
the unmannerly fellow a tap with this little fist,” holding up a hand
like a sledge-hammer, “and sent him flying into the boat again without
the aid of a rope. ‘Well done, Ben!’ exclaimed a young midshipman,
who is now a post-captain; ‘Well done, my boy, I owe you a glass of
grog for that; it was the best summerset I ever saw in my life.’
‘Thank you for your _glass_ o’grog, sir,’ said I, ‘you see I’ve made a
_tumbler_ already;’ and indeed, your honour, he spun head over heels
astonishingly clever. I was brought up to the quarter-deck for it, to
be sure, because they said I had used the _why-hit-armis_; but I soon
convinced them I had only used my fist, and the young officer who saw
the transaction stood my friend, and so I got off.
“Well, there stood the old man as firm as the rock of Gibraltar; not a
single feature betraying the anguish he must have felt. His face was
turned away from the quarter-deck, and his head was uncovered in the
presence of his enemies. The Neapolitans still kept up an incessant
din, which brought the first-lieutenant to the gang-way; he advanced
behind the prisoner, and pushing aside the abusive rabble, swore at
them pretty fiercely for their inhumanity, although at the same time
seizing the old man roughly, he brought him in his front. ‘What traitor
have we here?’ exclaimed the lieutenant; but checking himself on
viewing the mild countenance of the prisoner, he gazed more intently
upon him. ‘Eh, no!--it surely cannot be:--and yet it is!’--his hat was
instantly removed with every token of respect, as he continued--‘it is
the prince!’
“The old man with calm dignity bowed his hoary head to the salute, and
at this moment Nelson himself, who had been disturbed by the shouting
of the captors, came from his cabin to the quarter-deck, and advancing
quickly to the scene, he called out in his hasty way when vexed, ‘Am
I to be eternally annoyed by the confusion these fellows create! What
is the matter here?’ But when his eye had caught the time-and-toil
worn features of the prisoner, he sprang forward, and with his own
hands commenced unbinding the cords. ‘Monsters,’ said he, ‘is it thus
that age should be treated?--Cowards, do you fear a weak and unarmed
old man?--Honoured prince, I grieve to see you degraded and injured by
such baseness,--and now,’ he added, as the last turn released his arms,
‘dear Caraccioli, you are free!’ I thought a tear rolled down Nelson’s
cheek as he cast loose the lashings, which having finished, he took the
prince’s hand and they both walked aft together.
“They say the devil knows precisely the _nick_ of time when the most
mischief is to be done, and so it happened now; for a certain lady
followed Nelson from the cabin, and approached him with her usual
bewitching smile. But oh! your honour, how was that smile changed
to the black scowl of a demon when she pierced the disguise of the
peasant, and recognised the prince, who on some particular occasion had
thwarted her views and treated her with indignity. It had never been
forgiven, and now--he was in her power. Forcibly she grasped Nelson by
the arm and led him from the deck.
“‘His doom is sealed,’ said one of the lieutenants, conversing in an
undertone with a brother officer, ‘no power on earth can save him.’ ‘On
earth,’ rejoined the other, ‘no, nor in the air, nor in the ocean; for
I suspect he will meet his death in the one, and find his grave in
the other.’ ‘Yet surely,’ said the surgeon, who came up, ‘the admiral
will remember his former friendship for the prince, who once served
under him. Every sympathetic feeling which is dear to a noble mind must
operate to avert his death.’ ‘All the virtues in your medicine-chest,
doctor,’ rejoined the first, ‘would not preserve him many hours from
destruction, unless you could pour an opiate on the deadly malignity of
----,’ here he put his finger upon his lip, and walked away.
“Well, your honour, the old man was given up to his bitter foes, who
went through the mockery of a court-martial,--for they condemned him
first and tried him afterwards. In vain he implored for mercy; in vain
he pleaded the proclamation, and pointed to his hoary head; in vain he
solicited the mediation of Nelson, for a revengeful fury had possession
of his better purposes, and damned the rising tide of generosity in the
hero’s soul; in vain he implored the pardon and intercession of ----;
but here I follow the example of my officer, and lay my finger on my
lip.
“The president of the court-martial was Caraccioli’s personal enemy,
and the poor old man was not allowed time to make a defence; he was
sentenced to be hung, and his body to be thrown into the sea. I was
near him, your honour, when he entreated Mr. Parkinson, one of the
lieutenants, to go to Nelson and implore that he might be shot. Oh, if
you had but have seen him grasp the officer’s hand as he said, ‘I am an
old man, sir, and I have no family to leave behind to lament my death.
Indeed I am not anxious to prolong my life, for at the utmost my days
would be but few; but the disgrace of hanging,--to be exposed to the
gaze of my enemies,--is really dreadful to me!’
“But every attempt to obtain a mitigation or a change of the sentence
was unavailing, and at five o’clock that afternoon the brave old man,
the veteran prince, in his eightieth year, hung suspended from the
fore-yard-arm of a Neapolitan frigate he had once commanded,--for
he was an admiral, your honour. Never shall I forget the burst of
indignation with which the signal-gun was heard by our crew, and a
simultaneous execration was uttered fore and aft.
“Nelson walked the deck with unusual quickness; nay, he almost ran,
and every limb seemed violently agitated. He heard the half-suppressed
murmurs of the men, and a conviction of dishonour seemed to be
awakening in his mind. But oh, sir, where was pity, where was feminine
delicacy and feeling? The lady approached him in the most seducing
manner and attracted his attention: he stopped short, looked at her
for a moment with stern severity, and again walked on. ‘What ails
you, Bronté?’ said she; ‘you appear to be ill,’ and the witchery of
her commanding look subdued the sternness of his features;--he gazed
upon her and was tranquil. ‘See!’ said she, pointing out at the port to
where the body of Caraccioli was still writhing in convulsive agony,
‘see! his mortal struggles will soon be over. Poor prince! I grieve we
could not save him. But come, Bronté, man the barge, and let us go and
take a parting look at our old friend.’ I shuddered, your honour, and
actually looked down at her feet to see if I could make out any thing
like a cloven hoof. ‘The devil!’ exclaimed a voice in a half-whisper
behind me that made me start, for I thought the speaker had certainly
made the discovery; but it was only one of the officers giving vent to
his pious indignation.
“Well, the barge was manned, and away we pulled with Nelson and the
lady round the ship where the unfortunate prince was hanging. He had
no cap upon his head, nor was his face covered; but his white hair
streamed in the breeze above the livid contortions which the last
death-pang had left upon his features. The Neapolitans were shouting
and insulting his memory; but they were rank cowards, for the truly
brave will never wreak their vengeance on a dead enemy.
“Nelson and the lady conversed in whispers; but it was plain to be
seen his spirit was agonized, and his fair but frail companion was
employing every art to soothe him. She affected to weep, but there
was a glistening pleasure in her eyes as she looked at the corpse,
which had well nigh made the boat’s crew set all duty at defiance.
Nelson,--and no man was better acquainted with the characteristics of a
sailor,--saw this, and ordered to be pulled on board. She upbraided him
for what she called his weakness, but his soul was stirred beyond the
power of her influence to control his actions.
“The body of the prince was taken out to a considerable distance in the
bay, where it was thrown overboard with three heavy double-headed shot
lashed between the legs; and, as the lieutenant said, ‘he met his death
in the air, and had his grave in the ocean.’
“About a fortnight after this, a pleasure party was made up by the
royal family and nobility for an excursion on the water, and the barge,
with Nelson and the lady, took the lead. It was a beautiful sight to
see the gilded galleys with their silken canopies and bright pennons
flashing in the sun, and reflecting their glittering beauties on the
smooth surface of the clear blue waters, whilst the measured sweep of
the oars kept time with the sweet sounds of music. Not a cloud veiled
the sky, scarcely a breath curled the transparent crest of the gentle
billow; all was gayety, and mirth, and laughter.
“After pulling for several miles about the bay, we were returning
towards the shore, when a curious-looking dark object,--something like
a ship’s buoy, appeared floating a-head of the barge. The bowmen were
ordered to lay-in their oars, and see what it was; so the oars were
laid in, and they stood ready with their boat-hooks, the coxswain
steering direct on to it. As soon as the barge was near enough, the
bowmen grappled it with their boat-hooks, but in an instant their
hold was loosened again, and ‘A dead body! a dead body!’ was uttered
in a suppressed tone by both. The boat held on her way, and as the
corpse passed astern, the face turned towards the lady and showed the
well-remembered countenance of poor Caraccioli. Yes, as the officer had
said, ‘the ocean had been his grave;’ but that grave had given up its
dead, and the lady seldom smiled afterwards.
“Nelson hailed one of the cutters that were in attendance, and directed
that the body should be taken on board and receive the funeral
ceremonies suitable to the rank which the unfortunate prince had
held whilst living. The music ceased its joyous sounds for notes of
melancholy wailing, and the voice of mirth was changed to lamentation
and sadness.
“Years passed away, and Nelson fell in the hour of victory; but the
lady, ah! her end was terrible. The murdered prince was ever present
to her mind; and as she lay upon her death-bed, like a stranded wreck
that would never more spread canvass to the breeze, her groans,
her shrieks were still on Caraccioli. ‘I see him!’ she would cry,
‘there, there!--look at his white locks and his straining eye-balls!
England,--England is ungrateful, or this would have been prevented!
But I follow--I follow!’--and then she would shriek with dismay and
hide herself from sight. But she is gone, your honour, to give in her
dead-reckoning to the Judge of all. She died in a foreign land, without
one real friend to close her eyes; and she was buried in a stranger’s
grave, without one mourner to weep upon the turf which covered her
remains.”
Here the veteran ceased, and folding his arms, he held down his head as
if communing with his own heart and struggling to dispel the visions
which his narration had conjured up. I cautiously refrained from
disturbing him, till by a sudden gulp or sea-sigh, like the expiring
gale when at its last gasp, he gave indications of having becalmed his
feelings, and we moved onwards up the steps into the body of the Hall,
till we stood before the fine painting of the Battle of the Nile, by G.
Arnald.
“There, your honour,” exclaimed the veteran, whilst his eye sparkled
with glowing recollections, “look there, your honour; isn’t that a
sight to awaken old remembrances! It’s worth a hundred of that yonder,
which is neither ship-shape nor Bristol fashion, as I take it, for an
officer in boarding to be rigged out as if he was going to a ball.
Mayhap, howsomever, it may be all well enough for landsmen and marines
to look at, because it’s pretty; but the eye of a seaman only glances
at it with contempt.” The subject of his last observations, was a
painting of Nelson boarding the San Josef of 112 guns in the battle
off St. Vincent. “I told you before I was with him in both _doos_;
but, Lord love your heart, it was another sort of a concarn than
that ’ere; for there warn’t no fighting on the quarter-deck of the
three-decker,--all the fighting were in the San Nickylas as we boarded
first. But here’s a pretty picture, your honour,” pointing to a small
but beautiful painting of the re-capture of the Hermione frigate by Sir
Edward Hamilton, “and it tells a tale too! Well, thank God, I never
sailed with a tyrannical captain! and there was one,--a lord,--who used
to boast he had flogged every man in his ship.”
“I never knew that Sir Edward Hamilton was severe,” said I, “for I
had always been given to understand that he was a smart but humane
officer.”
“I didn’t mean him, sir,” replied the veteran, “it was another sort of
person; but he was murdered, and in cold blood too. I have heard the
tale often, for old Hughes, who died boatswain of the Laurel frigate,
was an old shipmate of mine, and he was in the Hermione at the time of
the mutiny. ’Twas a shocking affair,” added the old man, shaking his
head, “and who could think that whilst the beautiful moon was shedding
her pale light,--not but I’m thinking the moon has no business in that
’ere picture, any more than it had to be up such a night as that at
all; but the painters can stick a moon just where they like, though it
destroys the tale they have to tell. Besides, captain Hamilton wouldn’t
be likely to want even so much as the blink of a purser’s lantern to
show the Spaniards he was coming.”
I assented to the argument, and was struck with the truth it conveyed;
the moon certainly gave a charming light to the picture, but the eye
of practical experience detected the incongruity, though perhaps not
till that very moment when the heart was more immediately interested
in the subject. The circumstances connected with the re-capture of the
Hermione, and her having previously fallen into the enemy’s hands, were
revived in my memory; but I felt a strong desire to hear the story
from my aged _chaperon_, and after a few observations he indulged me.
“Them as wishes to know what a seaman can do, sir,” said the old man,
“should study a little of their cha-rackter. Thank God, the day’s gone
by when the cat was considered the best means of freshening a poor
devil’s way, or keeping a good man to his duty. I can remember when I
was a young top-man, and the hands were turned up, there was always
a boatswain’s mate stationed at each hatchway to start the last man
on the ladder, and sometimes half a dozen of the hindmost would get
well started before they set foot on deck; it was harassing work and
produced great discontent, because, d’ye mind, as there must always
be somebody last, it stands to reason there was no escaping. Well, as
I said, this, with many other grievances, occasioned the men to be
dissatisfied, and brought about that toast which I am sorry to say was
but too common between decks, though certainly there was a goodish
scope of provocation when all the bearings of the thing is correctly
worked;--I mean the toast, ‘A dark night, a sharp knife, and a bloody
blanket!’ Now, your honour, ’tis impossible to tell which man saves his
strength, when a gang is tailing-on to a taut rope; but a lubber who
skulks in the lee-rigging when he ought to be shinning away aloft to
take in a reef or toss up a sail is soon found out, and mayhap a cuff
or two would make him quicker in turning to windward; but when the end
of a rope flies about indiscriminately and every body is in constant
dread of the gangway, it becomes _grating_ to the feelings. Not, sir,
that I hold with the attempts to make Jack Nasty-face a gentleman; for
if so be as they goes to destroy the peculiarities which mark a regular
man-o’-war’s-man, they’ll have to make a few curious entries in the
log-book before they’ve done.”
“But about the Hermione,” said I; “she has a beautiful appearance in
the picture; her yards are nicely squared, and she looks all ready for
sea. But, come, let’s hear how the Spaniards captured her.”
“Captured her!” exclaimed the veteran; “no, no, they didn’t capture
her; she was run away with by her own crew, and a horrible deed of
blood they made of it. It was in the month of September, --97; the
frigate was cruising off the west-end of Porto Rico, just jogging off
and on, and now and then taking a peep into Port-au-Prince, and that
way, to look arter the enemy. She was commanded by Captain P----,
whose very natur was that of a tyrant, and a cruel one too; for by all
accounts, he scored the smallest offence upon the bare back of the
offender, and very often punished, because the whim took him in the
head, for no offence at all. The ship’s company were none of the best,
to be sure; there was a sprinkling of all nations, and not a few with
C. P. alongside o’their names.”
“C. P.” said I; “what does C. P. mean.”
“Why, your honour, it just means this here,” replied the old man. “You
must understand that when some know-nothing rascal had been caught
in a crowd, and suspected of dipping his grappling hooks--” here the
veteran crook’d his fingers,--“into a neighbour’s pocket, if so be
they couldn’t bring it slap home to him, the magistrates sent him on
board a man-o’-war to teach him honesty, and thus a pretty set of the
scum and scrapings of villany,--a sort of devil’s own,--contaminated
the sarvice; and the C. P. was a kind of curse o’ Cromwell upon ’em--a
mark of Cain, denoting they were shipped by the CIVIL POWER, and the
master-at-arms had ’special orders to watch their motions.”
“And did this really take place?” inquired I; “was the navy made a
condemned service for convicts?”
“It was, indeed,” replied the old pensioner, “till it got to be a kind
of Solomon’s proverb, that ‘a king’s ship and the gallows refused
nobody,’ and the tars that had always done their duty in battle and
in storm, felt it a great degradation to be mustered with felons and
jail-birds, and rely upon it, your honour, it prevented many a brave
lad from volunteering; for who would go for to enter the sarvice,
when almost every ship had a black list as long as the main-top
bowline. Besides, there was another concarn that bred evils as fast
as barnacles grows on the bottom of a dull sailer. D’ye mind, the
fellows didn’t love work, and when there was a fresh breeze, they
either skulked down below, or got kicked about upon deck like a Muscovy
duck in the lee scuppers, and a captain was often obliged to flog even
against his own inclination. In course of time, the lubberly sons of
---- chafed his temper till the strands parted, and then he became
severe, and from severity proceeded to cruelty, till discrimination
was foundered, and the cat’s tails were felt by the good man as well
as the bad. Now this was very likely the case with Captain P----, and
I’m the more strengthened in the likelihoods of it by what followed;
for though in the heat of passion reason is shrivelled and scorched
up like the fag-end of an exploded cartridge, and a man may be driven
to dye his hands in the blood of a countryman, yet when passion has
grown cool and the beatings of the heart have become steady and true,
like the droppings of the sand in the half-hour glass, none but a
murderer,--a detestable, cowardly, craven-breasted murderer,--would
bury his knife in the body of youth. Shame! shame!” exclaimed the
veteran, as he shook his hoary head, and his cheeks assumed a flush
of abhorrent indignation; “shame! shame!--but I forget all this time
I arn’t telling you the story. Captain P----, sir, always came out of
his cabin arter dinner,--you mind me, sir, _arter dinner_,--and had
the hands turned up to reef top-sails; and if they were more than two
minutes and a half about it, he flogged the last man who came off each
yard. Well, on the day before the mutiny,--I think I told you there
was a mutiny, but if not I tell you so now,--on the day before the
mutiny, the hands were turned up as usual and the mizen-topmen were
rather slack in stays; so he, that’s the captain, your honour,--swore
he would flog the last man off the mizen-top-sail yard. Now you must
understand, the smartest seamen are always at the yard-arms to haul
out the earings, and consequently, unless they can spring over the
heads of the other topmen, they must be the last to lie-in. Well, so it
happened this evening, and the two captains of the top, knowing that
their commander would keep his word, made a spring for the top-mast
rigging; in their haste and fear they missed their grasp, and fell on
to the quarter-deck. They were both young, active men, and were much
beloved by the ship’s company; they had gone aloft full of spirit and
vigour, desirous to obey orders; the last beams of the sun, as it just
touched the verge of the horizon, shone upon their light but manly
frames stretching out to secure the leeches of the sail to the yard;
and before the upper limb of the bright luminary had disappeared, they
laid stretched on the deck, each a lifeless and mangled corpse! It’s
hard lines that, your honour;” and the veteran held down his head in
mournful cogitation.
“Hard lines indeed, old friend,” said I; “and really it seems
surprising that men should so far forget the social ties, which in
every station ought to bind together the brethren of the _dust_, as to
commit deliberate acts of cruelty.”