EASTWARD HO!
PERHAPS no ingredients are more certain to produce an explosion in a
limited space than a Post Captain proceeding as a passenger on the ship
of an officer some months his junior. It was my privilege once to watch
one of these preliminary simmerings during the latter sixties and the
subsequent inevitable dénouement.
George Malcolm, who in his younger days had had a distinguished career as
flag-lieutenant at Portsmouth, but for a decade had lived the indolent
life of a German at Frankfort, being compelled by the regulations to put
in sea time as a Post Captain, was proceeding with a new crew to
recommission the _Danae_ on the West Indian station. It was not long
before he developed his Teutonic acquirements. Smoking half the night in
his cabin, he intimated to his crew that they might smoke when they
pleased. Keeping his lights burning after hours, he next came into
collision with the master-at-arms, who reported the irregularity to the
captain, a peremptory order being issued that Malcolm was not to be made
an exception, and that the regulations were to be enforced. The little
man—Captain Grant, of the _Himalaya_—who thus entered the lists at the
first challenge was well-known throughout the Navy as a veritable tartar.
Standing little over five feet high, he had the body of a giant; his
lower proportions were short and far from comely. These were the
combatants for whom the arena was now cleared. Malcolm opened the attack
by repeating the light-burning after hours. Grant retorted by ordering
the master-at-arms to enter if necessary and carry out his orders. Next
morning the two captains met in presence of their respective first
lieutenants, and abused and accused each other of insubordination and
mutiny.
The crews meanwhile took up the quarrel, and some of the _Danae_ men had
the temerity to cheek the master-at-arms. To this little Grant replied
by tying up six of them to the shrouds, and giving them four dozen apiece
with the cat. This checked the effervescence, and a few days later the
ship entered Port Royal.
Then followed reports. But the admiral was one of the psalm-singing
school, and not possessing sufficient character to adjudicate upon it
himself, referred the matter home. Meanwhile the _Danae_ was
recommissioned and sailed away, the _Himalaya_ returned to Portsmouth,
and so the matter ended.
A flogging in the old days was a very “thorough” affair, and lost nothing
in the matter of detail. Four stalwart boatswains stripped to their
shirts stood like statues, on the deck reposed four green baize bags,
each containing a cat.
When all was ready the captain’s warrant was read—for it may or may not
be generally known that every skipper, from battleship to pigboat, is a
justice of the peace, and has the power of life and death on the high
seas—and then the operation began. Occasionally some genius, having
prearranged to outwit the authorities, would feign collapse by suddenly
tucking up his legs; but a feel of the pulse and a nod soon adjusted
matters, and the culprit was in “full song.” And then the little man
made a speech, not too long, but very much to the point: “Now, my lads,
when you want any more, you know where to come for it.” After which he
cocked his cap, and descended to his cabin with his sword clanking
behind. It’s a way they had in the Navy.
All this, of course, was before the central authority was transferred
from Whitehall to Whitechapel, and without expressing an opinion on the
merits or demerits of corporal punishment, one may be permitted to ask:
Are the bluejackets of to-day any better than Peel’s Naval Brigade in the
Crimea, or the tough old tars that helped to quell the Mutiny? Are the
specimens one occasionally meets smoking cigarettes and Orange Blossom
tobacco superior to the old sea dogs that chewed what would have killed a
rhinoceros and rolled quids of ’baccy saturated in rum? Perhaps yes,
perhaps no. Be that as it may, flogging has ever been found the only
deterrent for a certain class of scum which occasionally rises to the
surface even in the Navy.
On another occasion, when I was embarking at Portsmouth, barely had the
_Himalaya_ left the side of the quay when the Honourable Mrs. Montmorency
(afterwards Lady Frankfort), accompanied by her father, Sir John Michel,
and a crowd of sisters, cousins, and aunts, might have been seen rushing
frantically towards the slowly-moving trooper; but the cries fell on deaf
ears, and the good ship continued her course.
Next night in Queenstown Harbour a bumboat might have been seen
struggling against wind and tide to reach the trooper lying a mile out at
sea, which, on getting alongside, was found to contain the lady, who,
since we last saw her, had undertaken a journey of four hundred miles,
attended by every discomfort that travelling flesh is heir to, and all
because she did not know little Grant, and expected to impress him by
arriving five minutes late. The same lady very nearly had a similar
experience a month later at St. Helena, and only just reached the deck as
the “blue Peter” was being hauled down.
It was on this same voyage that a subaltern, whose duties compelled him
to be on deck at daylight, remarked to the navigating-lieutenant later in
the day: “How splendid the sun looked this morning rising over the
hills.” “Oh! yes,” was the snubbing reply, “we call that Cape Flyaway.
Why, man, we are five hundred miles from the West coast.”
That night, when hammocks were being issued, a cry of “Land on the port
bow” brought all hands on deck, and lo! we were steaming full speed for
land with 1,400 souls on board. Almost in front of us was an angry surf,
a little beyond it tropical foliage was distinctly visible, and then
followed the silence as when engines are stopped, and with extra hands at
both wheels, the shout of “Hard a-starboard!” pierced the darkness, and
we were going full speed in the opposite direction.
Cape Flyaway cost poor little Piper a reprimand and half-pay for life,
and an innocent wife and family—God help them—may still be suffering for
that disregarded sunrise.
When dear old Admiral Commerell succeeded Purvis as Commander-in-Chief at
the Cape, things at Government House hummed as they had never done
before, and the energy that the little man put into his hospitality was
as conspicuous as when fighting on sea or on land. With more than the
lives attributed to a cat, it is incredible that he should have survived
a blunderbuss full of slugs on the Prah a few years later, which, fired
point blank, drove half a monkey-jacket into his lungs. Though brought
to Cape Town on the _Rattlesnake_, more as a formality than with any
hopes of recovery, and for months after spitting up pieces of blue serge,
he rallied as he had often done before, and the last time I saw him was
in a Maxim gun show-room in Victoria Street, where, as “Managing
Director,” he explained the intricacies of the weapon to every ’Arry that
chose to look in, and so trade laid hands in his declining years on as
brave a recipient of the Victoria Cross as ever trod a quarter-deck.
When the flying squadron under Beauchamp Seymour was expected at
Ascension on its return from the Cape, great excitement prevailed from
the possibility of a visit, and a trooper that was “laying off” was in
such deadly fear of any want of smartness being observable that the
washing by the soldiers’ wives that had been permitted was made short
work of, and petticoats, shirts, and socks that were fluttering in the
breeze were ruthlessly ordered down, for fear some signalman should
detect a strange signal and note it in the log-book. For this lynx-eyed
race is incapable of being hoodwinked; indeed, so dexterous did they
become in the Channel Squadron some years ago (and doubtless are so
still) that they read the signals for fleet manœuvres before the flags
were broken, necessitating the entire bunch being rolled into one, and so
giving every ship an equal chance of displaying their smartness. Of the
turtle we discussed recently, the “last phase” is to be seen in the
smoking-room of a well-known hostelry in Leadenhall Street, where,
peeping through the tanks, numerous specimens may be seen blinking and
winking as if in reproach at the unfair advantage taken of them by
perfidious Albion in leading them into captivity when guests of the
nation and in an interesting condition.
Ascension, as most of us are aware, is on the direct road to the Cape and
within easy distance of St. Helena—a by no means unpleasant place,
despite an unjust prejudice that attaches to it.
It was on board a Union steamer that the absurd incident I witnessed took
place, when the diamond fields were coming into notice and attracting
speculators in every kind of ware likely to find favour amongst the
natives, who had not then been educated in Houndsditch ways to the extent
they have since arrived at. The genius who contemplated a rich harvest
not discounted by any such absurd formalities as paying “duty,” declaring
contraband, or propitiating officials apt to be too inquisitive, was a
Hebrew jeweller of a pronounced type with the unusual adornment of
carroty hair, who afterwards developed into a Bond Street shopkeeper, and
may still be seen shorn of his sunny locks, which nevertheless still
retain a pleasing suspicion of the blaze they once emitted. The chief
officer was a shrewd individual, who long before we arrived at Table Bay
had taken his passenger’s measure, and what added insult to injury was a
presentation to him of a wretched ring the wholesale price of which could
not have exceeded ten shillings. Had he pressed a five-pound note into
his hand it would have proved a less expensive procedure. The sequel was
disastrous, as, passing through the dock gates, ’Enery was requested to
turn out his pockets, and the percentage to the informant amounted to a
very handsome sum. Who the informant was—actuated by duty!—it is
needless to discuss, but our friend got to the Fields at last and turned
a considerable profit on his “Brummagem” wares.
Years later his enterprise again brought him into notice by providing a
young ass (whom many will recollect), who had come into £70,000 on
attaining his majority, not only with a flat, but completely furnishing
it, and then smothering him with bracelets and bangles for personal wear,
and trinkets and gimcracks that made him rattle to a greater extent than
the historical lady of Banbury Cross.
The sequel was more melodramatic. Within a year the entire £70,000 was
gone, within another year the prodigal was in his grave, and, despite the
strenuous efforts of an elder brother to recover a trifle from the
clutches of a philanthropist, a feather merchant, and dramatic author—all
since gathered into Abraham’s bosom—the shekels never changed
hands—s’help me—and ’Enery is still one of the most respected Elders in
Israel.
It was in ’65 on the island of Ascension, where I happened temporarily to
be, that an awful tragedy was on the verge of being investigated by a
Court of Inquiry, but it was realised that the terrible Atlantic rollers
that perpetrated the cruel deed and the innocent children that were the
victims had left no data for the groundwork of the conventional farce.
It was on that dismal rock whose only merits are its strategical coaling
position and its inexhaustible supply of turtle that during the season
when those insidious rollers of unbroken water, without sound, without
warning, suddenly spread over the sandy beach, two or three children of
an officer of Marines were suddenly swept off their legs and carried by
the back-wash with the velocity of a millstream towards the coral reefs a
hundred yards out at sea, where death awaited them.
On the one side an expanse of sand that forthwith resumed its placid,
shining surface, on the other a ripple literally bristling with fins of
the most voracious species of shark known to naturalists.
In a second it was all over, and the crimson pall that covered the face
of the blue Atlantic told all there was to tell of the terrible
catastrophe.
The few observation boxes containing niggers on the look-out for turtle
had seen nothing, heard nothing; the only eye-witness was the helpless
nursemaid, and only because there was nothing to tell was the farce of a
“Court of Inquiry” abandoned.
The turtle industry is simplicity itself: so soon as one advances
sufficiently inland a couple of niggers rush out and turn her over and
lug her into the tank, when her laying days are over, for it is the
female only that is captured as she comes to deposit her eggs, and no
human eye has ever seen nor any alderman ever guzzled amid the green fat
of the male animal.
Ascension is best described as the most God-forsaken spot in creation,
except perhaps Aden, to which must be given the palm. Here the naval
garrison seem to have grown into a mechanical routine, and only change
their monotonous wading through sand by an occasional day’s leave to
Green Mountain, on whose summit the only three blades of grass on the
island struggle for existence. How these gallant men are chosen for this
dreary duty it is difficult to say; no alien princeling attached to the
British Navy ever appears to have his turn; and one must assume that
“merit tempered with non-interest” is the qualification that controls the
roster. Of the turtle there can be no two opinions; in unlimited
supplies, two huge tanks, through which the tide ebbs and flows, contain
some hundreds of these delectable creatures, delectable only with the aid
of the highest embellishments, but the most nauseous sickening of
“_plats_” in the shape of rations. Every man-of-war calling at Ascension
is compelled to ship a dozen, which lie for weeks on deck, their heads
resting on a swab, and the hose playing on them of a morning, while a
stench more insidious than the vapours of a fried-fish shop attaches
itself to everything; one’s hair-brush reeks like a turtle fin, and
whether one eats, drinks, or smokes, it’s _toujours tortue_.
During the Ashanti war, Ascension appeared at its best; in its
comfortable hospital the wounded from spear and slug, and the dying from
West Coast fever, obtained the best of attendance. In it I saw Thompson,
of the Inniskilling Dragoons, just brought down from the Prah—one of the
most popular men in the Army—die; whilst from it many a brave man has
been carried to his last home, and many a sufferer who has entered its
portals in apparently the last stage of fever and ague has been pulled
round, and put on board with renewed life to return to England to bless
the surgeons and curse Ascension.
It was on my return home in ’69 that I met old Toogood (whom everybody
knew) at Aden—who, rushing up to me, whispered, “Come along, I’ve secured
a carriage,” and following with that glee that all who have crossed the
Desert will appreciate, I was horrified to find he had all his bundles in
the quarantine carriage.
“Great heavens,” I exclaimed, “do you know what this means?” and he
hardly gave me time to explain the pains and penalties before he was in
full cry after the rascally Egyptian guard, who, realising he was dealing
with a novice, had accepted a sovereign for placing him in a carriage by
himself.
In those long-ago days—and possibly still—every train had a quarantine
carriage, entering which meant vigorous isolation till fumigation had
taken place, and “even betting” that one’s cabin in the trooper at Cairo
would have remained vacant homeward bound.
When the Japanese were airing their aspirations at becoming the great
naval power they now are, I witnessed one of their virgin attempts at
navigating a warship under the control of British officers. Confident of
their ability, and fretting to show what they could do, they one day
insisted on landing their instructors and assuming temporary control of
the ship. The development was not long in coming. Away flew the ship,
in graceful circles round and round the bay, when suddenly a dashing
manœuvre beyond the comprehension of the most enlightened observer, and,
lo! she was steaming full speed for the shore. Within the hour she was
well wedged on a sandy bottom, and a tidal wave not long after having
considerately lifted her a few hundred yards higher up, the hull was
converted into an hotel, and for years gave ocular proof of Japan’s first
triumph in navigation. That was in the later sixties, when Togo was
still in the womb of futurity.
In those long-ago days, Yokohama had not attained its present respectable
civilisation; top hats were sought after as the daintiest of fashionable
attainments; every battered specimen on board fetched its weight in gold;
open baths for mixed bathing were to be met with in the public
thoroughfares; British regimental guards disarmed fanatics before
allowing them to enter the town; inlaid bronzes, miniature trees, and
genuine curios were procurable; massive Birmingham products had not
become an industry wherewith to catch the unwary; public crucifixions by
transfixing with bamboo stakes (such as I witnessed in the case of the
murder of a British officer) were still in full blast, and the sweetest
little girls were to be bought for domestic service, and sent to be dealt
with by the nearest magistrate on the breath of a suspicion of breach of
fidelity. To go a mile beyond the Treaty Port was to court certain
death, whilst to remain peacefully within the town and visit the various
day and night entertainments was as delightful an existence as the most
blasé reprobate could desire.