a signal lantern, and was going to play hell with the lieutenant of the
watch for having lanterns upon deck at that time of day—about half-past
two in the morning. The Crown being out of her station, he was going to
make the signal for an officer from that ship, and going to the office
to write the order he could not get in, the clerk having the key; which
put him into such a rage that he swore he would flog the clerk and those
that wrote under him. However, his rage abated and he did not make the
signal, it blowing very hard; but he would not suffer the clerk or his
under-scribes to show themselves in the office while his flag was
flying.
Culverhouse was at this time signal lieutenant and was not so quick in
getting up this unlucky morning as the admiral, although a very active
and able officer. The admiral, not seeing him, roared out to me (which
made me jump a foot off the deck) ‘Where’s that little son of a bitch?
Go down for him directly.’ Down I went to the gunroom where Culverhouse
slept, and told him the news. In great tribulation he instantly got up
and came upon deck, and kept some time behind the admiral thinking to
weather the storm; but the moment he got sight of him he sang out like a
lion, ‘Go on the poop and be damned to you. Why were you not out of your
nest before?’ I must here state that, notwithstanding this, the admiral
was a great friend to Lieutenant Culverhouse, and I have been told first
took notice of him from the following circumstance. When on board the
Victory, he was on the gangway with his glass, sitting on the weather
clue of the mainsail, when the main tack suddenly gave way and threw him
into the lee clue of the sail unhurt. He was an excellent signal
officer, a good sailor, an agreeable messmate, and in every respect a
very clever fellow. He was made a post captain, but was unfortunately
drowned at the Cape of Good Hope.[51] The admiral was like Sylla the
Dictator; that is, he would go any length to serve his friends, but was
the reverse to those he had a dislike to. He appeared to be well
acquainted with the character of most of the officers in the service;
his memory in that respect was astonishing. He was an able tactician,
and in every respect a great officer, with a look ‘that withered all the
host.’
He was a mortal foe to puppyism, and one of our midshipmen going aloft
with gloves on, attracted his eye; for which he got such a rub down that
I am certain he remembers to the present day, although he is a post
captain, and as proud as the devil, without any reason. Another of his
freaks was threatening to have a bowl put upon our heads and our hair
cut round in the newest fashion by that measure. He told one of our
midshipmen (Pringle) who was a very stout man and who happened to be in
his way when looking at the compass, ‘That he was too big for a
midshipman but would do very well as a scuttle butt,’ and, Pringle
having his hands in his pockets, he was going to send for the tailor to
sew them up. When he first came on board to muster, a little before we
sailed, everyone was dressed in full uniform to receive him. He took
notice of this, and with a smile (a lurking devil in it), complimented
us on our good looks, at the same time observing, ‘You knew who was
coming; but notwithstanding your looking so well, I think I can see a
little rust on you yet which I shall endeavour to rub off.’[52]
Our captain was as gruff as the devil, and had a voice like a mastiff
whose growling would be heard superior to the storm. He was very
particular respecting dress as the following order will shew:—
_Memo._:—
If any officer shall so far forget himself as to appear when on
shore without his uniform, I shall regard it as a mark of his
being ashamed of his profession and discharge him from the ship
accordingly.
(Signed) CHARLES THOMPSON,
Captain.
He had very near caught some of us in Middle Street, Gosport, but
fortunately an alley was at no great distance through which we made a
hasty but safe retreat, and by that means prevented a few vacancies for
midshipmen taking place in the Edgar.
And now according to promise let me speak a few words about my old
mastheading friend, Lieutenant John Stiles. When the guard-ships went
out for a cruise to blow the dust off the harbour duty men, their
complement was made up of men and officers from those ships that
remained in port. It happened that my aforesaid friend was sent on board
of us. Now it so turned out that he had not so much to say on board the
old Edgar as he had when on board the Salisbury (of cruel memory). In
the latter ship he had lambs to look after; in the Edgar he had devils
to look after him. In working ship this gentleman was stationed on the
forecastle, and got the nickname from the admiral of ‘Knight of the
Belfry,’[53] because he always planted himself there when the hands were
turned up; and from being in such a conspicuous situation, when things
went slack—which was sometimes the case— the admiral, who had an eye
like a hawk, would damn him up in heaps, and the captain, as an able
assistant, would run forward like a bull-dog, and roar out the second
part of the same tune. I was also stationed on the forecastle, and when
those freaks were going on, I used to look at my old mastheading friend
and grin, and he knew damned well what I was grinning at, as the good
old times could not be forgotten. And now, John, I am done with you.
I subscribed to a concert in Gosport and one evening I went with a
messmate (the late Captain Philpot) and some girls who I gave tickets
to; we did not break up until 12 o’clock and then went on board. It
happened unfortunately to be our middle watch, and the rest of the watch
being on shore we relieved the deck; but, being tired and sleepy, we
thought it no harm to go to our hammocks instead of keeping a vile
watch; so, singing the old song:
I hate this damned watching and trudging the deck;
The most we can get, boys, at best is a check;
Sit still then, and let the lieutenants all rail,
We’ll ride out the breeze—says Commodore Gale—
we thought ourselves perfectly secure; and so we should have been, had
not a quarrel taken place between two of the quartermasters’ wives, for
which one of them was turned out of the ship; but in revenge she accused
the other of smuggling four tubs of liquor into the ship, stating the
time to the first lieutenant. Now as ill luck would have it, it proved
to be on the concert night, or rather the morning, when the transaction
took place. He then made his report to the captain, who sent for us and
with a ferocious aspect demanded the reason of our leaving the deck. We
could give none, only Philpot said, ‘The concert, sir.’ ‘The concert,
sir?’ retorted the captain; ‘What had the concert to do with liquor
getting into the ship, and officers sleeping in their watch? I have a
great mind to try you both by a court martial;’ and turning to the first
lieutenant he said, ‘Mr. Yetts, let them be prisoners for three
months’—or, in other words, not to be suffered to leave the ship, even
upon duty, during that time.
Our first lieutenant (Yetts) was a very droll and strange personage, in
dress as well as in manners. When he commissioned the Edgar he had on a
uniform coat made in days of yore, with sleeves that reached to his
hips, a very low collar, huge white lappels and cuffs, the buttons
behind at a good fighting distance, and the skirts and pockets of
enormous size. A red waistcoat, nankin breeches, and black worsted
stockings, with great yellow buckles on round-toed shoes, a hat that had
been cocked, but cut round, with a very low crown, so that he was
obliged to keep his hand to his head to prevent its blowing off in the
lightest breeze. When he came on board in this costume, the warrant
officers thought he had made his escape from a madhouse; and Grey, the
gunner, swore he was an understrapper from Bedlam that was come to take
Johnny Bone the boatswain (at that time half mad from drunkenness) to
the lunatic hospital. When this was told Johnny it brought him to his
reason, and in great tribulation he locked himself up in his storeroom
and remained there the most of the day, to the great amusement of
everyone on board.
This Johnny Bone was a devil of a fellow at Cap-a-bar,[54] and would
stick at nothing. It is related that the late Lord Duncan, when he
commanded the Edgar, once said to him, ‘Whatever you do, Mr. Bone, I
hope and trust you will not take the anchors from the bows.’
But to return to Lieutenant Yetts; he was a very active old man;
extremely passionate, and swore as well as his brother officers of the
present day; an excellent sailor, and though violent at times, would
hurt no one. He was also well read in ancient and modern history. In
asking him leave to go on shore, his answer was (if out of temper), ‘No;
damn my brains if you shall go.’ It happened one night when he went on
shore that Jack Kiel (one of the midshipmen) and myself took the
opportunity and set off on a cruise in the long boat’s punt (small
boat), and landed on Gosport beach; and having secured the boat, we took
a stroll up Middle Street, when who should pop upon us but old Yetts,
who, we thought, had gone to Portsmouth. We took to our heels and he
called after us, but was not certain (so it appeared) to our persons.
We, without loss of time, got on board and went to our hammocks. The
moment he returned, down came the quartermaster to acquaint us that Mr.
Yetts wished to see us. When we came upon deck he addressed us with ‘——,
Mr. Kiel and Mr. Gardner, who gave you leave to go on shore? and why did
you not come when I called you?’ We brazened it out that we had not been
on shore and had gone to our hammocks a considerable time, and that he
must have mistaken somebody else for us. This seemed to stagger him, but
he swore, ‘damn his brains, but it must be us.’ He then made inquiry of
the midshipmen of the watch, but we had taken devilish good care not to
come up the side but crept in through the gunroom port, so that they
could give him no information. By these means we weathered him; but for
more than a week after, whenever he saw us on deck, he greeted us with,
‘Damn my brains, but it was you.’
There was a song at this time by Storace[55]—it began as follows:
I left the country and my friends
To play on my little guitar;
It goes tang-tang-tang,
It goes tang-tang-tang,
It goes tang-tang-tang,
It goes ta— etc.
One of our midshipmen (Vosper) altered this, and used to sing with a
thundering voice the following burlesque to the same tune.
The other day I asked old Yetts
For leave to go on shore;
He said no, no, you shall not go,
He said no, no, no, he said no,
He said no no, you shall not go,
By Christ, you shall not go, etc.
I had nearly got into a second scrape about the confounded middle watch.
My friend Jack Kiel and myself relieved the deck at 12. The rest of the
watch were absent as before. The night was as dark as pitch, and blowing
and raining most furiously, when about five bells we got rather hungry
and went to our berth in the cockpit to stew beef steaks. This was done
by lighting several pieces of candle in the bottom of a lantern, and
sticking forks (not silver ones) in the table round it with a plate
resting on them over the candles (the head of the lantern being off),
which stewed the steaks remarkably well. We had scarcely finished when
old Davy Jacks, the quartermaster, came hobbling down the cockpit ladder
to inform us that the Endymion was going out of harbour, and had made
the signal for assistance (we had then the command). ‘Why, Davy,’ says
Kiel, ‘you must be mad to think of such a thing. Is that all the news
you have?’ ‘Nothing more, sir,’ says Davy; ‘only Mr. Yetts wants you.’
This was the unkindest cut of all. Away we flew upon deck, saw how
things were, and went into the wardroom to answer the bell for the
officer of the watch, and found the old man nearly dressed. ‘J—— ——,’
say he, ‘What’s the matter? and why did you not come when I rung
before?’ I told him we were looking out on the Endymion, who had broke
from her moorings and had made the signal, and that I was just coming to
acquaint him of the circumstance. This satisfied him, and we took good
care never to be off deck again.
The Phaëton, 38, having arrived from the Mediterranean and a court
martial ordered on her captain (Geo. Dawson), and also on Messrs. Wall
and Lucas, the first and second lieutenants, and likewise on a man by
the name of Wilkie, her master—Rear-Admiral J. Peyton hoisted his flag
(white at the mizen) on board of us as president of the court. The
lieutenants were tried the first, and sentenced to be dismissed from
their ship; and then the above-named Wilkie, as prosecutor, exhibited
fifteen charges against Captain Dawson. The trial lasted several days,
when twelve of the charges and part of another were brought in
Scandalous, Malicious, Ill-founded, and Derogatory to the discipline of
his Majesty’s Service; but two of the charges and part of another being
proved, he was dismissed from his Majesty’s Service.
Captain Dawson then tried Wilkie on four charges; part of which being
proved, he was sentenced to be dismissed from his ship—a sad punishment,
she being paid off the next day. The surgeon (Wardrope) had been tried
before the ship arrived and was a long time under sentence of death.[56]
Captain Dawson was an officer who had greatly distinguished himself in
the American War when he commanded the Hope [schooner]. He was captain
of the Renown, 50, when she engaged and would have taken a French
84,[57] one of the Count D’Estaing’s fleet, had she not been rescued by
some of the enemy’s ships coming to her assistance. This trial
occasioned a great party spirit among the midshipmen, some siding with
Wilkie the prosecutor, and others with Captain Dawson. I was for the
latter, because I thought there was malice prepense in the prosecution.
I hated the basilisk look of Wilkie, and wished him at the devil. A
violent altercation taking place upon this subject, my old messmate
Philpot, a strong adherent to the house of Wilkie, in the moment of
irritation threw a black jack full of beer in my face; for which
compliment I instantly knocked him down, and after a hard battle in
which he got two black eyes, I came off conqueror. Things were going to
be carried farther, but a stop was put to it and we made it up.
Like all ships we had some droll hands, and with the exception of about
half a dozen, all good and worthy fellows. One or two of the half dozen
I shall mention, and begin with Geo. Wangford, who had been in the
Boreas, and was a follower of the captain. He was an immoderate drinker,
and from his fiery countenance had the nickname of Bardolph. While in
the Edgar his mother died and left him one thousand pounds. He lived
about six months after receiving the money in one scene of debauchery;
and with the assistance of a noted prostitute, named Poll Palmer, in
that short time made away with nearly five hundred pounds. I remember
his being taken ill after a hard drinking match, and then he got
religious and requested one of the midshipmen (Patrick Flood), another
strange fish, to read the Bible to him. This Patrick readily agreed to;
but before he got through a chapter pretended to have a violent pain in
his stomach, upon which Wangford requested him to take capillaire[58]
and brandy, and that he would join him, and desired that, in mixing, two
thirds should be brandy. Flood was immediately cured, and began to read
a chapter in Job; and when he came to that part, ‘Then Job answered and
said,’ Wangford started up and roared out—‘that I am going to hell
before the wind.’ I lay close by them and heard every word. He soon
after turned to upon Hollands, his favourite beverage, and thought no
more of Job or the Bible. Soon after he was sent to the hospital, where
he remained some time and died mad. A little before his death Pringle
(one of the midshipmen) went to see him, and while sitting on the foot
of his bed he started up and seized hold of Pringle by the hair singing
out, ‘—— —— ——, catch that bird’; the other calling out for the nurse to
assist him, which was of little use for he nearly broke her arm before
others came up to secure him. Several of us attended his funeral.
Our time passed cheerfully in the harbour; plenty of fun and going on
shore. One night several of us supped in the main hatchway berth on the
orlop deck, when old Andrew Macbride, the schoolmaster (a man of
splendid abilities but unfortunately given to drinking, though the
goodness of his heart made him much respected and did away in a great
measure with that infirmity) on this occasion got so drunk that Ned
Moore (my worthy messmate) handed him a couple of tumblers of the juice
of red pickled cabbage and told him it was brandy and water, which he
drank without taking the least notice. I believe it did him good as an
aperient, for he was cruising about all night and next day, and could
not imagine what it was that affected him so.
One of our midshipmen (Millar), as worthy a fellow as ever lived, told
me the following anecdote of himself and Macbride. On his joining the
Hector, 74, a guard-ship in Portsmouth Harbour, Morgan, the first
lieutenant, came up to him and said, ‘Millar, my boy, how glad I am to
see you. You must dine with me to-day.’ Millar, who had never seen him
before, thought it rather queer that he should be so friendly at first
sight; however, he accepted the invitation. When dinner was over, Morgan
declared that he was under a great obligation to him and that he should
at all times be happy to acknowledge it. Poor Millar said he was really
at a loss to understand him. ‘Well then,’ says Morgan, ‘I’ll tell you.
It is this. I was considered the ugliest son of a bitch in the fleet
before you came on board, but you beat me dead hollow, and surely you
cannot wonder at my being sensible of the obligation.’ Millar laughed
heartily, and they were ever after on the best terms. It happened in
about three months after this, Macbride also joined the Hector. The
moment he came on board, down came the quartermaster to Millar saying
that Lieutenant Morgan wanted to see him immediately. As soon as Millar
came on the quarter deck, Morgan went up to him and wished him joy; and
pointing to Macbride observed, ‘You, Millar, are a happy dog for being
relieved so soon. I was considered the ugliest son of a bitch in the
fleet for more than a year; you then came on board and outdid me; but
there stands one that beggars all description, and if they were to rake
hell they could not find his fellow.’ Then going and shaking Macbride by
the hand, asked him and Millar to dine with him that day to celebrate
the happy relief.
Poor Andrew once made a vow that he would not get drunk, and said that
not only the taste but the smell of the liquor was so disagreeable that
he could not bear to stay where it was. He also gave Watson, the
boatswain, leave to thrash him with his cane if ever he found him drunk.
Poor fellow, he kept his promise for about three months, and then turned
to as bad as ever, and Watson did not forget to give him a lacing with
his cane, which occasioned the following song written by John Macredie:—
Of all the delights that a mortal can taste,
A bottle of liquor is surely the best;
Possessed of that treasure my hours sweetly glide,
Oh! there’s nothing like grog, says sweet Andrew Macbride.
When I sit in my school I think my time lost
Where with dry sines and tangents my temper is crossed;
But how sweetly I smile with the glass by my side:
Grog helps mathematics, says Andrew Macbride.
The boatswain, God damn him, would fain me control
With a promise when sober I made like a fool;
With his cursed rattan he so curried my hide,
That I’ll drink his damnation, says Andrew Macbride.
When the sweet powers of grog have my reason betrayed,
And free from sad care on the deck I am laid,
Then the boys black my face, and my actions deride;
The whelps may be damned, says Andrew Macbride.
From the raptures of grog shall a sage be controlled,
And a man like myself submit to be schooled?
If I’m drunk, the lieutenant and captain may chide;
But I’ll drink till I die, says sweet Andrew Macbride.
When I said the smell hurt me, the fools did believe;
Och hone! my dear friends, I did you deceive;
When the taste or smell hurts me, may hell open wide,
And I, damned there with water to drink, says Macbride.
Nothing disrespectful was intended by this song. Every officer in the
ship was a friend to poor Andrew, and Macredie would have been one of
the first to resent an insult offered to him. It is a strange
coincidence that on the day we were paid off, I saw Macbride sitting on
the taffrail reading Ossian’s poems, and looking at a fine engraving of
the Spirit of Crugal.[59] Twelve years after in Port Royal Harbour,
Jamaica, I went to answer the signal for lieutenant on board the
Leviathan, 74 (I then belonged to the Brunswick), and going on the poop
to write the order, I saw a figure sitting on the taffrail, who I
thought I knew, in deep meditation. On going up to him I recognised my
old messmate Macbride, with the identical book and the engraving of the
Spirit of Crugal in his hand. The poor fellow was most happy to see me,
but how altered! He went back with me to dinner, and I gave him some
classical books that pleased him greatly. His bones are lying at the
Palisades. He was one of the first mathematicians in Europe; an
excellent writer in prose and verse, an able disputant, and possessed a
mind remarkable for the strictest integrity. ‘Tread lightly on his
ashes, ye men of genius, for he was your kinsman.’[60]
I must here say a word about poor unfortunate Patrick Flood. When first
I knew him in the American War, he was a fine officer-like looking
fellow; but when he joined the Edgar he was sadly reduced from long
illness in the West Indies; and from domestic troubles, and
disappointment at not getting promotion, grew regardless of himself and
reckless of his character. Cynical to a degree and used to caricature us
upon every occasion, I remember his making a very ludicrous drawing of
Macbride, representing him sitting on the deck with the boys blacking
his face and a bottle and a glass alongside of him; and [underneath it,
some scurrilous verses, which Macbride answered with others still more
indecent].
When the Edgar was paid off, Captain A. J. P. Molloy[61] was appointed
to the command of her, and Flood was continued as one of the midshipmen.
Having obtained leave to go to London to try and raise friends to get
his promotion, he succeeded in getting the promise from Lord Chatham;
but unfortunately having staid a short time above his leave, Captain
Molloy, in answer to Lord Chatham’s letter respecting him, cruelly said
he considered Mr. Flood in no other light than that of a deserter. This
was the ruin of poor Flood, who died in penury, but lived long enough to
witness the downfall of his enemy. And now let me mention my worthy
messmate John Macredie, a gentleman that did honour to society and one
that was highly respected by a numerous acquaintance. He had seen a
great deal of service and was on board the Hercules, 74, in Rodney’s
action on the 12th of April 1782. He was also on board the Princess
Royal, 98, and Pégase, 74, and then joined the Edgar, and was a messmate
of mine for three years, and again in the Barfleur for upwards of a
twelvemonth. He was an excellent scholar, being well acquainted with the
Greek and Latin, and was deeply read in ancient history and nearly equal
to Macbride in mathematics. The author of many plays that were never
printed, as he would not allow them to be sent to the press, although
strongly urged by those who were competent judges of their merit. He was
also a good poet and possessed undaunted courage, and was as generous as
he was brave. At the same time he was one of the most absent [minded]
men that can be imagined. I have known him when going to answer a signal
come on deck with one boot and one shoe on; and when sent below in
consequence, come up again with his black stock with the inside turned
out. One morning when alongside of the flagship, on stepping from the
boat to the accommodation ladder he dropped the order book overboard,
and in trying to get hold of it he let go his sword, which sunk in a
moment. I have also known him walk nearly two miles out of Gosport
before he recollected that he had only to go to his tailor’s, who lived
near the beach.