WAR WITH RUSSIA DECLARED
On the 14th of April, lying in this same bay, we suddenly saw a mass of
bunting flying on board the _Duke of Wellington_. The signal, indeed,
gave us great joy. It announced that “War was declared with Russia.” I
shall never forget officers and men all rushing on deck helter-skelter.
The blue-jackets were up the rigging in a jiffy, and cheer after cheer
echoed through the Fleet. I believe the actual date of the Declaration
was the 15th of March, just three weeks previously.
[Illustration: The signal flying for war, and Fleet cheering.]
I shall not attempt to describe what are now well-known matters of
history,--the events during the summer of 1854;--nor shall I speak of
the do-nothing policy, which (with the exceptions of the storming and
taking of Bomarsund, the destruction of grain stores in the Gulf of
Bothnia, occasional scrimmages for fortified posts, and the hemming
in of the Russian Fleet at Kronstadt) kept us inactive. Our chief,
though a gallant man, did not seem to be gifted with much enterprise
(possibly he was hampered by orders from home); but I do know that we
all longed for some active service, and wished that the Russian ships
would come out from under their batteries and give us a fair chance. We
used to see them loosing their sails at their anchorage, and many were
the surmises as to whether they intended to “sheet home” or only let
them fall off the yards to dry.
They were, I think, nearly all sailing ships; though they had
paddle-wheel steamers that occasionally would make a dash out at some
yacht that had come out to see the fun, and had got in too close to the
batteries. I fancy we must have felt as Nelson felt when blockading
Toulon,--longing for his enemies to come out. But, after all, why
should an enemy be expected to give battle with hopeless odds against
him? Perhaps, on the other hand, the Russians wondered why we did not
attack their forts. The explanation is that the channels were narrow,
and what they called in those days “infernal machines” were supposed to
have been laid down in those channels to obstruct the passage of our
ships.
There were some pretty sights to be seen during that summer’s campaign.
The two that struck my juvenile eyes most were the sailing of our huge
Fleet through the Great Belt and the first meeting with the French
Fleet. In the former case, imagine one long row of nearly twenty
line-of-battle ships, several frigates, and a few sloops, tearing
through the Belt, with a strong fair wind (there is a very clever
picture of this scene drawn by Brierly, a famous marine artist of those
days), the _Duke of Wellington_ leading under close-reefed topsails,
and some of the slower sailers carrying a press of canvas to enable
them to keep their stations. It was amusing how we middies used to
compare notes as to our respective sailing qualities, and argue, till
we nearly came to blows, over details as to how one ship could spare
another an extra reef in a topsail or a top-gallant sail, or the lee
clew of a mainsail, as the case might be.
And what a lovely sight a line-of-battle ship was, under all plain
sail--and still more lovely, to my mind, a handsome 50-gun frigate!
Yes: one sometimes longs to see such sights again. One of the prettiest
manœuvres I ever heard of in my time was done by the old _Arethusa_, a
50-gun sailing frigate. She attacked a fort off Odessa, in the Black
Sea. Sailing in, she fired first one broadside; in tacking, she fired
her bow guns; then she hove about, and fired her other broadside; wore
round, and fired her stern guns. I do not know how many times this
manœuvre was repeated; but it was a fine display of handling.
The second incident to which I have alluded was our meeting the French
Fleet for the first time. They were under sail, and remained hove to,
with their main topsail to the mast, as we, the English Fleet, steamed
in one long line across their bows. We hoisted the French Tricolour
at the main, and they, to return the compliment, hoisted the English
Ensign, while the bands played the National Anthem as we passed. It
was a beautiful calm day, and the sight glorious. Yes: here we were,
allies, bent on the same cause near at hand, and past days obliterated
from memory. When at anchor together the two Fleets formed a most
imposing sight: forests of masts covering the seas, and at eight
o’clock, or when the colours were hoisted in the morning, the bands of
the Fleets playing each the other’s National Anthem.
_Apropos_ of bands: I shall never forget finding, while lying at anchor
in the pleasant little landlocked harbour of the Piræus, off Athens,
eight or ten vessels of different nationalities. At eight o’clock in
the morning, as the colours went up, all our respective bands played
one another’s National Anthem. The music was discordant. There was a
great deal of etiquette as to which anthem was to be played first.
Ultimately it was arranged that we should begin with the Hellenic air,
and that the others should follow according to seniority of the ships
present; but soon the discord became pronounced. It took the best part
of half-an-hour to complete the set.
While the Fleet was cruising off Hango (a fairly strong position of the
enemy’s) several of our paddle steamers were sent in to reconnoitre,
and soon became engaged with the forts. My Captain, Lord Clarence
Paget, could not stand a distant view of this engagement: so he ordered
his boat to be manned, and we pulled in the direction of the ships
engaged. We only had the satisfaction of gazing at some highly-elevated
shells that exploded far above our heads, though some of the fragments
fell into the water, unpleasantly near. The engagement ended in smoke,
though a few losses occurred on board the paddle steamers; and, to our
astonishment, the Fleet retired. I could not see the object of this
mild display.
The attack of Bomarsund, later, was a success. The authorities had
taken a considerable time to make up their mighty minds when to begin
the bombardment. There was an idea that we could not subdue the place
without troops. Thus, we waited long for the arrival of 10,000 French
troops, which were brought up the Baltic on board some obsolete old
3-deckers in tow of steamers. It took some doing to lay Bomarsund low.
We landed blue-jackets and marines, and heavy ordinance from the Fleet,
and threw up a few batteries on the flank of the largest fort; and on
a given day our smallest 2-deckers and paddle frigates were sent in
to demolish the place. The forts were blown sky-high, and the Russians
suffered heavily.
We fraternised with the French Fleet. Each ship in our squadron had
its own particular chum, and, besides exchange of dinners, many were
the orgies at night. The nights being very short, two, three, four in
the morning was not an unusual hour for boats, with lively occupants
returning to their respective ships, to pass to and fro.
The _Princess Royal_ always fraternised with the French liner, the
_Austerlitz_, a very fine screw 2-decker of 90 guns. I scarcely set
foot ashore during the cruise. Excepting at Led Sound (where we lay
waiting for the French troops), there was little opportunity of a run.
An immense deal of drill went on, and boat duty was constant. Thus
one’s education was entirely neglected: the Naval Instructor, the
midshipmen’s instructor, was voted a secondary consideration. Let me
refer to boat duty for a moment. Great excitement prevailed when the
mails arrived from England. All eyes were watching for the signal 768,
implying “Send boat for letters.” Then came a regular race, every boat
pulling its best to the flagship for mails and parcels; and, as it was
a case of First come first served, the slow-going boats had sometimes
to wait two or even three hours for their mails if, as was usual,
many ships were present. I have seen as many as thirty or forty boats
waiting alongside the _Duke of Wellington_.
Soon after the fall of Bomarsund, the _Princess Royal_ was sent to
Revel, to join the sailing squadron then lying at anchor, or cruising
off that port; and after this, in October, my uncle, knowing that there
was little chance of my seeing any more active service (and as I was
not in very good health), took the opportunity of transferring me to
his old friend Harry Eyere’s ship, the _St. George_, a sailing 3-decker
of 120 guns.
The sailing squadron had received orders to leave for England: so in
October four beauties--the _Neptune_ (120 guns), the _St. George_
(120), the _Monarch_ (84), and the _Prince Regent_ (90)--made for
England; and a very interesting and instructive sail we had down the
North Sea. The second in command on board my ship was Paddy May, a very
fine seaman of the old school, a man whose name was much respected
in the Service. Everything was done quite in the old style; and thus
I can fairly claim the distinction of having belonged to the old
school--anyhow to the remains of it--as all the ships of this squadron
were _minus_ engines and boilers.
The _Monarch_ was far away the fastest ship, though in a breeze the
_Prince Regent_ held her pretty close. Off the island of Bornholm we
were caught in a fresh gale; and, the _St. George_ being a very crank
old craft, it was deemed advisable to send our upper-deck carronades
down into the hold. As we were short of water and provisions, the extra
weight of these guns below counteracted our want of ballast. A 3-decker
in a gale of wind was rather a curious being. Under close-reefed
topsails you could not lay her near enough the wind to enable her to
meet the seas comfortably. The effect of the wind on her huge sides
was to drive her bodily and very fast to leeward: in fact, you simply
drifted.
It was pleasant to watch these ships speeding gaily on their course
for England. We carried on when the weather permitted. The _Monarch_
was generally in the van, showing us a high turn of speed. At sunset,
or soon after, we collected and sailed in two lines; and, as was
customary, took in a reef or two of the topsails, to make all snug for
the night. When daylight broke every stitch was set again.
On arrival in England we anchored at Spithead. My father was soon on
board to greet me. He asked permission for me to land with him. Being
virtually invalided, I was allowed to pack up my “traps” and accompany
him ashore. I can so well remember telling him that I had not had a
real good wash for weeks, and that before I was taken to my mother,
who was then residing at Ryde, he must purchase me a clean shirt, as
I was ashamed of appearing in a crumpled garment washed in salt water,
and not even ironed or starched. Forthwith we went to a public bath,
and six new shirts were bought from the nearest establishment to make
me presentable to my mother, as I could not bear the idea of her not
seeing me at my best.
Thus ended my share in the Baltic Campaign. I was much disappointed
at having seen so little active service. Both officers and men shared
that feeling. Sir Harry Keppel and my Captain were always urging the
Commander-in-Chief to do something. The campaign seemed to have been
conducted in a half-hearted manner; but memorable signals were sent
up. One in particular caused feeling: “Sharpen your cutlasses, lads.
The day is our own.” This was made about sunset. Goodness knows what
we were to have a try at on the morrow. All we do know is that nothing
came of it; and it looked rather peculiar. I fancy that our Chief was
much hampered by the Government of the day. Perhaps he thought it would
be very hazardous to attack strongly fortified positions, such as
Kronstadt and Sveaborg, with little chance of doing much damage, or of
compelling the Russian Fleet to come out. Thus all our time was devoted
to a strict blockade: a slow game at the best of times.