SOME DISTINGUISHED SAILORS
Within a month of the letter from Captain Keppel to my father, I was
appointed to the _Raleigh_, sailing frigate of 50 guns, then fitting
out for the East Indies and China stations. I recall vividly the honour
I felt at the idea of serving under that Captain. I had been thrown in
with him all through the Baltic and the Crimean campaigns. I did not
serve in the Naval Brigade ashore; but he was the constant companion
of my uncle when opportunities offered, and in that way I saw a deal
of him. Throughout the war Captain Keppel and Lord Clarence Paget were
always putting their heads together, trying to infuse more spirit
into what was done. Well do I recollect overhearing their remarks,
especially those in reference to the Baltic Do-Nothing Policy--how it
affronted these enterprising minds! Keppel was full of dash and fire,
though always blessed with an iron nerve. His was not a nature that
ever contemplated failure. I had plenty of opportunities of finding
this out. I was not destined to serve long under his command; but I
learnt to admire his love for the Service. I have heard it said that he
did not study the possibilities of risk enough: that at times he was
too adventurous. Where and when did he fail? Let us leave well alone.
He was the most genial of men, with the kindest of hearts. A great
disciplinarian he was not. Still, in a service like the Navy you are
as much in need of a character like Keppel as you are of a Sir William
Martin. Both are admirable in their different ways. In the one case
you train a man to perfect discipline; in the other you make use of
that discipline and steadiness when the moment of dash is required.
One man may shine in one particular sphere; another shines elsewhere;
and both may be invaluable officers. I have known Captains who (either
from their own peculiar natures, or perhaps from having been so trained
in their younger days) apparently thought it absolutely wrong to hold
friendly intercourse with their subordinates on board ship: they could
not bear the idea of a friendly Good-morning, and seemed glued to the
notion that all discipline was at an end if the symptom of a joke
appeared. Talking of a friendly Good-morning puts me in mind of what
occurred between a young lieutenant just joined and an officer I knew
very well, who, though a most pleasant man off duty, had very strong
opinions as to the sanctity of being on duty: he carried them to such
an extent that he would not even shake hands with any Captain of his
own standing who might happen to call on board his ship. The young
lieutenant was keeping the morning watch for the first time, and at
about 7.30 A.M. the Commander of the ship came up on the poop before
the morning evolution of crossing yards and so on. As he approached
the lieutenant the latter said, “Good-morning, sir.” To that no answer
was given. Thinking that the Commander had not heard his salutation,
the lieutenant repeated it. Thereupon the Commander turned round and
asked, “What is that you say?” The lieutenant answered, “Oh! I was
only saying Good-morning to you, sir.” “Oh! were you? I will tell you,
once for all, there is no Good-morning here, sir. It’s all work.” What
the young lieutenant thought I must leave to my readers to imagine.
The whole episode was so characteristic of the Commander that when I
heard the story I would have laid a thousand to one that I knew the
man; and a finer officer or more agreeable man in any other capacity
it was hard to find. Of course, you soon learnt to fear and respect
such an officer; but if he were not a splendid professional man, and
withal a gentleman, his figure of merit did not always shine in the
Service. It is a singular fact that no body of men are so alive as
the blue-jackets as to what constitutes gentlemanly bearing, or the
combination of officer and gentleman. They know well enough the good
tone it produces in a man-of-war, and they overlook many a rebuff and
many a failing on the part of a gentleman. I have never in my career
in the Navy seen or heard of anything more approaching perfection
than the once famous _Marlborough_, flagship, in the Mediterranean,
flying the flag of Sir William Martin, who had Sir Houston Stewart as
his Flag-Captain and the late Sir Thomas Brandreth as Commander. Here
were officers of remarkable qualities. Here was a ship the very home
of discipline. All on board were happy and contented. In fact, she
was what was termed a “happy ship.” The officers were sportsmen and
cricketers: off-duty was one thing, and on-duty another. I must quote a
little episode that added to my admiration for that ship.
I was serving as second lieutenant in a despatch boat, the _Foxhound_,
in the Mediterranean, commanded by the Honourable A. C. Hobart,
afterwards Hobart Pasha, who served in the Turkish Navy for some years.
The Commander-in-Chief had been for some three or four days inspecting
my ship, and we had arrived at the last subject of inspection--the
boats manned and armed. I was ordered to take all our boats alongside
the flagship, to be examined in detail. No sooner was I alongside than
Captain Stewart came down the accommodation ladder to confer about my
boats. Just at that moment the pipe went on board the _Marlborough_
to cross royal yards and loose sails. The ship had been refitting;
her topmasts were struck; the yards were down and across the hammock
nettings. Thus, as all sailors will understand, the evolution about to
be performed was a very big business. No sooner was the pipe given than
1300 men forming the crew were rushing to their stations up ladders and
hatchways; and, beyond the pit-a-pat of feet, not a sound was to be
heard. Stewart, bored to death at having to inspect my boats at that
moment, instead of being at his post on the poop, said to me, by way of
consolation, “Montagu, can you hear a pin drop?” He meant to indicate
how proud he felt that his 1300 men were rushing to their stations in
perfect silence. “Well, sir,” I answered, “it’s a remarkable sign of
the order of your ship that not a sound is to be heard.” “Yes, Montagu:
this is the ship you ought to be in,” he said. Beyond an occasional
order from the Commander aft, or from the first lieutenant forward, no
human voice, as a rule, was heard; and most of the orders were carried
out by flag-signals. If any voice was heard, or the slightest confusion
arose on any part of the deck, or aloft, the bugle immediately sounded
the “Still”; and not a soul moved. It was curious to see the strange
positions of arms and legs at such moments. I believe that the bugle
on deck was first used in the _Marlborough_; and, to my mind, it did
heighten immensely the discipline of a ship’s company. If a dilemma
occurred, the bugle was sounded; and the men were so trained to it that
all orders could be spoken quietly, steadying everything on the spot.
I need not say that my inspection ended soon. Captain Stewart glanced
into the boats, and, not being able to resist the temptation to go on
to his poop, whispered to me, “Go back to your ship: your boats are all
correct.”
On being appointed to the _Raleigh_, Keppel was given the rank of
Commodore, as second in command of the China station, our destination.
Consequently, we flew a blue broad pennant at the fore; and I was very
proud of this, as, on joining, I was made his signal midshipman. The
other midshipmen in command of boats very soon had the blue burgee
painted on the bows of their craft.
Keppel, I believe, chose all his officers himself; a better lot never
set foot on board ship; and there was every prospect of a long and
happy commission. _Mais l’homme propose, et Dieu dispose._ We were
ready for sea about the middle of October 1856, and sailed out of
Portsmouth Harbour with studding-sails set. Tugs were handy; but Keppel
disdained the use of them, much to the Port Admiral’s discomfort. We,
most of us, had a goodly number of relations on board: in fact, the
ship was crowded with sight-seers, some of whom even went up into the
tops. I do not know for certain, but it is said that the _Raleigh_
was the last sailing frigate that left the harbour under canvas. We
left Spithead on the 26th of October 1856, and, after a dead beat down
Channel, called in at Plymouth for final orders. Here we dispatched
our last letters home. Mine was my last from English shores to my
mother. From Plymouth we shaped course to Madeira, and took ten days
on the passage, meeting with strong contrary winds the latter part of
the time. How strange is the difference of being in ship and making a
passage from port to port with the use of sail power alone--no steam to
fall back on in case of emergency! And how much more interesting, and
even exciting, it was on entering and leaving a port, particularly if
your ship was well manœuvred, while you were threading your way into
some difficult harbour full of shipping to pick up a snug berth among
the crowd! At sea one is constantly on the look-out for the weather
(change of wind and so forth), taking advantage of every opportunity
to get on by crowding a press of sail on the ship when opportunity
offers. Sailing in and out of harbour required a deal of judgment and
prompt decision: any one having two minds at a critical juncture would
be bound to come to grief. In the Mediterranean in later years I had
command of a wooden sloop. We had engines and boilers. They were seldom
used save in some duty requiring despatch; but I enjoyed running into
(or even beating in and out of) the small harbour of the Piræus, and
it was wonderful how the ship’s company worked on such occasions, all
knowing perfectly well the absolute necessity of flying to their ropes
as occasion required.
A run ashore at Madeira was very pleasant. There, for the first time,
I saw tropical vegetation. Of course, we rattled about in our sleighs,
and enjoyed the well-known trips up the mountains. The Commodore
had intended visiting Rio on the way to the Cape, but, owing to our
having been retarded when making Madeira, had to give up that plan.
From Madeira we stood away for the coast of South America, until we
reached a latitude and longitude putting us 100 miles or so off the
coast of Pernambuco; and then, steering south for ten or twelve days,
we struck into strong westerly winds, which carried us across to the
Cape, preserving, approximately, the same latitude right across the
ocean. In spite of the long detour, our passage to the Cape lasted
only twenty-eight days; which, at that time, was considered a record
for a sailing ship. We had a fair wind all the way, and were not
much delayed while crossing the line. Keppel was good at carrying
on, and not a man to lose a minute on a passage. We carried away a
goodly number of spars before we got to the Cape, and before we got
to China we had not a spare spar left. Spare top-gallant masts were
requisitioned, and our “sweeps” were cut up for studding-sail-booms
and yards. Sweeps were huge oars, to be worked out of a main-deck port
during calms; but I do not suppose that they would have been of much
help in propelling a 50-gun frigate.
Our best run in the twenty-four hours between South America and the
Cape was 296 knots. For six days we averaged 275 miles a day--no great
speed in the present day, but considered a very high rate for a sailing
frigate forty years ago.