From Lower Deck to Pulpit

E-text prepared by David Scott, the author's great-grandson
Transcriber's note:
Unusual spelling and punctuation has been transcribed as in the original book.
The reader will encounter (V12) at various places in the text. Its meaning is inapparent, but it appears in the original book and was not changed.
With Portrait and Illustrations
London S.W. Partridge & Co. 8 and 9 Paternoster Row 1902
Preface
This little book is not written on my own initiative. I have not so much as given a hint of my 'naval days,' either from the pulpit or in conversation. But my friends have condemned me for being so reserved about the matter, and for a long time have, with persistent entreaties, been urging me to tell the story of my life. That they may now be satisfied, and that I may be left quiet, and, above all, that it may prove a blessing to all who read it, is the sincere desire of
Contents
Kingsand, though but a village in size, has a history of its own. Situated about five miles from Plymouth, on the Cornish coast, and being a fishing port, the inhabitants are on intimate terms with the sea. In the summer months one may observe many an indication of this relationship or intimacy'. Youngsters run about the beach and the village barefooted, most of them wearing the orthodox blue jersey, whilst young women, and even older ones, love to sit on the rocks near the sea and work away with their sewing or knitting, and, I must not forget to add, with their tongues also. Strange and startling are the stories one may hear which have been handed down from one generation to another concerning the smuggling days of long, long ago—and yet not so long ago, for even at this time of day my mother often narrates hair breadth escapes of smugglers which happened in her girlhood. In this village I was born on the 9th of April 1874. In visiting Kingsand from time to time, I have often stood and gazed at the old house in which I was born—not that any recollections in connection with it survive in my memory, for when I was only five weeks old, my father, who was in the navy, received an appointment as a gunnery instructor in the Royal Naval Reserve battery in the far north.