HIND, 28
After being sworn in at the admiralty,[[115]] I left London to join the Hind, 28, Captain Richard Lee, at Sheerness, in January 1795. The Medway and Thames being frozen over, there was no communication with the men of war.[[116]] I proceeded on my journey by coach as far as Sittingbourne, and then walked most of the way through deep snow to the King’s ferry, which was also frozen over. At this time my health was very bad, and coming from a fine climate to one noted for gloomy skies, fog, rain, bitter cold and everything else that was damnable, I had nearly sunk under it, and I have to acknowledge how much I was obliged to Mr. Poulden, an officer in the navy, and brother to Captain Poulden,[[117]] R.N., for his kind attention. He was a fellow traveller going also to join his ship at Sheerness. The snow was several feet deep, and the cold dreadful, and it was with the greatest difficulty and fatigue that we reached the public-house near the ferry without being frost-bitten.
You who are not too young (for it’s difficult now to find an old person), must remember the cruel winter the latter end of 1794 and beginning of 1795.[[118]] To my surprise I met at the public-house an old messmate of mine (a Mr. Simmonds) formerly of the Panther, and going also to join his ship. We were half-starved and waited a considerable time for our host to bring in the dinner, which he did at last. To our horror and amazement, it consisted of a leg of pork of enormous size, without a bit of lean, and coarse white cabbage boiled with it, and as greasy as the devil. I shall never forget the consternation we were in; nothing else could be had, and what made it more vexatious was the praises the great fat fool of a John Bull landlord was passing on it. We were obliged to swallow this greasy morsel from downright hunger, and from its rancid taste in danger of cholera morbus.
The passage being frozen, we had no other resource than to cross the ice on foot, which we did at great hazard, it cracking and bending all the way. I had a small portmanteau, for which I paid a soldier to carry, as he was going the same way; but when we had crossed, his heart failed him and he refused to follow (for we passed over one by one), and it was a long time before we could prevail on him to make the attempt; but by promising him a shilling or two more he took courage until he got half way over, when he imagined the ice was giving way, and there he stood panic-struck. We really felt for the poor fellow, but at last he made a desperate effort and got safe over though dreadfully frightened. After a dismal walk we got to Sheerness, emphatically styled by the late Captain Gunter, R.N., ‘the —— hole of the world.’
I found Captain Lee in lodgings; he seemed much surprised at seeing me as he had no communication with the admiralty for a long time. He seemed astonished at my walking across the ferry, which he considered a very hazardous undertaking. After waiting a few days we forced a passage through the ice and got on board and soon after, followed his worship, old Stamp, the Mayor of Queenborough, as pilot, and well known as a most respectable boroughmonger of large property and powerful interest, and would be a pilot merely because he liked it. We soon got under way, and in a few hours anchored in the Downs, where we found the Leopard, 50 (the flagship), and several men of war. We remained but a short time and then proceeded to Spithead with a convoy.
We were on this service up and down Channel, and to Ireland, for several months without anything material happening, until being off Waterford, after seeing the convoy safe, we saw a suspicious lugger, which we gave chase to and, after a run of forty leagues, had the good fortune to capture—the Speedwell, smuggling lugger, pierced for eighteen guns which she had thrown overboard, as we counted the carriages that were disposed of soon after the guns. Her cargo consisted of spirits, tobacco, tea, nankins, etc., with thirty-nine gigantic smugglers; one we supposed was killed, as her muster roll had forty. We pressed the crew and took the vessel to Belfast, where her cargo was sold. Captain Lee, who was a good calculator, offered the first lieutenant, Hickey, and myself £58 15s. apiece for our prize money, which after some consideration we accepted; but when the prize money was paid, the share of a lieutenant was only £50, so that he lost by the spec. £17 10s., besides losing with the marine officer. We kept the crew as part of our ship’s company, but they contrived to desert at different times with the exception of four.
I well remember while lying in Dublin Bay, and being at breakfast with Captain Lee, in course of conversation he observed that the four remaining smugglers were the best men in the ship and that he was very proud of them. He had hardly made the observation when the officer of the watch reported that the jolly boat was missing; the hands were immediately turned up to muster, when it was found that the four worthies had set off in the boat, when or where nobody could tell. The captain looked at us, and we at him, but no one could keep countenance. It could not be proved in whose watch the boat was taken. We found her at Dunleary, but never heard of the deserters.
While at Carrickfergus the assizes were held and we had an invitation to dine with the grand jury. We passed a very pleasant day; upwards of two hundred were present, and several excellent songs were sung by one of the counsellors, who was considered equal to Braham or Incledon.[[119]] Having proceeded to Plymouth with a convoy we remained some time in the Sound, when the Medusa, 50, Captain James Norman, arrived with the West India convoy, part of which had been captured by the enemy’s cruisers, and we were put under his orders to proceed with the convoy to the Downs.
It is well remembered by those who are not too young that the latter end of 1795 was a very tempestuous season, and it was a long time before an opportunity offered to sail; we once made the attempt and had nearly got on shore near the Mewstone. In working out, our main topsail yard was carried away in a squall, and we were obliged to anchor; but the gale increasing, the cable was cut, and we again anchored in the Sound. On November 3, the wind being favourable, the commodore made the signal to get under way, and we were ordered to lead up Channel. On the night of the 5th (it being light winds the whole of the time from our leaving the Sound), between Beachy Head and Dungeness it came on to blow a complete hurricane, with heavy rain at south; and on the morning of the 6th, it blew, if possible, harder, and our situation on a lee shore dreadfully alarming, in Rye Bay, with only storm staysails, which at last blew out of the bolt rope; the main topsail also split to pieces from the fourth reef, leaving not a wreck behind, and we expected the ship would upset under bare poles.
As second lieutenant, I was stationed on the forecastle, and seeing a light right ahead I pointed it out to Tim Coghlan, our master, who swore it was Dungeness light and that we were all lost; at the same time asking me for the key of the case, as he was going to step down for a lunch, being infernally hungry and thirsty. I asked Captain Lee, who was on deck all night—for he was an officer that never flinched, and where there was danger he was always to be seen cool and intrepid—to take some refreshment. ‘Why,’ says he, ‘I don’t know what to say about the eating part of the business, but I think we shall get plenty to drink, and that presently.’
Had the gale continued at south, nothing could have saved us. With a tremendous sea, and breakers at no great distance, there was no chance of reaching the Downs as we could not get round Dungeness; when in a dreadful squall of thunder, lightning, hail and rain, the wind shifted to north or NNW, which is off the land, and blew with the utmost violence. But towards daylight it got more moderate and we stood for the Downs, where we anchored with part of the convoy in a shattered condition, the remainder coming in soon after. Two of them were lost on the French coast when the wind shifted to the northward.
Captain Lee soon after left the ship, with the good wishes of every officer and man on board. He was a brave, generous, and meritorious officer, an excellent sailor and skilful pilot for the British, as well as Irish Channels, and well deserving of the honours he now enjoys. He was succeeded by Captain John Bazely, who was one of the best officers in the navy for skill, activity, and high sense of honour, well read, and possessing an excellent understanding, and his death will long be lamented as a loss to the service and to society.
November 19th, another tremendous gale came on at SSW, which lasted the whole of the day and most of the night. This was the gale that Admiral Christian’s[[120]] fleet suffered so much in. We expected every minute to part, and about the last quarter flood we began to drive; but before we could let go our sheet anchor she brought up. The Glebb, 74, the flagship of the Russian admiral (Henikoff) lying abreast of us, parted and brought up with her last anchor within half a mile of the Break. The Montagu, 74, under jury masts, from the westward, anchored in our wake,[[121]] and run her cable out to the clinch before she brought up. Had she parted, God knows what would have become of us, as it was the height of the gale, with thick weather, and nothing could have prevented her being on board of us, as all her sails were blown from the yards. Had the gale lasted much longer it would been of serious consequence to the ships in the Downs.
Sailed with a convoy to the westward, which service we were employed on, cruising occasionally in the Channel and Bay, for several months. In May 1796, coming into Plymouth Sound from a cruise, and blowing hard, we anchored astern of the Alfred, 74, who had driven without our being aware of it, so that we found ourselves in an awkward berth without room to moor. We then attempted to get under way, but the gale increasing from the SW, we were unable to weather Mount Batten and came to again. We soon after parted, and let go another anchor and brought up between two rocks in a perilous situation, with two anchors ahead; but fortunately it got more moderate, and, observing there was an undertow, so that when she pitched there appeared no strain upon the cables, we thought there was no occasion to cut away our masts; and our opinion was right, notwithstanding the wish of the knowing ones who came down by hundreds and chalked in large letters on the rocks—‘Cut away your masts.’ This was dictating with a vengeance by a set of vagabond landsmen, fellows that could rob a house easier than knot a rope yarn, and be damned to them. A lighter with an anchor and cable came out soon after; and the wind shifting, we got under way and anchored in a safe berth.
Sailed to the westward and cruised in the Bay, and on our return to the Sound received orders to proceed to Spithead and fit for foreign service, and about the latter end of August sailed with a small convoy for Quebec. Nothing particular happened until we got on the Banks of Newfoundland, when we fell in with a French squadron under Admiral Richery. It was in the forenoon watch, blowing very hard, the wind WNW with a heavy sea, under a close-reefed main topsail and foresail, when we observed a ship of the line to windward with her head to the SW, under the same sail. Made the private signal, which was not answered. Most of our convoy had parted company in the gale. Bore up and made sail. The enemy also bore up and made all sail in chase until sunset, when he gave over chase and hauled his wind to the northward. We hauled our wind also, and stood to the southward. Separated from the remainder of the convoy during the night, it blowing strong with thick weather. There was great exultation at our outsailing the enemy, and some on board were wishing to have another trial, and their wishes were not disappointed; for in three days after, about six in the morning, two line-of-battle ships were observed astern about two leagues off.
The private signal was made, but not answered. We were under close-reefed topsails and foresail, steering WSW, the wind NW. The enemy made sail and stood after us. We immediately let two reefs out of the topsails, set topgallant sails and hauled the main tack on board, with jib a third in[[122]] and spanker. It was neck or nothing, and those who wished for another chase looked rather glum and had not quite so good an opinion of our sailing on a wind as they had when before it. For my part I expected we should upset, and it was with uncommon alacrity in making and shortening sail between the squalls that we escaped upsetting or being taken. The enemy knew well what he was about, for he kept rather on our lee quarter with his fore topmast studding sail boom run out, and the sail ready for setting in case we had kept away. At one time his weather main topsail sheet gave way and he was only ten minutes in setting the sail again; his jib also split, which he unbent and had another set in twenty minutes, which did him great credit. Luckily for us the sea was nearly abeam; had we been on the other tack we must have been taken, as we should then have bowed[[123]] the sea. I remember heaving the log and she was going ten knots. But notwithstanding our good sailing the enemy gained on us fast, and we should have been captured for a certainty if the Frenchman had possessed more patience.
Festina lente, not too fast;
For haste, the proverb says, makes waste.
And so it happened; for a little before six, when he was within gunshot, the greedy fellow let another reef out of his topsails, and just as he had them hoisted, away went his fore yard, jib-boom, fore topmast and main topgallant mast. The other line-of-battle ship was hull down astern. The chase lasted twelve hours, during which time we ran near forty leagues. Shortened sail and wore ship, and as we passed to windward, we counted fifteen ports of a side on his lower deck.
Nothing further happened, except losing a poor fellow overboard in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, until we got to Quebec. The convoy also escaped and came in soon after; one of them was chased, but by fixing a pole on a tub with a lantern on the top, and steering another course in the night, escaped. We remained at Quebec until the latter end of November, and then sailed with a couple of fur ships for England under convoy. We left Quebec in the evening. I had the first watch, and I never shall forget the cold as long as I live.
Nothing remarkable happened until we got to the southward of Cape Clear, which bore north according to our dead reckoning, and if I remember correctly on the 23rd of December 1796, about eight in the evening we saw a squadron of men of war, one of them with a top light, standing to the northward, the wind about west, and at no great distance. We immediately hauled off to the southward, put out all our lights and hailed the two vessels under our charge to do the same. After standing to the southward some time, we altered our course and saw no more of them. The wind soon after shifted to the eastward and blew a heavy gale. Lost sight of our convoy and after buffeting about for some days we were obliged, for want of fuel, to put into Cork, where we found several men of war preparing to sail in consequence of the French being off Bantry Bay. All the carriages and horses that could be found were put in requisition to take the troops to that quarter, and when we had completed our stores and water we sailed with a squadron of frigates under Captain Jon. Faulknor to the southward in quest of the enemy, but they had left Bantry, where Lord Bridport was off with the grand fleet, who we joined with our squadron. I believe this was the time that General Grouchy with eight thousand men (before the arrival of our fleet) anchored in the bay; but from fear, or some other cause, thought it safer to set off than to land; and at Bantry, as well as at Waterloo, shewed great want of judgment.[[124]]
We were attached to the grand fleet as a repeating frigate; and in January 1797, we chased by signal and captured the French privateer La Favorite, of eight guns and sixty men, out but a short time from Brest and had taken nothing. After removing the chief part of the prisoners, I was put on board as prize master with two midshipmen and twelve men, with orders to stay by the fleet; but on examining her defects I found her in a very bad condition, upon which I separated from the fleet in the evening and stood for the Channel (being then in the Bay). We had nearly been run down by a three-decker—I believe the Prince George, commanded by the late Sir Joseph Yorke—in the rear of the fleet, and the night being as black as Erebus we had a narrow escape. Portsmouth being the place of rendezvous, we stood up Channel with the wind at SW the day after leaving the fleet, blowing a gale, under a close-reefed main topsail and foresail.
We had not an observation for several days before we parted from the grand fleet, and in running up Channel we got into Portland Race. I have been in many noted places, but this infernal race was worse than all, and I expected every moment we should founder. The privateer being deep-waisted, I ordered her ports to be knocked out so as to let the sea have a clear passage through; our hatches were battened down, but we were in danger of being washed overboard. The sea appeared like a pot boiling, and the spray beat over our topsail yards. Hauled off to the southward, and fortunately got safe out of one of the most damnable places I ever was in. The Frenchmen were in the utmost terror and cursed the hour they ever left Brest. By our account we were half way between the Start and Portland, which was very fair considering everything. During the night it fell calm and towards morning the wind freshened at SE with thick weather; at daylight, stood in and sounded fifteen fathoms near St. Alban’s Head, and, it clearing away, bore up and made sail for Plymouth. When near the Start we hoisted the union jack over the French at the gaff end; but the jack blowing away, and the halliards getting foul, we could not for some time haul down the French colours, which frightened a brig that was near, and a frigate coming from Torbay under jury masts fired (I believe) at us but at too great a distance to take effect. However, we got our colours to rights and I hailed the brig, who seemed very much alarmed until I informed him we came from the grand fleet, a prize to the Hind. In the evening we anchored in Cawsand Bay, and next morning I waited on Sir Richard King, the port admiral, who behaved in the kindest manner, and on my explaining my reasons for leaving the fleet he said I did what was very proper.
As no despatches had arrived, I was ordered by Sir Richard to write an account of what happened in the fleet from the day we joined Lord Bridport until I left with the prize, and also to give an account of our proceedings from the time we fell in with Richery’s squadron until our arrival at Cork. I was put into a room and desired to take my seat at a table with a quire of foolscap placed before me; and like a fool I looked, for it was a long time before I knew what to write, or how to begin. At last I took courage, and filled three or four sheets; bad grammar, no doubt. Sir Richard read the whole and said it would do very well—many thanks to him. He laughed heartily when I told him I got into Portland Race and what a panic the prisoners were in.
I had sent a pilot off to take the brig into Hamoaze and walked down with Sir Richard to Mutton Cove, as he wished to see her as she passed. He told me he was once put prize master when a lieutenant, on board of such another and had left the fleet as I had done and for the same reason. This made me easy and quieted my fears. Captain Bazely’s father was port admiral in the Downs, and I wrote to him stating our arrival and received an answer thanking me for the information respecting his son. We had not been long at Plymouth before the Hind left the fleet and put into Portsmouth, and not finding me there supposed we were lost, until Captain Bazely received a letter from his father saying he had heard from me, and that we were all well and safe at Plymouth, and in a few days I received the following letter from Captain Bazely:
Hind, Portsmouth, February 1797.
‘Gardner, my good fellow, I am truly happy to find you are in the land of the living, and that it was through necessity you put into Plymouth. We are ordered to Sheerness to dock, where I shall be devilish glad to see you; so get on board some vessel bound to the Downs with your party, and be sure to call on my father, who will be very glad to see you and will send some craft to take you to the Nore. We are all well.—Believe me to remain, with best wishes,
‘Yours most faithfully,
‘John Bazely, Junr.’
After clearing the prize and delivering her up to Mr. Hemmings, the master attendant at Plymouth and agent for Lord Bridport (who I have every reason to thank for his great civility while I remained in Hamoaze, in the many invitations I had to dine at his house, where he made a point to introduce me to the captains who visited there) I was put on board the Medusa, 50, commanded by my old messmate Jack Eaton, who was to take us as far as Portsmouth. On our arrival at Spithead we were put on board the Weasel, commanded by Captain Lewis, and sailed for the Nore, where we soon arrived and joined our ship at Sheerness, and I was well received by the captain and my messmates. Went into dock and when refitted proceeded to Portsmouth, where we remained but a short time and sailed with a convoy for Oporto. We had a very pleasant passage and took out Captain A. Ball on his way to join his ship, who left us off Oporto. On our return we recaptured a brig in the Bay of Biscay, and I was put on board as prize master; but from ill health I went back to my ship and the first lieutenant took charge of the prize in my room.
On our arrival at Spithead, the latter end of April 1797, we found the fleet in a high state of mutiny. We had orders to fit for foreign service, and I had directions to go with a party of seamen and marines to the dockyard for new cables and stores. The mutiny, which in some measure had been suppressed, broke out afresh on board the London, 98, Vice-Admiral Colpoys, and some of the mutineers were killed; but the officers were overpowered and the admiral’s flag struck by the scoundrels, and the bloody flag of defiance hoisted in its room. I went with my party to the yard in the morning and began to get off the stores, when a marine said he would not assist in rousing the cable into the lighter and advised the others to knock off; upon which I told him if he did not immediately take hold of the cable with the rest I would cut him down (which was my intention). This had the effect and he went to work with the others. When I got on board our men were in a state of mutiny, and every ship at Spithead and St. Helen’s the same. I had the first watch that night, and the master relieved me at twelve, and everything seemed quiet; but about three bells in the morning watch I was sent for by the captain, and on my coming on deck I found the ship’s company assembled there and the captain, in the most impressive manner, requesting them to return to their duty, but all to no purpose. Had we been the only ship, we should soon have driven the scoundrels to the devil; but as we were situated, surrounded by line-of-battle ships acting in the same disgraceful manner, it would have been of little use to resist. About six a paper was handed up to the captain with the following order in writing:—
‘It is the unanimous opinion of the ship’s company that Captain Bazely, Lieutenants Hickey and Gardner, Mr. White, the purser, and Messrs. Kinneer and Allen, midshipmen, are to quit the ship by 6, or violent measures will be taken to enforce the order.’
Soon after 6 the barge was manned and armed; every vagabond had a cutlass, and our trunks were handed in, with orders from the delegates not to carry them anywhere for us. I had a brace of pistols with a double charge which I put in my great-coat pockets in case I should want their assistance. It was blowing a gale of wind at NE when we left the ship, and near ten o’clock before we landed on Point beach; our things were handed out, and I desired the bowman and one or two more, who I knew to be great scoundrels, to take them to Turner’s (living on the beach, and only a step from the boat) shewing them at the same time my pistols and saying, ‘You understand me.’ They then most reluctantly took our things to the place I directed. This was all I wanted, as I heard some of the ringleaders say as we were quitting the ship ‘that if any of the boat’s crew assisted in taking our things to any place after landing they should be severely ducked on their return’; and they were as good as their word; for those fellows got a fine ducking the moment they got on board, the others having reported them.
We left the Hind in May 1797, but before I close my account I must relate a few anecdotes as they come to my recollection. I shall begin with the surgeon, who was a very worthy fellow and much respected, but was strange, so that we thought him half cracked, and he had the name of Benjamin Bullock the Madman (a character in some work that I forget). I was one morning walking the deck with him when the postman came on board and presented a letter directed to ‘Robert Anderson, Esq., or Benjamin Bullock, Esq., Surgeon of H.M. ship Hind. With speed.’ The letter ran thus: ‘Take care when you are going on shore, and do not on any account pass the Devil’s Point where Bullocks are put to death daily for the use of the fleet. So no more at present from yours to command, J. Talgol, Slaughter House, Devil’s Point.’
He accused me of writing the letter, but he was mistaken, and from that day to this I know nothing of the author. He was greatly enraged and vowed vengeance against me and my friend Harley the purser, who was the person that gave him the name of Ben Bullock. It happened some time after that Harley and myself were going on shore and Anderson said he would take a passage with us. When near the Devil’s Point, which we had to pass, I gave orders to the boat’s crew to pull with all their might, ‘Give way, my lads, give way until we pass this place.’ Anderson looked at me and said, ‘What the hell are you afraid of now? You are always croaking about some damned thing or other.’ ‘My good fellow,’ says I, ‘it is on your account that I am so anxious. Don’t you remember the friendly letter you had warning you to beware of the Devil’s Point? It is on this account that I want to pass it in such a hurry, as you may be taken out and cut up for fresh beef.’ And what made things worse, on our landing the first object that drew our attention was a large board over a warehouse, with ‘Bullock and Anderson’ on it in gilt letters of immense size, to his astonishment and vexation.
At another time, when we had a large party on board I was sitting at the bottom of the table and Anderson at the head as caterer. I happened to be in conversation with Harley, who in the heat of argument was energetically moving his hand up and down; which Anderson observed, and leaving the head of the table with a knife in each hand, he placed himself between me and Harley, and holding a knife against our breasts says he: ‘That’s for thee, and that’s for thou; I know well what you meant by moving your hand up and down like a cleaver cutting up bullocks for the fleet, and be damned to you both. Now do it again if you dare.’ After some difficulty we persuaded him to go to the head of the table again; but those who were strangers to his whims looked on him with an evil eye.
Our master (Coghlan) was a very droll fellow and fond of carrying sail in a boat. Being sent from the Sound to the dockyard on duty, it came on to blow a heavy gale of wind, and we struck yards and topmasts. In the first watch about six bells I was walking the deck with Captain Lee, who observed how glad he was our boat was safe, as he had no doubt Mr. Coghlan had gone on board the flagship in the harbour. He had not long made the observation, when I thought (it being moonlight) I saw something in the direction of Drake’s Island and pointed it out to Captain Lee, who said it could not be a boat, as nobody would be mad enough to risk his life on such a night. By this time the object drew near, when to our astonishment we were hailed by Coghlan to throw a rope, and in a moment he flew alongside. We got the yard and stay tackles over instantly, got the men in, and ran the boat up in safety although a heavy sea was running. When Coghlan came upon deck, the captain asked if he was not ashamed of himself in risking the lives of the people in the wanton manner he had done. Tim with the greatest simplicity said, ‘Sir, if you had seen her (meaning the boat) fly from the top of one sea to another without stopping between, you would really have admired her. She darted through the breakers when crossing the Bridge (a dangerous reef of rocks between Drake’s Island and Mount Edgcumbe) like a race horse. I never was in such a boat in my life.’ Captain Lee, vexed as he was, could not help smiling, at the same time telling Tim if he did so again strange things would take place. Coghlan’s name was John, but someone had written to Steel saying his name was Timothy and it was put so on the list. Coghlan on this wrote to say it was not his name and requested Steel to alter it; but the same wag who had written before did so again, and when the list was printed his name stood as John Timothy Coghlan, and remained so, and we always called him Tim.[[125]] He has gone to his long home and has left behind the character of an honest and worthy fellow. He left the Hind to be master of the Trent, 36, going to the West Indies. I dined with him a short time before he sailed, and he was pointing out the different members of the mess, saying that none of them could live in such a climate. Poor fellow, he little thought while making that remark that they all returned and he the only one that sunk the victim of all-conquering death.
At the time we had nearly got on shore and lost an anchor near the Mewstone, when working out with the convoy, I was sent the next morning to acquaint Commissioner Fanshawe[[126]] of the circumstance, and to request he would order a lighter with a new cable and to weigh the anchor we had lost. I recollect he was dressed in an old blue coat with a red handkerchief about his neck, and in a very crabbed humour. After staring at me for some time he roared out, ‘I shall do no such thing. What brought you there? Go and tell your captain if he gets into a hole he must get out of it again. I shall give him no assistance and you may be off and tell him so.’ I told him that we were out of the hole and that I only delivered my orders as I was directed. At the same time I would thank him to write down the words he had just made use of, as verbal messages were uncertain. ‘Be off, sir,’ says he, ‘and if your memory is good enough to recollect what your captain said you cannot forget what I have stated; so no more palaver’; and grinning at me with a horrid set of teeth, he concluded by saying, ‘I have other things to think of than bothering my brains about people who get into a lubberly situation and don’t know how to get out.’ I looked at him without making any reply, when, turning on his heel, he said, ‘Aye, you may look’;
Nor more he deigned to say,
But stern as Ajax’ spectre, strode away.
As I am not fond of making mischief, I thought it best to say nothing to Captain Lee but merely state he refused to send the lighter. This put the captain in a terrible rage, but the lighter being sent off the next morning, the matter ended. Commissioner Fanshawe was one of the first seamen in the navy, and also one of the bravest officers that ever did honour to the service, a rigid disciplinarian, and to sum up all, a tight hand of the watch, as the saying is.
Coming from the westward to the Downs and when round the Foreland, the captain ordered the colours to be hoisted, when up went a swaggering French ensign and jack, which at first was not taken notice of, but was soon observed by the captain, who ran forward calling out to me, ‘Look at the French jack, sir; haul it down directly.’ ‘Sir, said I, ‘the French ensign is at the mizen peak.’ This he had not seen, and I thought he would have gone jumping mad. However, they were hauled down; but as if the devil would have it, instead of our own, up went Dutch colours. Nobody could keep their countenance, and a general laugh went through the ship and also in the men of war lying in the Downs who had observed the transaction.
While at Carrickfergus we were on very friendly terms with the officers of the Irish militia and dined often at the different messes. I remember on a rejoicing day calling with some more on the officers of the Cavan militia. On going upstairs to their messroom, we found several seated round the fire with a half barrel of gunpowder busily employed making fireworks for the evening amusement. Our visit was not of long duration, and I can truly say for myself that I only made one step downstairs and was off like a shot—
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind.
When in Hamoaze our boatswain was tried by a court martial for repeated drunkenness and dismissed the service. At the trial the captain of the Tremendous, 74, was unable to attend from indisposition, and the surgeon being sent for to attend the court and give in his report, he happened to make some remarks that the court considered disrespectful; upon which he was given in charge of Lieutenant Richards, first of the Cambridge, 84, on board of which ship the trial took place, until the court should determine. He was not long kept in suspense, for on the court opening he was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment in the Marshalsea for contempt of court,[[127]] and sent off that day. People should be careful.
On the passage to Quebec, after parting from our convoy, about eight in the evening, with little wind and going two knots, and nothing in sight, a voice was heard astern hailing, ‘On board the Hind, ahoy!’ I must confess I was a little staggered, and some curious remarks were made by the seamen. One fellow said, ‘I’ll be damned if we were off the Cape but I should think it was the Flying Dutchman.’ ‘As to that,’ says another, ‘he has got a roving commission and may cruise where he likes.’ ‘Bad luck to me,’ says a marine, ‘if it’s not a mermaid.’ ‘And to sum up,’ says old Macarthy, the quartermaster, ‘it may be the poor fellow that fell overboard the other day.’ However, the voice hailed again, saying, ‘Bear a hand and send the boat, for I’m damned if I can keep up much longer.’ The jolly boat was immediately lowered down from the stern and sent in the direction of the voice; and will it be believed that the fellows were afraid to take into the boat one of the main topmen (who had fallen overboard out of the main chains, being half asleep) until he had told his name and answered several ridiculous questions?
At the time we took the privateer, it was given out by our lying newspapers that the French were starving. On the contrary the French officers told me that everything was abundant in France, and—if I may judge from what was on board—their account was correct; for she had barrels of meat of every description—alamode beef, ham, fowls, and tongues, casks filled with eggs, coffee, tea, and sugar, all kinds of cordial, with plenty of brandy and different wines; so that instead of starvation, there appeared the luxury of Lucullus, when supping in the Apollo.[[128]] The French officers belonged to some of the line-of-battle ships at Brest, but had leave from the French Government to go on board privateers for a certain time and cruise after our merchantmen. When we arrived at Plymouth they requested me to state this to the proper authorities in the hope of getting their parole. This I accordingly did, but without success, as they were given to understand that being taken in a privateer they could not be considered as officers entitled to parole.[[129]]
I found them very intelligent gentlemen; one of them spoke English remarkably well and gave a very interesting account of the revolution and of the leading characters then in power without any partiality. The opinion, he said, in France was that the nobles and the clergy were the instigators of anarchy and confusion, and the people did not know how to put a stop to it. I must here mention that one of our men who I had placed as a sentry, fell asleep at his post, which was observed by a French officer who, to his honour, informed me of the circumstance. I need not say how I thanked him. When they were sent to Mill Prison I went with them and did everything in my power in recommending them to the officers belonging to the prison, who promised to make them as comfortable as they possibly could. I had but little money, which I divided among them. We shook hands at parting and they gave me their address, saying how happy they should be to see me in France when the war was over. One of those gentlemen had been a prisoner before in England and had his quarters at Petersfield.
Richard Lee, Esq., Captain.
An admiral of the blue, K.C.B., Knight of the Tower and Sword. An excellent officer and seaman. He commanded the Courageux, 74, when Sir Richard Strahan captured Dumanoir’s squadron. [Died 1837.—Marshall, ii. 568.]
John Bazely, Esq., Captain.
Dead [1827]. A vice-admiral of the blue. He was one of the best officers in the navy, and much lamented by numerous friends and particularly by his old shipmates.
Frederick Hickey, 1st Lieutenant.
A post captain and magistrate at Swansea; an excellent officer. [Died 1839.—Marshall, vii. 227.]
Jas. A. Gardner, 2nd Lieutenant.
A commander.
John Coghlan, Master.
Dead. A most worthy fellow.
[George] Paton, Master.
Dead. A quiet, good sailor.
Christopher Noble, Lieutenant of marines.
Dead from his wounds. A major; as brave and generous a fellow as ever lived.
Geo. White, Purser.
Dead. He had many good qualities, and many bad ones.
Robert Anderson, Surgeon.
Dead. A very strange and worthy fellow.
Robert Dunham, Acting Lieutenant.
Dead. A lieutenant. He was made lieutenant in 1781, but broke and was reinstated in 1795; a very clever fellow, but as obstinate as the devil.
[James] Moore, Gunner.
Dead. A very good sailor.
[Archibald] Freeburn, Gunner.
Uncertain.
Flemming, Boatswain.
Uncertain. Broke by court martial; a very good seaman but drank hard.
[Christopher] Humphries, Boatswain.
Dead. A very good seaman and much respected.
[Robert] Biggery [or Bagrie], Carpenter.
Superannuated; a very worthy fellow.
[George] Porter, Mate.
A commander; a smart officer.
[John] Nazer, Mate.
Dead. A lieutenant; a very good and very ugly fellow.
[Thomas] Allen, Midshipman.
Drowned. A fine spirited young man.
[Benjamin] Badcock, Midshipman.
Drowned. A fine spirited young man.
[James Jervis] Kinneer, Midshipman.
Drowned in the Lutine, 36; a lieutenant.
Francis Geary Gardner Lee, Midshipman.
Sir F. G. G. Lee; a major in the royal marines and lieutenant-colonel in the Spanish army.
Chubb, Clerk.
Drowned in the cutter with poor Allen.
[Jonas] Toby, Clerk.
Dead. A purser. [Purser of the Euryalus at Trafalgar; author of the plan of the battle which was sent home to Lord Barham, and published as a separate sheet and in the Naval Chronicle, vol. xiv.]