SIGNAL STATION: FAIRLIGHT, NEAR HASTINGS, SUSSEX
From January 30th, 1806, to December 7th, 1814
As when high Jove his sharp artillery forms,
And opes his cloudy magazine of storms;
In winter’s bleak uncomfortable reign,
A snowy inundation hides the plain;
He stills the winds and bids the skies to sleep;
Then pours the silent tempest thick and deep;
And first the mountain tops are covered o’er,
Then the green fields and then the sandy shore;
Bent with the weight, the nodding groves are seen,
And one bright waste hides all the works of men;
The circling seas, alone absorbing all,
Drink the dissolving fleeces as they fall.—Iliad.
In such a season as the above I arrived at Hastings on the 30th of January 1806. I was appointed to the station by Lord Garlies, one of the lords of the admiralty, who behaved to me in the kindest manner. After waiting on Captain Isaac Schomberg, who superintended the Sea Fencibles from Beachy Head to Dungeness, I proceeded to join my station about three miles to the eastward of Hastings. When I got to the summit of Fairlight Down, about 600 feet above the level of the sea, the first object that struck me was a hut, built of turf, in a ruinous state, and on the top a figure with a soldier’s jacket on. ‘Hallo!’ says I; ‘Is this the signal station?’ ‘Yes, zur,’ says he. Why then, thinks I, I’m damned if I don’t give up the appointment. ‘Where’s the midshipman?’ says I. ‘Midshipman, zur? why, there be only me and another soger, and I expects to be relieved to-day.’ ‘By whom?’ says I. ‘Vy,’ says he, ‘by two melishy men, and I thought you and that ere lad’ (meaning my son, who was with me, and under six years of age) ‘was them till you comed near.’ I could not help smiling at this, and taking a turn round the premises I thought I would look at the interior. I did so, but backed out again in a hurry, from filth and wretchedness. [The detailed description of these is omitted.]
On coming out I happened to cast my eye to the SE, and there I saw another signal station; and on making enquiry, I was informed by a labourer that the station I had just observed was the right one, and that this was only for the fogeys to look out from; so away I trudged over several ploughed fields and at last arrived at my destination, in the room of Lieutenant Francis Gibbon, deceased, who had formerly been a messmate of mine in the Salisbury.
It would puzzle a Philadelphia lawyer to recollect everything that happened for the eight years and ten months that I remained in this place, and I shall merely relate a few occurrences as they come to my recollection. I had a midshipman, two signalmen, and two dragoons, under my superintendence; and when anything particular took place one of the dragoons was sent off with the despatch to the nearest commanding officer. We had the strictest orders to be on the look-out by night and by day, in consequence of the threatened invasion, and our being so near the French coast that on a clear day the camp at Boulogne could be seen without a glass,[[161]] so that the utmost vigilance on our part was required. Blue lights, fire beacons, etc., were in constant readiness, and the French flotilla at Boulogne, Calais, Ambleteuse, and Vimereux were hourly expected to make a start.
Independent of this, whenever the wind blew strong from the westward, so as to occasion the cruisers to take shelter under Dungeness, the French privateers were sure to come over and pick up the struggling merchantmen before the men of war could regain their station off Beachy Head. We had also to be constantly on the watch to give notice in case of smugglers being on the coast, and to prevent prisoners of war making their escape from the vicinity of our station, a signal for that purpose being made from one post to another; so that we had no relaxation from duty except in a thick fog, which sometimes would take place for nine or ten days together, during which time we had only to walk round the cliffs and along the seashore. I have heard many say that a signal station was an easy berth, and only fit for old and worn-out officers. This I flatly deny; and, without fear of contradiction, can safely say that I suffered more from anxiety at this station than ever I did on board of a man of war. In the latter, when one’s watch was over, a little rest could be obtained; but at the station the night was worse than the day, as the flotilla were expected to take advantage of the darkness so as to be over in the morning, and the night signal was more anxiously watched than that of the day. When Earl St. Vincent was first lord of the admiralty, Lieutenant John Henry St. John Page (an old schoolfellow of mine, who I had the following account from) applied to him for a signal station, stating that he was unfit for active service in consequence of a paralytic stroke which affected his arm and one of his eyes. His lordship wrote for answer, ‘That an officer of a signal station ought to have two eyes, and damned good eyes they ought to be.’ However, he complied with his wishes.
From our elevated situation I have often been in dread for the safety of the house, particularly in the SW gales, and have frequently expected that the board would be obliged
To set a figure, to discover
If we had fled to Rye or Dover;
and I’m astonished that the house did not blow away. I well remember one dreadful gale blowing down our chimney, which lay upon the roof without breaking through, forming an angle of 45°, and the midshipman, crawling out upon all fours (for we could not stand upright), declared he thought it was our 18-pound carronade that was blown there and had taken that position for a long shot. The fire blew out of the stoves, and the glass out of the window frames; the night as black as Erebus, with heavy rain which formed a river that swept everything before it; the chief part of our garden washed or blown away, leaving nothing but the bare rock behind, so that I wished myself in the old Bay of Biscay again.
To make up for this, the views about Hastings are remarkably fine, and in the summer well worth visiting; particularly the fish ponds, Dripping Well, Lovers’ Seat, Friar’s Hill, Old Roar and many other romantic spots, one of which I must mention. About a mile to the NE of Hastings, from a place called the Tile Kiln House, the prospect is highly interesting; looking towards the town, is a valley with a thicket on the left, and at the bottom a stream that runs to the sea; in front, the west hill with the ancient castle said to be built by William the Conqueror soon after the battle of Hastings; and on the east hill, the remains of a Roman camp. One morning when the hounds were out, I was walking near the above thicket when an immense boar rushed furiously on the pack and the huntsmen had great difficulty in separating them. The boar belonged to the farmer near the spot, and some of the dogs had reason to remember him.
As I am better acquainted with handling a tar brush, strapping a block, or turning in a dead-eye, than describing green groves and gravel walks, I shall say nothing more respecting the face of the country, but begin upon other subjects. And here I must say that during the time I had the station, I was upon good terms with every individual from the mayor down to the fisherman. But I regret to state that death has made sad inroads among my worthy friends since my departure. In the summer, the cockneys would frequently come to take a look at the French coast and Bonaparte’s tower on a clear day; and not content with asking ridiculous questions, would walk into the house without leave or licence, and seat themselves. On one occasion, when I had returned from Hastings, I found seated in my room a fellow with his coat off and reading one of my books. He took no notice of me for some time. At last he drawled out ‘It’s werry hot veather.’ ‘It is,’ I replied; ‘but pray what is your business?’ This question seemed to startle him, and particularly so when I informed him I was a man of war’s man, and never suffered myself to be taken by storm or boarded in the smoke. He took the hint and walked off.[[162]]
In stating this I only allude to a set who were unacquainted with common politeness. At the same time I have to acknowledge the civility and attention I received from many of the respectable families that visited Hastings.
The lower class at Hastings and in the vicinity believe in witchcraft, and several old women that lived in All Saints’ Street were supposed to be witches. About a mile from my station lived a poor old woman named Hannah Weller, who was put down in the list; and many strange stories were told respecting her—such as pigs, and sheep, and sometimes oxen, refusing to pass her dwelling, until the drovers would go and beg of her to let them pass quietly. On my going one morning to market at Hastings, I bought with other articles some eggs, which I gave to Wm. Crump (one of the signalmen), who put them at the bottom of his basket well covered with straw so that they could not be seen. I then told him to make all haste he could to the station, and without his knowing it I returned before him. When I had got about a mile and a half from the town I met Hannah Weller, who, I knew, was coming in at this time with some clothes for the wash; and I told her, if she met Crump, to tell him to make haste out and to be careful of the eggs he had in the bottom of his basket, and not to say she had seen me. Now Crump stood in great dread of Hannah, and was a firm believer in deeds of the black art. Soon after I had seen her she met Crump, and desired him to be very careful of the eggs and to make haste and not loiter by the way. Crump was terrified almost out of his wits to think she should know what cargo he had charge of; and, after wishing her good morning, strode off without looking behind until he got about a hundred yards from her. He then took out his knife and stuck it in the mark the ring of her patten (as he thought) had made, and a sure way—if she looked round—to prove witchcraft; and she, happening to look round at the same time and seeing him stopping, called out, ‘Crump, what are you about?’ and shaking her hand, desired him to be gone, upon which he took to his heels in amazement and arrived at the station as pale as death, and told his woeful story to the midshipman with many illustrations, which the midshipman believed to be as true as holy writ.
We had a tame raven, the most sagacious creature I ever met with. He used to go every morning with the signalman to town, for the letters and to market, and would take his station at the butcher’s shop long before we could get there; and when he saw us ready to return, would set off for home in a hurry. Sometimes we could see him fighting with the crows; and once he alighted on the head of a gentleman reading in a field; to his consternation, until we explained to him Ralph’s tricks. Under the Lovers’ Seat stands a house on the beach called The Govers, which was inhabited by a wicked fellow, a cobbler by trade. This man took it into his head to leave off his wicked ways, and went to church regularly every Sunday, and paid great attention to the service for about three or four months, and then relapsed to his former failings. On being asked the reason of his apostasy he replied that he went to church until he was tired; and seeing no use in it, he thought he might as well go back to sin and cobble again as he could get more by it than going to church. Early one morning this fellow was gathering sticks in the valley under the signal station, when our raven was on the prowl. The moment Ralph got sight of him he pitched on his neck and began to claw and tear him most unmercifully, which alarmed him so much that he had hardly power to defend himself. At last he got hold of the raven, and, with part of the thong he had to bind the sticks, he began to tie Ralph’s legs, and when he thought he had him secure he gathered up his sticks and was stooping down to fasten them, when the raven broke loose, and seized on him a second time, and tore his breeches to rags after clawing him severely, and then flew away. The cobbler, dreadfully alarmed, went home without his sticks and told everyone that he met that the devil had attacked him and that he must alter his course of life, as he now believed something was in it. The joke was kept up, and I think he was never told it was our raven. Poor Ralph at last met with an untimely death. A farmer, shooting rooks, laid him low by mistake, which he was very sorry for when too late.
Notwithstanding the many cruisers that were on the station and the unceasing look-out on the coast by the officers of the customs, the smugglers contrived to make several runs. One morning in the month of November the midshipman called me up a little before daylight, and reported that fifteen horses were in the field near the station, with Flushing jackets strapped on their backs, and made fast to the hedge, without any one with them. As the day began to break, I went to the brow of the hill, and saw on the beach between two and three hundred people, and a boat a short way from the shore. The moment they got sight of me they set up a shout, and made use of horrible threats. However, I went down with the midshipman, and found some customhouse officers who had been up to their necks in water trying to get at the boat, but all to no purpose. The fellows on board seemed to be drunk, and held up some kegs which they stove; and making use of language the most vile, stood to the westward. I immediately dispatched the midshipman to give information to the customhouse and made the signal to the next station. A galley was soon after manned and armed, and after a long chase the smuggler was captured with several tubs of liquor. As I returned to my station the mob shewed their heads just above the brow of the hill, and complimented me with three groans and then dispersed; and glad I was to see them clear off. They appeared to be all strangers, the customhouse officers declaring they had never seen one of them before. Some of them swore they would be a shot in our locker the first opportunity, and we expected they would have attacked us in the night; but we heard no more of them.
I shall now mention a few friends; and first the Reverend Richard Wadeson, late Vicar of Fairlight, who died since I left the station, aged eighty-nine. He had formerly been second master at Harrow School, when Dr. Parr was usher, and was offered to be first master at the death or resignation of Dr. Sumner, but refused it.[[163]] He was one of the best men I ever met with, and one of the first classical scholars in the kingdom, and highly respected by his parishioners as the following account will shew. He had, as vicar, only the small tithes; and when requested by some of his friends to raise them he refused, saying, he had lived on good terms in the parish with every individual for a long time, and that he would do nothing to forfeit their esteem and would suffer anything rather than oppress them. When this came to the knowledge of those who paid tithes, they, as a mark of respect, immediately made a handsome addition to his income, with a high panegyric on his integrity. Nothing could put him out of temper except losing at backgammon. I well remember one evening his coming to the station and saying he was determined not to be vexed, let what would happen. We then began to play (not for money), and he lost twenty games running. At last he roared out, and on my asking him what was the matter, says he, ‘He’s here.’ ‘Who, sir?’ says I. ‘Why, the devil,’ says he, ‘is at my elbow, but he shall not make a parson swear.’ I am sorry to say this worthy gentleman lost his sight some years before his death, and, in addition to this misfortune, had great domestic troubles which he bore to the last with unshaken fortitude.
I must not forget another worthy friend, the Reverend Webster Whistler, Rector of Hastings and New-Timber, who lately died at the advanced age of eighty-seven. He also was a first-rate scholar and a powerful preacher; a hater of bigotry and clerical tyranny; possessing great personal courage, and one of the finest-looking men in the kingdom; with an athletic frame, upwards of six feet, and looked, when on horseback—as Napoleon said of Kleber—like one of Homer’s heroes. His kindness and attention I never shall forget. I was always welcome to his house and he always sent me a large tithe, as he called it, of fruit and game, whenever he had an opportunity. I could mention many acts of this kind; but one mark of respect I cannot pass over. When my mother died, he selected a particular spot for her grave where he knew the ground was dry, refused all fees, and even assisted in placing the turf over her remains. He was not one of your dandy parsons either in dress or address; for he was not ashamed to wear a rusty black coat, or to knock down anyone that offended him. I remember a dragoon officer addressing him one morning with, ‘Damn me, how are you, Whistler?’ ‘If you say that again, I will fell you to the earth,’ was his reply. Going into a boat, and having on an old black coat and trowsers, he asked me who I thought he was like, repeating the following lines:—
Sordid his garb, but in his looks were seen
A youthful vigour, and autumnal green.
‘Can you,’ says he, ‘with all the antiquity you smatter, find out who I allude to?’ ‘Charon, sir,’ says I. ‘Right,’ says he, ‘I’m the man; but I am not going on the Styx to-day. The Channel shall be my cruising ground this morning’; and off he started with some ladies in company. On his return he came up to the station, foaming with rage, requesting me to inform him the name of the cutter in the offing, that he might report her commander to the admiralty for daring to fire at him. Now the fact was this. The cutter had fired at some boats to bring them to, as the fishermen had frequently smuggled goods on board; and Mr. Whistler having boarded one of them to get fish, the commander of the cutter fired several muskets at his boat, thinking him a smuggler also, which made the parson pull to land as fast as possible. It was out of my power to give him the name, as I had not her number. ‘Well, then,’ says he, ‘the first time I can lay hold of him I’ll christen him in the Bourne stream, by giving him a good ducking.’
The beginning of December 1814 the admiralty directed me to pay off the station without loss of time, and the next day I received a letter from the navy board to the same purpose, and further directing me to clear the station of the stores under my charge, and to sell all unserviceable articles. Now all this was very well, and they concluded by saying,
We are your Affectionate Friends[[164]]——
(Signed by three commissioners);
but on the margin of their letter was a postscript as follows:—
‘You are to discharge your midshipman and men on the receipt of this letter; and yourself, as soon as these instructions have been complied with.’
So by this I was to do everything myself, which was very kind, in the dead of winter, three miles from Hastings, and a long way from the spring where we had our water, and nothing to be had in the neighbourhood; and upon a hill, said to be 650 feet above the level of the sea—so that if a snowstorm came on I might remain there alone and starve and be damned for what some people cared. However, I got a merchant at Hastings to send his wagons out and take the stores to his warehouse, until a vessel was sent to receive them; and after selling the coals and fire stack, I paid off the station on the 7th of December 1814.