As I was wondering within myself how it happened that men thus coerced could ever be depended on in moments of peril and difficulty, and by what magic the mere exercise of discipline was able to merge the feelings of the man in the sailor, the crowd was rudely driven back by policemen, and a cry of ‘Make way,’ ‘Fall back there,’ given. In the sudden retiring of the mass I found myself standing on the very edge of the line along which a new body of impressed men were about to pass. Guarded front, flank, and rear, by a strong party of marines, the poor fellows came along slowly enough. Many were badly wounded, and walked lamely; some were bleeding profusely from cuts on the face and temples; and one, at the very tail of the procession, was actually carried in a blanket by four sailors. A low murmur ran through the crowd at the spectacle, which gradually swelled louder and fuller till it burst forth into a deep groan of indignation, and a cry of ‘Shame I Shame!’ Too much used to such ebullitions of public feeling, or too proud to care for them, the officer in command of the party never seemed to hear the angry cries and shouts around him; and I was even more struck by his cool self-possession than by their enthusiasm. For a moment or two I was convinced that a rescue would be attempted. I had no conception that so much excitement could evaporate innocuously, and was preparing myself to take part in the struggle when the line halted as the leading files gained the stairs, and, to my wonderment, the crowd became hushed and still. Then, one burst of excited pity over, not a thought occurred to any to offer resistance to the law, or dare to oppose the constituted authorities. How unlike Frenchmen! thought I; nor am I certain whether I deemed the disparity to their credit!
‘Give him a glass of water!’ I heard the officer say, as he leaned over the litter; and the crowd at once opened to permit some one to fetch it. Before I believed it were possible to have procured it, a tumbler of water was passed from hand to hand till it reached mine, and, stepping forwards, I bent down to give it to the sick man. The end of a coarse sheet was thrown over his face, and as it was removed I almost fell over him, for it was Santron. His face was covered with a cold sweat, which lay in great drops all over it, and his lips were slightly frothed. As he looked up I could see that he was just rallying from a fainting-fit, and could mark in the change that came over his glassy eye that he had recognised me. He made a faint effort at a smile, and, in a voice barely a whisper, said, ‘I knew thou’d not leave me, Maurice.’
‘You are his countryman?’ said the officer, addressing me in French.
‘Yes, sir,’ was my reply.
‘You are both Canadians, then?’
‘Frenchmen, sir, and officers in the service. We only landed from an American ship yesterday, and were trying to make our way to France.’
‘I’m sorry for you,’ said he compassionately; ‘nor do I know how to help you. Come on board the tender, however, and we’ll see if they’ll not give you a passage with your friend to the Nore. I’ll speak to my commanding officer for you.’
This scene all passed in a very few minutes, and before I well knew how or why, I found myself on board of a ship’s longboat, sweeping along over the Mersey, with Santron’s head in my lap, and his cold, clammy fingers grasped in mine. He was either unaware of my presence or too weak to recognise me, for he gave no sign of knowing me; and during our brief passage down the river, and when lifted up the ship’s side, seemed totally insensible to everything.
The scene of uproar, noise, and confusion on board the Athol is far beyond my ability to convey. A shipwreck, a fire, and mutiny, all combined, could scarcely have collected greater elements of discord. Two large detachments of marines, many of whom, fresh from furlough, were too drunk for duty, and were either lying asleep along the deck, or riotously interfering with everybody; a company of Sappers en route to Woolwich, who would obey none but their own officer, and he was still ashore; detachments of able-bodied seamen from the Jupiter, full of grog and prize-money; four hundred and seventy impressed men, cursing, blaspheming, and imprecating every species of calamity on their captors; added to which, a crowd of Jews, bumboat women, and slop-sellers of all kinds, with the crews of two ballast-lighters, fighting for additional pay, being the chief actors in a scene whose discord I never saw equalled. Drunkenness, suffering, hopeless misery, and even insubordination, all lent their voices to a tumult, amid which the words of command seemed lost, and all effort at discipline vain.
How we were ever to go to sea in this state, I could not even imagine. The ship’s crew seemed inextricably mingled with the rioters, many of whom were just sufficiently sober to be eternally meddling with the ship’s tackle; belaying what ought to be ‘free,’ and loosening what should have been ‘fast’; getting their fingers jammed in blocks, and their limbs crushed by spars, till the cries of agony rose high above every other confusion. Turning with disgust from a spectacle so discordant and disgraceful, I descended the ladders, which led, by many a successive flight, into the dark, low-ceilinged chamber called the ‘sick bay,’ where poor Santron was lying in, what I almost envied, insensibility to the scene around him. A severe blow from the hilt of a cutlass had caused a concussion of the brain, and, save in the momentary excitement which a sudden question might cause, left him totally unconscious. His head had been already shaved before I descended, and I found the assistant-surgeon, an Irishman, Mr. Peter Colhayne, experimenting a new mode of cupping as I entered. By some mischance of the machinery, the lancets of the cupping instrument had remained permanently fixed, refusing to obey the spring, and standing all straight outside the surface. In this dilemma, Peter’s ingenuity saw nothing for it but to press them down vigorously into the scalp, and then saw them backwards the whole length of the head—a performance the originality of which, in all probability, was derived from the operation of a harrow in agriculture. He had just completed a third track when I came in, and, by great remonstrance and no small flattery, induced him to desist. ‘We have glasses,’ said he, ‘but they were all broke in the cock-pit; but a tin porringer is just as good.’ And so saying, he lighted a little pledget of tow, previously steeped in turpentine, and, popping it into the tin vessel, clapped it on the head. This was meant to exhaust the air within, and thus draw the blood to the surface—a scientific process he was good enough to explain most minutely for my benefit, and the good results of which he most confidently vouched for.