As a port of assembly for a large fleet it is, by virtue of the breakwater, admirably suited; but they have to take their chance of being occasionally cut off from communication with the shore for a day or two. A good many years ago, the Channel Squadron was so cut off during the best part of a week, while an easterly gale was raging; only one vessel, favourably situated, contriving to send in a cutter under a close-reefed sail, from the stern, the crew and officer using the rope ladder suspended from the taffrail.
There was no possibility of acquiring ground for decent playing fields; the island—so called—of Portland presented no great attractions for walking or anything else; there was a stupid little town, with one steep street, climbing up the hill; and Weymouth was too far off for landing the cadets, save on exceptional occasions, and when they got there, there was little or nothing to do, except get into possible mischief.
Notwithstanding these drawbacks, however, Portland was determined upon; and when the cadets rejoined on February 2nd, 1862, after their Christmas leave, they found their floating home in the unwonted bustle of “preparing for sea”; and a very welcome distraction it proved to them, in place of the ordinary hum-drum of alternate “seamanship” and “study” days.
By February 6th all preparations were complete; at 3 p.m. a lumbering dockyard tug, the Lucifer, took the Britannia in tow, and slowly dragged her out of the familiar harbour, making for the eastern end of the Isle of Wight. The voyage was not, however, to be made alone; at Spithead the Trafalgar, steam two-decker, was in waiting, and took her station about half a mile astern of the Britannia, where she hovered during the whole passage, in case of any accident. The undertaking was not, indeed, without some risk, at that season, and anything in the shape of a gale would have been serious; the ship “flying light,” with small frigate’s spars, and with only a handful of bluejackets and a few dockyard riggers on board.
However, the fates proved propitious; the wind blew fair from east-north-east, the sea was smooth, and none of the cadets were seasick; though they had the unwonted experience, afterwards to become so familiar, of hearing the gentle complaining “creech” of the oak timbers, and the rattle of small-arms and other odds and ends in the racks, with the slight motion of the ship.
In the small hours of the morning it was decided to utilise the fair wind, which was freshening a bit, by making sail, and dispensing with the services of the tug. Accordingly, the jib was hoisted, the topsails loosed and the sheets dragged home; there was not enough “beef,” as Jack would say, to hoist them, so they bellied out, all loose and baggy, with the following breeze, a sorry sight for a man-o’-warsman; that smart seaman, Captain Harris, must have found it go sorely against the grain to leave them so. He had a certain compensation, however; for no sooner did she feel the old familiar pressure on the masts, than the Britannia asserted herself as a ship with a reputation under canvas, and came tumbling after the tug, which had just been cast off, and whose best speed, unencumbered, was probably about six knots, in such lively fashion that she almost ran over her.
Along the chalk cliffs from St. Alban’s Head the little squadron passed in the dim light of early morning, the long snake-like breakwater, and the wedge-shaped island of Portland gradually showing up more clearly.
The cadets began to come up in twos and threes, their hands stuffed well into the pockets of their monkey jackets; soon, however, they were summoned to “bring ship to an anchor,” as the Britannia, with the Trafalgar still in close attendance, rounded the breakwater and approached her moorings, already laid down. Not even Captain Harris, however, would venture on the experiment of picking up moorings of this class under sail, in a three-decker, jury rigged, with her topsails on the cap; so the anchor was in readiness for letting go.
“Fourth division, up on the poop, and man the spanker outhaul!” Up they went, and realised immediately how extremely cold a fresh east wind can be on a February morning, as they held the rope in their benumbed fingers awaiting the order.
“Haul out the spanker! Hard down with the helm!” and the Britannia gracefully rounded to, topsails all shaking; as she lost her way, the anchor splashed, the cable rumbled out, and she brought up, close to the dockyard “lump” supporting the heavy moorings.