is terrible to think and to remember that about this time our country was in the greatest danger of being conquered and lost through mutiny. Of all evils that can befall a navy this is surely the worst.
There was a mutinous spirit in the fleet of Sir John Jervis after the battle of St. Vincent, which the gallant knight used all his endeavours to quell. He was a brave and most energetic officer, and not only did he have the good of his country at heart, but he spared no effort to render those who served under him happy and comfortable. I do not refer to the officers only, but to the men as well. One would not be far wrong in saying that he knew almost every man in the fleet. He loved his people, and liked to have them happy, going among them, and even suggesting games and amusements. Those were the days of tossing cans, and of Saturday nights at sea, and the drinking of the healths of wives and sweethearts. So long as the men kept sober, Jervis rather liked this, and was never better pleased than when, on the last evening of the week, he heard the voices of the men raised in song, or the squeaking of the merry fiddle and gleesome flute.
But Sir John would have discipline, etiquette, and dress.
Jack Mackenzie was never more honoured nor pleased than when he and MʻHearty were asked to dine with the admiral on board the flagship, the Victory. Sir John was jovial, nay, even jolly. Jack was shy, but he had to talk, and much to his own surprise soon found himself as much at home in the admiral’s society as he would have been in that of his own father.
As for MʻHearty, nothing put that good fellow out, and at the admiral’s request he gave a very graphic account indeed of his doings in the cockpit on the day of the battle. Sir John laughed heartily when the doctor wound up seriously with the words, “But, dear Sir John, I was thirsty.”
To have seen this admiral to-night, no one would have believed that he had that day signed the death-warrant of the ringleader of the mutineers on board the Marlborough. But so it was, and to-morrow he should die.
It was on board the Marlborough that the mutiny had found a hot-bed. It was on board the Marlborough that Sir John determined this man should be hanged, hoisted up by the hands of his own messmates, whom his seditious eloquence had seduced from duty’s path.
It was a stern resolve. The captain of the Marlborough had come on board to beg that the man might be executed in some other ship. His messmates, he averred, would never hang him, but would break at once out into open mutiny. This officer was dismissed to his ship with one of the severest reprimands ever administered to any captain in his majesty’s service.
Down below, in a darksome cabin of the cockpit of the Victory, Jack went to see an old shipmate of his, a boatswain who had been with him in the Ocean Pride. He was wounded, but recovering, and was delighted to have a visit from one he had known as a mere boy.