Mr Annesley, the first lieutenant, was in many respects a strong contrast to his superior. A tall, dark, square-built and muscular-looking man, with handsome features, dark, flashing eyes, and well-proportioned figure, every nerve of which seemed a-quiver with superabundant vitality. His gesture, though restrained, was earnest and emphatic; his language in conversation, refined and eloquent; in carrying on the duty of the ship, short, sharp, and incisive. His manner to his superiors was quietly respectful, to his equals, somewhat distant, though without any trace of hauteur, and to his inferiors, gentle and sympathetic, or cold, stern, and repellant, accordingly as they won his approval or incurred his displeasure. He, like the skipper, was also a prime seaman, with a dauntless courage which verged very closely upon recklessness, though it never was allowed to actually merge into that undesirable quality.
The second lieutenant, Mr Michael Flinn, was a rollicking, good-tempered, good-natured young Irishman, careless and impulsive, as the generality of his countrymen are, always ready to perform a service for a friend, and still more ready to break the head of an enemy; a passably good officer afloat, but possessed with a perfect genius for getting into scrapes—and out of them again—on shore, with no consciousness whatever of his own dignity as one of his Majesty’s officers, and ever ready to join heart and soul in any escapade of which he might happen to get an inkling. He was admirably adapted for such work as a cutting-out expedition, or a dash ashore to spike the guns of an outlying battery; but, when I first knew him, was utterly unfit for any service requiring discretion or tact in its execution.
The third lieutenant, the Honourable Edward Plantagenet Mortimer, was simply a useless, soft-headed dandy, who would as soon have dreamed of throwing himself overboard as of soiling his hands; there was no harm in him, he was good-natured enough, but he was emphatically the idler of the ship, never even making a pretence of performing any duty, but simply dawdling about the deck in kid gloves, with an eye-glass eternally screwed into his starboard top-light. His one idea was that he was a brilliant performer on the flute; and in his watch below he was incessantly rendering the lives of his neighbours a burden to them by the melancholy wailings which he evoked from that instrument. It was said that he could fight—when no other alternative was open to him—but the bustle and confusion, and, above all, the exertion, he considered such “a howwid boah,” that he always most carefully avoided those occasions for distinguishing himself, which other men are wont to seek with avidity. Why on earth he ever entered the navy was a puzzle which utterly defied solution.
The master, Mr Rawlings, was a middle-aged man, quiet and unobtrusive in manner, and with very little to say upon any subject unconnected with his profession. There, however, he was unapproachable. He was simply perfect as a navigator, seemed to have been in and out of every harbour in the world, and was intimately acquainted with the position of every rock and shoal which guarded their approach, together with the distinctive features of every light, beacon, or buoy which announced their vicinity; knew the direction and rates of the various currents, and could tell, without referring to his chart, the depths of water over bars and in channels, together with the bearings of the fairways in the latter, how wide they were, and the hour of high-water in them at the full and change of the moon; in fact, his information on such matters appeared to be quite inexhaustible. He was unquestionably the ablest master in the entire British navy; and one of the first anxieties of a captain, when in quest of a crew, was to get hold of “old Rawlings” as master.
We midshipmen were six in number; four of my messmates being older, and one younger than myself. They were all good-tempered, agreeable lads, and in other respects were about on a par with the average run of midshipmen. The master’s-mate, Mr Percival, was berthed with us. He was a fine, gentlemanly, young fellow of about eighteen years of age, with great ability and intense application, bidding fair to achieve eventually a reputation equal to that of his chief, for whom he entertained a profound admiration.
And now, having introduced my fellow-officers, let me say what it is necessary to say respecting the ship.
The “Juno” was one of the old class of frigates, of which, however, she happened to be an extremely favourable specimen. She was very strong, being oak-built throughout, and copper fastened; her timbers being of the most solid description, and exceptionally heavy scantling. She came to us with the unenviable reputation of being a poor sailer, though she was a very good model, particularly under water; but Mr Annesley paid her a visit while in the dry dock, and attentively studied her lines, having done which he determined to alter her trim altogether, putting her nine inches deeper down in the water aft, and reducing her ballast to the extent of twenty tons. The result answered his most sanguine expectations; for while she still stood up well under her canvas, she was steadier in a sea-way, lighter and drier forward, paid off quicker in stays, and though still scarcely a clipper, her rate of sailing had considerably improved. Her accommodations were somewhat cramped, as compared with the newer and larger class of frigates; but as far as I was concerned, coming into her from the little “Scourge,” there seemed to be a positive superabundance of room. She mounted thirty-two long twelves, and mustered a crew of 190 men.
It had been my intention to act upon Sir Peregrine’s suggestion, and ask for a day or two’s leave to run home and see my friends once more, before finally quitting Old England upon a cruise of unknown duration; but we had been so excessively busy that I really had not the conscience to make such a request; and now that the ship was finally ataunto, it appeared that we were to proceed to sea forthwith. I was therefore obliged to content myself with writing them a long letter, to which I put the finishing touches while we were waiting for the captain, Mr Annesley having kept a shore-boat alongside to take ashore a few letters which he had hastily scribbled after the completion of the preparations for unmooring, and by which he kindly intimated that any one who had letters to send might send them.
At length, about 3:30 in the afternoon, the captain’s gig was seen approaching the ship, the side was manned, and in a few minutes more Captain Hood stood upon his own quarter-deck.
“You may—ah—run my gig up to the davits, if you please, Mr Annesley,” said he, “and then we will—aw—weigh at once if—ah—you have everything ready.”