“Hush,” cried one, who heard a tramp on the parade ground, a fact which indicated that the Royal Marines were at that moment marching down to the rear, where the halberts were invariably pitched, and where five or six privates were not unfrequently strapped up in succession, each to undergo from fifty to two hundred lashes, according to the articles of war, as at that time interpreted. No sooner was it buzzed about what was to take place than one of my own class—I will not name the incorrigible—enquired if there was any chance of having a peep.
“No, it is not allowed,” said the big boy, “and anyone found looking out of the barrack windows, commits a serious offence; but if,” he continued, with a patronizing air, “you can get behind the green baize near the door, you and I will slip out and see what is going on.” An opportunity having presented itself, we deserted forthwith. I was then led to a hole in a window-frame which had been plugged up, and evidently used on former occasions.
The Chatham Division of Marines was now to be seen drawn up in square. The red-painted triangle was ready for the first delinquent, and we readily recognized the portly frame of the sergeant-major whose voice disturbed the stillness of the ranks, by saying, “Number one, strip!” I was struck with the apparent alacrity with which the man took off his undress jacket, pulled off his shirt, and drew his belt tightly round his waist; it was the work of a moment; there was no flinching, and he walked over to the halberts, where his hands and feet were strapped, in a firm way, which was very sensational and attractive to us ensconced youngsters. A drummer was immediately at hand in a white jacket, and the cat hung in his right hand until the sergeant-major cried, “one” when suddenly the drummer threw himself into position, and the cat flourished high over his head and fell evenly between the white shoulders, producing a foul red mark on the fair form which shrugged perceptibly, but less so as the work proceeded, so that by the time the first complement of twenty-five lashes had disfigured the poor man’s flesh, he appeared to be cat-hardened, for no cry or groan escaped his lips, he took his hundred-and-fifty, and when cast loose, his shirt and a great coat being thrown over his back, he marched off under escort to the infirmary, for another kind of dressing, with an amount of unflinching courage worthy of a better cause.
Number two was a different kind of man altogether; he was stouter, and his skin looked redder, there was no manifest fear in him; indeed, he assumed a defiant swagger, and looked round as if for approbation during the process of securing, nor did the first few strokes make him writhe like his predecessor, but no sooner had number twelve sounded, than a piercing groan was uttered, when the fifes and drums were called into requisition to drown his shrieks; and then, it may as well be confessed, we withdrew to the schoolroom, after witnessing that which did upset us, and was calculated to sicken persons in more advanced life.
The next incident mentally photographed on my mind is one which took place at the village of Gillingham, situated about three miles from Chatham. Our house had a commanding view of the river Medway right away to Sheerness. After leaving the “Colossus,” we had taken up our quarters in the neighbourhood where a great number of officers resided. The guard-ship “Prince Regent” lay at her moorings three-quarters of a mile distant, and my eldest brother, a mate, was on board awaiting a lieutenancy. He frequently came on shore and visited us at home; but he had gone away to some foreign station before the winter of 1827 set in, or he would have accompanied my sisters to the Rochester ball, probably, in the place of my father who generally required a little persuasion on the part of the girls before mixing with the red and blue coats when they were going in for dancing. The forthcoming Rochester assembly was duly prepared for, of course it was a carriage drive, and in those days the return journey was not always considered safe, although highway robbers were getting less frequent; still it was well to be provided with firearms.
A day or two before the said ball, I was myself an eyewitness of sundry preparations in the domestic circle; first, there was the coming and going of dressmakers, and such sort, and on my respected parent’s side, there was an inspection of small arms, and well I remember it; the taking down of a naval trophy, very like a horse-pistol, which was cleaned, and afterwards charged with powder and ball, but the ammunition was not needed, for the assembly took place, and the girls were safely housed without any adventure.
On their return the pistol had been placed on the top of an old escritoire, and on the following Sunday, during divine service in the parish church—and I may add in our house as well, my mother being an invalid, and a younger sister being therefore called upon to read prayers—just at this serious moment I was wandering about the house, no doubt in search of mischief, when I espied the pistol, and enquired of Mary the housemaid who was busy bed-making, what that was on the drawers. Mary had enough to do in minding her own business, so that I was requested rather pettishly not to bother her. I insisted, despite this protest in the bed-room, and examined the pistol, asking the domestic to allow me to snap the flint and steel in the direction of her foot. I could not keep in check a desire to embark in this little experimental trigger pulling; of course I had not the slightest idea that my pistol could by oversight or neglect have remained charged, nor was I sufficiently practised in gunnery to see the propriety of examining the pan, or thrusting down the ramrod to ascertain if all was clear. My idea was to strike sparks from the flint, and I did so, but “gracious goodness,” as Mary exclaimed when she flew back as if killed—and no sooner had she shrieked than my own mother and sister followed suit—not only had I discharged the contents close to the girl’s foot, but the bullet had gone right through the floor, down into the room close to my parent’s sofa where she was reclining. What consternation ensued I cannot describe; had I shot anybody or wounded myself? Master Henry was most frightened, I am sure, as the pistol fell from my hand, and I stood pale and amazed, until reassured that no one was hurt, and that I was not supposed to have had any deliberate intention of shooting Mary or my dear mother. It was a close shave for all there, and I required protection on the maternal side after my father returned from church.
“The young rascal,” he said, “had no business prowling about on a Sunday morning; it was only a few days previously,” he continued in a great rage, “that gunpowder had exploded in his pocket.” This was a fact. I had collected some half cartridges which the soldiers had dropped at a review, and was about trying my hand at springing a mine, when my father came in sight, and to avoid detection I thrust a lighted slow match in my pocket, when some loose powder ignited; being now called upon for an explanation as to handling the pistol, I pleaded ignorance as to its being loaded, &c., &c., and as the fault lay really on my father’s side, I was pardoned, and I believe kissed by Mary for not having deprived her of existence.
Scarcely six months had elapsed after this first experience of shooting, ere the village talk turned upon a promised balloon ascent from the Rochester Gasworks, by Mr. C. Green; several of my schoolfellows and neighbours were going over to witness the first event of the kind in that part of Kent. My father had determined not to go to Rochester, but to be satisfied with a distant view from Chatham Lines, where I myself, and my brother and sisters, were to assemble on the occasion. I had strict orders to carry with all possible care an old spy glass, of about sixteen inches round by two feet and a half in length. Such a telescope under a boy’s arm now would inevitably excite ridicule as to its much vaunted day and night powers. I cannot speak very positively at the present time, though I still possess the said instrument, and occasionally hand it about as a curiosity, on account of its having been my father’s and the one that was taken to the hill overlooking the gas-works to enable me to obtain a good view of Mr. Green’s balloon, in the year 1828.
It was my lot on that day, as youngest son, to stand erect with back towards my father, with the spy glass on my right shoulder to admit of his getting the first view of the balloon. “There it is sure enough,” was the intimation which only served to make me unsteady and anxious to see what manner of thing a balloon could be. “Steady young gentleman,” said the captain, “your sisters and friends wish for a good view. Now then, take your line straight over Master Henry’s shoulder, as if you were aiming point blank at that black gas holder, you will see the balloon half full.” After our party had taken their turns and had commented on what they saw, I was myself raised to the highest pitch of expectancy, and could not for the life of me get a proper focus or catch sight of the object for some time. At length I sighted the variegated dome, and indulged in a long and selfish gaze; so much so, that other boys with natural longing gave signs of impatience by elbow digs, and at length shook the glass and compelled me to look no longer.