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Our master, Henry Webb, was a very worthy fellow, but had strange fancies. When we were going from the Downs to Portsmouth, and about three leagues to the southward of Beachy Head, he had the first watch, and having after supper taken his drop, he dropped asleep while sitting on the gun-carriage and had a dream that the ship was on shore. Up he started and ran into the captain, who had gone to bed, and called out, ‘Get up, sir, we are all lost.’ The captain jumped out of bed and went upon deck in his shirt, and ordered the hands to be turned up, and sent for me. I flew up with only my trowsers on, found everything in confusion, and I really thought that madness had seized the whole. ‘Put the ship about, sir, immediately,’ says the captain. This I complied with, and when on the other tack I asked him if anything was the matter. ‘Mr. Webb, sir,’ says he, ‘must be sent to the madhouse.’ I confess I was not well pleased, as I had the middle watch and this happened at six bells, so I had an hour more than I expected to trudge the deck. I should have stated that the wind was westerly and we were beating down Channel with a moderate breeze. The captain was much inclined to bring Master Webb to a court martial, but we interceded for him and the business was looked over, but he never heard the last of this, and would frequently be greeted with the well-known words, ‘Turn out, we are all lost’—a compliment he could well dispense with.
He gave us a droll account that when at Lisbon he missed the boat that was to take the officers off in the evening who were on shore upon leave, and was engaging a shore boat for that purpose; but suspecting from something the boatmen were saying that their intention was to murder him, he took to his heels and hid under some logs in the neighbourhood of Bull Bay and remained there all night in the greatest terror. When he sallied out in the morning he was covered with filth of a yellow hue and appeared at a distance as if he had been dipped in Pactolus! His fright was so great that he was not aware of the bed of roses he had reposed on for so many hours, until he started in the morning with blushing honours thick upon him.
On another occasion, coming up in a small fishing boat from Sheerness to Chatham, he heard two of the men whispering, which he imagined was about himself, and when making a tack and near the mud, out he jumped and began to crawl upon his hands and knees as fast as he could for dry land. The poor fishermen, not knowing what to make of such conduct, ran the boat on the mud and two of them went after him, but to no purpose, it being dark. They called repeatedly, but got no answer from Webb, who was making off in terror and dismay; and what alarmed him more was hearing the men say, ‘D’ye see him now? Where the hell can he be got to? He must be hereabouts.’ At last he got out of the mud and set off for Chatham in a nice pickle, and told his tale; but the boat had arrived before him and the men in great tribulation had given their version, being fearful of prosecution, expecting that Webb was smothered or drowned; and glad enough they were when he arrived at Chatham and also to join in the laugh against him. One of the fishermen happened to know him by sight and where he lived, and by that means it got publicity.
In cases like this, and where ghosts were introduced, Webb’s courage would be put to the test; but in every other respect he was as brave as a lion. While at the Passage of Waterford, he had a dispute with our second lieutenant, and a challenge was the consequence, and they asked me leave to go on shore. As I had the greatest friendship for them both, I refused their request, and went below to the gunroom. Soon after one of the midshipmen came down and informed me they were going out of the ship. Up I went and found them in the jolly boat just shoved off. ‘Come back,’ says I, ‘immediately, or I’ll make the sentry fire.’ On their return I told them if they did not make it up instantly, I would try them by a court martial for going out of the ship contrary to orders and taking the boat. This had the desired effect, and I had the pleasure of making up the dispute between two as good fellows as ever lived.
The second lieutenant (Jack Derby) was a noisy droll fellow, always keeping the mess in a roar of laughter. The first day he joined the ship we had roast beef for dinner, and when brought to table it was little better than half done by the neglect of our black cook. Now this cook’s name was Jack Derby also, whom I sent for, and calling him up to the head of the table close by Lieutenant Jack Derby, says I, ‘I am sorry, sir, you should have such a dinner, particularly the first day of your coming on board; but you have to thank that black son of a bitch, Jack Derby’—an emphasis on the word—‘whose grog shall be stopped for such neglect.’ ‘Don’t mention it, sir,’ says he laughing; ‘I shall make a very good dinner, and suppose my name will be inserted on the ship’s books as Jack Derby the Second.’
While lying off Lymington our launch was sent to Portsmouth yard for stores, and Derby was sent in her. On her return, our purser (Huish) took a passage. On leaving the harbour the weather was moderate, but soon after came on to blow from the westward. Now the purser was very fearful in a boat, and Derby carried more sail than he ought, on purpose to alarm him. From the harbour to Lymington, the distance is twenty-six miles, and the wind being dead on end they had to beat all the way. Sometimes the boat would be gunwale under, and Huish, terrified almost to death, would every moment rise from his seat and fall again, exclaiming, ‘Jesus, Jenny, Jesus, Jenny’ (common words of his when things went wrong), and cursed the hour he was fool enough to trust himself with Derby, and if it pleased Providence to spare him now he would never put his foot in a boat with him even in a calm. But his troubles were not yet over, for in getting into the Fiddler’s Race near Gurnet Point, on the Isle of Wight side, with the tide under their lee, there was such a sea breaking that the launch was nearly swamped, and Derby seriously repented his joke; while Huish in despair repeatedly ejaculated, ‘Orontes’ bark, Orontes’ bark will be our fate.’ (See Aeneid [i. 117]).[[148]] However, they got safe on board and created much amusement in the account Huish gave of Derby’s wickedness.
Being ordered to embark the 23rd regiment foot for Guernsey, and after going through the Needles in the evening, it came on thick weather in the first watch; and about eleven the wind, at SE, began to blow a hurricane, with snow so thick that we could not see half the length of the ship. We sent topgallant yards and topgallant masts upon deck, and hove the ship to under storm staysails. The topsails and courses were frozen as hard as board, and being short of complement it took nearly the whole of the middle watch before they could be furled. One of our main topmen was frozen and died soon after. The officers were also aloft, and all hands suffered most dreadfully. I was speaking to the man at the wheel when a sheet of ice fell out of the mizen top and knocked both of us down. It gave me a severe blow on the shoulder and the other a staggering thump on the back. I was so benumbed when I got below that I had hardly life in me. The officers of the 23rd made me swallow hot brandy and water, and I went to bed, where I had not been above half an hour before all hands were called again, and I was obliged to go on deck. The fact was the fore topsail had got loose and blew to rags, and the main topsail was nearly following its example, but stopped in time, and we had to bend another fore topsail in this cruel weather. Towards morning it cleared up and got moderate. During the whole course of my life I never suffered so much as I did on that dreadful night. However, we got safe into Guernsey and landed our soldiers. The officers were a glorious set of fellows, and sorry I am that I cannot find any of their names on the list.
The last time we were at the Passage of Waterford was passed very agreeably. I had a cousin (the son of the late Alderman Bates of Waterford) who had an estate in the neighbourhood. He used to send horses and a carriage for the officers of our mess, who were frequently at his house. He was field officer of the district and kept a great deal of company, and gave many parties in honour of the old Blonde. On one occasion he came on board to invite us to an evening party, when he and Jack Derby got into conversation, and at last got so drunk that it was evening before they got sober enough to leave the ship. It was then time to go, and off they started, Derby in full uniform. When the boat landed, he, with all the politeness imaginable, wanted to hand Bates out. This Bates declined. ‘Then,’ says Jack, ‘we’ll go together.’ Now the gang board was hardly broad enough for two, and the moment they stepped upon it over they went where the water was four feet deep and got a fine ducking. Derby would not return to the ship, but, mounting a horse belonging to Bates, set off in his wet clothes to meet the party, and there Bates dressed him in regimentals, and a precious figure he cut. We passed a very pleasant evening, there being near seventy present. One of the ladies sung the beautiful air of ‘Eileen Aroon’ in Irish—a translation of which I met with a few years ago and give it as follows:—
I’ll love thee evermore,