I subscribed to a concert in Gosport and one evening I went with a messmate (the late Captain Philpot) and some girls who I gave tickets to; we did not break up until 12 o’clock and then went on board. It happened unfortunately to be our middle watch, and the rest of the watch being on shore we relieved the deck; but, being tired and sleepy, we thought it no harm to go to our hammocks instead of keeping a vile watch; so, singing the old song:
I hate this damned watching and trudging the deck;
The most we can get, boys, at best is a check;
Sit still then, and let the lieutenants all rail,
We’ll ride out the breeze—says Commodore Gale—
we thought ourselves perfectly secure; and so we should have been, had not a quarrel taken place between two of the quartermasters’ wives, for which one of them was turned out of the ship; but in revenge she accused the other of smuggling four tubs of liquor into the ship, stating the time to the first lieutenant. Now as ill luck would have it, it proved to be on the concert night, or rather the morning, when the transaction took place. He then made his report to the captain, who sent for us and with a ferocious aspect demanded the reason of our leaving the deck. We could give none, only Philpot said, ‘The concert, sir.’ ‘The concert, sir?’ retorted the captain; ‘What had the concert to do with liquor getting into the ship, and officers sleeping in their watch? I have a great mind to try you both by a court martial;’ and turning to the first lieutenant he said, ‘Mr. Yetts, let them be prisoners for three months’—or, in other words, not to be suffered to leave the ship, even upon duty, during that time.
Our first lieutenant (Yetts) was a very droll and strange personage, in dress as well as in manners. When he commissioned the Edgar he had on a uniform coat made in days of yore, with sleeves that reached to his hips, a very low collar, huge white lappels and cuffs, the buttons behind at a good fighting distance, and the skirts and pockets of enormous size. A red waistcoat, nankin breeches, and black worsted stockings, with great yellow buckles on round-toed shoes, a hat that had been cocked, but cut round, with a very low crown, so that he was obliged to keep his hand to his head to prevent its blowing off in the lightest breeze. When he came on board in this costume, the warrant officers thought he had made his escape from a madhouse; and Grey, the gunner, swore he was an understrapper from Bedlam that was come to take Johnny Bone the boatswain (at that time half mad from drunkenness) to the lunatic hospital. When this was told Johnny it brought him to his reason, and in great tribulation he locked himself up in his storeroom and remained there the most of the day, to the great amusement of everyone on board.
This Johnny Bone was a devil of a fellow at Cap-a-bar,[[54]] and would stick at nothing. It is related that the late Lord Duncan, when he commanded the Edgar, once said to him, ‘Whatever you do, Mr. Bone, I hope and trust you will not take the anchors from the bows.’
But to return to Lieutenant Yetts; he was a very active old man; extremely passionate, and swore as well as his brother officers of the present day; an excellent sailor, and though violent at times, would hurt no one. He was also well read in ancient and modern history. In asking him leave to go on shore, his answer was (if out of temper), ‘No; damn my brains if you shall go.’ It happened one night when he went on shore that Jack Kiel (one of the midshipmen) and myself took the opportunity and set off on a cruise in the long boat’s punt (small boat), and landed on Gosport beach; and having secured the boat, we took a stroll up Middle Street, when who should pop upon us but old Yetts, who, we thought, had gone to Portsmouth. We took to our heels and he called after us, but was not certain (so it appeared) to our persons. We, without loss of time, got on board and went to our hammocks. The moment he returned, down came the quartermaster to acquaint us that Mr. Yetts wished to see us. When we came upon deck he addressed us with ‘——, Mr. Kiel and Mr. Gardner, who gave you leave to go on shore? and why did you not come when I called you?’ We brazened it out that we had not been on shore and had gone to our hammocks a considerable time, and that he must have mistaken somebody else for us. This seemed to stagger him, but he swore, ‘damn his brains, but it must be us.’ He then made inquiry of the midshipmen of the watch, but we had taken devilish good care not to come up the side but crept in through the gunroom port, so that they could give him no information. By these means we weathered him; but for more than a week after, whenever he saw us on deck, he greeted us with, ‘Damn my brains, but it was you.’
There was a song at this time by Storace[[55]]—it began as follows: