He said no, no, no, he said no,
He said no no, you shall not go,
By Christ, you shall not go, etc.
I had nearly got into a second scrape about the confounded middle watch. My friend Jack Kiel and myself relieved the deck at 12. The rest of the watch were absent as before. The night was as dark as pitch, and blowing and raining most furiously, when about five bells we got rather hungry and went to our berth in the cockpit to stew beef steaks. This was done by lighting several pieces of candle in the bottom of a lantern, and sticking forks (not silver ones) in the table round it with a plate resting on them over the candles (the head of the lantern being off), which stewed the steaks remarkably well. We had scarcely finished when old Davy Jacks, the quartermaster, came hobbling down the cockpit ladder to inform us that the Endymion was going out of harbour, and had made the signal for assistance (we had then the command). ‘Why, Davy,’ says Kiel, ‘you must be mad to think of such a thing. Is that all the news you have?’ ‘Nothing more, sir,’ says Davy; ‘only Mr. Yetts wants you.’ This was the unkindest cut of all. Away we flew upon deck, saw how things were, and went into the wardroom to answer the bell for the officer of the watch, and found the old man nearly dressed. ‘J—— ——,’ say he, ‘What’s the matter? and why did you not come when I rung before?’ I told him we were looking out on the Endymion, who had broke from her moorings and had made the signal, and that I was just coming to acquaint him of the circumstance. This satisfied him, and we took good care never to be off deck again.
The Phaëton, 38, having arrived from the Mediterranean and a court martial ordered on her captain (Geo. Dawson), and also on Messrs. Wall and Lucas, the first and second lieutenants, and likewise on a man by the name of Wilkie, her master—Rear-Admiral J. Peyton hoisted his flag (white at the mizen) on board of us as president of the court. The lieutenants were tried the first, and sentenced to be dismissed from their ship; and then the above-named Wilkie, as prosecutor, exhibited fifteen charges against Captain Dawson. The trial lasted several days, when twelve of the charges and part of another were brought in Scandalous, Malicious, Ill-founded, and Derogatory to the discipline of his Majesty’s Service; but two of the charges and part of another being proved, he was dismissed from his Majesty’s Service.
Captain Dawson then tried Wilkie on four charges; part of which being proved, he was sentenced to be dismissed from his ship—a sad punishment, she being paid off the next day. The surgeon (Wardrope) had been tried before the ship arrived and was a long time under sentence of death.[[56]]
Captain Dawson was an officer who had greatly distinguished himself in the American War when he commanded the Hope [schooner]. He was captain of the Renown, 50, when she engaged and would have taken a French 84,[[57]] one of the Count D’Estaing’s fleet, had she not been rescued by some of the enemy’s ships coming to her assistance. This trial occasioned a great party spirit among the midshipmen, some siding with Wilkie the prosecutor, and others with Captain Dawson. I was for the latter, because I thought there was malice prepense in the prosecution. I hated the basilisk look of Wilkie, and wished him at the devil. A violent altercation taking place upon this subject, my old messmate Philpot, a strong adherent to the house of Wilkie, in the moment of irritation threw a black jack full of beer in my face; for which compliment I instantly knocked him down, and after a hard battle in which he got two black eyes, I came off conqueror. Things were going to be carried farther, but a stop was put to it and we made it up.
Like all ships we had some droll hands, and with the exception of about half a dozen, all good and worthy fellows. One or two of the half dozen I shall mention, and begin with Geo. Wangford, who had been in the Boreas, and was a follower of the captain. He was an immoderate drinker, and from his fiery countenance had the nickname of Bardolph. While in the Edgar his mother died and left him one thousand pounds. He lived about six months after receiving the money in one scene of debauchery; and with the assistance of a noted prostitute, named Poll Palmer, in that short time made away with nearly five hundred pounds. I remember his being taken ill after a hard drinking match, and then he got religious and requested one of the midshipmen (Patrick Flood), another strange fish, to read the Bible to him. This Patrick readily agreed to; but before he got through a chapter pretended to have a violent pain in his stomach, upon which Wangford requested him to take capillaire[[58]] and brandy, and that he would join him, and desired that, in mixing, two thirds should be brandy. Flood was immediately cured, and began to read a chapter in Job; and when he came to that part, ‘Then Job answered and said,’ Wangford started up and roared out—‘that I am going to hell before the wind.’ I lay close by them and heard every word. He soon after turned to upon Hollands, his favourite beverage, and thought no more of Job or the Bible. Soon after he was sent to the hospital, where he remained some time and died mad. A little before his death Pringle (one of the midshipmen) went to see him, and while sitting on the foot of his bed he started up and seized hold of Pringle by the hair singing out, ‘—— —— ——, catch that bird’; the other calling out for the nurse to assist him, which was of little use for he nearly broke her arm before others came up to secure him. Several of us attended his funeral.
Our time passed cheerfully in the harbour; plenty of fun and going on shore. One night several of us supped in the main hatchway berth on the orlop deck, when old Andrew Macbride, the schoolmaster (a man of splendid abilities but unfortunately given to drinking, though the goodness of his heart made him much respected and did away in a great measure with that infirmity) on this occasion got so drunk that Ned Moore (my worthy messmate) handed him a couple of tumblers of the juice of red pickled cabbage and told him it was brandy and water, which he drank without taking the least notice. I believe it did him good as an aperient, for he was cruising about all night and next day, and could not imagine what it was that affected him so.
One of our midshipmen (Millar), as worthy a fellow as ever lived, told me the following anecdote of himself and Macbride. On his joining the Hector, 74, a guard-ship in Portsmouth Harbour, Morgan, the first lieutenant, came up to him and said, ‘Millar, my boy, how glad I am to see you. You must dine with me to-day.’ Millar, who had never seen him before, thought it rather queer that he should be so friendly at first sight; however, he accepted the invitation. When dinner was over, Morgan declared that he was under a great obligation to him and that he should at all times be happy to acknowledge it. Poor Millar said he was really at a loss to understand him. ‘Well then,’ says Morgan, ‘I’ll tell you. It is this. I was considered the ugliest son of a bitch in the fleet before you came on board, but you beat me dead hollow, and surely you cannot wonder at my being sensible of the obligation.’ Millar laughed heartily, and they were ever after on the best terms. It happened in about three months after this, Macbride also joined the Hector. The moment he came on board, down came the quartermaster to Millar saying that Lieutenant Morgan wanted to see him immediately. As soon as Millar came on the quarter deck, Morgan went up to him and wished him joy; and pointing to Macbride observed, ‘You, Millar, are a happy dog for being relieved so soon. I was considered the ugliest son of a bitch in the fleet for more than a year; you then came on board and outdid me; but there stands one that beggars all description, and if they were to rake hell they could not find his fellow.’ Then going and shaking Macbride by the hand, asked him and Millar to dine with him that day to celebrate the happy relief.