IT WAS the fashion then, as it is now, to portray a sailor, as a harum-scarum, jovial, rollicking, care-for-nought; and doubtless, in the main, he was, at that time, as unlike as possible to the blue-riband, savings-bank Jack that he very frequently is now. Prize money was pretty plentiful; such things as a temperance captain and ship, were unknown; and the constant active service in which they were engaged, with its concomitant insecurity to life and limb, must have made them somewhat reckless, and inclined to enjoy life, after their fashion, whilst they still possessed that life. Rowlandson—May 30, 1802—drew two of them in a caricature, called “The Sailor’s Journal.” They are dividing a bowl of punch, one is smoking, the other gives his mate some extracts from his Journal: “Entered the port of London. Steered to Nan’s lodgings, and unshipped my Cargo; Nan admired the shiners—so did the landlord—gave ‘em a handful apiece; emptied a bottle of the right sort with the landlord to the health of his honour Lord Nelson. All three set sail for the play; got a berth in a cabin on the larboard side—wanted to smoke a pipe, but the boatswain wouldn’t let me; remember to rig out Nan like the fine folks in the cabin right ahead. Saw Tom Junk aloft in the corner of the upper deck—hailed him; the signal returned. Some of the land-lubbers in the cockpit began to laugh—tipped them a little foremast lingo till they sheered off. Emptied the grog bottle; fell fast asleep—dreamt of the battle of Camperdown. My landlord told me the play was over—glad of it. Crowded sail for a hackney coach. Squally weather—rather inclined to be sea-sick. Gave the pilot a two pound-note, and told him not to mind the change. In the morning, looked over my Rhino—a great deal of it, to be sure; but I hope, with the help of a few friends, to spend every shilling in a little time, to the honour and glory of old England.”
This was the ideal, and typical, sailor; the reality was sometimes as foolish. Morning Herald, June 12, 1805: “One day last week a sailor belonging to a man-of-war at Plymouth had leave to go on shore; but, having staid much longer than the allowed time, he received a sharp reprimand on his return. Jack’s reply was that he was very sorry, but that he had taken a dilly (a kind of chaise used about Plymouth) for the purpose of making the utmost haste, but the coachman could not give him change for half a guinea, and he, therefore, was obliged to keep him driving fore and aft between Plymouth and the Dock, till he had drove the half-guinea out! Unfortunately for poor Jack, it so happened, that when the half-guinea was drove out, he was set down at the spot whence he started, and had just as far to walk, as though he had not been drove at all.”
When in full uniform, a sailor in the Royal Navy was a sight to see—with his pig-tail properly clubbed and tied with black silk. We have already seen them in the picture of Nelson’s funeral car, and the accompanying illustration is of the same epoch, and shows a British sailor weeping over Lord Nelson’s death.
It was a rough school, both for officers and men. We may judge somewhat of what the life of the former was like by Captain Marryat’s novels; but, lest they should be highly coloured, let us take a few lines from the first page of the “Memoir of Admiral Sir Edward Codrington”:[73]
BRITISH SAILOR—1805.
“He spent nine years at sea as a midshipman; and I have repeatedly heard him say, that during those nine years (so important for the formation of character) he never was invited to open a book, nor received a word of advice or instruction, except professional, from any one. More than that, he was thrown among a set in the gun-room mess, older than himself, whose amusement it was—a too customary amusement in those days—to teach the lad to drink, and to lead him into their own habitual practice in that respect.”
If this was the case with the officers, how did the men fare? Volunteer recruits did not come from the pick of the labouring class, and the pressed men soon fell into the ways of those surrounding them. No doubt they were better off in the Royal Navy than in the Mercantile Marine; but the ship’s stores of that day consisted but of salt pork, and beef, the latter being indifferently called junk or old horse. The biscuits, too, were nothing like those now supplied on board Her Majesty’s ships. Wheat was very dear, and these sailors did not get the best of that. Inferior corn, bad package, and old age soon generated weevils, and the biscuit, when these were knocked out, was often but an empty shell. Bullied by their officers, and brutally flogged and punished for trifling faults, Jack’s life could not have been a pleasant one; and we can hardly wonder that he often deserted, and sometimes mutinied. Yet, whenever a fight was imminent, or did actually occur, all bad treatment was banished from his mind, and he fought like a Briton.
And there were many ships to man. Not only were all our dockyards hard at work building and repairing, but prizes were continually coming in; and the French men-of-war were better designed than ours—in fact, it may be said that we learned, at that time, our Naval Architecture from the prizes we took. In October, 1804, there were in commission 103 ships of the line, 24 fifty-gun vessels, 135 frigates, and 398 sloops—total 660. In March, 1806, there were 721 ships in commission, of which 128 were of the line. On January 1, 1808, there were 795 in commission, 144 being ships of the line. Many of these were taken from the French, as the following exultant paragraph from the Annual Register, August 19, 1808, will show:
“It must be proudly gratifying to the minds of Britons, as it must be degradingly mortifying to the spirit of Bonaparte, to know that we have, at this moment, in the British Navy, 68 sail of the line, prizes taken from the enemies of this country at different periods, besides 21 ships carrying from 40 to 50 guns each, 62 ships from 30 to 40 guns each, 15 carrying from 20 to 30 guns each, and 66 from 10 to 20 guns each; making a total of 232 ships.”