The life we led at Sheerness was very peculiar, and I question whether in those bygone days the Viceroy of India, or Ireland, or any other representative potentate, could have been held in higher consideration than the Commissioner of a Dockyard. I am speaking, of course, of our circumscribed official circle. As to the Commissioner’s children, they were looked upon as little else than princes and princesses on a small scale, and to our numerous retainers the slightest wish of the youngest member of the family was as law. This remark held good more particularly with the boat’s crew, who were the most devoted and loyal of our subjects. Two of these men were told off as running grooms to Cavendish and myself, and accompanied us in our daily rides to one of the few green spots in the neighbourhood, called the Major’s March. Here, slipping the reins by which they had led us for safety through the town, they would gaze with admiration on our juvenile feats of horsemanship—our wild careering over what then appeared to us a vast tract of country. Cavendish’s hack was a small Welsh pony, “Black Taffy,” the present of a clerk in my father’s office, who had imported the little charger from his native hills of Cambria. “Meander,” my pony, was a bright golden bay, and many were the races and wild gallops that pretty little pair of ponies afforded us.
Besides our nautical stablemen, the coxswain, a small but most efficient seaman, was a great favourite with us all; and once, during the absence of the men-servants, Lowe, as he was by name and stature, did not disdain to wait in the nursery. One day he caused us great merriment by stopping in the act of carrying in the children’s dinner, and placing the wooden tray on the ground with a bang, exclaiming in a stentorian voice: “God bless my soul, I’ve forgot the beer!”—the leg of mutton being left to cool on the carpet, while Lowe descended to the cellar to fetch what he doubtless considered the most important item in the repast.
“LONG GEORGE”
Another remarkable member of the crew was “Long George,” a handsome giant, but decidedly a mauvais sujet, who was in constant scrapes and periodical danger of dismissal. When so placed, he would invariably steal up to the nursery, and with a timid knock, and in a coaxing tone, ask if “Miss Mary would be so very good as to beg Commissioner to let him off this once”; and downstairs would little Mary fly with a beating heart, to knock at the door of father’s office. After being kept in suspense for a few moments, which seemed to her as many hours, she would scamper back to her “ne’er-do-weel” with the joyful intelligence that he was forgiven, but it was positively for the very last time. Some last times are of frequent recurrence.
Another class of men who came frequently under our notice were the convicts employed in various ways in the dockyard. Our nursery windows commanded a view of a spot where important works were carried on—wharfage, transport, and the like. It rejoiced in the name of Powder-Monkey Bay, a title that did not convey a very clear meaning to our young minds, savouring as it did of a semi-zoological character. In those days criminals convicted of the worst offences wore round the waist an iron belt, from which were suspended heavy chains, fastened at each ankle, such as we see in Hogarth’s painting of “Macheath,” and other unworthies. From our windows, we often saw two boys thus accoutred at work, and never did so without a shudder; they were brothers, about fifteen or sixteen years of age, who had murdered their mother. A mother!—in our sight the most sacred, the most beloved of human beings. But there were different characters and various moral grades among these men, and perseverance in good conduct often shortened the period of their imprisonment. Those who had been artizans were allowed to carry on and dispose of their work while on board the hulks; and one of the convicts, who went by the name of “Tidy Dick,” was permitted to make shoes for the Commissioner’s children. We were very fond of him, and participated in his delight when he came to tell us he had obtained his release. We even added the mite of our small allowances to the subscription which our father and mother, the Admiral, and other dignitaries of the dockyard, had raised to fit out “Tidy Dick” with a new suit of clothes, in which he came to bid us good-bye. The word was not invented in those days, but there is no doubt about it, Dick was a regular “swell.”
Another member of the community caused much amusement to my father, who on one occasion went into his garden and found a convict at work after the hour that the warder and the other prisoners had left off for the day.
“OH! I AM FOR BIGAMY”
“What are you here for?” was the question asked in tones of surprise. The man jumped up hastily from his kneeling position, and pulling his forelock, answered in the most cheerful and unconcerned tones: “Oh! I am for bigamy, Commissioner.”
Another convict was a skilful tailor, and was permitted the privilege of making costumes for our dramatic company on the occasion of our first play—a subject of great importance, of which I shall treat hereafter.
But while writing of our friends and retainers, I should be ungrateful to omit the mention of a warder endowed with the unusual name of Orper. This man had in our childish eyes attained the very summit of high art, and if in those early times we had ever heard of Michel Angelo, we should have placed Orper on a level with that great man. It must be confessed his genius was not as versatile, neither did he even attempt the modelling of the human form divine; but then his birds! It must also be allowed that his young patrons displayed much discrimination in classing and naming the peculiar ornithological representations which he carved in wood for our delight. These works of art were more especially objects of our admiration and desire, when slightly coloured or tinted. In this respect Orper had an illustrious follower in the celebrated John Gibson, although we are fain to believe that that eminent sculptor had never heard of his predecessor.