It was therefore nothing extraordinary for Jonathan Lambert to tire of roving the wide seas and to set himself up in business as the king of Tristan da Cunha which had neither ruler nor subjects. What his ambitions were and how a melancholy end overtook them is to be found in the sea-journal of Captain John White, who sailed the American brig Franklin out to China in 1819. He wrote:
On March 12th we saw and passed the island of Tristan da Cunha which was taken possession of in 1810 by Jonathan Lambert. He published a document setting forth his rights to the soil and invited navigators of all nations whose routes might lie near that ocean to touch at his settlement for supplies which he anticipated his industry would draw from the earth and the adjacent sea. He signified his readiness to receive in payment for his produce, which consisted of vegetables, fruit and fish, whatever might be convenient for the visitors to part with which could be in any way useful to him.
In order to carry out his plan, Jonathan Lambert took with him to the island various implements of husbandry, seeds of the most useful plants, tropical trees for transplanting, etc. After he had been on his island for about two years it was apparent that his efforts would be crowned with success, but unfortunately he was drowned, with his one associate, while visiting one of the nearby islands.
Another adventurous seaman, Thomas Currie, succeeded to this lonely principality by right of occupation, and was joined by two others. They lived contentedly and raised wheat and oats and pigs until in the War of 1812 the American naval vessels began to use Tristan da Cunha as a base from which to harry British commerce in the South Atlantic. Then Great Britain formally annexed the group, and kept a garrison of a hundred men there for two years.
When the garrison was withdrawn, Corporal William Glass of the Royal Artillery was left behind at his own request, with his wife and children, and two privates decided to join him as the beginnings of a colony. A few other rovers or shipwrecked sailors drifted to Tristan da Cunha from time to time, and they found girls at St. Helena and Cape Town who were willing to marry them, so that there was created a peaceful, unworldly little community on this far-away island over which Corporal William Glass ruled as a wise and benevolent patriarch.
The Blenden Hall was a stout ship bound out from England to Bombay in 1820, an East Indiaman of the stately fleet that flew the house flag of the Honorable Company. Their era was soon to pass, with all its color and romance, the leisurely voyage, the ceremonious formality and discipline, the pleasant sociability. The swifter Yankee merchant ships, hard driven under clouds of cotton duck, used to rush past these jogging East India “tea-wagons,” which shortened sail at sunset and snugged down for the night. They carried crews for a man-of-war, what with the midshipmen, the purser, the master-at-arms, the armorer, the calker, the butcher, baker, poulterer, gunner’s mates, sail-maker, six officers to assist the commander, and Indian servants to wait on them.
The passengers enjoyed more comfort and luxury in these handsome old sailing ships than the modern reader might suppose. The cabins were much more spacious than the liner’s state-rooms of to-day, the saloon was ornate with rugs and teakwood, with silver plate and the finest napery, and dinner was an elaborate affair, with a band of music, and the commander and the officers in the Company’s dress uniform of blue coat and gold buttons, with waistcoats and breeches of buff. Wines, ale, beer, and brandy were served without cost to the passengers, and the large staff of cooks and stewards was able to find in the storerooms and pantries such a varied stock of provisions as beef, pork, bacon, and tongues, bread, cheese, butter, herrings, and salmon, confectionery, oatmeal, oranges, and dried and preserved fruits, while a live cow or two supplied cream for the coffee, and the hen-coops stowed in the long-boat contributed fresh eggs.
The Blenden Hall was commanded by Captain Alexander Greig, a sailor and a gentleman of the old school, who had laid by a comfortable fortune during his long service. The trading ventures and perquisites of the master of an East Indiaman often yielded an income which a modern bank president would view with profound respect. The captain’s son, young Alexander Greig, sailed as a passenger on this last voyage of the Blenden Hall. He was a high-spirited lad, bound out to join the army in India, and life was one zestful adventure after another. The modern youngster may well envy him his luck in being shipwrecked on a desert island, where he wrote a diary, using penguin’s blood for ink and quill feathers for pens.
If the tale were fiction instead of fact, the beginning could be no more auspiciously romantic.
Captain Greig and his son left their English country home in their “travelling carriage” for the journey to Gravesend to join the ship. While crossing Bexley Heath they made their pistols ready, for the stretch of road was notorious for highwaymen, and as young Alexander Greig enjoyably tells us: