“Yes, sir.”
“Well, stick it into the softest plank in the ship, and take that for a bed!”
Poor fellow! what was sport for others was pain to him. He had been used to kind treatment at home. After he had received his hammock, when turning out in the morning, with the boatswain’s mates at his heels, he used to exclaim, “When I was at home, I would walk in my father’s garden in the morning, until the maid would come and say, ‘William, will you come to your ta, or your coffee ta, or your chocolarata?’ But, oh! the case is altered now; it’s nothing but bear a hand, lash and carry. Oh, dear!”
I confess that Billy Garvy was not the only one who contrasted the present with the past, or who found the balance to be greatly in favor of the former. I often looked back to the village of Bladen, and thought how preferable would be the bright hearth-side and pleasant voices of that quiet home, to the profane, rough, uncomfortable life we led on shipboard. As these reflections were anything but pleasurable, I banished them as quickly as possible, with a determination to be as happy as I could in my station of servant to the surgeon of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Macedonian: a resolution which I commend to all lads, who, like me, are foolish enough to quit the quiet scenes of a native village, for the noisy, profane atmosphere of a man of war.
As our fare was novel and so different from shore living, it was some time before I could get fully reconciled to it: it was composed of hard sea biscuit, fresh beef while in port, but salt pork and salt beef at sea, pea soup and burgoo. Burgoo, or, as it was sportively called, skillagallee, was oatmeal boiled in water to the consistency of hasty pudding. Sometimes we had cocoa instead of burgoo. Once a week we had flour and raisins served out, with which we made “duff” or pudding. To prepare these articles, each mess had its cook, who drew the provisions, made the duff, washed the mess kids, etc. He also drew the grog for the mess, which consisted of a gill of rum mixed with two gills of water for each man. This was served out at noon every day: at four o’clock, P. M., each man received half a pint of wine. The boys only drew half this quantity, but were allowed pay for the remainder, a regulation which could have been profitably applied to the whole supply of grog and wine for both boys and men. But those were not days in which Temperance triumphed as she does now; though, I believe, the British navy has not yet ceased to dispense the “drink that’s in the drunkard’s bowl” to her seamen.
Shortly after our captain came on board, his servant died somewhat suddenly, so that I had an early opportunity of seeing how sailors are disposed of in this sad hour. The corpse was laid out on the grating, covered with a flag; as we were yet in the river, the body was taken on shore and buried, without the beautiful burial-service of the church of England being read at his grave—a ceremony which is not omitted at the interment of the veriest pauper in that country.
I have purposely dwelt on these particulars, that the reader may feel himself initiated at once into the secrets of man-of-war usages. He has doubtless seen ships of war with their trim rigging and frowning ports, and his heart has swelled with pride as he has gazed upon these floating cities—the representatives of his nation’s character in foreign countries: to their internal arrangements, however, he has been a stranger. I have endeavored to introduce him into the interior: a desire to make him feel at home there, is my apology for dwelling so long on these descriptions.
After various delays, we were at last ready for sea and under sailing orders. The tide and wind were both propitious; then came the long-expected cry of the boatswain, “All hands up anchor ahoy!” The crew manned the capstan in a trice, and running round to the tune of a lively air played by the fifer, the huge anchor rapidly left the mud of the Thames, and hung at the bows of our taut frigate. Then came the cry of “All hands make sail ahoy!” As if by magic, she was immediately covered with canvas; the favoring breeze at once filled our sails, and the form that had lain for weeks inert and motionless on the waters, now bounded along the waves like a thing of life. Rapidly we ran down the Channel, and before we had well got under weigh came to an anchor again at Spithead, under shelter of the garden of England—the Isle of Wight.
Short as was the period between weighing anchor off Gravesend and our arrival at Spithead, it gave opportunity for one of those occurrences which are a disgrace to the naval service of any nation, and a degradation to our common humanity, which the public opinion of the civilized world should frown out of existence: I allude to the brutal practice of flogging.
A poor fellow had fallen into the very sailorlike offence of getting drunk. For this the captain sentenced him to the punishment of four dozen lashes. He was first placed in irons all night: the irons used for this purpose were shackles fitting round the ankles, through the ends of which was passed an iron bar some ten or twelve feet in length: it was thus long because it was no unfrequent case for half a dozen men to be ironed at once. A padlock at the end of the bar held the prisoner securely. Thus placed in “duress vile,” he was guarded by a marine until the captain bade the first lieutenant prepare the hands to witness the punishment. Upon this the lieutenant transmitted the order to the master at arms. He then ordered the grating or hatch full of square holes to be rigged: it was placed accordingly between the main and spar decks, not far from the mainmast.