While in port we experienced a change of officers by no means agreeable to the crew. Mr. Scott, our first lieutenant, an amiable man, decidedly hostile to the practice of flogging, left us; for what cause, we could not ascertain. His successor, Mr. Hope, though bearing a very pleasant name, was an entirely different person, in manners and conduct, from his predecessor. He was harsh, severe, and fond of seeing the men flogged. Of course, floggings became more frequent than before; for, although a lieutenant cannot flog upon his own authority, yet, such is the influence he exerts over a captain, that he has the utmost opportunity to gratify a thirst for punishment. It may appear strange to the reader that any gentleman—and all officers of the navy consider themselves gentlemen—should possess such a thirst; yet such was the case with Mr. Hope. Nor was his a solitary example; many a man, who, on shore, in presence of ladies of fashion, appeared too gentle to harm an enemy, too kind to injure an insect, was strangely metamorphosed into a genuine unprincipled tyrant, upon assuming command in a man of war.
We had already witnessed a number of punishments, especially at sea: in port, the officers were more condescending, lest their men should desert; but at sea, when this was impossible, they flogged without mercy. Cases of offence which occurred while in the harbor, were looked up; sometimes a half dozen were flogged at once; every man trembled lest he should be a victim; the ship’s crew were made wretched; a sword seemed impending over every head. Who, in such a case, could be happy? Not even a sailor, with all his habitual thoughtlessness. Yet it is said we must flog, to maintain discipline among sailors. Pshaw! Flogging may be needful to awe a slave writhing under a sense of unmerited wrong, but never should a lash fall on a freeman’s back, especially if he holds the safety and honor of his country in his keeping.
Poor old Bob Hammond! Never was man more reckless than this honest-hearted Irishman; never was sailor more courageous under punishment. For being drunk he received four dozen lashes; he bore the infliction with profound silence, uttering neither groan nor sigh; neither casting one imploring look at his tormentors. On being taken down, he applied himself most lustily to his bottle, and before night was drunk again. Rushing to the quarter deck, with a madness peculiar to a phrensied drunkard, he ran up against the captain with such force that he nearly knocked him down. With a boldness that seemed to strike the great man dumb, Bob hiccupped and said,
“Halloo, Billy, my boy, is that you? You are young and foolish; just fit for the launch. You are like a young lion—all your sorrows are to come.”
The captain was excessively proud; even his officers scarcely dared walk the quarter deck on the same side with him. He never allowed himself to be addressed but by his title of “my Lord.” Should a sailor, through design or forgetfulness, reply to a command, “Yes, sir,” the lordly man would look at him with a glance full of dignity, and sternly reply, “What, sir?” This, of course, would put the offender in mind to correct himself by saying, “Yes, my Lord.” Judge then of his surprise, indignation, nay, of his lordly horror, when poor old drunken Bob Hammond called him “Billy, my boy!” Doubtless it stirred up his nobility within him, for, with a voice of thunder, he exclaimed, “Put this man in irons!” It was done. The next morning, his back yet sore, poor Bob received five dozen more strokes of the hated cat-o’-nine-tails. Most heroically was it borne. No sound escaped him; the most profound silence was observed by all, broken only by the dead sound of the whip, as it fell every few moments on the wounded back. The scene was sickening in the extreme. Let me throw a veil over its details, simply remarking that it is questionable which of the two appears to the best advantage; poor drunken Bob, suffering degrading torture with heroic firmness, or my Lord Fitzroy, gloating on the scene with the appetite of a vulture! Let the reader decide for himself.
These statements may at first sight appear incredible. It may be asked how a man could endure whippings which would destroy an ox or a horse. This is a very natural question, and but for the consciousness I feel of being supported in my statements by the universal testimony of old men-of-war’s-men, I should hesitate to publish them. The worst species of this odious torture, however, remains to be described—flogging through the fleet.
This punishment is never inflicted without due trial and sentence by a court-martial, for some aggravated offence. After the offender is thus sentenced, and the day arrives appointed by his judges for its execution, the unhappy wretch is conducted into the ship’s launch—a large boat—which has been previously rigged up with poles and grating, to which he is seized up; he is attended by the ship’s surgeon, whose duty it is to decide when the power of nature’s endurance has been taxed to its utmost. A boat from every ship in the fleet is also present, each carrying one or two officers and two marines fully armed. These boats are connected by tow lines to the launch.
These preparations made, the crew of the victim’s ship are ordered to man the rigging, while the boatswain commences the tragedy. When he has administered one, two or three dozen lashes, according to the number of ships in the fleet, the prisoner’s shirt is thrown over his gory back; the boatswain returns on board, the hands are piped down, the drummer beats a mournful melody, called the rogue’s march, and the melancholy procession moves on. Arriving at the side of another ship, the brutal scene is repeated, until every crew in the fleet has witnessed it, and from one to three hundred lashes have lacerated the back of the broken-spirited tar to a bleeding pulp. He is then placed under the surgeon’s care, to be fitted for duty—a ruined man—broken in spirit! all sense of self-respect gone, forever gone! If he survive, it is only to be like his own brave bark, when winds and waves conspire to dash her on the pitiless strand, a wretched, hopeless wreck; a living, walking shadow of his former self. Shameful blot! most foul and disgraceful stain on the humanity of England! How long before this worse than barbarism will disappear before the mild influences of civilization and Christianity?
No plea of necessity can be successfully urged in behalf of whipping men; for, if subordination or faithful adhesion to orders is expected to follow such terrible examples, I know, from my acquaintance with the sufferers themselves, that the expectation is vain. One of two results always follows. The victim either lives on, a lone, dark-minded, broken-spirited man, despising himself and hating every one, because he thinks every one hates him; or he lives with one fearful, unyielding purpose; a purpose on which he feeds and nourishes his galled mind, as food affords life and energy to his physical constitution—that purpose is REVENGE. I have heard them swear—and the wild flashing eye, the darkly frowning brow, told how firm was that intent—that if ever they should be in battle, they would shoot their officers. I have seen them rejoice over the misfortunes of their persecutors, but more especially at their death. That it has frequently led to mutiny, is well verified. I have known such severity to result in actual murder. While we lay at Lisbon, a sergeant of marines, on board a seventy-four, made himself obnoxious by repeated acts of tyranny. Two marines determined upon his death. One night, unperceived by any, they seized him, hurried him to the gangway, and pitched him overboard. The tide was running strong; the man was drowned! But for themselves his fate would have remained a secret until the great day of judgment; it was discovered by an officer, who accidentally overheard them congratulating each other on their achievement. He betrayed them. A court-martial sentenced them. They were placed on deck with halters on their necks. Two guns were fired, and, when the smoke cleared away, two men were seen dangling from the foreyard-arm. Only one day previous, a letter had brought a discharge from the service for one of them. Poor fellow! it came too late. He was fated to a summary discharge from all service, in a manner appalling and repulsive to every finer human feeling.