I resolved not to abuse my liberty as I saw others doing; so when, one fine Sabbath morning, I had obtained leave from our surly first lieutenant, I chose the company of a brother to a messmate, named Rowe, who lived at Plymouth. At the request of my messmate, I called to see him. He received me very kindly, and took me in company with his children into the fields, where the merry notes of the numerous birds, the rich perfume of the blooming trees, the tall, green hedges, and the modest primroses, cowslips and violets, which adorned the banks on the road-side, filled me with inexpressible delight. True, this was not the proper manner of spending a Sabbath day, but it was better than it would have been to follow the example of my shipmates generally, who were carousing in the tap-rooms of the public houses.
At sunset I went on board and walked aft to the lieutenant, to report myself. He appeared surprised to see me on board so early and so perfectly sober, and jocosely asked me why I did not get drunk and be like a sailor. Merely smiling, I retired to my berth, thinking it was very queer for an officer to laugh at a boy for doing right, and feeling happy within myself because I had escaped temptation.
By and by, three other boys, who had been ashore, returned, in a state which a sailor would call “three sheets in the wind.” They blustered, boasted of the high time they had enjoyed, and roundly laughed at me for being so unlike a man-of-war’s-man; while they felt as big as any man on board. The next morning, however, they looked rather chop-fallen, when the captain, who had accidentally seen their drunken follies on shore, ordered them to be flogged, and forbade their masters to send them ashore while we remained at Plymouth. Now, then, it was pretty evident who had the best cruise; the joke was on the other side; for while their drunken behavior cost them a terrible whipping and a loss of liberty, my temperance gained me the real approbation of my officers, and more liberty than ever, since after that day I had to go on shore to do errands for their masters, as well as for my own. The young sailor may learn from this fact the benefit of temperance, and the folly of getting drunk, for the sake of being called a fine fellow.
My frequent visits to the shore gave me many opportunities to run away; while my dislike of everything about the Macedonian inspired me with the disposition to improve them. Against this measure my judgment wisely remonstrated, and, happily for my well being, succeeded. Such an attempt would inevitably have been followed by my recovery, since a handsome bounty was paid for the delivery of every runaway. There are always a sufficient number to be found who will engage in pursuit for the sake of money—such men as the Canadian landlord, described by Rev. Wm. Lighton, in his interesting narrative,[6] a work with which, no doubt, most of my readers are acquainted, since it has enjoyed an immense circulation. Endurance, therefore, was the only rational purpose I could form.
Perhaps the hope of a speedy discharge, through my mother’s efforts, tended somewhat to this result in my case; besides, my situation had become somewhat more tolerable from the fact, that by dint of perseverance in a civil and respectful behavior, I had gained the good will both of the officers and crew. Yet, with this advantage, it was a miserable situation.
There are few worse places than a man of war, for the favorable development of the moral character in a boy. Profanity, in its most revolting aspect; licentiousness, in its most shameful and beastly garb; vice, in the worst of its Proteus-like shapes, abound there. While scarcely a moral restraint is thrown round the victim, the meshes of temptation are spread about his path in every direction. Bad as things are at sea, they are worse in port. There, boat-loads of defiled and defiling women are permitted to come alongside; the men, looking over the side, select whoever best pleases his lustful fancy, and by paying her fare, he is allowed to take and keep her on board as his paramour, until the ship is once more ordered to sea. Many of these lost, unfortunate creatures are in the springtime of life, some of them are not without pretensions to beauty. The ports of Plymouth and Portsmouth are crowded with these fallen beings. How can a boy be expected to escape pollution, surrounded by such works of darkness? Yet, some parents send their children to sea because they are ungovernable ashore! Better send them to the house of correction.
There is one aspect in which life at sea and life in port materially differ. At sea, a sense of danger, an idea of insecurity, is ever present to the mind; in harbor, a sense of security lulls the sailor into indulgence. He feels perfectly safe. Yet, even in harbor, danger sometimes visits the fated ship, stealing upon her like the spirit of evil. This remark was fearfully illustrated in the loss of the Royal George, which sunk at Spithead, near Portsmouth, on the 29th of August, 1782.
This splendid line of battle ship of one hundred and eight guns, had arrived at Spithead. Needing some repairs, she was “heeled down,” or inclined on one side, to allow the workmen to work on her sides. Finding more needed to be done to the copper sheathing than was expected, the sailors were induced to heel her too much. While in this state, she was struck by a slight squall; the cannon rolled over to the depressed side; her ports were open, she filled with water, and sunk to the bottom!
This dreadful catastrophe occurred about ten o’clock in the morning. The brave Admiral Kempenfeldt was writing in his cabin; most of the crew, together with some three hundred women, were between decks: these nearly all perished. Captain Waghorn, her commander, was saved; his son, one of her lieutenants, was lost. Those who were on the upper deck were picked up by the boats of the fleet, but nearly one thousand souls met with a sudden and untimely end. The poet Cowper has celebrated this melancholy event in the following beautiful lines:
Toll for the brave!