All this, of course, was before the central authority was transferred from Whitehall to Whitechapel, and without expressing an opinion on the merits or demerits of corporal punishment, one may be permitted to ask: Are the bluejackets of to-day any better than Peel’s Naval Brigade in the Crimea, or the tough old tars that helped to quell the Mutiny? Are the specimens one occasionally meets smoking cigarettes and Orange Blossom tobacco superior to the old sea dogs that chewed what would have killed a rhinoceros and rolled quids of ’baccy saturated in rum? Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Be that as it may, flogging has ever been found the only deterrent for a certain class of scum which occasionally rises to the surface even in the Navy.
On another occasion, when I was embarking at Portsmouth, barely had the Himalaya left the side of the quay when the Honourable Mrs. Montmorency (afterwards Lady Frankfort), accompanied by her father, Sir John Michel, and a crowd of sisters, cousins, and aunts, might have been seen rushing frantically towards the slowly-moving trooper; but the cries fell on deaf ears, and the good ship continued her course.
Next night in Queenstown Harbour a bumboat might have been seen struggling against wind and tide to reach the trooper lying a mile out at sea, which, on getting alongside, was found to contain the lady, who, since we last saw her, had undertaken a journey of four hundred miles, attended by every discomfort that travelling flesh is heir to, and all because she did not know little Grant, and expected to impress him by arriving five minutes late. The same lady very nearly had a similar experience a month later at St. Helena, and only just reached the deck as the “blue Peter” was being hauled down.
It was on this same voyage that a subaltern, whose duties compelled him to be on deck at daylight, remarked to the navigating-lieutenant later in the day: “How splendid the sun looked this morning rising over the hills.” “Oh! yes,” was the snubbing reply, “we call that Cape Flyaway. Why, man, we are five hundred miles from the West coast.”
That night, when hammocks were being issued, a cry of “Land on the port bow” brought all hands on deck, and lo! we were steaming full speed for land with 1,400 souls on board. Almost in front of us was an angry surf, a little beyond it tropical foliage was distinctly visible, and then followed the silence as when engines are stopped, and with extra hands at both wheels, the shout of “Hard a-starboard!” pierced the darkness, and we were going full speed in the opposite direction.
Cape Flyaway cost poor little Piper a reprimand and half-pay for life, and an innocent wife and family—God help them—may still be suffering for that disregarded sunrise.
When dear old Admiral Commerell succeeded Purvis as Commander-in-Chief at the Cape, things at Government House hummed as they had never done before, and the energy that the little man put into his hospitality was as conspicuous as when fighting on sea or on land. With more than the lives attributed to a cat, it is incredible that he should have survived a blunderbuss full of slugs on the Prah a few years later, which, fired point blank, drove half a monkey-jacket into his lungs. Though brought to Cape Town on the Rattlesnake, more as a formality than with any hopes of recovery, and for months after spitting up pieces of blue serge, he rallied as he had often done before, and the last time I saw him was in a Maxim gun show-room in Victoria Street, where, as “Managing Director,” he explained the intricacies of the weapon to every ’Arry that chose to look in, and so trade laid hands in his declining years on as brave a recipient of the Victoria Cross as ever trod a quarter-deck.
When the flying squadron under Beauchamp Seymour was expected at Ascension on its return from the Cape, great excitement prevailed from the possibility of a visit, and a trooper that was “laying off” was in such deadly fear of any want of smartness being observable that the washing by the soldiers’ wives that had been permitted was made short work of, and petticoats, shirts, and socks that were fluttering in the breeze were ruthlessly ordered down, for fear some signalman should detect a strange signal and note it in the log-book. For this lynx-eyed race is incapable of being hoodwinked; indeed, so dexterous did they become in the Channel Squadron some years ago (and doubtless are so still) that they read the signals for fleet manœuvres before the flags were broken, necessitating the entire bunch being rolled into one, and so giving every ship an equal chance of displaying their smartness. Of the turtle we discussed recently, the “last phase” is to be seen in the smoking-room of a well-known hostelry in Leadenhall Street, where, peeping through the tanks, numerous specimens may be seen blinking and winking as if in reproach at the unfair advantage taken of them by perfidious Albion in leading them into captivity when guests of the nation and in an interesting condition.
Ascension, as most of us are aware, is on the direct road to the Cape and within easy distance of St. Helena—a by no means unpleasant place, despite an unjust prejudice that attaches to it.
It was on board a Union steamer that the absurd incident I witnessed took place, when the diamond fields were coming into notice and attracting speculators in every kind of ware likely to find favour amongst the natives, who had not then been educated in Houndsditch ways to the extent they have since arrived at. The genius who contemplated a rich harvest not discounted by any such absurd formalities as paying “duty,” declaring contraband, or propitiating officials apt to be too inquisitive, was a Hebrew jeweller of a pronounced type with the unusual adornment of carroty hair, who afterwards developed into a Bond Street shopkeeper, and may still be seen shorn of his sunny locks, which nevertheless still retain a pleasing suspicion of the blaze they once emitted. The chief officer was a shrewd individual, who long before we arrived at Table Bay had taken his passenger’s measure, and what added insult to injury was a presentation to him of a wretched ring the wholesale price of which could not have exceeded ten shillings. Had he pressed a five-pound note into his hand it would have proved a less expensive procedure. The sequel was disastrous, as, passing through the dock gates, ’Enery was requested to turn out his pockets, and the percentage to the informant amounted to a very handsome sum. Who the informant was—actuated by duty!—it is needless to discuss, but our friend got to the Fields at last and turned a considerable profit on his “Brummagem” wares.