Within a month of the letter from Captain Keppel to my father, I was appointed to the Raleigh, sailing frigate of 50 guns, then fitting out for the East Indies and China stations. I recall vividly the honour I felt at the idea of serving under that Captain. I had been thrown in with him all through the Baltic and the Crimean campaigns. I did not serve in the Naval Brigade ashore; but he was the constant companion of my uncle when opportunities offered, and in that way I saw a deal of him. Throughout the war Captain Keppel and Lord Clarence Paget were always putting their heads together, trying to infuse more spirit into what was done. Well do I recollect overhearing their remarks, especially those in reference to the Baltic Do-Nothing Policy—how it affronted these enterprising minds! Keppel was full of dash and fire, though always blessed with an iron nerve. His was not a nature that ever contemplated failure. I had plenty of opportunities of finding this out. I was not destined to serve long under his command; but I learnt to admire his love for the Service. I have heard it said that he did not study the possibilities of risk enough: that at times he was too adventurous. Where and when did he fail? Let us leave well alone. He was the most genial of men, with the kindest of hearts. A great disciplinarian he was not. Still, in a service like the Navy you are as much in need of a character like Keppel as you are of a Sir William Martin. Both are admirable in their different ways. In the one case you train a man to perfect discipline; in the other you make use of that discipline and steadiness when the moment of dash is required. One man may shine in one particular sphere; another shines elsewhere; and both may be invaluable officers. I have known Captains who (either from their own peculiar natures, or perhaps from having been so trained in their younger days) apparently thought it absolutely wrong to hold friendly intercourse with their subordinates on board ship: they could not bear the idea of a friendly Good-morning, and seemed glued to the notion that all discipline was at an end if the symptom of a joke appeared. Talking of a friendly Good-morning puts me in mind of what occurred between a young lieutenant just joined and an officer I knew very well, who, though a most pleasant man off duty, had very strong opinions as to the sanctity of being on duty: he carried them to such an extent that he would not even shake hands with any Captain of his own standing who might happen to call on board his ship. The young lieutenant was keeping the morning watch for the first time, and at about 7.30 A.M. the Commander of the ship came up on the poop before the morning evolution of crossing yards and so on. As he approached the lieutenant the latter said, “Good-morning, sir.” To that no answer was given. Thinking that the Commander had not heard his salutation, the lieutenant repeated it. Thereupon the Commander turned round and asked, “What is that you say?” The lieutenant answered, “Oh! I was only saying Good-morning to you, sir.” “Oh! were you? I will tell you, once for all, there is no Good-morning here, sir. It’s all work.” What the young lieutenant thought I must leave to my readers to imagine. The whole episode was so characteristic of the Commander that when I heard the story I would have laid a thousand to one that I knew the man; and a finer officer or more agreeable man in any other capacity it was hard to find. Of course, you soon learnt to fear and respect such an officer; but if he were not a splendid professional man, and withal a gentleman, his figure of merit did not always shine in the Service. It is a singular fact that no body of men are so alive as the blue-jackets as to what constitutes gentlemanly bearing, or the combination of officer and gentleman. They know well enough the good tone it produces in a man-of-war, and they overlook many a rebuff and many a failing on the part of a gentleman. I have never in my career in the Navy seen or heard of anything more approaching perfection than the once famous Marlborough, flagship, in the Mediterranean, flying the flag of Sir William Martin, who had Sir Houston Stewart as his Flag-Captain and the late Sir Thomas Brandreth as Commander. Here were officers of remarkable qualities. Here was a ship the very home of discipline. All on board were happy and contented. In fact, she was what was termed a “happy ship.” The officers were sportsmen and cricketers: off-duty was one thing, and on-duty another. I must quote a little episode that added to my admiration for that ship.
I was serving as second lieutenant in a despatch boat, the Foxhound, in the Mediterranean, commanded by the Honourable A. C. Hobart, afterwards Hobart Pasha, who served in the Turkish Navy for some years. The Commander-in-Chief had been for some three or four days inspecting my ship, and we had arrived at the last subject of inspection—the boats manned and armed. I was ordered to take all our boats alongside the flagship, to be examined in detail. No sooner was I alongside than Captain Stewart came down the accommodation ladder to confer about my boats. Just at that moment the pipe went on board the Marlborough to cross royal yards and loose sails. The ship had been refitting; her topmasts were struck; the yards were down and across the hammock nettings. Thus, as all sailors will understand, the evolution about to be performed was a very big business. No sooner was the pipe given than 1300 men forming the crew were rushing to their stations up ladders and hatchways; and, beyond the pit-a-pat of feet, not a sound was to be heard. Stewart, bored to death at having to inspect my boats at that moment, instead of being at his post on the poop, said to me, by way of consolation, “Montagu, can you hear a pin drop?” He meant to indicate how proud he felt that his 1300 men were rushing to their stations in perfect silence. “Well, sir,” I answered, “it’s a remarkable sign of the order of your ship that not a sound is to be heard.” “Yes, Montagu: this is the ship you ought to be in,” he said. Beyond an occasional order from the Commander aft, or from the first lieutenant forward, no human voice, as a rule, was heard; and most of the orders were carried out by flag-signals. If any voice was heard, or the slightest confusion arose on any part of the deck, or aloft, the bugle immediately sounded the “Still”; and not a soul moved. It was curious to see the strange positions of arms and legs at such moments. I believe that the bugle on deck was first used in the Marlborough; and, to my mind, it did heighten immensely the discipline of a ship’s company. If a dilemma occurred, the bugle was sounded; and the men were so trained to it that all orders could be spoken quietly, steadying everything on the spot. I need not say that my inspection ended soon. Captain Stewart glanced into the boats, and, not being able to resist the temptation to go on to his poop, whispered to me, “Go back to your ship: your boats are all correct.”
On being appointed to the Raleigh, Keppel was given the rank of Commodore, as second in command of the China station, our destination. Consequently, we flew a blue broad pennant at the fore; and I was very proud of this, as, on joining, I was made his signal midshipman. The other midshipmen in command of boats very soon had the blue burgee painted on the bows of their craft.
Keppel, I believe, chose all his officers himself; a better lot never set foot on board ship; and there was every prospect of a long and happy commission. Mais l’homme propose, et Dieu dispose. We were ready for sea about the middle of October 1856, and sailed out of Portsmouth Harbour with studding-sails set. Tugs were handy; but Keppel disdained the use of them, much to the Port Admiral’s discomfort. We, most of us, had a goodly number of relations on board: in fact, the ship was crowded with sight-seers, some of whom even went up into the tops. I do not know for certain, but it is said that the Raleigh was the last sailing frigate that left the harbour under canvas. We left Spithead on the 26th of October 1856, and, after a dead beat down Channel, called in at Plymouth for final orders. Here we dispatched our last letters home. Mine was my last from English shores to my mother. From Plymouth we shaped course to Madeira, and took ten days on the passage, meeting with strong contrary winds the latter part of the time. How strange is the difference of being in ship and making a passage from port to port with the use of sail power alone—no steam to fall back on in case of emergency! And how much more interesting, and even exciting, it was on entering and leaving a port, particularly if your ship was well manœuvred, while you were threading your way into some difficult harbour full of shipping to pick up a snug berth among the crowd! At sea one is constantly on the look-out for the weather (change of wind and so forth), taking advantage of every opportunity to get on by crowding a press of sail on the ship when opportunity offers. Sailing in and out of harbour required a deal of judgment and prompt decision: any one having two minds at a critical juncture would be bound to come to grief. In the Mediterranean in later years I had command of a wooden sloop. We had engines and boilers. They were seldom used save in some duty requiring despatch; but I enjoyed running into (or even beating in and out of) the small harbour of the Piræus, and it was wonderful how the ship’s company worked on such occasions, all knowing perfectly well the absolute necessity of flying to their ropes as occasion required.
A run ashore at Madeira was very pleasant. There, for the first time, I saw tropical vegetation. Of course, we rattled about in our sleighs, and enjoyed the well-known trips up the mountains. The Commodore had intended visiting Rio on the way to the Cape, but, owing to our having been retarded when making Madeira, had to give up that plan. From Madeira we stood away for the coast of South America, until we reached a latitude and longitude putting us 100 miles or so off the coast of Pernambuco; and then, steering south for ten or twelve days, we struck into strong westerly winds, which carried us across to the Cape, preserving, approximately, the same latitude right across the ocean. In spite of the long detour, our passage to the Cape lasted only twenty-eight days; which, at that time, was considered a record for a sailing ship. We had a fair wind all the way, and were not much delayed while crossing the line. Keppel was good at carrying on, and not a man to lose a minute on a passage. We carried away a goodly number of spars before we got to the Cape, and before we got to China we had not a spare spar left. Spare top-gallant masts were requisitioned, and our “sweeps” were cut up for studding-sail-booms and yards. Sweeps were huge oars, to be worked out of a main-deck port during calms; but I do not suppose that they would have been of much help in propelling a 50-gun frigate.
Our best run in the twenty-four hours between South America and the Cape was 296 knots. For six days we averaged 275 miles a day—no great speed in the present day, but considered a very high rate for a sailing frigate forty years ago.
CHAPTER IX
PLAY ON BOARD; AND SOME DUTIES
One day was much like another, though, I am sure, we middies enjoyed the whole business. There was constant interest in watching the good ship speeding along, driving great bow waves in front of her, the foam churning up along her sides as she passed swiftly through the water. Occasionally some studding-sail-boom would carry away, or ropes attached to it would break; and we watched the degrees of seamanship exercised by the various officers in getting sails reset as speedily as possible. This caused rivalry between the middies, as we naturally backed up the lieutenants to whose watches we were appointed; and one constantly heard recriminations down below. “I say, Jimmy, what a mess you made of your topmast studding-sail last night in the middle watch: you got your sail before all, and there you were.” “Oh,” another would say, “you have nothing to swagger about. Look at last Thursday in the morning watch. You were an hour crossing those royal yards and setting the sails, and then you had to rig and unrig the gear half a dozen times over. I am sure the Commodore has his eye on you, and it will serve you right if you get leave stopped when we get in.” These conversations at times waxed warm, but were generally hushed by some senior in the mess, who, taking his afternoon’s “stretch off the land” in the shape of a good snooze, would be very angry at being disturbed. In the evenings, after quarters (parade), the upper deck was devoted to games—single-stick and sky-larking. Leap-frog round the decks was a favourite escapade. Sling the monkey was another. That was a boisterous amusement. One of us was slung in a rope fastened round the waist; with knotted handkerchiefs, the others set to work to lash the unfortunate person who was slung; and he, in his turn, swung himself desperately about, endeavouring to hit one of the crowd with his knotted piece of rope. If he caught a fellow fairly he came out of the sling, and the other slipped into his place. When the ship was rolling about, the game required much balance and judgment. Lacking those qualities, the person in the sling would get nasty knocks against the masts or ship’s side. However, a young gun-room officer was pretty tough, and scarcely ever came to grief enough to hurt himself. The crew had their games on the forecastle, and as the evening wore on songs became general. 100 or 150 men would sit round together and sing in great choruses. The airs were very distinct right aft, in spite of the noise of the water alongside, as, the yards being nearly square, the sounds echoed off the sails beautifully. In the night watches it often happened that not a sail or a rope was touched for nights together, so steady and true was the wind. These moderate westerly gales were exactly like trade winds, and in the trades for days nothing aloft is touched. Generally towards the end of the night watch a little supper was carried on between the officers of the watches. The junior mid had to make cocoa or coffee, and to this were added sardines, or potted salmon and lobster. The meal was looked on as a great relish about six bells in the middle watch—3 o’clock in the morning. During the first watch it was indulged in earlier, before the lights were put out: we generally asked the officers whose turn it was for “all night in” to relieve us for a quarter of an hour, when we went below to devour some cold supper. “All night in” was a great boon. It generally occurred every fourth night. When we were in what was termed four watches, it always fitted in: when in three watches, the morning watch was considered the best rest; and this always came to one’s turn every third night, and meant being on deck at 4 A.M. The matter I disliked most was the short allowance of time after being called to appear on deck at night to relieve the watch—though I generally contrived to be called, if I could, five minutes to the time. As soon as the eight bells had rung the boatswain mate went below to rouse up the coming watch, and in eight minutes the new watch was called to be mustered. In cold wet weather, turning out of a warm hammock, and having only eight minutes to dress and appear on deck, was rather short work.