The war with Russia which (keen-sighted diplomatists warned our Government) must come, and that soon, necessitated active preparations. The newly-joined men were being trained in great-gun drill, and target practice was always going on.
My ship was a battleship of about 3400 tons, and said to be quite the prettiest of her class. We were afterwards styled the Pretty Royal; which so much pleased the middies that we all bought eyeglasses, and wore them, when not on duty, by way of swagger. We carried 32-pounders on the main and the upper deck, and 56-pounders on the lower deck, throwing hollow shot; with one solid 68-pounder on the forecastle. Our full-steam speed under favourable conditions was nine knots; but this speed under steam was of rare occurrence—eight knots was usual. We had a complement of 850 men and officers.
In the gun-room (or midshipmen’s) mess we numbered about twenty-four, all told. I grieve to say that we had a few very bad specimens of the British officer: bad both professionally and socially. Though discipline was generally very strict on deck and on duty, irregularities went on below that were winked at, and in later days would not have been tolerated. There was a remnant of the bad style of earlier days, without any of the higher qualities of the old naval officer to temper it. One heard now and then of notorious characters that seemed always just to escape retribution; though long before the end of the war three of my messmates, if not more, were “hoisted out” by court-martial or otherwise. Bullying also was common. On one occasion I was so much irritated by a lout of an Irish assistant-surgeon that I lost my poor little temper and gave him the lie. Being overheard by one of the senior mates, I was immediately kicked out of the gun-room and ordered to mess on my chest for three days. The punishment was carried out to the full. The most fiendish case of bullying it ever was my lot to endure was perpetrated by one Berkley. I glory now in presenting his name to the British people. He was one of the senior mates. It was his wont to regale himself with port wine and walnuts of an afternoon. On one occasion (possibly it may have been oftener) he sent for me, and he lashed me to a ring-bolt in the ship’s side, ordering me to say, “Down, proud spirit: up, good spirit, and make me a good boy.” I had to suit the action to the word by moving the hand and arm down and up the body. I had to repeat the formula a hundred times, while he jotted down my penances with a pencil on his slate. I have always considered myself lucky that I did not cross that man’s path in after life. In my last experience with this creature, I got the better of him. The Princess Royal was paying off, and the ship’s company and officers were hulked in one of the old ships in Portsmouth harbour. I think all our middies, except myself and two others, were away. A signal was made from the flagship for a midshipman to copy orders; and, though I was just going home on Admiralty leave, having packed my portmanteau and proceeded to change into mufti, Berkley sent for me to obey the summons for this signal, he knowing perfectly well that I was just about to go on shore. My answer to the message was that I would come up immediately, but that, as I had changed my uniform for mufti, I requested five minutes within which to don proper dress. In less than that time I had carried out my view of the matter by hailing a wherry under the stern port, popping my portmanteau into the boat, and telling the boatman to pull for his life to the Hard, keeping his boat well in a line with the stern of the hulk. Luckily, the tide was in my favour; but, to my horror, when nigh half-way to the Hard, I discovered the jolly-boat pulling after me like the very devil. “Give way, you beggar! Double fare! Only land me at the Hard before this infernal boat can overtake us!” We just did it. The portmanteau was whipped up on the boatman’s shoulders, and thrown into a fly that, luckily, saw the little game going on; and off we galloped to the station. I did him—Mr. Berkley:—that was all I wanted. He was promoted, and had left before I returned from leave; and from that day to this we have never crossed each other’s path.
One of the amusements with which the seniors entertained themselves was slitting the end of your nose open with a penknife. The idea was that you could not properly be a Royal, bearing the name of your ship, without a slight effusion of blood. The end of one’s nose was well squeezed, and thus there was little pain. A ceremony something after the style of blooding one over one’s first fox was gone through.
Every officer was limited in regard to his wine bill: you could not exceed a certain monthly sum. A middy was allowed about 15s.; the seniors, more; but, as many of them were of thirsty habit, some means had to be found to procure more wine or spirits after the bill was stopped, which usually occurred about the middle of the month. There were several methods. As on one occasion I had to suffer severely for the faults of others, I will tell a story.
The youngsters had to draw lots as to who should go and represent to a Naval Instructor fresh from one of the Universities that it was the birthday of some one in the gun-room, that his wine bill was stopped, and that he had no means of procuring any liquor if Mr. Verdant Green were not able to oblige by lending some. The lot fell upon me. I felt I was running fresh risks; but go I must. I soon found my man, and forthwith told my story and made my request. Instead of my being answered as I expected, by a “Yes” or by a “No,” my green friend went straight to the Commander’s cabin, tapped at his door, and in my hearing asked whether this were permissible, or in contravention to naval discipline and custom. The Commander settled the matter by ordering me to the mast-head on the spot and stopping my leave for six weeks. One would have thought the original delinquent would have pitied me on my return from the cross-trees; but I was told that I must have acted in a clumsy manner, and that I was a useless cub. The worst of an escapade such as this is that it gets you into the bad books of the Commanding Officer.
Soon after I had joined the Princess Royal, my uncle made me his A.D.C., and gave me charge of his 12-oared cutter, a boat which he preferred to the usual 6-oared galley. It was, I think, on the first occasion of my taking charge of this boat that I was sent into Portsmouth Harbour to fetch my captain and bring him off to Spithead. On my way to the King’s Stairs, while passing “the Point,” a locality (beset with public-houses) where the immortal Nelson left the English shore for the last time, the coxswain suddenly accosted me. “My sister,” he said, “keeps a pub close by, and it is quite the right thing that you should treat the boat’s crew to a glass of grog all round.” Feeling that I had plenty of spare time, and that it would be mean to refuse this very strong request, I gave permission to beach the boat, and forthwith produced the last of my pocket-money (a ten-shilling bit), in order that the crew might be regaled. They returned one man short. I could not wait to search for him, and I thought it just possible that his Lordship might not discover one oar minus: so I arranged that, on whichever side of the boat the captain took his seat, my vacant thwart should be on the other. All went well until we were nigh our ship; though I must own to many moments of anxiety during the long pull off to Spithead. Alas! He noticed the absence of a man as the men tossed their oars in. I could have died on the spot. Of course, we were all paraded on the quarter-deck. The coxswain made some plausible excuse; but I myself was threatened with immediate expulsion and watch-and-watch for a fortnight—four hours on duty and four hours off duty throughout the day and night. Within a few days, however, my uncle, having found a soft place in his heart, sent for me and let me off. I fancy that, being an old hand, he had seen how the land lay, and had taken pity on my youth, thinking that his coxswain had had more to do with the episode than I. Needless to state, the coxswain’s sister was a Mrs. Harris. She had been designed in order that a bad hat whom the coxswain and the crew detested should be given an opportunity to run. In later days, when the affair had well blown over, this information was imparted to me by the coxswain.
On the 11th of February 1854, the Baltic Fleet was ready for sea. Three divisions (of squadrons) were formed, under Vice-Admiral Sir Charles Napier, Commander-in-Chief, Vice-Admiral Corry, and Rear-Admiral Chads; and a most imposing sight it was. Besides the line-of-battle ships, there were frigates and paddle-sloops. These frigates were lovely ships: the Imperieuse and the sister vessel, the Euryalus, were beautiful models, carrying 51 guns. There was a very fine 40-gun frigate whose name I cannot recall: she was commanded by one of the best and most popular officers in the service, Captain Yelverton. I had the honour, many years afterwards, of serving under him when he was Commander-in-Chief in the Mediterranean; and nothing could have exceeded the happiness of the fleet at that time. There was great rivalry in those days (and even long before) among some of the ships. Sail drill was the principal cause of it. The ships’ companies became so intensely jealous if one or more ships had completed an evolution in less time, that when general leave to go ashore was granted strict orders were given that leave should not be granted to those respective ships at the same time, for fear of a free fight between their men. I well recollect serious rows when they did meet one another. To my idea, nothing could have been finer than the display of competitive feeling. Some of the ships used to have all sorts of dodges (as we called them) to enable time to be saved during drill, and when I was Flag-Lieutenant on the station I was ordered to watch minutely, to see if all was fair play. The paddle-wheel sloops and frigates were comfortable vessels (one in particular, the Terrible, carrying 21 guns—and heavy ones they were). The Gorgon and the Basilisk rendered good service during the war. These were smaller, and carried 14 or 16 guns, I think. Of the liners, the Duke of Wellington, the flagship, bore the palm. She carried 131 guns, and was a beautiful sailer as well as steamer. The St. Jean D’Arc, of 101 guns, was a lovely ship. The Acre, commanded by Harry Keppel, was always what we termed our chummy ship: the Princess Royal was generally next her in the line.
Then came the great event of the day. The Queen arrived from Osborne in the Fairy, to review the Fleet before it weighed anchor. The very fact of Her Majesty announcing her intention to bid us Good-bye caused intense excitement through the Fleet, and I recollect well how highly this mark of honour was appreciated. We were all anchored in three lines, and the lovely little Fairy threaded her way through the ships as we manned yards and cheered to the echo. After this inspection the Queen summoned all her Admirals and Captains in command on board the Fairy, and personally took leave of them all. I was lucky enough to be present, as I had charge of my Captain’s cutter; and Her Majesty, on being told that one of her godsons was present, immediately ordered me to be sent for. It can be imagined that it was a most nervous moment for a boy of my age—scarcely thirteen—when I was hailed to go alongside the Fairy, as the Queen wished to see me. I remember well my coxswain pulling off a piece of flannel I had round my neck (as I was suffering from a severe sore throat, and the weather was very cold) before I left my boat to step over the side of the Queen’s yacht. After the Admirals and Captains had made their last obeisance, my turn came. Standing cap in hand, I made my bow; and Her Majesty said to me, “How do you do, Mr. Montagu? I have not seen you since you were quite a little boy;” and then asked after my mother, who had not many years previously been one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. I then had the honour of shaking hands with His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, who was standing near, for the first time, and with the Princess Royal and the Princess Alice, all of whom said some kind words. I felt very proud indeed, after having got over my nervousness; and many were the interrogations when I returned on board. Yes: this was all a great honour; and so impressed was I at the time that nothing of this great reception has escaped my memory, nor the scene as I witnessed it at the time. His Royal Highness the Prince Consort also, I think, was on board; but I did not have the honour of seeing him. Shortly after this the Fleet weighed. Her Majesty placed herself at the head of the Fleet, and forthwith led us out to sea. When the Fairy left us a parting signal was flown on board the Fairy, the whole Fleet cheering Her Majesty’s departure. It was one of the grandest scenes imaginable: God be praised for having spared our gracious Sovereign to be reigning over her loving subjects still. In a man-of-war we are all constantly reminded of our Sovereign and the honour due to her station. At eight o’clock, when the colours are hoisted, the band plays our National Anthem, and all officers and men salute the colours as they are hoisted to the Peak. The Quarter-Deck is always saluted when officer or man comes on to it: simply because it is the Queen’s Quarter-Deck, and is honoured as such. At every mess, when the wine is passed round, our first duty is to recollect our Sovereign and raise our glasses to “The Queen (God bless her)!” All these matters tend to keep us in perpetual recollection of our Queen and the duties we owe to Her Majesty; and it is indeed a fine sentiment.
The Princess Royal called in at the Downs, and embarked an officer; and our last letters were sent on shore. On our way across the North Sea the Fleet was scattered in a fog. Our first rendezvous was Wingo Sound; and by degrees the ships rejoined, and we made that place our first anchorage. The ice farther north had not broken up: so there was a good deal of delay and cruising about.