The attack of Bomarsund, later, was a success. The authorities had taken a considerable time to make up their mighty minds when to begin the bombardment. There was an idea that we could not subdue the place without troops. Thus, we waited long for the arrival of 10,000 French troops, which were brought up the Baltic on board some obsolete old 3-deckers in tow of steamers. It took some doing to lay Bomarsund low. We landed blue-jackets and marines, and heavy ordinance from the Fleet, and threw up a few batteries on the flank of the largest fort; and on a given day our smallest 2-deckers and paddle frigates were sent in to demolish the place. The forts were blown sky-high, and the Russians suffered heavily.
We fraternised with the French Fleet. Each ship in our squadron had its own particular chum, and, besides exchange of dinners, many were the orgies at night. The nights being very short, two, three, four in the morning was not an unusual hour for boats, with lively occupants returning to their respective ships, to pass to and fro.
The Princess Royal always fraternised with the French liner, the Austerlitz, a very fine screw 2-decker of 90 guns. I scarcely set foot ashore during the cruise. Excepting at Led Sound (where we lay waiting for the French troops), there was little opportunity of a run. An immense deal of drill went on, and boat duty was constant. Thus one’s education was entirely neglected: the Naval Instructor, the midshipmen’s instructor, was voted a secondary consideration. Let me refer to boat duty for a moment. Great excitement prevailed when the mails arrived from England. All eyes were watching for the signal 768, implying “Send boat for letters.” Then came a regular race, every boat pulling its best to the flagship for mails and parcels; and, as it was a case of First come first served, the slow-going boats had sometimes to wait two or even three hours for their mails if, as was usual, many ships were present. I have seen as many as thirty or forty boats waiting alongside the Duke of Wellington.
Soon after the fall of Bomarsund, the Princess Royal was sent to Revel, to join the sailing squadron then lying at anchor, or cruising off that port; and after this, in October, my uncle, knowing that there was little chance of my seeing any more active service (and as I was not in very good health), took the opportunity of transferring me to his old friend Harry Eyere’s ship, the St. George, a sailing 3-decker of 120 guns.
The sailing squadron had received orders to leave for England: so in October four beauties—the Neptune (120 guns), the St. George (120), the Monarch (84), and the Prince Regent (90)—made for England; and a very interesting and instructive sail we had down the North Sea. The second in command on board my ship was Paddy May, a very fine seaman of the old school, a man whose name was much respected in the Service. Everything was done quite in the old style; and thus I can fairly claim the distinction of having belonged to the old school—anyhow to the remains of it—as all the ships of this squadron were minus engines and boilers.
The Monarch was far away the fastest ship, though in a breeze the Prince Regent held her pretty close. Off the island of Bornholm we were caught in a fresh gale; and, the St. George being a very crank old craft, it was deemed advisable to send our upper-deck carronades down into the hold. As we were short of water and provisions, the extra weight of these guns below counteracted our want of ballast. A 3-decker in a gale of wind was rather a curious being. Under close-reefed topsails you could not lay her near enough the wind to enable her to meet the seas comfortably. The effect of the wind on her huge sides was to drive her bodily and very fast to leeward: in fact, you simply drifted.
It was pleasant to watch these ships speeding gaily on their course for England. We carried on when the weather permitted. The Monarch was generally in the van, showing us a high turn of speed. At sunset, or soon after, we collected and sailed in two lines; and, as was customary, took in a reef or two of the topsails, to make all snug for the night. When daylight broke every stitch was set again.
On arrival in England we anchored at Spithead. My father was soon on board to greet me. He asked permission for me to land with him. Being virtually invalided, I was allowed to pack up my “traps” and accompany him ashore. I can so well remember telling him that I had not had a real good wash for weeks, and that before I was taken to my mother, who was then residing at Ryde, he must purchase me a clean shirt, as I was ashamed of appearing in a crumpled garment washed in salt water, and not even ironed or starched. Forthwith we went to a public bath, and six new shirts were bought from the nearest establishment to make me presentable to my mother, as I could not bear the idea of her not seeing me at my best.
Thus ended my share in the Baltic Campaign. I was much disappointed at having seen so little active service. Both officers and men shared that feeling. Sir Harry Keppel and my Captain were always urging the Commander-in-Chief to do something. The campaign seemed to have been conducted in a half-hearted manner; but memorable signals were sent up. One in particular caused feeling: “Sharpen your cutlasses, lads. The day is our own.” This was made about sunset. Goodness knows what we were to have a try at on the morrow. All we do know is that nothing came of it; and it looked rather peculiar. I fancy that our Chief was much hampered by the Government of the day. Perhaps he thought it would be very hazardous to attack strongly fortified positions, such as Kronstadt and Sveaborg, with little chance of doing much damage, or of compelling the Russian Fleet to come out. Thus all our time was devoted to a strict blockade: a slow game at the best of times.