July 30, 1827, ÆT. 31.

MY GRANDMOTHER

LOOKING BACK

BY
Captain the Hon.
SIR SEYMOUR FORTESCUE, K.C.V.O., C.M.G.
(Royal Navy)

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
FOURTH AVENUE & 30th STREET, NEW YORK
BOMBAY, CALCUTTA, AND MADRAS
1920

DEDICATION

TO

HER MAJESTY QUEEN ALEXANDRA

Madam,

Your Majesty in so readily consenting to accept the dedication of this humble volume, has only added one more to the long list of gracious favours, that I have constantly received at the hands of Your Majesty, ever since the day on which I was fortunate enough to commence my service, as Equerry-in-Waiting to the late King Edward.

The portion of this book that deals with that period, relates something of the manifold activities of that monarch, and, as regards myself, is the time of my life to which I look back with the greatest pleasure, both on account of the honour it was personally to serve so illustrious a Sovereign, and also because of the great and unvarying kindness that was extended to me by my beloved Master and the members of his family.

It has been a labour of love to write of those days, and has given me an opportunity of expressing, however inadequately, some of the gratitude that I feel towards those, who made the years that I spent in His Majesty’s household, the happiest of my life.

I have the honour to remain, Madam,
Always your Majesty’s devoted servant,
Seymour Fortescue.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

LOOKING BACK

[CHAPTER I]

EARLY DAYS

The principal excuse for this attempt to bring the reminiscences of a very unimportant member of the community to the notice of the public is that, owing to the series of accidents which make up what is commonly called life, I can claim to have had rather exceptional opportunities as a spectator from a great many points of view. Commencing my career as I did on board a man-of-war, I have since lived at Court, in Society, in Clubs, both Bohemian and Social, and during the seventeen years that I was on the personal staff of the late King Edward VII, I was necessarily brought into contact with a great number of persons of all sorts and all nations, to say nothing of seeing something of the daily work of a great monarch. As an example of the many points of view, taking a few of the more salient ones, with complete disregard for dates, I may instance that it has been my good fortune to witness the work of the British Army in the Field in more than one campaign; I was in attendance on the late King in Paris when he was engaged in what is possibly the greatest achievement of his life,—namely, laying the first stone of our entente with France, and thereby probably saving Europe from the domination of the Teuton; I have seen his son, our present King George, when, as a young naval lieutenant, he was serving his country in that subordinate capacity with the same earnestness and devotion to duty that he has shown in his present exalted position; and, from another side, I have seen him on the polo ground, taking his part in the Inter-ship and Regimental Polo Matches at Malta, and exhibiting that same working together of hand and eye that has made him one of the best game shots in the kingdom. I have ridden many miles of messages for that gallant old Field-Marshal, the late Earl Roberts, as his Naval Aide-de-Camp in South Africa;—have occasionally tried to extract some information from the late Lord Kitchener (then the Field-Marshal’s right-hand man), and have breakfasted with the Staff of the then General Sir John French on the Veldt. I can remember David Beatty as a midshipman riding racing ponies, in which I was frequently interested, with the same skill, dash, and determination that has distinguished him in that larger field of operations which the Armistice has just enabled him to quit. I have discussed at Henry Labouchere’s table the possibilities of Cyrano de Bergerac as a drama for the English stage, with the late Sir Henry Irving; I was present in the House of Lords in my present post of Sergeant-at-Arms at the time of the fateful division when,—in spite of the “die-hards” and their venerable chief, Lord Halsbury,—that august body virtually voted away their own powers.

This long career as a Spectator of Events has resulted in a list of acquaintances which, like the immortal Sam Weller’s knowledge of public houses, is “extensive and peculiar.” I confess to a great love of the real Artist, be the artist a king or a prize-fighter, and I think that, on the whole, this world of ours is a pleasant enough place to live in, always assuming that you do not expect too much from your fellow-man. So perhaps I may claim to have had more opportunities than have most philosophical lookers-on of seeing the inside turn of life in general. Having now made my excuses, I may as well go back and begin at the beginning.

I was born at my father’s place, Castle Hill, in North Devon, in February 1856, so I may be said to have been a Crimean baby, as that expedition had not then arrived at its conclusion. My father, the third Earl Fortescue (who in those days was Viscount Ebrington), had always taken life seriously, and in his early years, before going into Parliament, where he sat as Member for Plymouth and Marylebone, had been appointed Private Secretary to Lord Melbourne, Queen Victoria’s first Prime Minister, and had also served in the same capacity to his uncle, Lord Harrowby, then Foreign Secretary. During the eighteen years that he was in Parliament he was for four years Secretary to the Poor Law Board, and he seemed to have quite a promising Parliamentary career before him, when, unfortunately for him, his health was broken down, so far as his official life was concerned, by a violent attack of ophthalmia contracted whilst visiting a military hospital when serving on a Sanitary Commission. This unfortunate accident completely lost him one eye and much weakened the sight of the other; so for the rest of his life he confined his activities to the management of his estates, to which he had succeeded in 1861, and to general County work.

Photo: F. Frith & Co., Ltd.]

THE KEEP OF TATTERSALL CASTLE

These estates consist of small properties in Ireland, South Devon, Gloucester and Lincolnshire, and considerable property at Castle Hill in North Devon. The Lincolnshire property, which has since been sold (I believe to some speculative firm of land buyers), deserves a passing mention, for the Manor House of the property consists of the remains of the famous old brick castle of Tattersall. This Tattersall Estate came into the possession of my family about 1690, through the marriage of the Hugh Fortescue of that day with the heiress of the Earl of Lincoln, when it became her property (the male line of the Clinton family having died out), and has remained in our family until its recent sale. The Castle now only consists of a rectangular brick tower, and was built by the Lord Treasurer Cromwell about the year 1440, which would make it some few years more ancient than the other celebrated brick castle of Hurstmonceux. It was originally designed to be a place of defence and suffered severely during the Civil War, so much so that the then owner, Theophilus, fourth Earl of Lincoln, actually petitioned Parliament in 1649 for the damages sustained, but whether successfully or not I know not. The tower that still remains, which was probably the keep, is wonderfully beautiful, not only in colour but owing to its exquisite workmanship, and it still contains the celebrated Norman Gothic chimney-pieces which are so well known to art students through their models in the Victoria and Albert Museum. Shortly after its sale, which took place a very few years ago, there was a report current that the old keep and its famous fire-places were to be pulled down, brick by brick, and sent over to America to be there reconstructed. Whether this report was true or not I cannot tell, but anyhow the American scheme came to nothing owing to the patriotism and love of archæology exhibited by Lord Curzon of Kedleston, who stepped into the breach and bought the old Castle so as to ensure its remaining in this country.

To return to my father: it is only necessary to say that for the many years that remained to him, after giving up political life, until old age and infirmity had limited his activities, he remained faithful to his County duties and was a most just and generous landlord. When he died at the age of eighty-seven, I believe it to be true that the only building on the estate, whether it were cottage, farm, farm-building, village school, or church, that was badly in need of a new roof and general repair was his own house. In fact, he was an excellent specimen of the average Victorian peer.

My mother, who, alas! died when I was a small boy ten years old, was the eldest daughter of Colonel and Mrs. Dawson Damer, both of whom died before I was born. The Colonel was a very considerable personage in his time. He had fought at Waterloo, and was earlier a member of the Military Mission that was attached to the Emperor Alexander during Napoleon’s Moscow Campaign. In 1825 he married Miss Mary Seymour, the daughter of Lord Hugh and Lady Horatia Seymour. Lady Horatia will always be remembered by lovers of art as the most beautiful of the three Ladies Waldegrave, immortalised by Sir Joshua, and her daughter, my grandmother, Mrs. Dawson Damer, was the “little Minnie,” Mrs. Fitzherbert’s adopted daughter, so often mentioned in the Memoirs of the times of the Regency and the reign of George IV. After Mrs. Fitzherbert’s death my grandparents lived in the well-known house in Tilney Street which Mrs. Fitzherbert had occupied for so many years and had, on her death, bequeathed to her adopted daughter. Besides the house in Tilney Street, Colonel and Mrs. Dawson Damer had a charming property in Dorsetshire, Came by name, in the neighbourhood of Weymouth, and it was from there that my parents were married. There was a great deal of entertaining done at Came in my grandfather’s time. Prince Louis Napoleon, afterwards Napoleon III, was a constant guest there when he was a very poor young man about town, and was always said to have proposed marriage to my mother. I rarely believe family legends, and so used not to have much faith in this particular story, but Lord Rosebery told me some time ago that he believed it was perfectly true. The Colonel, who was eminently a man of fashion as well as a Member of Parliament, was one of the last of those to be concerned in a political duel. He did duty as second to Lord Alvanley when he fought Morgan O’Connell at Wimbledon. The cause of the duel, as is well known, was that O’Connell called Alvanley a “bloated buffoon” in the House. When called out he made his usual excuse of having vowed never to fight another duel, and his son, Morgan O’Connell, took his place. Three shots were exchanged on both sides and no one was hurt, but Greville writes in his Memoirs that O’Connell’s second behaved outrageously, and, had an accident occurred, should have been hanged.

From the miniature by Isabey]

THE HON. MRS. DAWSON DAMER

I hardly remember my grandfather, who had married in 1817 Lady Susan Ryder, a daughter of the first Earl Harrowby; she died in 1827, but his second wife (the widow of an Irish Baronet), to whom he was married when Viceroy of Ireland, was one of the greatest friends of my childhood. She must have been adorably lovely in her youth, for in her old age she was the most beautiful old woman I have ever seen. Her first visit to England was when she settled down at Castle Hill after her marriage, and I well remember, in later days, when she was staying there, the admiration we children used to feel for the neat Wellington boots that always stood outside her bedroom door at Castle Hill, for, from the day she first left Ireland, she always insisted on wearing Wellingtons in the country as she was afraid of being bitten by snakes! She survived my grandfather for many years and died at a great age.

At the time of my birth the only celebrity with whom I came in contact was the Barnstaple doctor who assisted my entrance into the world. I knew him well when I was a schoolboy, and in his way he certainly was, as well as being a very good fellow, somewhat of a celebrity. He was the eldest of nine brothers who were all doctors and all practised in the West of England. I am positive about the number, for when covert shooting with him as a boy he invariably talked about the medical exploits of “my brother Octavius” or “my brother Nonus,” the two who, apparently, in his opinion, were the pick of the Budd family.

In the winter of 1859 my father, then Viscount Ebrington, accompanied his brother John, who had developed consumptive tendencies and was ordered abroad by his doctors, to Madeira, and, what was still more remarkable, elected to go there with his wife and children. We were then a family of seven children, and, as far as I can remember, from motives of economy we were all packed up in a sailing ship with our governesses and nurses, while our parents took the steamer to Funchal.

We arrived there all well after a journey lasting, I believe, some three weeks. We children lived for two years in that delightful island, and during that time two more of my brothers were born. Two events which I remember very clearly were the arrival of the late Empress of Austria, who came to winter there, with a large suite in attendance, and the arrival of Captain Keppel (subsequently Admiral of the Fleet Sir Henry Keppel) in H.M. Frigate Forte on his way to take command of the Cape of Good Hope Station. It was there that he met his future wife, Miss West, who was living with her sister in a small villa near the one occupied by my parents. We children, as a treat, were taken on board the Forte, and that was my first introduction to the quarter-deck of a man-of-war.

The Empress of Austria arrived about the same time in the royal yacht Victoria and Albert, which had been lent to Her Imperial Majesty by Queen Victoria. Many years afterwards, when I was serving as a lieutenant on board her, I was able to read in the journal of the Royal Yacht the account of the Empress’ journey across the Bay. The Victoria and Albert was the most beautiful vessel of her day and a great credit to our Naval Constructors, but, though capable of going what in those days was an unheard-of speed—about fifteen or sixteen knots—being under 3000 tons and a paddle steamer, she could get considerably knocked about in heavy Atlantic weather. Unluckily for the Empress and her travelling companions, the yacht encountered a severe gale, and there was a heartrending account in the said journal of the horrors of the passage. However, all things come to an end, even a bad sea voyage, and the Empress and her suite duly arrived and installed themselves in a couple of villas, or “quintas” as they were named in Madeira, in close proximity to the quinta where my parents lived.

I think that, even at that very early age, I was dimly conscious of the Empress’ extraordinary beauty, but what we children naturally liked most of all were the lovely little knick-knacks from Vienna which she showered on us,—to say nothing of the chocolates they generally contained.

I heard in after years what I believe to be the true reason for the Empress’ expedition. In 1859 she was very young and conscious that she was probably the most beautiful woman in Europe, and naturally greatly resented the Emperor’s indifference to herself and attention to various other ladies, of both worlds, in Vienna. In her dilemma she wrote and asked the advice of Queen Victoria. The Queen strongly advised her to leave Vienna for a time, and suggested that she should, under the plea of ill-health, go to Madeira, which in those days was a sort of fashionable sanatorium for all kinds of ailments, and placed her new yacht, the Victoria and Albert, at the disposal of the Empress for the journey.

It was at Madeira, too, that I saw for the first time the late Duke of Teck, the father of Her Majesty, Queen Mary. In those days he was a young and extremely handsome man, and for the moment was attached to the suite of the Empress, to whom he was related. He and my father naturally saw a great deal of each other, and remained friends for the rest of their lives.

We were for the greater part of two years at Madeira, and during that time my uncle died and was buried in that wonderful bower of flowers which is the little cemetery there.

The autumn of 1860 saw us on our way back to Europe, and the winter of 1860-61 was spent at Pau. In those days the railway only went as far as Dax, and the rest of the journey had to be done by “diligence.” I have a hazy recollection of the discomforts of that journey, for our little party consisted of nine children and two governesses, and I suppose a nurse or two. Anyhow, we must have taken up a good deal of the interior of that somewhat archaic vehicle, and we children remembered afterwards with delight the remark addressed to our most respectable middle-aged spinster governess, who was in charge of this caravan, by a sympathetic Frenchman: “Mon Dieu, Madame, êtes vous donc la grand’mère de tous ces enfants?”

During our stay at Pau my grandfather died, and my parents settled down at Castle Hill, with 17 Bruton Street as their London house.

Naturally the next few years, which were passed while still in the hands of governesses and nurses, were absolutely colourless, but I can still remember some of the house parties at Castle Hill. My father, like all the Whigs of the early ’sixties, was greatly interested in the Italian movement. Various Italian celebrities used to undertake the long journey down to Devonshire, I suppose to make the acquaintance of a specimen of an English country house and to see a week of English country life. It was our great amusement as children, just before being packed off to bed, to lean over the gallery which surrounded the hall when the guests were assembling before dinner, and watch them processing into the dining-room, and I can well remember our childish delight and wonder at the behaviour of the Italians, who invariably went in to dinner, as was the custom in those days on the Continent, with their gibus hats under their arms.

For the next few years Castle Hill and Bruton Street were my alternate homes in their respective seasons, and one of the impressive ceremonies I remember was being allowed to see our parents dressed up for Court, and, greatest joy of all, to see them driven away in a coach with a footman behind, and one of my dearest friends, the coachman, in a wig and state livery, enthroned on his hammer-clothed box. How smart were the carriages in London in those days, and how paltry do the most expensive Rolls-Royce cars appear in comparison! Even on ordinary occasions the whole of London Society, which in those days was small and select, used to take their afternoon drives in barouches. In our turn, we children used to drive in the sacred vehicle with our mother. It was very magnificent. To drive in a barouche in London in the height of the Season was rather a solemn affair and not particularly amusing, and the only redeeming feature I remember was that at the end of the outing the carriage used to pull up under the trees in Berkeley Square, and, delight of delights! strawberry ices used to be brought to us from Gunter’s to consume in the carriage, and that admirable institution, I am glad to see, still keeps its hospitable doors open. It was one of the sights of the London Season to see the carriages pulled up in the shade of the trees, full of children consuming strawberry ices. I insist on strawberry ices, for, as far as I can remember, no child ever dreamt of asking for any other.

The expression “dearest friend” as regards the coachman was certainly no mere figure of speech. The two men a boy loves best in the world are the two who teach him how to ride and how to shoot. My friend of the hammer-clothed box did the former, the tuition of the latter fell to the lot of the butler. The butler’s business is generally supposed to lie in another direction, but in our particular case he was undoubtedly the right person, as, apart from his other dignities, he had the high honour of being own brother to the head gamekeeper.

The early years slipped away in the happy childhood that is always ensured by being one of a large family of children treading close on one another’s heels. For, by the time I went to school in 1865, there were exactly a dozen of us,—no very unusual number in those days of large families. Our nearest neighbour and kinsman, the Lord Portsmouth of that day, was the happy father of nine, and to go back another generation or two, I was always led to believe that my step-grandmother, to whose Wellington boots I have already alluded, was one of a family of over twenty.

In the summer of 1865 my eldest brother—my senior by a little over a year—and I were sent to school at Brighton. The owner and manager of this establishment was an old lady, Mrs. Walker by name, and, as was inevitable in those days, the school came to be known by the name of Hookey’s. This school, one way and another, earned an excellent reputation, and I suppose was quite as good as any other preparatory school for Eton and Harrow, to one of which schools nearly all the boys went eventually. Certainly the boys of my time achieved, as a lot, very considerable success in after life. Out of about sixty boys, who must have passed through there during my time, I can remember three Lytteltons, known to us as Bob, Edward and Alfred: the eldest of the three is now a well-known solicitor, the second was Headmaster of Haileybury and Eton, and the youngest was one of the most brilliant men of his time, not only as a born athlete, but in the House of Commons, and in the Cabinet as Colonial Secretary. I also recollect two Northcotes, one being the late Lord Northcote, a most successful Colonial Governor-General; the late Sir Michael Herbert, whose much-to-be-regretted early death had not prevented him from rising to the rank of Ambassador at an unusually early age; Colonel à Court Repington, the well-known writer on military subjects; my own younger brother, John, now a distinguished man of letters; my cousin, the late Lord Portsmouth, and his next two brothers,—the late peer was at one time Under-Secretary of State for War; the present Lord Strathmore and his brothers; and a good sprinkling of boys who subsequently became soldiers, many of whom,—including my brother, Lionel, who was killed in South Africa,—have met a bullet in the wars, great and small, of the last forty-five years.

Poor old Hookey! She was a good old woman and a terrific snob. It speaks well for the sense of humour of the school when I can aver that its best mimic always had his greatest success when he gave his imitation of the old lady showing parents of possible prospective pupils over the school. She invariably used to produce, apparently out of her sleeve and quite by accident, all the eldest sons, the regular formula being: “That boy is Lord Blank, Earl Dash’s son. Come here, Blank, my dear; I am so glad to learn from your tutor that you are first in your class this week.” If there happened to be a slump in eldest sons, even a wretched “honourable” would be produced as a makeshift; but as we were well supplied with Viscounts this very seldom happened.

My holidays were passed entirely at Castle Hill, and hunting became the great joy of the summer and winter holidays, for, in addition to the fox-hunting provided by our kinsman and neighbour, Lord Portsmouth, the Devon and Somerset Staghounds used to begin their season in mid-August, and it was in August 1866 that I was formally entered to the sport of stag-hunting, having been in at the death of a hunted stag after a terrifically long run. My eldest brother and I were both baptised at the same time, having both managed to get to the end on our Exmoor ponies. The ceremony of blooding was performed by the Rev. John Russell, the well-known sporting parson, generally known as Jack Russell, who, in those days, was vicar of a neighbouring parish and esteemed to be the greatest authority on hunting, whether of the stag, the fox, the otter, or the hare, that lived in the West Country. We got home somewhere about ten o’clock that night and fought ferociously to prevent the blood being washed off our faces before being packed off to bed.

[CHAPTER II]

GUNROOM LIFE IN THE ’SEVENTIES

During my school days, owing, I suppose, to my thorough dislike of the whole process of education, I made up my mind to go into the Navy if I could get the necessary permission from my father, so as to escape from school once and for all. I am afraid that I had not reckoned on the amount of elementary mathematics, which I detested even more than Latin grammar, that was to be forced into me during the fifteen months’ training in the Britannia. Anyhow it was decreed that the Navy should be my profession, and I was taken down to Portsmouth in the summer of 1869 to try to pass the examination for candidates for Naval Cadetships, the necessary nomination having been procured through the kindness of a cousin of my mother, then Captain Beauchamp Seymour, Naval Private Secretary to the First Lord of the Admiralty of that day, who subsequently became Admiral Lord Alcester, of whom more anon.

Naturally, every candidate was submitted to a medical examination which took place at Haslar Hospital. In those days Army and Navy Surgeons had not developed into lace-clad Generals and Inspector-Generals. (Incidentally I can never understand why a man who is by profession a doctor or surgeon should want to call himself a colonel. To my mind a captain in the Navy might just as logically call himself a dean, or a commander-in-chief an archbishop!) The Superintendent of Haslar was a Post-Captain, Wodehouse by name. He had lately returned from commanding a line-of-battleship in the Mediterranean, Admiral Sir Robert Smart being his Commander-in-Chief at that time. It was always spread abroad that Captain Wodehouse was on extremely bad terms with Bobby Smart, which was the pet name of his Commander-in-Chief, but, on the other hand, his great friend on the Station was the French Commander-in-Chief, who in those days was very apt to be at Malta with his squadron, as the entente which existed during the Crimean Campaign was still kept going during the late ’sixties. As may be imagined, he did not have many opportunities of getting even with his Chief, but on one occasion he may be said to have had the best of it. His vessel was leaving Malta for England and was moving majestically out of the Grand Harbour, Valetta, with the band on the poop and all the usual pomp and circumstance. Wodehouse knew that the French Admiral was on board the English flagship, so as a parting shot, as he passed under the flagship’s stern, the band was ordered to play, “Robert, toi que j’aime.” This affecting farewell was a delight to the Frenchman, who could not resist telling Smart how fond he was of “ce cher Wodehouse qui avait tant d’esprit.”

I succeeded in passing my examinations, both medical and scholastic, all right, and after a few weeks’ suspense I was informed by the Admiralty that I was to join the Britannia at Dartmouth in September. That training-ship has so often been described that I do not think it necessary to say much about it; but a few words may be written about the impressions that my first introduction to the Navy conveyed to my youthful mind. The Captain of the Britannia was at that time Captain Corbett, a very distinguished officer, and, to the cadets, an awe-inspiring figure when he inspected our ranks on Sundays with his ribbon of the C.B. (a really prized distinction in days when orders and ribbons were very sparsely bestowed), and the sash over his shoulder that was then worn by the Naval Aide-de-Camp to the Sovereign. The fashion in hair at that time was very different from the present Navy fashion, when everyone is either bearded or clean-shaven. In 1869, just before Mr. Childers allowed beards to be grown, every officer and man had to shave his upper lip and chin, the result being that the young bloods of the quarter and lower decks delighted in appearing in long Dundreary whiskers.

The Britannia was a good school in its way, for the amount of hard knowledge in the shape of the elements of navigation and mathematics that we were made to absorb in twelve months was rather remarkable; but the old hulk was not particularly sanitary, and we were shamefully underfed, considering the amount of school work and drill that we had to do. During my year there I personally lost a good deal of time owing to a simultaneous outbreak of smallpox and scarlatina that occurred in 1870. I was unfortunate enough to develop the scarlatina and was at once put behind a canvas screen, which was supposed to separate me from my fellow-cadets, whilst waiting for the boat to take me ashore to the sick quarters. Unfortunately for me, another cadet was attacked with smallpox that same morning; so, to save trouble, we two wretched boys were coupled together behind the same screen, for, as the doctor sagely remarked, it was very uncommon for anybody to have smallpox and scarlatina at the same time. I, unfortunately, thanks to his speculative philosophy, succeeded in getting both, with the result that I was extremely ill, and was put considerably back with my studies.

There is no period of my life that I look back upon with less pleasure than I do to the time I spent in the Britannia. Whilst admitting that the instruction was good—indeed very good—it was rather overdone considering the average age of the boys—between thirteen and fifteen—and, as I have already said, the food was disgracefully bad and scanty. To show how hungry we were, it became a regular practice of the cadets when passing a bluejacket to drop a handkerchief with sixpence knotted into the corner, the handkerchief being surreptitiously returned in the course of a few minutes with bits of ship’s biscuit wrapped up in it instead of the sixpence. I think that all of us—and by all of us I mean the fifty cadets who had joined together in the autumn of 1869—were rejoiced when our release came in December 1870. I was fortunate enough to take a first-class, which meant that I was raised to the dignity of a midshipman at once instead of having to wait for three, six or nine months, according to the class taken on passing out. I may as well confess that, as a matter of fact, I was first of the whole term, and was probably conceited and odious on the strength of it. The conceit only lasted till I joined a sea-going ship, where, naturally, no one cared a straw whether a midshipman was first or last when he left the Britannia; and as I had acquired a certain amount of philosophy, even at that early age, it was brought home to me that the only individual who benefited in the least by my exploits was my father, for the grateful country bestowed a regulation dirk and a spy-glass upon me as prizes, both of which necessaries would otherwise have been supplied by an outfitter and paid for by my parent.

And now to mention some of my contemporaries who have arrived at distinction. A good many of the survivors I still meet from time to time, and they include Admiral Sir Berkeley Milne, Admiral of the Fleet Sir Hedworth Meux, and that really authentic specimen of the “bravest of the brave,” Admiral Sir James Startin. Jimmy Startin, from his youth up, was one of those very rare and fortunate individuals who have absolutely no sense or knowledge of fear. He has distinguished himself by his splendid personal bravery a hundred times, but perhaps never more so than when, as a man of over sixty years of age and Commodore of a squadron of patrol vessels, he boarded a burning patrol vessel that was in momentary danger of blowing up and attempted to rescue the engineer of that vessel. For this gallant exploit he was decorated by the King with the Albert Medal, and I cannot do better than quote the official account which appeared in the London Gazette:—

“Gazette, 20th August, 1918:—

“Admiral Sir James Startin, K.C.B.

“An explosion occurred on board H.M. Motor-launch 64 on the 10th June, 1918. Immediately after the explosion Commodore Startin proceeded alongside Motor-launch 64, the engine-room of which was still burning fiercely. On learning that the engineer was below he sprang down the hatch without the slightest hesitation and succeeded in recovering the body practically unaided. In view of the fact that the bulkhead between the engine-room and the forward tanks had been blown down by the force of the explosion, and that the fire was blazing upon the side and on the top of the forward tanks, which are composed of extremely thin metal, and consequently were liable to burst at any moment, the action of Commodore Startin in entering the engine-room before the fire was subdued showed the utmost possible gallantry and disregard of personal safety. Had the engineer not been past human aid he would undoubtedly have owed his life to the courage and promptitude of Commodore Startin.”

Of course there were several others who arrived at the rank of Admiral, and amongst them may be mentioned a very dear old friend, the late Sir Frederick Hamilton, who, after serving as Second Sea Lord and as Commander-in-Chief at Rosyth during the War, practically succumbed as the result of a long period of overwork.

After the labours of the Britannia a fairly long holiday was very pleasant, and my first appointment after a Christmas spent at home, was to the guardship, H.M.S. Duke of Wellington, at Portsmouth, whilst waiting to be appointed to a sea-going ship. Anything worse for the morals and discipline of a number of lads of our age than life aboard the guardships of those days, it is hard to imagine. We were nearly a hundred in the mess. In the gunroom there were a certain number of sub-lieutenants and assistant paymasters who were actually serving in the ship for various duties and were known as “standing numbers.” The steward treated them on a sort of favoured nation basis, supplying them with all the best of the food at minimum prices, wisely making a large profit out of the supernumeraries like ourselves, who, being there for only a short time—anything from a few days to a few months—were obviously sent there by Providence and the Admiralty for that particular object. There was one very remarkable specimen of a “standing number” of a gunroom mess in the guardship at that time. He was an elderly, white-haired gentleman of about fifty years of age—a man of fifty is certainly elderly for a gunroom. His rank was that of Acting Navigating Sub-Lieutenant. He had passed his preliminary examination for Master’s Mate, as they were then called, some thirty years before, had never presented himself for the final examination—which, successfully passed, would have confirmed him in his rank—and so an acting master’s mate or sub-lieutenant he had remained ever since.

The Duke of Wellington period lasted only a very few weeks, but long enough to earn me my first certificate from my first captain afloat, Captain the Hon. Richard Carr Glyn, then Flag-Captain to the Commander-in-Chief at Portsmouth, and who subsequently commanded the Serapis on the occasion of the late King Edward’s visit to India when Prince of Wales. The certificate I allude to was bestowed on all officers by all the captains under whom they served, whether for days or years, and to my mind was couched in the most insulting terms. I suspect it to have been composed by some more than usually red-tapeist specimen of an Admiralty clerk in the early part of the Victorian period. It ordained that whatever else the captain liked to say about an officer he had to testify in writing to his sobriety. I remember, years afterwards, when I had arrived at a rank that made it my province to give, instead of to receive, these benefits, the joy with which I destroyed some dozens of them testifying to my sobriety over a period of some thirty years. I wonder if they still exist! The permanent officials and civilian clerks at the Admiralty are not fond of change, unless it takes the shape of an increase to their own pay, and, human nature being usually much alike, were I one of them I should probably take exactly the same view as they do.

In the spring of 1871, when I first went to sea, the Admiralty had instituted a system of sea-going training-ships, which was abandoned a few years later and revived, I believe, shortly before the War in a new scheme of education which was devised by Lord Fisher as First Sea Lord. I could never understand why the Admiralty ever did away with it, for, in my opinion, it worked excellently well, and to modernise it and bring it up to the present date it was only necessary to divert the time and instruction that used to be devoted to masts and sails to marine engineering, wireless telegraphy and torpedo work. However, this dissertation has nothing to do with my reminiscences, so I must return to my story.

The whole of my “term” in the Britannia, still some fifty strong, was appointed to H.M.S. Bristol, a frigate of between 2000 and 3000 tons that had done duty as flagship at the Cape of Good Hope Station. Our Captain, the Hon. Walter Carpenter, was thus able to take up his abode in the quarters designed for an admiral, under the poop, the ordinary captain’s quarters being turned into a mess-room and school-room for the young gentlemen under training. The ship had her usual complement of officers and men, and carried, in addition, an extra lieutenant, sub-lieutenant and assistant paymaster, and two naval instructors for special duties connected with the cadets. Practically the onus of directing our training fell upon one man, Lieutenant Day Hort Bosanquet, who, many years afterwards, I knew as Commander-in-Chief at Portsmouth. Certainly, it could not have fallen into better hands. He was a thoroughly good fellow and a gentleman, to begin with, and a first-rate seaman and disciplinarian to go on with, and though he kept us all in terrific order he was none the less very popular.

We were worked hard; but anything was preferable to our late home, the Britannia. The routine was somewhat as follows:—We were turned out of our hammocks just after 6 a.m. Then came gun drill, rifle-drill or sail-drill on alternate mornings; breakfast at 8 a.m.; after breakfast we were inspected, and after prayers at 9 a.m. we were put into the hands of the naval instructors till dinner time at noon. At 1.15 more school or drill of some sort, and about 5 p.m. the ship’s company would be at sail-drill for the best part of an hour, and we shared in their exercises of shifting sails, masts, reefing topsails, and all the manœuvres that were dear to the smart naval officer of that day. In a very short time we had complete charge of the mizzen masts and drilled against the men at the fore and main. After evening drill was over we were left in peace except for about an hour’s preparation work for the next day’s studies. On alternate weeks we kept regular night and day watch under the officers of the ship, and though it was a sad struggle to turn out of one’s hammock, at midnight after a long day, to keep the middle watch, the discomfort and want of sleep so necessary for a young growing boy was almost made up for, when the weather was fine and warm, by the beauty of those tropical nights when the ship was bowling along under easy sail running down the trades. All our passages were made under sail, for the steam engine in those days was very rarely requisitioned unless the ship was becalmed for a very long time or was entering or leaving a port, to sail in and out of which was impossible. In those days, I regret to have to say, gunnery in the Navy was terribly neglected, principally on account of the craze which existed for smartness aloft. And there was considerable excuse for it, for the upper yardmen of that time were, to my mind, the finest specimens of humanity I have ever met. From constantly running the rigging at top speed, they were in the highest state of training; they were as active as cats and as brave as lions; for, if once a man showed, when aloft, the smallest desire to hold on with one hand and work with the other, instead of chancing everything and working with both, he was useless as an upper yardman, and was at once relegated to safer and less ambitious duties. And so the tradition went on and descended to us. The only quality we really admired in our superior officers was their seamanship. Anything in the shape of science was a bore, and the only part of the gun-drill that interested us was the part that resembled seamanship; the shifting of tackles and breeching, and transporting the 64-pounders which formed our armament to a different position, the whole business of the gun in those days having to be done by quoins, handspikes and tackle. When it came to gun practice, which consisted in firing at a cask with a small flagstaff bobbing about in the sea, the one object was to get it over as soon as possible, as it was looked upon as distinctly uninteresting. Notwithstanding this defect, I still think that, in those days, the sea-going training did us boys a great deal of good. Amongst other advantages, when visiting foreign ports we were made to go and see the principal sights whether we liked it or not. Probably famous cathedrals, world-famous panoramic views, and such like, did not appeal to many of us, and we would far sooner have been left to our own resources; but in after life I have become grateful to those who first introduced me to some of the wonders of the world.

The Bristol sailed away from Portsmouth in February 1871 on an eminently fine-weather cruise, most suitable for the raw material on board her. There is always some sort of a swell when crossing the Bay, and the new hands were nearly all sea-sick. As for myself, I am proud to say that I was one of the exceptions; this immunity was due, I suppose, to the previous voyage that I had made on a sailing ship to Madeira some dozen years before. Madeira, as a matter of fact, was our first port of call, and it was interesting to me to see how much I could remember of that lovely island. A very few days after we were rolling along in the trades on our way to Rio de Janeiro. At Rio a long stay was made, for the ship required a certain amount of refitting after nearly a month at sea under sail, and leave had to be given to the men. The cadets were taken in a body to Petropolis, a lovely place up in the hills which was the summer residence of the Court and the Corps Diplomatique. The beauty of Rio has been so often described by far abler pens than mine that I refrain from giving any childish impressions of it; but what we enjoyed most, I well remember, was the drive back from Petropolis in large coaches with four horses, the one I was in being actually driven by an old Yorkshire stage-coachman, who had found his way out to Brazil.

The only very distinct memory I have of the actual town of Rio of those days (I am glad to say I have revisited it since) was the peculiarity of the currency. In 1871 a tramway ticket for an ordinary length of fare was equivalent to sevenpence, English. For this same ticket, anything of a similar value from a hair-cut to a cocktail could be purchased, and with a pocket full of tickets a great deal of purchasing could be done. It was like shopping in a small provincial town with a pocket full of sixpences. After leaving Rio, the Bristol stood down to the southward and presently picked up the “Roaring Forties,” as the strong prevailing westerly winds which are found about 40º south of the equatorial line are called, and stood across to the Cape of Good Hope, our next port of call. Next to fishing for albatross, with a bit of meat on the end of a hook and a long fishing line,—a sport which was occasionally successful,—the greatest excitement was when, as midshipman of the watch, it came to one’s turn to heave the log, for, with half a gale behind, the old ship was really travelling, and our great ambition was to be able to chronicle an actual run of 50 nautical miles in the watch. A steady 12½ knots for four hours consecutively was not so very easily accomplished, and did not happen very often. It has to be confessed that the Bristol was not a very fast frigate, and compared very badly as a sailer with my next two ships of the same class.

Well, we finally arrived at Simon’s Bay, and once more leave and refitting took place, and there I certainly spent some of the happiest days of my early youth, thanks to the hospitality of an acquaintance who had a large farm in the neighbourhood of Constantia, about half-way between Simon’s Bay and Cape Town. This kind man, Watermeyer by name, had married a daughter of the Rector of Filleigh, the village of Castle Hill, and hearing that I was on board, asked permission to take me and a friend away for a week to stay with him. My friend on this occasion was another cadet of the same standing who was also a cousin, Francis Stuart Wortley, the present Lord Wharncliffe. Leave having been granted, we were driven off in glory in Mr. Watermeyer’s Cape cart, and after a drive of some fifteen miles, principally along the coast, we arrived at our destination. It was one of those typically Dutch houses, with a stoop or verandah all round, so well suited to the fierce heat of that delightful climate. Our hostess was delighted to meet old and new friends and made us most welcome, and later on, when the time came to go to bed, it was a pleasure to sleep in a good English bed again, in a room all to oneself, after being accustomed to have one’s worldly surroundings limited to a sea-chest and a hammock. And what a pleasant country it was! We used to ride for miles over the flats, which would have made an ideal hunting country, except for the absence of fences, and were shown the various business establishments in the neighbourhood. These were principally connected with the wine-making trade, for vines flourished exceedingly in that part of the Colony, and wine-making was a very thriving industry.

The world is very small and very round. Nearly forty years later, during the South African War, it was my fate to meet my old friend’s son, then attached to Lord Robert’s Staff as Colonial Aide-de-Camp, I being Naval Aide-de-Camp to his Lordship at the time.

After a delightful week of freedom, we were back on board again, and now our bows were turned for home. St. Helena, Ascension, Madeira, and Gibraltar, were visited in succession, and we finally anchored at Spithead after an excellent cruise.

The Admiralty had meanwhile decided that our time in training was to be extended, and as the Bristol was about done for, we cadets—who, by the way, were by this time nearly all midshipmen, were turned over to the Ariadne, a larger and far more beautiful vessel than our late one. The Ariadne was one of the crack frigates of her time. She sailed very well and had been selected for the use of the Prince and Princess of Wales in the spring of 1867, when their Royal Highnesses made their Eastern trip to Egypt, Turkey, the Crimea, and Greece.

H.M.S. “ARIADNE” AT NAPLES, 1871

By this time the season of Christmas was close by. We were all given leave for Christmas, and early in the New Year joined the Ariadne. Our next destination was the Mediterranean, and, timed to arrive at Malta, as we were, in the early spring, as far as climate and surroundings were concerned, nothing could be pleasanter. Our first passage from Portsmouth to Gibraltar was marred by a very bad boat accident. We were crossing the Bay heading for Finisterre, running before a strong breeze and rather a tumbling sea, when, unfortunately, a man fell overboard. A life-buoy was let go, and the ship was at once brought to the wind and hove-to; but she was a very long ship for those days, and by the time she was hove-to the man was some way off. The life-boat cutter was lowered and pulled off in the direction of the life-buoy. Unfortunately, the breeze was freshening, and the sea was becoming heavier every minute, the situation thus becoming unpleasant. Meanwhile, the boat’s crew having ascertained that the man was no longer hanging on to the buoy—he had let go, doubtless, from exhaustion—tried to turn round and return to the ship. In turning, always a very dangerous manœuvre in a bad sea, she broached-to and was swamped. Another boat was immediately manned, but owing to the heavy rolling of the ship she swamped alongside, and there we were with about five-and-twenty men struggling in the water, and with practically no other boat to lower that was big enough to stand such a sea. Steam had been got up meanwhile, and the ship, with great difficulty, was brought as near the survivors as possible. A certain number we managed to get on board with ropes, but the loss was heavy, for out of those two crews we lost eleven men and two officers. Of the two officers something more must be said. By a curious coincidence those two men had been such bitter enemies during the whole time they had been messmates on board the Bristol and Ariadne, that they had never been known to speak to each other except on duty when the exigencies of the Service so required. When the first boat was manned they both happened to be on deck; they both, with the instinct of gallant men, jumped into the cutter as volunteers, and the senior of the two took charge of the boat. They were both drowned together, and it was always a wonder to my youthful mind as to whether, with death staring them in the face and only a question of a few minutes, they ever made up their paltry quarrel? There was yet another curious incident connected with this affair. Two of the men who were in the boats’ crews were survivors of the Captain, a vessel which was lost with nearly all hands and which was still much talked of in the Navy; both these men were saved, and after two such escapes, it seemed evident that Providence never intended that either of them should drown.

The next six months were passed in the Ariadne cruising in the Mediterranean; Malta, the headquarters of the Mediterranean Fleet, being our most frequent port of call.

Once again I feel tempted to write a description—a temptation that must once more be resisted, for no one but the practised artist should be allowed to attempt to describe, and, moreover, the Grand Harbour of Valetta has been so often dealt with. But the subject, like the place itself, has an endless charm for me. For ten years, off and on, I was on the Mediterranean Station; on countless occasions I have gone in and out of the Grand Harbour, for I have often revisited the place in later years; yet, were I transported there to-morrow, I feel sure that I should be as much impressed with its beauty and charm as ever. I know no place where there is such a feast of brilliant colour as is to be met when steaming to a buoy up the Grand Harbour. Every creek that is passed swarms with gondola-shaped dhaisas, painted with all the colours of the rainbow, the rich ochre-colour of the beautiful old fortifications, interspersed with the residential dwellings, many of which are pink with green shutters, and the whole sandwiched, as it were, between the deep blue of the sky and the still deeper blue of the Mediterranean, make up a picture which, to me, is unforgettable. It was at Malta, too, that I really began my operatic career as a spectator; for, though I had heard Madame Patti at Covent Garden when I was nine years old, it was at Malta, that I first became an habitué. It was a cheap luxury in those days, the stalls costing only half a crown, and even a Naval Cadet could occasionally afford himself that amount of pleasure. Every one in musical circles of Valetta was still raving about the then newly discovered prima donna, Emma Albani, who had fairly captured their hearts during the winter season of 1871, when she had sung continually at the Opera House of Valetta before being whisked away to start her triumphant career in London and the world in general. Though, alas! Albani had gone, the opera was not at all bad, and as going there was allowed, it was also an excuse for being ashore in the evening; and so I spent a great many pleasant hours in that well-ordered little Opera House.

A visit to Naples, was of course, inevitable on an instructional cruise, and the Ariadne spent some time there also. The “young gentlemen” were duly taken to Herculaneum and Pompeii to improve their minds, and I had the chance of hearing more operatic performances in that colossal Opera House, San Carlo, and, moreover, of studying for the first time the manners and customs of an Italian audience. Fiercely critical, with apparently a natural intimate knowledge of singing, the members of the audience would almost conduct the singer on the stage by their incessant remarks. They could be the most enthusiastic audience in the world when really pleased; but, should an unfortunate singer fail to please them, their brutality (there is no other word!) was frankly disgusting. I remember a poor woman singing at San Carlo. She had been a first-class artist in her time, but her voice showed signs of wear and tear, and the Neapolitans had had enough of her. Six times running was this poor creature made to repeat her aria in order that the audience might give themselves the pleasure of hissing and hooting her, to say nothing of hurling obscene curses at her across the foot-lights. Were I an artist I fancy I should prefer the cold Covent Garden audience, who, though inclined to be unenthusiastic, at any rate could never be induced to insult a woman.

Our stay at Naples was very pleasant, for our taskmasters gave us a good deal of leave, wisely encouraging us youngsters to see everything of interest in the neighbourhood, and in an old photograph-book I can still turn up the inevitable presentment of the Blue Grotto at Capri, and the extremely artificial waterfall at Caserta,—one of the numerous Royal Palaces in Italy,—with its barocco groups of glaring white marble placed at the foot of the falls—Diana and her nymphs on the one side, and the ill-treated Actæon and his hounds on the other.

But the training-ship period was rapidly coming to an end, and the autumn of 1872 saw the Ariadne on her way home. She called at Algiers and Gibraltar, and finally returned to Portsmouth in October, by which time we had all become real midshipmen and were only waiting our turn to be appointed to proper sea-going ships to commence our real service in the British Navy.

In the spring of 1873 I was appointed as midshipman to H.M.S. Narcissus, the flagship of a squadron of six frigates, and under the command of Rear-Admiral Campbell. This squadron consisted of the Narcissus, Doris, Endymion, Aurora, Immortalité and Topaz, and was officially known as the Flying Squadron. As we were nearly always at sea, generally engaged in making long sailing passages, and consequently condemned to live a great deal on the ship’s provisions, the bluejackets bestowed on the squadron the name of “The Hungry Six,” by which designation it was usually known in the Service.

There was a galaxy of talent on board the Narcissus. The Rear-Admiral, Frederick Campbell, who had earned a considerable reputation as a smart officer and seaman, had appointed a nephew of his, Charles Campbell, as his Flag-Lieutenant, and, to make the thing complete and Scottish, one of his servants was a piper, who, on guest-nights, used to march round the Admiral’s table after dinner, according to the custom of pipers. Personally, I rather like pipes in the distance in Scotland, or when they play with troops on the march; but between decks, where the beams were only six feet high, the noise made by this solitary specimen of his tribe was enough to wake the dead. John Ommaney Hopkins, in after years a Lord of the Admiralty and Commander-in-Chief of the Mediterranean Fleet, was Flag-Captain, and J. R. Fullerton, who afterwards was for so long the Admiral of Queen Victoria’s Yachts, was Commander. In those days he had the well-deserved reputation of being one of the very smartest young Commanders in the Fleet. Our First-Lieutenant was Lieutenant A. K. Wilson, who, later on, earned the V.C. for his gallantry when leading his men,—the men of a machine-gun party,—in the Sudan, and who subsequently became the well-known Admiral of the Fleet, Sir Arthur Wilson. Another officer of the ship, a perfectly undistinguished one, was our Naval Instructor. I have forgotten his name, but will call him “Mr. Smith.” Mr. Smith suited the midshipmen perfectly; as long as they did not bother him he never bothered them, so we strolled in and out during study hours at our own sweet wills. One day he announced his approaching marriage, and invited all those of us that could get leave to the ceremony. We all knew his fiancée, for she was the barmaid at a small hotel where we youngsters used to foregather when ashore. I was one of the fortunate few present at the wedding breakfast given by the proprietor of the hotel, whose speech, when proposing the health of the happy pair, I can never forget, and I recommend it to any gentleman who happens to find himself placed in the position of orator on similar occasions. It was to this effect: “When the courtship began he (the hotel proprietor) had rather feared that the whole thing would end in a liaison (pronounced ly-a-son), but Mr. Smith, to his great surprise and pleasure, had behaved honourably and had married the girl!”

Shortly after I joined at Plymouth the squadron was reported ready for sea, but before starting we came in for one of the most furious and sudden gales that I can recollect. We were lying in the Sound at the time, and I remember I was midshipman of the afternoon watch on that Sunday, and though the glass was falling ominously the weather was so lovely that it did not seem worth while to disturb the ship’s company, who invariably on Sunday afternoons sleep the sleep of the just, there being apparently plenty of time to make everything snug for the night later on. Suddenly, without any warning, a terrific squall struck the ship, and though the water inside the mole was perfectly calm, so great was the force of the wind that the spray was lifted bodily from the surface of the water and became in a moment absolutely blinding, and the boats at the boom were in danger of being swamped. The hands were at once turned up, the boats were hoisted just in time, nearly full of water from the spray that had been driven into them. Top-gallant masts were struck, two more anchors were let go (as we had begun to drag towards Drake’s Island), steam was got up, and we steamed to our anchors almost all the night, during the whole of which time the wind was blowing with almost hurricane force. In the morning the gale abated, and then one could get some idea of what had been going on. One of our consorts, the Aurora, anchored close to us, had parted her cable. Luckily, the spare anchors brought her up, and she too had been steaming up to her anchors all night. In addition to this, there were no less than six merchant ships of different sizes ashore in the Sound around various parts of the coast.

We left Plymouth shortly afterwards, the West Indies being our destination, via the inevitable Madeira. On our way out we experienced even worse weather than that which I have already described—worse because it lasted so much longer. For a whole week the entire squadron was hove-to under storm-sails in the Bay, and the Narcissus, though a first-rate sea boat and magnificently handled, suffered a good deal. She was old and the seams were inclined to open, and, moreover, two of the gun ports on the main deck were driven in by a heavy sea; consequently she shipped so much water that there was hardly a dry place in the whole vessel. All this time hammocks were never stowed, so the moment our watch was over we midshipmen used to turn in, our hammocks being the only comparatively dry place to be found. We really rather enjoyed this novel condition, as though we were constantly employed on deck, seeing to the extra security of the guns and a hundred and one odds and ends, at any rate school and drill were out of the question.

I now have to ask pardon for being tiresomely technical, as I must allude to one of the bravest and smartest bits of seamanship that I have ever witnessed. During the height of the gale the outer bobstay carried away. The bobstays on the bowsprit of a sailing-ship do the duty of supporting that important spar, on the safety of which depends the foremast, the main top-mast, and hence practically the whole of the great fabric of masts and yards. Our First-Lieutenant, the A. K. Wilson before alluded to, the boatswain, and the captain of the forecastle managed to hang a grating under the bowsprit to give them something to stand on, and then proceeded to execute the necessary repairs. For many hours these three intrepid men laboured at this most difficult job, alternately up to their necks in water as the bows of the ship plunged into the sea, and then high up some fifty feet above it when she recovered herself and took her pitch upwards. Their labour was rewarded, for the bowsprit was saved, and one likes to remember what a mere matter of course it was considered in those non-advertising days. In more modern times one has seen brass bands and local mayors meeting the heroes of far less dangerous and difficult exploits, after the necessary “boom” has been judiciously engineered.

During the gale the squadron was dispersed and lost all knowledge of each other. However, the rendezvous had been given as Vigo, and at Vigo we all eventually turned up, and from thence proceeded to Madeira.

And now to say something about the life of a midshipman in those days. We had,—besides a good deal of so-called study which was imparted to us by a naval instructor, and a considerable amount of drill,—to keep regular watch in four reliefs; the only time we ever ceased to keep watch was on being put in charge of a boat in harbour. To be in charge of a boat was considered rather an honour. Steam launches were rare,—even a large frigate carried only one, and that one merely an ordinary pulling boat with a small rattletrap engine bolted into it, the maximum speed being about six knots,—so practically all the boat-work of a ship was done under oars and under sail, and great fun it was. But the really important business was, of course, the sail-drill, ship against ship, that took place every evening when at sea, and to a limited extent twice a day in harbour. There was a terrific competition of the most jealous nature; the upper yardmen, upon whose smartness it mainly depended, used to carry their jealousy so far as to pick quarrels with their principal opponents directly they got ashore together. For the sake of general peace and quietness, and the comfort of the local police, it eventually became necessary to give certain ships’ companies leave on different days, to prevent the eternal battles they used to fight on shore where there was no discipline to restrain them.

A sailing cruise round the West Indies sounds extremely like a yachting excursion, but, in absolute fact, a journey performed by a squadron of sailing frigates keeping meticulous station under sail, and sometimes having to make short tacks every five minutes or so, to come into their anchorage, and all this in tropical heat, does not seem to have much of the yacht connected with it.

The days and months passed by quickly enough, if in somewhat monotonous fashion, until the spring of 1874, when we were ordered to reinforce the Mediterranean Fleet, then under the command of Admiral Sir Hastings Yelverton. Sir Hastings was then flying his flag on board the Lord Warden, one of our very early iron-clads. She really merited the name of iron-clad, for she was a wooden ship with wrought-iron plates bolted on to her. Sir Hastings was himself quite one of the best specimens of the great sea officer of those days. A very fine gentleman, with a thorough knowledge of the world, he was an invaluable servant to his country at that particular moment, as Spain was in a state of semi-revolution, and it was fortunate for England that the Commander-in-Chief united in his person all the best characteristics of the diplomatist, the man of the world, and the sailor. The trouble began from the Naval point of view, when the Revolutionary party seized two Spanish men-of-war of considerable size and importance, the Vittoria and Almanza, and started on what was probably going to be a piratical cruise in foreign waters. The British Navy, amongst its other numerous duties, has always been busy in the suppression of piracy, so that in a very few days the Vittoria and Almanza were duly rounded up, the crews landed, and the ships themselves safely interned at Gibraltar. The next move of the Intransigentes,—as the revolutionary party called themselves,—was to seize the forts that commanded the arsenal of Carthagena, and they then took possession of the greater part of the Spanish Fleet. Our Mediterranean Fleet promptly went to Carthagena and the neighbouring ports on the east coast of Spain to watch the course of events. Being short of funds, the Intransigentes conceived the idea of cruising down their own coast, sticking to territorial waters, and demanding money from all the towns along the coast. In case of refusal the towns were to be bombarded. In the interest of humanity the English Fleet used to hover round and place themselves between the Intransigente Fleet and the shore, and insist on forty-eight hours’ grace being given to enable the women and children to be removed to a place of safety. The local Carthagenan butcher, who, I think, was for the moment the Intransigente admiral, was given to understand that unless he complied with the request of the British admiral, he and his squadron would, in all probability, be blown sky high. Being a sensible man, he did as he was told, but, occasionally, after the necessary interval on which we had insisted had expired, a bombardment would take place. I was present at one, and enjoyed the spectacle most thoroughly. Alicante was the town in question. In the way of defence it possessed a charming old sixteenth-century citadel, as well as two or three little batteries on the beach that could just manage to return a salute. None the less, the Governor of Alicante, on being asked “for his money or his life,” with true Spanish chivalry, firmly declined to pay any sort of ransom, manned his little popguns, and prepared for the worst. We, as usual, were anchored between the town and the Intransigente squadron, and after the forty-eight hours’ interval had come to an end we retired like “seconds out of the ring,” purposely taking as long as possible over this necessary manœuvre. Then the fun began. The Intransigentes, some of whose ships were very heavily armoured for those days (they carried 9-inch guns, which really were 240-pounders), began to bombard, and the citadel and batteries returned the fire. At that time I was midshipman of the foretop, so up there I ensconced myself, and a splendid view I got of the whole proceedings. It was a deliciously comic performance. The Intransigente shooting was so bad that the proverbial haystack would have been quite safe. Indeed, as we saw later when we landed, they could not even hit a town, and barring a few broken windows there was no harm done at all, and no casualties. The shore defenders meanwhile fired little round shots that went skipping along the top of the water until they were tired and sank. It is needless to remark that had they actually hit one of the iron-clad vessels at which they were directed, they would have had no more effect than the classical patting of the dome of St. Paul’s would have had on the Dean and Chapter. After a few hours of this performance, the Intransigentes wearied of it and went on to some other coast town to try their luck there, shadowed by another portion of Sir Hastings’ fleet. The captain of the foretop, who was a great friend of mine, was much looked up to by his top mates as a sort of encyclopædia of knowledge of all sorts, so I was much amused to hear the following conversation, which, of course, was not intended for my chaste ears, while I was looking through my spy-glass at the bombardment. The captain of the foretop was being interrogated: “Bill, ’oo is that there ’ere Queen of Spain at all?” Bill replied: “The Queen, she’s a . . .” and then followed a string of lurid adjectives, leading up to the suggestion that the royal lady in question belonged to what Rudyard Kipling calls the oldest profession in the world.

I did not see much more of the Intransigente Fleet, but not long afterwards it brought its cruising to an inglorious end. The Spaniards succeeded in getting together a few loyal ships under a real admiral, as a means of putting an end to this potential piracy. Just before the expected general engagement could take place, the Intransigente admiral,—who, though doubtless he may have known a great deal about bullocks and sheep, was woefully deficient in knowledge of fleet manœuvring,—succeeded in ramming and sinking one of his own squadron. This untoward incident upset his nerve and that of his companions to such an extent that the whole of his fleet ignominiously surrendered.

Shortly after the Intransigente episode considerable changes were made in the personnel of the senior officers of the Narcissus. Rear-Admiral Campbell hauled down his flag and was succeeded by Rear-Admiral Randolph, the Captain and Commander were relieved, and our First-Lieutenant was about the same time promoted to the rank of Commander and left us. With the exception of the ship’s company and junior officers, the Narcissus had become almost a new ship, and of course there was the usual grousing that always takes place on these occasions among the junior officers. To our experienced minds nothing that was new could be right, and I must confess that so far as efficient seamanship and smartness aloft were concerned, the old lot could hardly have been improved on. The squadron remained in the Mediterranean, but was no longer closely attached to the Commander-in-Chief, and went eastward for a cruise in the Levant.

Amongst other ports visited was Smyrna, and there a couple of my messmates and I got into rather considerable trouble. The Consul at Smyrna had arranged a special train to give the Admiral and Officers of the squadron a chance of visiting Ephesus, where a number of archæologists were then busy excavating the celebrated Temple of Diana. We, in our wisdom, thought it would be dull work going up with a number of officers, most of whom would be our seniors as the companions of this excursion, so having hired horses, we slipped away early in the morning and proceeded to ride some thirty miles up country to Ephesus. Of course we never dreamt of bothering about a guide or any detail of that kind, but somehow or another midshipmen generally manage to turn up at their destination, and after a delightful ride over a fine grass country, we arrived all right. Meanwhile, unfortunately for us, the Flag-Lieutenant had, in a casual way, mentioned to the Admiral at breakfast that three of the youngsters had started to ride up. The Admiral had been previously warned by the Consul that the country outside Smyrna is infested with brigands, and on account of the bother that it would have given him had anything happened to us, he was full of wrath, which was eventually to descend on our innocent heads. Orders were at once sent ashore to the Consul to inform the Turkish Governor, and altogether such a fuss was made that eventually a squadron of Turkish cavalry was sent out to get hold of us and bring us back. By this time we had about three hours’ start, and as, probably, from what I know of Turks, the Cavalry did not hurry over much, they never got near us. None the less, when we arrived at Ephesus our troubles began. We were looking about for some place to put up and feed our horses, preparatory to feeding ourselves in view of our ride back, when we happened unluckily to meet the Flag-Captain, who got into what we thought a most unnecessary state of rage, and ordered us at once to get into the train and go back in that comparatively undignified conveyance to Smyrna, then to go straight on board the ship, and report ourselves as prisoners under close arrest. This was a bore of course, but with my usual philosophy I consoled myself with the reflection that, as a prisoner, I should not have to keep any watch that night, and would have a good night in, which would be infinitely preferable to walking the deck for four hours after a long outing. The first part of the programme was carried out all right, but, to my disgust, when I tried to excuse myself for not going on duty, pleading that, as a prisoner, I was incapable of doing duty, the Commander calmly informed me that I was temporarily released, so on watch I had to go.

Our arrest lasted about a month and came to an end very unexpectedly. Somehow or other (we youngsters, who were naturally the severest of critics, all thought from very faulty seamanship) the Narcissus and another ship of the squadron took the ground rather badly off the coast of Sicily. Of course there was a Court-martial, and to our intense delight our Captain was dismissed his ship and our arrest came to a triumphant conclusion. With the usual pitilessness of youth, we looked upon it as a judgment upon our superior officer, and to round the episode off nicely, I, having been just relieved from watch when the ship went aground, was one of the witnesses at the Court-martial. I am ashamed to say that our delight when the sentence was promulgated was scarcely, to say the least of it, decent, and when the unfortunate Captain returned on board to turn over his command to an acting successor who was at once appointed, he must have almost heard the uproarious cheering in the midshipmen’s berth. What brutes boys are!

Nothing particularly exciting happened during the rest of my time in the Narcissus. She was paid off in the summer of 1874 on her return to England, and I managed to get some leave whilst waiting for an appointment to a new ship.

In August 1874 the appointment came, and the “new ship” turned out to be the Audacious, fitted out at Chatham as the flagship of Vice-Admiral Ryder, a distant connection of my own, who had been appointed to the command of the China Station.

The Audacious and her sister ships, one of which was the Vanguard which was sunk later by another sister, the Iron Duke, in a collision in the Channel, were a type of middle-sized battleships evolved about that period by the Chief Constructor of the Navy and his Naval Advisors at the Admiralty. I have seen some fairly useless types of vessels produced in my time, but really the “Audacious” type was almost unique in that way. Fairly heavily masted and barque rigged, the Audacious could not even sail with a fair wind, for it was impossible to steer her unless the engines were kept going. With considerable horse-power her full trial speed was barely twelve knots; indeed I do not think that in the whole of her career, which was a long one, she could ever really do ten knots for six consecutive hours. The main armament consisted of 9-inch muzzle-loading guns. These guns were very much on the same lines as the modern howitzer as far as length was concerned. This type of weapon had such a high trajectory that it was practically useless unless the range was known within 100 yards, an almost impossible condition at sea. They were mounted on what was known as the Box Battery System—a name that described the battery so well that any further explanation is superfluous, and, as the name implies, the whole formed the most perfect shell-trap that could be conceived by the ingenuity of man. There is always a reason for everything, and there was some sort of reason for the “Audacious” class. The Navy in the early ’seventies was mad on the subject of ramming. The lesson was, of course, learnt from what had occurred at Lissa, but probably it was terribly over-applied. There was a consequent craze for what were supposed to be short, handy ships, and that was where the failure of the system came in. They were short, but they were never handy, for shortness can never make up for the consequent loss of speed and bad steering. However, having served for nearly four years in sailing frigates, I was duly impressed by the size and magnificence of this new monster of the ocean. It was only by experience that we learnt what an appallingly bad ship ours was, even as compared with already existing types.

I must now say something about the superior officers. Admiral Ryder had the reputation of being an extremely erudite and scientific officer, so naturally we midshipmen distrusted him instinctively. I saw a great deal of him later on, and a kinder and more amiable old gentleman never lived. Captain Philip Colomb was his Flag-Captain. He, at any rate, was a very able man, and, far in advance of his time, was one of the earliest advocates of the abolition of masts and yards, as being useless appendages and a danger in action. How right he was we know by our modern Navy; and the experience he was about to acquire,—I allude to what I have already written about the sailing qualities of the Audacious,—could only have confirmed his judgment. Our Commander was the present Admiral Sir Cyprian Bridge, so—as in the Narcissus (though of a totally different stamp),—I was again fortunate enough to be serving under a very distinguished group of officers. Two or three of the midshipmen in the Audacious had been in the Narcissus before, and it is needless to relate how convinced we were that, as seamen, we were sure to compare very favourably with the poor unfortunates who had only had experience of life at sea in what we irreverently called a tin pot.

Chatham was a foul locality in those days, and, for all I know, may still be unattractive. The only incident I remember well, however, was the excitement in the Dockyard when the then Princess of Wales, in the heyday of her exquisite beauty, came down to christen her godchild, the Alexandra, which was launched about that time. Soon after this the Audacious sailed for her Station, and we began to realise what we were in for in our new ship. One good point she certainly had. Owing to a variety of reasons, at sea she was as steady as the proverbial rock. There were reports current that this steadiness was the result of carrying all the principal weights,—guns, armour, spars, etc.,—abnormally high. However, the Constructor’s Department, by means of all sorts of figures (and of course figures cannot lie), clearly proved that she was, if possible, unnecessarily safe; but, anyhow, as we midshipmen knew nothing about angles of safety, and cared still less, we greatly appreciated the fact of her steadiness. Her other good point was that she was high between decks, which made the gunroom mess a little more habitable, and gave us more air when tucked up in our hammocks at night, as compared with the old-fashioned frigate barely 6 feet high at the beams.

We were directed to proceed to China through the Mediterranean, passing through the Suez Canal, although it was considered doubtful whether a ship of the size of the Audacious could get through the Canal as it then was. And, indeed, it was a job of some dimensions! On arrival at Port Said the ship was lightened of all the coal and stores that we could spare and we proceeded on our course through the Canal, provided with one tug ahead and two tugs astern, to keep her straight. Anything less straight than our course it is difficult to imagine. In spite of the tugs we bumped about merrily from one bank to the other, our bluff bows making such a wave that the whole countryside was flooded. Surely, since the Argo first took the sea, there never was such a brute to steer as H.M.S. Audacious! After two days’ bumping about in the Canal we reached Suez, and from Aden, our next port of call, we proceeded to Galle in Ceylon.

To cross the Indian Ocean from Aden to Point de Galle, a distance of only 3000 miles, took us about thirty days. The most economical speed of our species of Noah’s Ark turned out to be well under five knots an hour, and though we had filled up one of the large flats below the battery with coal, and carried a deck cargo into the bargain, it was all we could do to crawl into Galle before we came to the end of our tether. Do not let it be imagined that all the ships built about that period were the same hopeless failures. Far from it. Many of our early battleships and cruisers were fine specimens of naval architecture and steamed quite well. Some of the cruisers could sail as well as steam extremely well. The “Audacious” class, as before explained, was simply the outcome of the “short, handy ship” theory carried out to the verge of lunacy.

From Galle we wended our way in the same leisurely fashion to Singapore, and arrived there about Christmas time. Singapore was practically the southern limit of the China Station, and there our Admiral and Commander-in-Chief saw the first of his command. The China Station was then practically divided into three portions: the southern based upon Singapore; North China, based upon Shanghai; whilst the ships stationed in Japan lay for the most part at Yokohama. Hong Kong was the main headquarters of the Station, and the Commodore flew his broad pennant from the masthead of an old line-of-battleship, the Victor Emanuel, which, doing duty as guardship and receiving-ship, was in the same category as the previously described Duke of Wellington at Portsmouth. The Commodore was also superintendent of the Dockyard. Each of the three districts,—if one may apply such a term as district to the sea,—was looked after by the senior officer in the shape of a captain commanding a corvette, having under him a string of gun-vessels and gunboats. It was a great station for small craft. These were necessary because they could go a considerable distance up the great rivers of China, for some of them would spend the best part of three years up the same river, only varied by an occasional visit to Hong Kong for a refit. The flagship herself had a sort of roving commission, and when things were quiet her presence on different parts of the Station became a question of climate, which usually meant Japan for the summer and South China for the winter. As may readily be imagined, to serve in a flagship on the China Station was one of the pleasantest jobs that came a sailor’s way, and I, for one, passed two very happy years there.

It was at Singapore that I met, for the first time, a man of whom I was destined to see a great deal many years afterwards,—Sir Frank Swettenham,—then at the commencement of his long and successful career in the Straits Settlements and Malay States, a career which only came to an end with the termination of his Governorship in 1904. I forget exactly what his post was during the winter of 1874-75, but I have the happiest recollection of dining at a bungalow which he shared with a distant cousin of mine, one of the Herveys, who was then a Civil Servant at Singapore. Fancy how great a delight it was to a midshipman to get out of the gunroom,—which in hot weather was rather like a heated sardine tin,—and instead of eating the usual horrible food which was our daily fare, to dine in the best sense of that important word. I may, parenthetically, remark that I have always taken the greatest interest in food; that is to say, whenever I have had the opportunity, for when attached to an Army in the Field, or, worse still, living in a naval mess, it is useless to bother about anything from a culinary point of view, beyond the elemental fact of eating to keep oneself alive. There are many things that are good to eat in this world, and, in their turn, I have appreciated the cuisine bourgeoise of Provence and Gascony, the numerous pasta dishes of Italy, to say nothing of the supreme efforts of quite a large quantity of the great chefs of Paris, but I still think the one thing very difficult to beat in the way of a delicacy is the genuine Malay vegetable curry eaten in its own home, with which every dinner, and indeed every meal, in that part of the world, is invariably topped-up. Moreover, the setting was so pleasant:—The verandah of a bungalow, with a tropical moon so luminous that candles were hardly needed, with the murmur of the jungle in one’s ears, and, in place of the eternal “shop” which becomes one’s portion in the gunroom, to enjoy the conversation of two extremely agreeable men, one of whom was certainly a remarkably able one into the bargain. The cynical mind may suggest that as likely as not the agreeable men in question were talking their own “shop” most of the time. Perhaps it may have been so; at any rate it was a new “shop” to me.

Our next move was to Hong Kong; for the Audacious, quite a long sea-trip, with the accompanying difficulties which I have already described. These were partially overcome by calling at Saigon, the Headquarters of the French Navy in those waters. The Commander-in-Chief was there able to kill two birds with one stone—to exchange courtesies with the French Commander-in-Chief and take in a fresh supply of coal for the remainder of his journey. It is quite unnecessary to describe Saigon. Claude Farrère, who, though a sailor, is also a great writer, has done it already in the most masterly fashion in Les Civilisés. Even a few days of the climate of Saigon, which resembles nothing in the world so much as the interior of an orchid house, are trying enough. Small wonder that the unfortunate Government officials and naval officers who are out there for years take to opium smoking and various other weird amusements—in fact, anything—to while the time away.

We finally arrived at our destination,—Hong Kong,—after about a five months’ journey from England, and there we spent some considerable time refitting and preparing for our summer cruise. During our stay there I had finished serving my time as a midshipman, having completed four and a half years, and passed my examination, so far as seamanship was concerned, for sub-lieutenant. I was fortunate enough to be given a first-class, and on the strength of it could have claimed a passage home to pass the other two examinations in gunnery and navigation which were necessary to confirm me in my rank. Until these were passed one could only hold the rank of Acting Sub-Lieutenant. Of course I ought to have done so, for, had I taken the other two first-classes,—and, barring accidents, there was not much difficulty in doing so,—I should have been made a Lieutenant at once. Unfortunately there were attractions of various kinds at Hong Kong, and I am afraid I succumbed to them all. The result was I remained out there for over another year having a very pleasant time, but steadily losing seniority. Nevertheless, the year in the Far East was really well spent even at the expense of spoiling what might possibly have been a successful career in the Navy. To see something of China,—to my mind by far the most interesting country in the world,—to see the beginning of the Europeanising of Japan, is a pleasanter thing to look back upon than the possibilities of high command in various parts of the world, finishing off, at its very best, with the command of a Home Port.

Shortly after I had attained to the exalted rank of Acting Sub-Lieutenant, a vacancy occurred owing to the sudden death of a Commander of one of the gun-vessels, and, as was always the case in those days, the acting vacancy was given to the Flag-Lieutenant. The Admiral very kindly made me his Acting Flag-Lieutenant for the time being, so that, at the age of a little over nineteen, I found myself on the Staff of a Commander-in-Chief. The result of my temporary promotion was that I was suddenly thrown into the vortex of Hong Kong Society, about which it is necessary to say something. Naturally, the head of the whole business was the Governor of Hong Kong, Sir Arthur Kennedy. The honours of Government House were done by his daughter, Miss Kennedy, in the most charming fashion, and many were the pleasant dinners I enjoyed at that hospitable table. Miss Kennedy subsequently married the late Admiral of the Fleet, Lord Clanwilliam, but that was later, and after her father had left the Colony. The next in rank to the Governor was the Naval Commander-in-Chief, and the General in Command of Troops, Captains of ships and Colonels of regiments, all came along in the usual official way. All this was obvious enough and not in the least amusing, but what delighted me was the table of precedence of those whom we youngsters always talked of as “dollar grinders,” who, with their wives, were in real life the representatives of the great firms of China Merchants. I had to make myself acquainted with these terrible rules of precedence so as not to make an unnecessary number of mistakes on the occasions when my Admiral was entertaining the rank and fashion of Hong Kong. They were rather a terrifying lot, these same wives of dollar grinders, and used to fight like cats if not put in their proper places. The whole precedence was based on the importance, or supposed importance, of the firm, and in my time Jardine & Mathieson were an easy first; consequently the wife of that firm’s representative was in the prime position of being the leading civilian lady of the Colony. But even in 1875 the importance of the China Merchant was beginning to dwindle, and small wonder! The youngsters who used to go out as tea-tasters were started on a salary of £400 a year. Admirable board was provided for them by the firm at what was called the Hong, where they not only had the best of messing provided for them gratis, but, in addition, could ask as many guests as they liked. Moreover, to make the thing complete, the firm provided them with a chair and two coolies to carry them about. (We have not yet heard of runners on the Stock Exchange being accommodated by their employers with free taxi cabs!) Being for the most part very little more than schoolboys, they naturally had a very good time. There were rumours that they had a certain amount of work to do in the morning; but even this was never confirmed. Anyhow, after a remarkably copious “tiffin” and the necessary hour’s rest, the real business of the day began, such as the training of racing ponies, cricket, rowing, and every sort of sport that was then popular. If nothing better offered, the Hong provided an excellent dinner, and then everybody adjourned to the Club for cards, billiards or bowls until the small hours. Meanwhile, the German merchants,—to say nothing of the indigenous Chinese,—were gradually ousting the Englishman. Even at the unreflective age of nineteen it struck me that, as a business proposition, the German clerk who worked all day, spoke at least four languages and kept himself on £80 a year, would be apt to further the interest of his firm and be more generally useful to it than our own young men, who lived luxuriously, amused themselves a good deal, spoke no language but their own, and probably cost the firm not far short of £1000 a year apiece.

But to return to the Society aspect:—I remember well the first dinner to which I accompanied my Admiral, given at East Point by the then representative of Jardine & Mathieson. After the complete dinner party had filed in arm in arm, strictly in accordance with the precedence of the firms, I wandered in humbly, last and alone. However, I reflected, while I was philosophically consoling myself with the pleasures of the table, which included remarkably good wine, that had I been there in my real rank as an Acting Sub-Lieutenant, I should probably have been sent to dine in the steward’s room instead.

The drawback to Hong Kong, as the Headquarters of the China Station, was that it was a terribly expensive place, and as a system of universal credit obtained, it was really difficult for young officers to resist the temptation of running into debt. A certain number certainly did come to grief, and the only wonder is that there were not more of them. The British public is beginning to realise at last how miserable a pittance is the pay of the Naval Officer of to-day. In my young days it was a great deal worse, and in China we were literally defrauded by the Admiralty into the bargain. It is a disgraceful fact that the officers and men were paid monthly in silver dollars valued by the Government at what used to be the par value of the dollar, namely 4s. 2d.; when their real value was well under 4s. Of course this did not affect the higher ranks; on the contrary, it suited them admirably. They could get their cheques cashed at the bank on shore, and instead of taking their dollars could remit not only their pay but, up to a decent point, a good deal besides at 4s. 2d. and make a very fine profit; but as far as the unfortunate junior officers (who had no banking accounts) and the ship’s company were concerned, it was nothing else than highway robbery. But from time immemorial, the officers and men serving afloat and doing the real work of the Navy have been robbed by the civilian side of the Admiralty. Readers of history will remember the great Dundonald’s crusade, when he was Captain Lord Cochrane, against the Malta Prize Court, and his subsequent exposure of similar scandals in the House of Commons. All the scandals then exposed must necessarily have been within the knowledge of the Admiralty of those days, who either connived at it or shared in the plunder. Two of the cases quoted by Dundonald in the House of Commons are worth repeating:—

“The noble lord then read a letter from a captain of a vessel at the Cape of Good Hope, complaining ‘that the officers of ships of war were so pillaged by those of the Vice-Admiralty Courts, that he wished to know how they could be relieved; whether they could be allowed the liberty to send their prizes home, and how far the jurisdiction of the Vice-Admiralty Court extended; for that the charges of Court were so exorbitant, it required the whole amount of the value of a good prize to satisfy them. In the case of one vessel that was sold for 11,000 rupees, the charges amounted to more than 10,000. This was the case at Penang, Malacca, and other places, as well as at the Cape.’

---

“The noble lord said he had produced the copy of the bill to show the length of it. He then showed the original; and to show the equity and moderation of the Vice-Admiralty Court, he read one article where, on the taxation of a bill, the Court, for deducting fifty crowns, charged thirty-five crowns for the trouble in doing it. A vessel was valued at 8,608 crowns, the Marshal received one per cent, for delivering her, and in the end the net proceeds amounted to no more than 1,900 crowns out of 8,608—all the rest had been embezzled and swallowed up in the Prize Court. He was sorry, he said, to trepass on the time of the House, on a day when another matter of importance was to come before them. He pledged himself, however, that no subject could be introduced more highly deserving their serious attention and consideration.”

The public have not yet heard all that is going to be done in the case of the prize money earned by the Navy during the late war. For the sake of my old comrades and their successors I hope that those who have gone through and survived the wear and tear and exhaustion of those terrible four and a half years will not be fleeced of their just due as were their great-grandfathers.

But to return to Hong Kong. It was obviously difficult for very insufficiently paid young men to resist living like others of their own age, regardless of the fact that those others were much better off. I remember the instance of two brothers, one a sub-lieutenant in a gunboat and the other a subaltern in the Royal Engineers. There was only a year’s difference in age between them. The sub-lieutenant in the Navy received £90 a year, subject to the illegal tax already mentioned; the subaltern R.E., what with colonial pay and allowances and an extra £1 a day from the Colony as Surveyor of Roads, made up just £900 a year. Further comment is unnecessary. The system of credit already alluded to needs mention, for at that time both in the Crown Colonies and also in the Treaty Ports of China no money other than copper was in general circulation, and this was not on account of any lack of silver but owing to a Chinese peculiarity. The Chinaman is, I believe, considered by all those doing business with him to be the most honest and trustworthy trader in the world; dealing on a large scale with a Chinaman it was always said that no signature would be necessary, the Chinaman’s word being as good as his bond. On the other hand, the lower class Chinaman could never resist helping himself to a tiny slice off any silver dollar that came into his hands. The result was that after a short time the dollars in circulation lost so seriously in value that they could not be accepted at their face value, and earned for themselves the sobriquet of “chop dollars.” Hence dollars, except at the end of the month, were never seen, and the only cash ever carried were the few coppers necessary to pay for the chair which did the work of the then hansom in London. The “chit” system was universal; whether it was dinner at the club, a cocktail at the bar, or a hair-cut at the very smart hairdresser’s shop on the Bund. All that was necessary was to sign for the amount. It was hardly to be wondered at if we boys were on the verge of bankruptcy every month.

Sometimes, alas! it was worse than bankruptcy. I am rather ashamed, even now, when I remember that I helped a brother officer, who turned out to be a real rogue, to escape. He was a paymaster on one of the small craft on the Station. He had been put under close arrest by Admiralty order as an irregularity had been discovered in his accounts when submitted home. Three or four of us young idiots firmly believed in his version, namely that not a halfpenny was really missing or had ever got into his pocket. He admitted having been careless and said it would be impossible for him to prove his innocence at the Court-martial (this part of the story was remarkably true!), and consequently he would be sure to be sentenced to imprisonment. He was very popular with his brother officers, and also (alas, for his sake!) with a great many of the light-hearted division ashore. The upshot of it was that we, at the risk of our own necks (for had anything leaked out we must have been tried by Court-martial and dismissed the Service at the least) assisted him to escape. We procured a boat in the dead of night, manning it ourselves, squared the sentry over the cabin door to look the other way when the prisoner went on deck; he then succeeded in creeping over the bows while the officer of the watch was aft, and got into the boat from which he was pulled on board a steamer bound for San Francisco. And that was the last we heard of him. The only two incidents connected with this story that give me any pleasure on looking back, are that I, who was rather behind the scenes, knew that the trouble originated as the Frenchmen say all trouble originates. It was a case of cherchez la femme, and that knowledge pleases my sense of philosophy; while my sense of humour is tickled by the fact that the sentry’s bribe for looking the other way was a bottle of rum!

In the summer of 1875 there was a rising of the natives in Perak, which, assuming serious proportions, eventually culminated into one of our many little wars. On board the Flagship we were all in a great state of excitement, feeling convinced that the Commander-in-Chief would at once proceed to the scene of action with every available ship and land a Naval Brigade, and that, consequently, war service and medals, and, what was more important still, promotion would be coming our way. As Acting Flag-Lieutenant I would not have changed places with any one in the world, and had rosy visions of being the youngest Commander in the Service. Alas! those rosy visions were never even to get to the fading stage. The Commander-in-Chief, instead of proceeding to the south, breathing fire and flame, as we all hoped he would, calmly went in the other direction, namely to Shanghai and Japan, and left the Senior Officer, Captain Alexander Buller, commanding the corvette Modeste, to deal with the situation and reap the rewards. We junior officers never forgave the “old man,” as we called him; but I dare say he was perfectly right,—for all any of us knew there might have been excellent reasons for keeping the central and northern part of our forces intact. Indeed, I strongly suspect that our Legation at Pekin had a considerable say in the matter from what I saw in North China later.

Whilst on the Admiral’s Staff I came in for a most interesting visit to Canton. The flag was shifted to the Vigilant, a small paddle-boat yacht that was part of the establishment of the Commander-in-Chief in China, and a very necessary part, as it enabled him to go up and inspect his gunboats, many of which were perpetually stationed up the various rivers, in the never-ceasing work of the Navy, namely the protection of British interests. I was naturally in attendance on my Chief when he paid his official calls on the mandarins whom it was necessary for him to visit, and interesting it was to be carried in palanquins through the narrow streets of Canton, and finally to penetrate into the courtyards of the various yamens where these mandarins lived and had their being. Unfortunately I was too young and ignorant then to appreciate things fully, and never took in the beauty of the artistic treasures I had this chance of seeing; in fact, the only outstanding impression that was left on my mind by Canton was one of amazement that anybody could keep alive in the city for long, in such an atmosphere of heat and stink!

The Vigilant remained one night up the river, and of course our cicerones, the English residents, insisted on taking us to visit the flower boats, which were curious enough in their way. To the Western mind, the painting of the women’s faces seemed rather overdone, and gilded lips, one thought at the time, were perhaps a shade too artificial. Nowadays, I suppose it would scarcely be noticed, since our own women have taken to raddling themselves with paint to quite an Oriental extent, and really the difference between the eternal blob of carmine that one sees on the lips of every woman in London and the gilded mouth of the Eastern women is almost negligible.

Shortly after the commencement of the Perak Campaign, the Audacious left for Shanghai en route for a summer in Japan. During my service on the China Station, which lasted about two years, the Audacious was several times at Shanghai, and a very pleasant place it was. The magnificence of the dollar grinder of that port overshadowed that of his counterpart in Hong Kong in every way, the Club was far better and the racing on a bigger scale. Huge sums would be given for racing ponies, meaning that big money could be won in stakes and selling lotteries, were the animal only good enough. I remember one pony that fetched as much as 2000 taels, the equivalent of about £700 English,—a long price for a pony of barely fourteen hands. The other sport indulged in by the people who were fortunate enough to have both the time and the money was the shooting up the Yangtse River, which used to be done in houseboats. These boats were most comfortable, with every sort of convenience, drew so little water that they could go almost anywhere, and the sport was excellent. Quite respectable bags used to be made of pheasants and wild duck, and, in addition, the snipe-shooting was extraordinarily good.

After Shanghai, we proceeded direct to Japan. Japan has been so minutely described and written up by so many distinguished men of letters, that any observations of mine would merely result in a poor attempt to paint the lily; but it is interesting to have seen, in 1875, some of the early period of the Europeanising of that country. In the real country districts, where a good walker with a jinriksha in attendance could travel considerable distances into the interior, it was still “Old Japan,” and what could be more attractive? In the towns everything was in the transition stage. For instance, the metropolitan policeman of Yeddo and Yokohama was being evolved, his uniform generally consisting in a copy of our police helmet and absolutely nothing else but his truncheon. But anyhow, whether old, or new Japan, it was a pleasant country in which to pass the summer.

Before returning south to Hong Kong, Vladivostock and Tientsin were visited, and at Tientsin I spent some of my pleasantest days on the China Station. Commander the Honourable Edward Dawson,[1] then commanding H.M.S. Dwarf, was kind enough to allow me to accept the hospitality of the wardroom officers of his ship, then stationed up the river, and on board her I spent ten very agreeable days. It was then a great place for paper chasing on pony back, and many were the good gallops we had over the fine open country surrounding Tientsin. The snipe-shooting, too, was capital fun. We used to start early in the morning on our ponies, ride for some six or eight miles, and come back a few hours later with generally some fifty couple of snipe; without dogs and with no beaters, and four very inferior guns, this meant as much shooting as one could reasonably expect. To show what could be done, one of the residents there, who was really a fine shot, used constantly to get a good deal more than our united bag to his own gun, assisted only by two Chinese coolies, whom he had trained to watch exactly where the birds fell, so as to retrieve for him. Dogs, even had we possessed them, were of very little use, for they were constantly drinking the very foul water that irrigated the paddy-fields (the favourite habitation of the snipe), and generally died of some sort of internal disease.

Another interesting place visited was Manilla, where the Audacious called in the course of the following winter. The cigar merchants there, received us with the greatest hospitality, and one of the items of the round of amusements they provided for us was a cricket match. Apparently, the unwritten law of cricket in Manilla was that enormous tumblers of iced beer should be set down and kept constantly refilled, a foot or so behind the stumps. Of course, the bowlers, wicket-keeper and batsmen, being in the immediate vicinity, had all the best of it; but when the “over” was called, the out-fields, if not too lazy to cross over, had their opportunity to pay attention to the glasses if they felt inclined. As the heat was terrific and these tumblers were in constant use, the unfortunate native whose business it was to keep them filled must have been fairly exhausted by his constant journeys from the pavilion to the wicket and back, before the day was over. Dinner succeeded cricket, and after dinner an adjournment was made to the Opera. The Opera House, which was established at one end of the local bull-ring, was only covered in with canvas, and the scenery was therefore of a more than usually flimsy character. The travelling company gave the Trovatore, and I can still remember how the prison bars trembled, nearly bringing the canvas roof down, when the tenor, as Manrico, was singing his passionate farewell—“Addio, Leonora; Leonora, addio.”

Time was slipping away, and I had long since been relieved of my Staff duties, when a second opportunity came (the first I ought to have taken a year before), of going home to pass the necessary examinations. There happened to be at that time on the Station one of the most remarkable hybrids, in the shape of a ship, that the genius of the Admiralty had ever produced. She was named the Thalia, was a sort of spurious corvette, and she and her consort, the Juno,—the only two of the class that were ever built,—were known in the Service as “Fighting Troopers.” Her peculiarity was that she was half corvette and half frigate in construction,—a corvette in that she carried her guns on the upper deck, and a frigate in that she possessed a main deck, which main deck, instead of being used for the armament, could be utilised for berthing troops. In case of a sudden emergency I suppose she might possibly have embarked one wing of an ordinary Infantry battalion, with the necessary officers.

Towards the end of the summer of 1876 the Thalia was ordered home, and filled up with supernumeraries for passage to England. We were a motley collection! We had on board the officers and crews of two or three gunboats whose time had expired; a certain number of acting sub-lieutenants who, like myself, were on their way home to pass their examinations; a number of officers who had been tried for various offences and had been dismissed their ships, or the Service (amongst others, I remember there was a young officer, belonging to the garrison, who had been broken for cheating at cards); and, to top up with, there were a number of Court-martial prisoners, some of whom had to go home to serve long terms of penal servitude. The Captain, who was a very fine seaman of the old school, consoled himself with the reflection that, though he had a very scratch lot of officers and men to serve under him, if anything happened we should have been such an undeniable haul for the devil that, in all probability, we should reach England safely and without any contretemps. And so, accordingly, we started to make a sailing passage home, coal only to be used in case of absolute necessity. We were short of everything when we started. All the Chinese servants and cooks had to be discharged before the ship left the Station. We, in the gunroom, had no servants except the sort we could improvise out of the very mixed material that was on board, and no money to buy stores. There was nothing for it but to live on ship’s provisions, and so great was the crowd on board that water was also very short, and we were on an allowance of one small basin full for all purposes—cooking, drinking and washing—not a very liberal allowance in the tropics. However, nothing matters when one is homeward bound, not even a passage in a sort of convict-ship, for more or less a convict ship she was, as the penal servitude prisoners counted their time on board as part of their sentence; it was also carried out, so far as hard labour was concerned, by exercising them at shot drill on the quarter-deck.

We were a cheery lot in the gunroom, and we arranged to trade with the saloon messman, who having a small allowance from the Admiralty for messing the supernumeraries, managed somehow to produce a few necessaries, wet and dry. As I had charge of a watch I rather enjoyed my time until we got to the Red Sea, where we were compelled to steam from Aden to Suez without a break. Beyond coming in for a short but very violent gale on our way from Port Said, nothing else of interest happened, and we duly arrived at Plymouth, having taken nearly four months to get home;—not a very speedy journey, but anyhow it was better than the Audacious’ performance on the way out.

After a little leave, the next thing to do was to get through the necessary examinations. Gunnery came first, so a whole batch of acting sub-lieutenants took up their abode at the old Naval College at Portsmouth, to drill on board the Excellent, the gunnery ship that used to lie up the Creek where the naval barracks now stand. I was very keen to take a first-class if I could, which meant very hard work in and out of hours, as, besides having practically to perform all the drill of every arm carried by a man-of-war, it was also necessary to learn what might be called the “patter” of the business—pages and pages of the gunnery and small-arms drill-books—the idea being that one should be able to pass on the extensive knowledge thus acquired to others. It was then that I, from a very respectful distance, first came into contact with Admiral Sir Reginald Custance, who was the senior lieutenant on the instruction staff of the Excellent at that time, and consequently head examining officer. We sub-lieutenants were in a holy terror of him, knowing that we had eventually to pass through his hands at the final examination, and, being aware that this subsequently-very-distinguished officer, had the reputation of not suffering fools gladly. One way and another our noses were kept very closely to the grindstone, and there was not much to do in the way of amusement except after dinner, when we became great patrons of the drama in the front row of the pit of the old Portsmouth Theatre. It was then that I made my first acquaintance with Offenbach. An excellent travelling company was there for some weeks, giving, in turn, La Grande Duchesse, La Perichole, and many more of those delightful comic operas so deservedly popular at the time. After all, I greatly doubt whether anything as good in their way has ever been produced since. Moreover, the Prima Donna of the company was that delightful woman and artist, known on the stage as Madame Selina Dolaro. So no wonder that we boys were in the theatre every night of our lives.

The three months’ course at Portsmouth came to an end, and I was lucky enough to get a first-class certificate. And now, all I had to contemplate was the six months’ course at Greenwich College, which would complete my education. There was a good deal of luck, as well as knowledge, required to get first-class in seamanship and gunnery, but at Greenwich it was only necessary to work hard enough to make a first-class a certainty for any one who had any aptitude for mathematics, though for others who had not that aptitude, however superior in other ways, it meant hard work to scrape through. I regret to say that I made up my mind at once to do next to nothing. I knew that I could get a second-class without any difficulty, which would mean that I could spend most of my evenings and week-ends in London, and in fact that I could amuse myself to the top of my bent. If I went in for a first-class it involved hard study, which I disliked particularly, though it would result in instantaneous promotion to the rank of lieutenant. I had been acting sub-lieutenant so long that the whole difference in seniority would amount to only about a year; a year did not seem much to worry about, and so—vive le plaisir! I need hardly say that I was not the only one who held the same views. The class I was in was composed of an extremely cheerful crew, who earned, and I believe deserved, the reputation of being the wildest and laziest class that ever went through Greenwich; but we did enjoy ourselves! There was plenty of cricket in the summer, football in the winter, excellent racquet courts for every season; and, moreover, there was the Gaiety Theatre, at the time when that delightful quartette, Nellie Farren, Kate Vaughan, Terry and Royce, were at their best and brightest. I am afraid to think of the number of times I went to see Little Don Cæsar de Bazan, but, at any rate, most of us could have passed a much better examination in the libretto of that cleverest of burlesques than we eventually did in our abhorred Euclid.

All went merrily until it came to the last fortnight before the final examination, and then it became necessary to turn night into day and try to pump in enough knowledge, through assiduous cramming, to make sure of a pass,—such things as first-classes having vanished altogether from our perspective. The examination lasted a week, and when daily comparing notes we all felt happy up to the last day, but the last paper we had to tackle (I forget the subject) fairly broke us down. Whether it really was of a more than usually high standard I know not, but anyhow we all agreed that, in our several spheres, it had been our ruin, so in this desperate condition we thought we might as well celebrate our failure by embarking on a terrific bear-fight, after what we fondly imagined would be our last dinner at Greenwich. Unfortunately the bear-fight assumed such proportions that the Authorities got very cross about it. The whole lot of us were put under arrest, and were solemnly tried by a Court of Inquiry, held at Greenwich by the Admiralty for the purpose. I, for my sins, was the senior officer, having had acting rank for so long, so I had to speak for my brother malefactors. There really was not a great deal to say; it would not have been easy to explain to the officers of the Court that we were dissatisfied with an examination paper, so no excuse was attempted. The upshot was that we were all sent to guardships for a month under arrest, instead of being given the leave we had earned after a long and trying course of instruction. Presently, the result of the examination came out. Three were plucked and put back for three months. Luckily for me, I had succeeded in taking a second-class, which was all I could expect.

Very shortly after my month’s arrest had expired, I was appointed to H.M.S. Agincourt, the flagship of Rear-Admiral Sir Edmund Commerell. Sir Edmund had been ordered to the East with his flagship and the Achilles to reinforce Admiral Sir Geoffrey Hornby (the Commander-in-Chief of the Mediterranean Station), and also to take up the post of Second in Command. The Agincourt having left England, I took passage in a P. & O. steamer to Malta and remained there on board the guardship Hibernia waiting for an opportunity of joining my own ship. But the importance of the situation in the Middle East in 1877-78 deserves a chapter to itself.

Photo: A. Debenham, Cowes]

SEYMOUR FORTESCUE

Cowes, 1893

[CHAPTER III]

THE DARDANELLES IN 1878

Shortly after my arrival at Malta, the Sultan came in for a refit and to give leave, and I was appointed to her for the time being, my own ship, the Agincourt, being in Eastern waters, and in the Sultan I remained for nearly six months. She was then commanded by Captain H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh, one of the smartest of our young captains afloat, and on board of her I first made the acquaintance of comrades who were, in the future, amongst my best friends, and who also, incidentally, became some of the most distinguished officers in the Navy. Nearly all of them made their mark in later days. Among the lieutenants were the subsequent Admiral of the Fleet, the late Sir Assheton Curzon Howe, and Prince Louis of Battenberg, now Admiral the Marquis of Milford Haven; whilst amongst the midshipmen were Admirals Sir Stanley Colville and Sir Colin Keppel, both well-known and distinguished officers. There were a good many also who did not persevere long in the Navy. One of the sub-lieutenants, a great friend of mine, was Mr. Frank Alexander, the well-known racing man who left the Service as soon as he was promoted; he followed in the footsteps of his father, Mr. Caledon Alexander, and raced up to the end of his life. Another great friend of mine was Charles le Strange, then a lieutenant. I was destined to serve under him in later years, and through him I had the good fortune of spending some pleasant evenings in the company of that very brilliant man and amusing writer, Laurence Oliphant, his brother-in-law.

Not long after I had taken up my abode in the Sultan, she received orders to join the Flag at Vourlah Bay, and, after a short cruise in Grecian waters, the whole Mediterranean Fleet settled down at Besika Bay, as we thought for the winter. Admiral Sir Geoffrey Hornby was then flying his flag on board the Alexandra, with Captain Fitzroy as Flag-Captain, Lieutenant Winsloe (subsequently Commander-in-Chief in the China Station) as Flag-Lieutenant, and the Honourable Hedworth Lambton (now Admiral of the Fleet Sir Hedworth Meux) as his Flag-Mate.

Ever since the commencement of the Russo-Turkish War, our Mediterranean Fleet, subsequently reinforced by the Agincourt and the Achilles, had been in Eastern waters, making Besika Bay, which is situated close to the Dardanelles entrance, their headquarters; and a very trying time it had been to officers and men,—unspeakably so to the latter. The only communication with the outer world, except the mails which were generally about a fortnight old, was the daily Reuter telegram received by the flagship and signalled round the Fleet. It would probably occur to the ordinary mind that the Admiralty might have remembered that the officers and men of a large Fleet, possibly on the verge of a European war, were deserving of some consideration in the way of news from day to day. But apparently such an idea never struck them, so the officers duly subscribed for their telegram, which, like most other blessings in this world, had to be paid for. Bets were taken and laid almost daily, as to whether we would, or would not, go up the Dardanelles, and also as to whether we would, or would not, go to war with Russia, and, apparently, the Cabinet of the day were as uncertain as we were. I remember a telegram received only a few days before we actually started,—the alliteration, I suppose, kept it in my memory:—“Cabinet said to be almost unanimous on necessity of proceeding up Dardanelles. Derby doubtful.” As may be remembered, the present Lord Derby’s great-uncle was then Foreign Secretary, and was always supposed to possess what is called “the cross-bench” mind.

It was bad enough for the officers; but they could occasionally get a day’s shooting or hunting, though the shooting was generally spoilt by the number of guns, as what would have provided really good sport and amusement for one ship was not likely to suffice for a large Fleet. But as far as the men were concerned, they had literally nothing to do in the way of amusement. The best sport at Besika was the hunting. The Commander-in-Chief, remembering, I suppose, the great Duke of Wellington’s pack of hounds in the Peninsula, instituted a pack at Besika. Kennels and stables were run up by the ships’ carpenters. The Admiral and many of the senior officers had their own horses, and we small fry used to hire from the Beef Contractor. That functionary,—who probably died a millionaire,—managed to provide almost everything in life, and could always get hold of horses with a fair proportion of legs among them. Captain Hunt Grubbe was the Master, one of the Chaplains in the Fleet, the Reverend H. Gilbert, was Huntsman, and very good fun it all was. There were plenty of foxes, a fine open grass country, and many was the good gallop we had.

The date of the last time I was out with the hounds, February 9th, 1878, became almost a landmark in history. We had had a good run and were a longish way from home, when, the hounds being checked, and the field pulled up, we suddenly heard in the distance the repeated strains of the Officers’ Call. Mounted buglers had been sent to the top of the neighbouring hills to sound the Call, and in a few moments hounds were whipped off and we were all on our way back to the landing place at Besika. On our return to our ship we speedily learnt the reason. Orders had been received from the Admiralty that the Fleet was to proceed up the Dardanelles, so we found our comrades busy preparing for sea, and clearing away for action. Of course, we were the Turk’s best friends; but the Pasha in command of the forts had the reputation of not being over-trustworthy, and it was thought extremely possible that Russian “baksheesh” might induce him to make it very unpleasant for us in the Narrows; so we were taking no chances.

The Fleet sailed the same evening from Besika, but the firman from the Sultan, giving permission to pass the forts, not having arrived, our ships anchored later at the mouth of the Straits. The Government then had to be communicated with to ask,—in the case of the firman never arriving,—whether the Fleet was to force a passage. Eventually, the Members of the Government succeeded in making up their minds, and the Fleet was ordered up, coûte que coûte; so, on the morning of February the 13th the Fleet weighed and steamed up the Dardanelles in the teeth of a northerly gale, and one of the thickest snowstorms I ever saw at sea. My station being at the forecastle guns, I received the full benefit of the snow; even there, in the eyes of the ship, it was only just possible to see “one’s next ahead.” In the ’seventies ten knots was about the highest speed at which a squadron could be manœuvred, so what with the gale and the snowstorm, to say nothing of the strong current that runs through the Dardanelles, it was no great wonder that the Alexandra took the shore. The spot she selected was just opposite the great fort at Chanak, and my ship being the next astern of her was detailed to tow her off. It was an exceedingly difficult job; but the Duke of Edinburgh, who, in the opinion of the Commander-in-Chief, was, of all his Captains, about the best handler of a big ship, succeeded in doing what was necessary, so, after four hours’ hard work, we rejoined the rest of the Fleet close to the entrance of the Sea of Marmora. It was just as well for us that the before-mentioned Pasha had not been “squared,” for, as the mischance above described took place immediately opposite the most heavily armed fort at Chanak in the very narrowest part of the Narrows, I need hardly emphasise the fact that both the ship ashore and the consort trying to tow her off, would have been reduced to matchwood in a very short time by a heavily armed fort firing at a range of a few hundred yards.

Shortly after our arrival in the Sea of Marmora, the Commander-in-Chief divided his forces. The larger portion of the Fleet, including the most powerful units he possessed, were under his own immediate command, and remained in the neighbourhood of Constantinople. What might be termed the Second Division, under Sir John Commerell, was ordered to Gallipoli. The Fleet being thus broken up, resulted so far as I was concerned in my leaving the Sultan and joining the ship to which I had been appointed many months before.

Whilst in the Marmora I made the personal acquaintance of a man whose sensational career excited a great deal of attention a few years afterwards. I allude to the then Prince Alexander of Battenberg, who was at that time serving on the Staff of General Gourko, commanding the Russian Army Corps that, after hard fighting and still greater hardships, had succeeded in crossing the Balkans. The Prince managed to get a few days’ leave, and came on board the Sultan for a short visit to his relative, the Duke of Edinburgh, and his brother, Prince Louis, then a lieutenant on board the Sultan. There was nothing very remarkable about this incident, except for the shameful abuse that was hurled at the Duke of Edinburgh by an obscure London newspaper (long since dead!) on account of this very harmless visit. The Duke having married a Russian Grand Duchess, was accused of every sort of villainy—“owing to his well-known (?) Russian proclivities he was capable of allowing a Russian Staff Officer to penetrate the secrets of the British Fleet”; “he was harbouring Russian spies,”—and in fact a very venomous and lying series of imaginative articles appeared, and, as always, a certain amount of the mud thrown stuck. The most ludicrous part of the business was that this most important Russian Staff Officer and reputed spy was, in those days, extremely young, and came on board the Sultan with the full knowledge and consent of the Commander-in-Chief, who, like any other reasonable man, had not the slightest objection to permitting a young officer to have a few days’ rest, in comfort, with a bed to sleep in, and a chance of seeing his relatives. Prince Alexander made himself very agreeable during his short stay on board; perhaps the best-looking member of a very handsome family, he looked absolutely fitted for the romantic career to which Fate later destined him.

It was a long and trying time that we spent at the anchorage off the town of Gallipoli. The map of that part of the world must be so indelibly stamped on the memories of our countrymen by recent hostilities that no topographical description is necessary. The general situation in the winter of 1877-78 was this: There was a small but well-equipped Turkish Army of a strength of between 20,000 and 30,000 men, which, after a successful retreat, had fallen back on the old Bulair lines which date back to Crimean days. The lines cross the neck of the Peninsula, just to the Eastern end of the town of Gallipoli, at the very narrowest part of the neck. Indeed, it is only about eight miles as the crow flies, from sea to sea. The Commander-in-Chief being in the Marmora, the Second Division, under Sir John Commerell, was left at Gallipoli, at the moment a very important strategic position. In case of war with Russia it was thought that the Turkish Army at Bulair, assisted by that portion of the British Fleet, could, at any rate, make certain of holding the all-important Peninsula pending later developments. Sir John Commerell’s Division was disposed as follows:—Half of his Fleet, including his own flagship, the Agincourt, lay at Gallipoli, and the other half at Imbros, on the northern side of the peninsula; and there for months we lay, with slips on our cables and steam up, ready to proceed on the shortest notice to the two extreme flanks of the Bulair line, and thus be in a position to enfilade any advancing troops attempting to attack those lines. Signals were pre-arranged with the Pasha in command at Bulair, and once again the usual bets as to whether war would be declared or not were taken almost daily. During the day, when not on duty, leave was given to officers, but our only amusement was to gallop about the country inside the lines, or ride over to Imbros and play cricket with the Imbros Squadron, where the officers had managed to find quite a decently flat field. At Gallipoli there was nothing of the same kind, but as a set-off we had the joys of town life, as exemplified by a squalid Turkish village, adorned by the illustrious presence of the British Vice-Consul and his family, to say nothing of the inevitable beef contractor and his belongings.

A very short time after we took up our station at Gallipoli we received information to the effect that, before war was actually declared, the Russians would make an attempt to attack the Fleet with torpedoes. Torpedo warfare was then in its earliest infancy, but something could be done with spar torpedoes by an enterprising enemy, and, as a matter of fact, earlier in the war the Russians had succeeded in blowing up and sinking a couple of small Turkish monitors on the Danube. A steamboat patrol was therefore organised, as an additional protection to the Fleet, which otherwise had only its ordinary armament on which to rely. In those days, nets and quick-firing guns were non-existent, and the ordinary armament of our iron-clads was extremely unsuitable for the repelling of night attacks, if delivered by a swarm of steamboats, great and small. In the ’seventies our allowance of steamboats for ships of all sizes was very limited, so between us I doubt whether we, on the Gallipoli side, could have mustered more than half a dozen all told, and as the nights were very long, and the weather nearly always abominable, sometimes two were as many as we could manage to produce on patrol at a time. Though steam-pinnaces were scarce, sub-lieutenants were fairly numerous, and I never could understand why it fell to my lot to be away on patrol duty every night of my life, while my messmates were, in their turn, snoring in their hammocks. But so it was.

Our largest steam-pinnace at that time was very little over thirty feet long, no shelter was provided for the engineer and crew—except tarpaulin screens, for the only part that was decked over was the forecastle where the gun was mounted. The cold was bitter, and in those days neither officers nor men possessed such a thing as a great coat, so the only way to keep comparatively warm was to put on as many garments as one conveniently could, and retain what caloric one could collect inside, by enveloping the whole fabric in oilskins. I contrived to keep going until the end, which was naturally a great deal more than the pinnaces could manage to do without reinforcements being sent from England, and these reinforcements deserve mention. Directly the patrol was started it was pointed out to the Admiralty that more steamboats were urgently needed, and it would be a great advantage that they should be decked nearly all over. The Admiralty behaved with commendable promptitude, and soon afterwards a steamer arrived at Gallipoli with a consignment of boats. We were all agog to see the latest thing in patrol-boats just arriving from England, and no one was more personally interested than I myself, with the hopeful vision of keeping dry in the future. It is hardly believable, but it is none the less true, that our new patrol-boats turned out to be a consignment of Thames pleasure-boats! Their scantling was so thin that one bump against a ladder would certainly have stove them in, and so absolutely unseaworthy were they that they could only be used in the very finest weather,—a very rare commodity in Gallipoli. I suppose that, although England was still at peace, the probabilities of war were near enough to give the profiteer (a breed we now know so fatally well!) his chance, and these boats were the result. Anyhow, they were slightly better than none at all, as they could run about in the daytime, if the weather were fine enough, and thus save our pinnaces. The trouble was to name these curious hybrids, for a boat has to be given some sort of a name for the purpose of manning her. This difficulty was temporarily overcome by endowing them with Christian names, which we were led to believe were those of the female relatives of the Admiral and his Staff. However, this nomenclature did not last long. Even the most hard-hearted and cynical of parents could not endure the knowledge that, owing to the inherent defects of these craft, the familiar names of his daughters were being coupled hourly with all the most abusive epithets in the sailor’s vocabulary.

Though the Armistice was signed at San Stephano between Russia and Turkey in the month of March, relations between England and Russia remained so strained that no relaxation took place in the patrol until many months had passed. In June, on the strength of all the boat work which I had done down to that time, I managed to coax a fortnight’s leave out of the Authorities, and I and another sub-lieutenant went to Constantinople for a holiday. Of course, it was a most interesting moment to be there. Constantinople was swarming with Russian Officers, who had also arranged to get leave from the Front. They mainly consisted of officers of that favoured Corps, the Imperial Guard, and we Britishers were much impressed by the magnificence of their turn-out. They all appeared to be in brand-new and very smart uniforms, and there was nothing about them to show that they had just fought their way through a very trying campaign. The other memory I have of Constantinople is of a very different nature. I went to visit the great mosque of Ste. Sophia, and never shall I forget the horror of it. Thousands of refugees, who had fled before the advance of the Russian troops, were camped out on the floor of the great mosque in every stage of suffering, disease and filth. Wretched women and children were there, without any sort of comfort; smallpox was obviously raging, and the stench, from the lack of all sanitary arrangements, was enough to turn even the strongest stomach. I was not particularly squeamish in those days, but the experience remained in my memory, as a nightmare, for months afterwards.

The leave was all too short, and very soon I was back aboard the ship again, to learn, a few weeks afterwards, that I was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant. There being no available man-of-war going home just then, I, and two more newly promoted Lieutenants, were allowed to take a passage in a steamer and find our way home via Marseilles and Paris. Paris was then in the throes of the 1878 Exhibition, and consequently was very full and rather uncomfortable. However, we did our duty by spending a couple of days in visiting the Exhibition, and presently I found myself back in England and temporarily my own master, for, from the moment I set foot in my native country I became a Lieutenant on half-pay whilst waiting for further employment.

I may as well mention that the half-pay in question amounted to the munificent sum of four shillings per diem,—less than half the daily stipend of the present-day police constable.

Of course I was delighted to be promoted and to get home; but it was with very real regret that I had said good-bye to many of my brother officers in the Agincourt, and most of all was I sorry to be no longer serving under the flag of Sir Edmund Commerell. Surely there never could have been a Flag-Officer more beloved than was Sir Edmund. Literally one of the bravest of the brave, he had won his Victoria Cross in the Crimea. Later, when Commodore of the South African Station, he was very dangerously wounded whilst leading a boat attack up one of the West African rivers. His popularity in the Fleet was unbounded, his officers and men really loved him, and what was more remarkable still, was the hold he had established over the Turk. In the ranks of the Bulair Army they all knew that the British Admiral was an old Crimean Veteran, on the strength of which they spoke of him as Ghazi Commerell Pasha. As an instance of his never-failing courage, I well remember his behaviour on an occasion when his galley had been capsized. The Admiral was passionately fond of boat sailing, and, moreover, was a great expert; so one of his amusements was to take his galley for a spin round the Fleet. On this particular occasion at Gallipoli it was hardly a galley’s day, for it was blowing a strong breeze with nasty squalls. However, away he went. When an Admiral is sailing his boat a very sharp look-out is always kept by the officer of the watch, and so when, after a very heavy squall, his boat was seen to capsize, there was no delay in sending a steamboat away post-haste to pick him up. When the sub-lieutenant in charge of the boat arrived, he naturally selected the Admiral as being the proper person to be rescued first; but nothing would induce him to be touched until every member of the boat’s crew was on board the pinnace. Meanwhile, encumbered as he was with a heavy boat cloak, the dear old gentleman had swallowed such a quantity of salt water, that he was in measurable distance of being drowned.

He was always most anxious to try and do something to alleviate the terrible monotony of the men’s lives at that time. Leave was out of the question, so everything had to be done on board. The Agincourt had a splendidly clear upper deck, so there was no difficulty in laying out a racing track of ten laps to the mile, and many were the exciting contests that took place upon it. The most popular of all was a ten-mile go-as-you-please race between selected candidates from the marines and bluejackets respectively, the conditions being heavy marching order, the bluejackets to be dressed like the marines in busby and tunic, so as to make the conditions absolutely equal.

Another amusement was what the sailors used to call a sing-song. The upper deck being covered in, the Admiral and his Staff and officers not on duty being present, all the available talent on the ship was mobilised for a so-called musical entertainment. The most successful turn was given by one of the sub-lieutenants, who had some sort of a voice that had been partially trained during his time at Greenwich, and he used to give us the classic song, “We don’t want to fight.” This song, as rendered by the “great McDermott,” was the rage of the London Music Halls during the Russo-Turkish War. It was all very well for the peace party, who are always with us under all circumstances, to jeer at the vulgarity of the song and decry the so-called jingoism that was derived from it; but when sung by a thousand men, who were expecting every moment to be actively employed in taking measures to make it a certainty that “The Russians shall not have Constantinople,” it became rather more than a comic music-hall song. There was a grim earnestness about it as then sung on the quarter-deck of a man-of-war, that made it almost impressive, and eliminated its vulgarity.

Many years afterwards, when Sir Edmund stood as Conservative Candidate for Southampton, with these incidents in my memory, the cleanliness (?) of English electioneering practices was brought intimately home to me. He lost whatever chance he may have had of being elected in a constituency full of seafaring men, on account of a poster that was displayed all over Southampton by the agents of his opponent. The Admiral, one of the kindest and most chivalrous of gentlemen, was portrayed to the electors of Southampton as a prize specimen of the old flogging captain of the early part of the century. The poster actually depicted him, in cocked hat and epaulets, flourishing an enormous cat-o’-nine tails over the bare back, streaming with blood, of a bluejacket seized up to the breech of a gun.

Later on, he was Commander-in-Chief of the North American and West Indian Stations, Commander-in-Chief at Portsmouth, and afterwards for many years a Groom-in-Waiting to Queen Victoria.

[CHAPTER IV]

EGYPT IN 1882

About the period at which I was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant the number of ships in commission was so small that there was a great deal of unemployment in all ranks of the officers of the Navy. For instance, a freshly promoted lieutenant, unless he intended to specialise in gunnery (the torpedo lieutenant had not then been invented), had to wait for the greater part of two years before being appointed to a ship. Captains frequently had to wait for as much as four years. Quite apart from the manifest injustice of leaving officers to starve for years on the most miserable scale of half-pay that ever was devised by a Government Department, nothing could have been invented more calculated to injure the Service. For young lieutenants it meant a long period of inactivity at the average age of from twenty-three to twenty-four—just the years in which they should have been acquiring the habit of command, as watch-keepers, and inculcating discipline as divisional officers; whilst for young captains it may even have been worse; four years of unemployment ashore at the average age of forty was as likely a scheme for promoting rust instead of polish, on what is considered the finished article of the British Navy—namely the Captain of a man-of-war—as could be devised by mortal man. A certain amount could be done to mitigate the situation by short courses of gunnery, and officers were even graciously permitted to study at Greenwich on half-pay. A good many took advantage of this permission, principally because, in their necessarily impoverished condition, they found the mess there the cheapest place to live in. But even when every advantage was taken in the way of courses of education, there would be still long intervals of unemployment. Personally, I enjoyed my time on half-pay very much. I was fortunate enough to have a home to go to where there was sport of all kinds to amuse me, and I was not at all averse from being my own master after nearly ten years of a junior officer’s life under the strictest discipline.

In the spring of 1880 Sir Geoffrey Hornby’s time was up in the Mediterranean, and he was succeeded as Commander-in-Chief by Sir Beauchamp Seymour, who, when a captain, had given me my nomination for the Navy. At one time he had, I believe, the intention of taking me as his Flag-Lieutenant; but, unfortunately, the bump of veneration for those set in authority over me was represented on my head by a large hollow, and a few expressions of opinion about some of my superiors that I had either uttered, or was supposed to have uttered, got round to his ears, with the result that he wrote to my father and told him that although his original intention had been to take me as his Flag-Lieutenant, he really could not have a young officer on his Staff who expressed such very remarkable opinions about his superior officers. At the time I was not in the least anxious to go as Flag-Lieutenant. Haul-down promotions had been abolished, so there really was nothing particular to gain by it except that, of course, it was what is known in modern days as a “cushy job.” But, later on, I had real cause for regret, as, owing to the Egyptian War, Sir Beauchamp became a peer, and, what would have concerned me much more, his Flag-Lieutenant was promoted over some 300 or 400 lieutenants’ heads, including my own. When that moment arrived I consoled myself by winning a biggish bet from my brother officers, none of whom thought that such a leap in the way of promotion was possible, I having,—rightly, as it turned out,—taken the other view.

Curiously enough, I was destined to go on the Staff of a Commander-in-Chief before Sir Beauchamp Seymour had hoisted his flag; for, in January 1880, Admiral the Honourable Sir Charles Brydone Elliot was appointed Commander-in-Chief at Plymouth and offered me the post of Flag-Lieutenant. Sir Beauchamp, who was still a Lord of the Admiralty, knew nothing of this offer, and had, in the meantime, appointed me to a small craft in the East Indies. I went to see him at the Admiralty, and, before I had time to explain that I wished my appointment cancelled as I had already written to Sir Charles Elliot accepting his offer, the dear old gentleman, with a fine sense of irony, proceeded to congratulate me on my appointment to an old sloop commanded by one of the most unpopular officers in the Service, and serving on one of the most unpleasant stations in the Navy,—namely the East Indies and Persian Gulf. After he had finished his speech, I told him that I regretted very much that I must ask for a cancellation of such a charming appointment; but that, as Admiral Sir Charles Elliot had done me the honour of asking me to serve as his Flag-Lieutenant, and as, moreover, I had accepted his offer, cancelled it would have to be. My venerable relative nearly had a fit on the spot, but it had to be done, and I must say that, though not very long afterwards I was serving in his Fleet, he never bore me the slightest malice, and was always a kind and most hospitable friend to me. Both of us being very fond of Bordeaux, many were the bottles that we drank together after dinners at the Admiralty House, for Sir Beauchamp belonged to the old school of men who settled steadily down to their wine after dinner, and looked upon tobacco as an abomination.

And so, in January 1880, I found myself occupying a shore appointment at Devonport; for the Commander-in-Chief of a home port lives entirely on shore, and practically never goes afloat, except for inspections.

To my great joy, there was no room for me in Admiralty House, so I settled down in lodgings round the corner, and, generally speaking, after luncheon was practically a free man unless there happened to be a dinner at Admiralty House. Altogether, it was a very pleasant life. Being Devonshire born I had plenty of friends and acquaintances, and it was a most hospitable neighbourhood. Mount Edgcumbe, Anthony, the charming home of my old friend, General Sir Reginald Pole Carew, and Port Eliot were all close by just over the Cornish boundary, while on the Devonshire side, and within easy reach by road, was Saltram, Lord Morley’s fine place, then leased to two very kind friends of mine, Mr. and Mrs. Hartmann, who were there for twenty years. A little further on in the same neighbourhood was Flete, which has just been rebuilt by the late Mr. Bingham Mildmay; Membland, then the property of the late Lord Revelstoke; and, camped out between his two brothers-in-law, was the late Mr. John Bulteel at Pamflete, in the most lovely of cottages, full of beautiful china, and with some of the most remarkable claret I ever was lucky enough to come across, in his cellar.

I managed to keep a hunter and a pony and dog-cart, so what with a certain amount of hunting with the Dartmoor Hounds, and a good deal of shooting with all my kind friends in the neighbourhood, life was very agreeable. It was at Saltram that I first really learnt to take an intelligent interest in food. In those days French chefs were very rare in England. I do not believe there were more than half a dozen in the whole country; but at Saltram I made the acquaintance of one of the greatest of these benefactors of the human race, and he has been a friend of mine ever since. I allude to Monsieur Menager, who was for something like a quarter of a century with my friends, the Hartmanns, both in the country and in London, and subsequently for many years with the late King at Marlborough House and Buckingham Palace. I believe that he has now retired into private life, after a long and honourable career, and, taking him all in all, I do not think that I ever came across a greater artist in his profession.

When not on duty or amusing myself in the neighbourhood I spent most of my time at the Royal Western Yacht Club. The Club House was finely situated on the Hoe at Plymouth. It was, unfortunately, rather a long way from where I lived at Devonport, but none the less I generally dined there and found, moreover, an excellent rubber of whist before and after dinner. My whist education, if somewhat expensive, was very thorough, and I found later on in London that I could pretty well hold my own in most companies. Whist has probably vanished for ever, driven off the field by auction bridge, but none the less there never was a game of mingled science and luck that lasted longer, and I always think that the wise old Talleyrand was so right when he administered the gentle rebuke to the young man of the Travellers’ Club, who professed that he did not play it: “Vous ne jouez pas le whist, jeune homme? Quelle triste vieillesse vous vous préparez?”

After some fifteen months, passed very agreeably at Devonport, it became obvious to me that it was about time I began to serve afloat again if I meant to go on in my profession, so, with the permission of the Admiral, I duly applied for a ship. Shortly before the time of which I am writing, the Admiralty had, in their wisdom, established a system of espionage on the officers of the Navy, which consisted of confidential reports from Commanding Officers relating not only to their professional attainments but also as to the characters of the officers serving under their orders. Personally, I am very strongly of opinion that anything in the nature of a confidential report is an abomination. It puts vast powers for mischief into the hands of Commanding Officers, who, being human, are naturally full of imperfections. The spiteful ones, whom I hope and believe are scarce, can vent their spite on any subordinate who is distasteful to them; but a far more dangerous man to deal with is the honest faddist. The man who is prepared to go to the stake for his own opinions is generally ready to light the match that is necessary for the successful execution of those whose way of life differs from his, and God help the unfortunate lieutenant reported on by one of these upright, but narrow-minded gentlemen.

My Admiral was, consequently, obliged to report confidentially to the Admiralty on the members of his Staff. One of them, his secretary’s clerk, being a friend of mine, thought it would amuse me to see what the old man had said about myself. It did amuse me very much, but I confess that the report in question gave me the impression that it was time for me to seek “green fields and pastures new,” ending, as it did after a slightly uncomplimentary comment on my general view of life, with the sentence: “It is quite time that this young officer went to sea.” I cordially agreed with the last sentence; but I still thought that it might have been spoken to me directly instead of being reported confidentially to the Admiralty. This, of course, was not the fault of my Chief, who was only carrying out, what I still consider was, a very iniquitous order.

Early in the spring of 1881 I was appointed to the Superb on the Mediterranean Station, and before taking leave of my late Commander-in-Chief, I must relate a very curious incident which happened to him when a very young captain in the early ’forties, and I may add that he told me the story himself.

In those days, amongst the great naval families who assisted each other to all the best appointments in the Navy, the Elliots, the Greys, and the Seymours were extremely prominent. My Admiral was the son of the second Lord Minto. This Lord Minto, who at various stages of his career had been First Lord of the Admiralty and later on Treasurer of the Navy, was naturally able to insist that his son should be promoted to Captain at a very early age. I think he must have been promoted at the age of twenty-three or twenty-four. Captain Elliot, as he then was, was appointed in command of a sloop going out to the Pacific Station, and while commissioning her at a home port, he received a letter from an old friend and neighbour in Scotland to the following effect. This friend asked him, as a great personal favour, to make his son a midshipman (in those days a captain had the necessary power to rate any lad as a midshipman quite regardless of any details such as age and acquirements) and to take him with him in his ship. His reason for asking this favour was that his son was such an unreclaimable young blackguard that he could do nothing with him either at home or at any school, and he looked upon the Navy as a sort of forlorn hope in the way of reformation. Naturally, Captain Elliot was averse to having this very doubtful benefit thrust upon him, but thinking that there was no great difficulty in inculcating a sense of discipline in a midshipman, and also thinking that as midshipmen were nearly always troublesome, one more or less did not make much difference, he weakly consented to take him. Unfortunately, life in the Navy did not have the reforming effect that was anticipated, and after every sort of thing had been tried to bring this young wretch to his bearings, the Captain decided that, as nothing else had any effect, he would try what a flogging would do. The midshipman in question being an extremely lusty youth, the punishment would do him no physical injury and great moral effects might possibly result. Accordingly, this young gentleman was duly seized up to the breech of a gun and solemnly given a dozen by the boatswain’s mate; and then the comic side of the case developed. The boy wrote to his father and complained that he had been flogged, upon which this grateful specimen of a parent wrote a furious letter to the Admiralty and demanded that his old friend, neighbour, and benefactor, should be tried by Court-martial, and tried he promptly was. Fortunately, his interest in the Navy was far too powerful for any real mischief to result. The Court-martial found the charge proved; he was duly cautioned, and that was the end of it; but equally naturally he was always known in the Navy as the captain who had flogged a midshipman, and this reputation of a flogging-captain sat very oddly on the shoulders of a man who was the personification of kindness and gentleness.

In the spring of 1881 I joined my new ship, the Superb (Captain Thomas le Hunte Ward), and found the Commander-in-Chief, Sir Beauchamp Seymour, installed at Admiralty House, Valetta, with his Flag-Lieutenant, the Honourable Hedworth Lambton, in close attendance, and flying his flag aboard the Alexandra, and it was there that I first made the acquaintance of the late Admiral Lord Beresford, then Commander Lord Charles Beresford, commanding the gun-vessel Condor. A sailing schooner, the yacht Aline, that had been lent to Lord Charles by the Prince of Wales, was converted into a sort of tender to the Condor. Lady Charles was living on board, and, with their usual hospitality, the Beresfords constantly took their friends for sailing expeditions in the vicinity of the island.

Shortly after my arrival the squadron proceeded for the usual summer cruise. We made up a squadron of from six to eight big ships—a very convenient number for manœuvring, and my Captain being one of the Seniors on the Station, the Superb was very generally leader of the lee line, as the second division was still called, in memory of the old sailing-ship days. This particular summer cruise was a very interesting one, for it included a visit to the Dalmatian coast. I have several times visited the Dalmatian coast since, and I have always wondered how any one, who could afford the luxury of a yacht, did not make a point of making the Adriatic the main objective of his Mediterranean cruise. It really is a most enchanting part of the world, and the pleasantest way of visiting it, is from the sea, beginning at Venice and working steadily down the coast to Corfu. Apart from the absorbing interest there is in seeing one civilisation literally on the top of another, as is exemplified in the Palace of Diocletian, which now is practically turned into the fair-sized town of Spalato, all down the coast it is easy to see that Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Hungarians, Genoese, and, above all, Venetians, have, in their turn, left the impress of their various civilisations. In addition, the beauty of some of the harbours is quite beyond my powers of description. Cattaro, one of the most important, is perhaps also the finest as regards scenery. Approaching it from the sea, the ship has to pass through the narrow winding entrance known as “le Bocche.” On either side, in addition to the modern fortifications constructed by the Austrians, the remains of ancient bastions and most picturesque little villages meet the eye. Finally, the great harbour is reached. Surrounded by precipitous mountains, it is completely landlocked, and there is anchorage there for half the war fleets of Europe. At the head of the bay is the town of Cattaro. Perched, as it is, on the side of a steep hill, surrounded by high walls with occasional towers, so thoroughly mediæval is it still, that it looks like the background of one of Doré’s fantastic illustrations of the Contes Drolatiques. Corfu, too, is lovely. The view over the harbour, with Ulysses Island and the old Venetian fortress as a foreground, the bay, with its islands as a middle distance, and the Albanian Mountains as a background, forms a picture that is quite unforgettable.

But to return to our cruise. Off Venice the heavy ships of the squadron were anchored at Malamocco, which, just outside the canals, is some considerable distance from the town of Venice, but on a summer’s night it was not an unpleasant thing to return in what was called a “four-horse” gondola in the early hours of the morning. Pola, the headquarters of the Austro-Hungarian Navy, was one of our ports of call, and the visit was quite an enjoyable one; the Austrian Naval Officers were very civil and hospitable, and their Commander-in-Chief at that time was a man who had been Flag-Lieutenant to Admiral Tegethoff at the battle of Lissa. In conversation with Austrian Naval Officers it was possible to appreciate some of the difficulties of that patchwork Empire. For instance, so mixed were the nationalities of their men-of-war crews that it was necessary for an officer to be able to speak to his men in at least four different languages—Czech, Slav, Italian, and German; small wonder that, owing to the stress of the late war and the complete victory of the Allies, what was the Austro-Hungarian Empire is now completely disintegrated.

At Trieste I made the acquaintance of two very interesting people, Sir Richard and Lady Burton. He was then British Consul there. The British Consular Service has always been woefully starved, the result being that, as a general rule, a number of very ill-paid posts are filled up by small local purveyors, who find it worth while to fly the Union Jack over their place of business; but at Trieste, at any rate, two men of great distinction were Consuls during my lifetime, one being Charles Lever the novelist, and the other Sir Richard Burton, the great explorer and Oriental scholar and writer.

The Fleet worked its way steadily down the Dalmatian coast, calling at Zara, Sebenico, Ragusa, Spalato, Cattaro, and, to my taste, not staying nearly long enough at any of these interesting places, the reason being, I suppose, that we were there for Fleet exercises and manœuvres, and not for sight-seeing. Sir Beauchamp, however, did go himself for one inland trip from Cattaro. He drove to Cettigne, on a short visit to call on the Prince of Montenegro. From what he told me some time after I do not think that he was much impressed either with this reigning princelet or with what he described as his “little bicoque” of a royal residence. After a short stay at Cattaro, the Fleet proceeded to Corfu, where it remained for some time. The Aline was still in attendance on the Condor, and many were the pleasant afternoons spent on board of her, sailing about that beautiful bay. After Corfu, the Fleet proceeded to Eastern waters, visiting countless islands of the Greek Archipelago of surpassing beauty. In that part of the world it may truthfully be said, that, “only man is vile!”

The winter was passed mainly at Malta, but the Superb was privileged to go on an independent cruise to the Coast of Syria, and we passed the greater part of the month in that paradise of the sportsman. Ayas Bay was our headquarters. It is conveniently situated in the Gulf of Alexandretta, or Iskanderun as it is called by the Turks. It has a good anchorage for big ships, so the Superb could, and did, lay there very comfortably. We officers divided ourselves into two parties, taking our leave in turn—one party remained on board the ship and did perpetual duty, while the members of the other, camped out about twenty miles inland and shot to their hearts’ content. We organised a small camel transport to carry our tents and general camp equipment, and hired ponies for our own use. The first detachment rode away and established the camp, and at the end of the week left the camp standing, rode back to the ship to relieve those on duty, who, taking the ponies, went back inland for their turn of sport. Game abounded; francolin, woodcock and every sort of wild fowl, formed the greater part of the bag, and although we were a very moderate lot of shots we really amassed altogether quite a respectable total—enough to give both officers and men a welcome change of diet. It was at Ayas, too, that I first made the acquaintance of the late Lord Kitchener. He was then a young Engineer Officer employed by the Foreign Office as one of their Intelligence Officers in the Euphrates Valley district. He came on board the ship on her arrival, and helped us to organise the camel transport that was necessary for our shooting expedition. Many years afterwards, it was my fate to see him organising transport of a very different kind, and on an enormous scale, for the advance of the British Army on Pretoria during the South African War.

Altogether we had a delightful time at Ayas. The climate was divine. Although it was mid-winter there was brilliant sunshine all day, with a wonderfully bracing air. The nights were very chill, but under canvas, with plenty of blankets, the cold was rather pleasant than otherwise. The rest of that really delightful winter was spent at Malta. There was plenty of pony racing, and I was lucky enough to ride a winner belonging to a very old friend and messmate on board the Superb, the present Admiral Sir Charles Graves Sawle, one of his ponies having, in my hands, won the hurdle race at the Spring Meeting.

But this peaceful time was rapidly coming to an end. In the spring of 1882 things in Egypt were evidently going from bad to worse, so in May the Fleet was ordered to cruise in the neighbourhood of Alexandria, and off that port the bulk of the Fleet patrolled backwards and forwards for weeks whilst the members of the Government were trying (very slowly, it seemed to us!) to make up their minds as to what steps should be taken. Early in June the Fleet was ordered to enter the port of Alexandria, the heavier ships—Alexandra, Superb, Sultan, Temeraire, Inflexible—anchoring outside, while the inside squadron consisted of ships of lighter draught—the Penelope and Monarch joined up with the Invincible, the temporary flagship of Sir Beauchamp Seymour, who had been there since the middle of May. The smaller craft attached to the Fleet consisted of the Hecla, a torpedo depot vessel, the gun-vessels and gunboats, Condor, Bittern, Beacon, Cygnet, Decoy, and the dispatch vessel Helicon.

It is none of my business to comment on the situation at that time in Egypt, but probably every reasonable man would now agree with Lord Salisbury, who, when exposing the vacillating policy which the Government exhibited for weeks and months, instanced as a direct result that the massacre of Alexandria which took place on June 11th,—(of which I was a spectator and will chronicle more anon),—amounted, amongst other details, to British subjects being “butchered under the very guns of the Fleet, which had never budged an inch to save them.” But, after all, nothing more can be expected of the “great Parliamentarian,”—and I imagine that not even the most bigoted of Tories would grudge the late Mr. Gladstone that measure of compliment. I also suppose that no man but a politician of Mr. Gladstone’s commanding intellect and reputation could inform Parliament, a fortnight after Alexandria had been bombarded and when some 40,000 troops were on their way to Egypt, that the country “was not at war.” But, as I remarked in my Introduction, “I love an Artist,” and surely no greater political artist ever flourished than the man we still hear spoken of with such love and veneration as “Mr. G.”

On Sunday, the 11th of June, the situation apparently remaining fairly quiet, leave was given to officers and chief petty officers, and, cooped up as we had all been when cruising off Alexandria, nearly every one not required for duty took the opportunity of going ashore. I was one of those who landed, and I cannot better describe what I saw of the events of that day than by inserting a copy of a letter which I wrote at the time to my brother, then Viscount Ebrington, M.P. This letter was probably the earliest account received by post, and when shown to Sir Charles Dilke, the then Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, was, by his wish, forwarded to The Times, which duly published it:—

“The Massacre at Alexandria.

“The following private letter has been received from an officer in the Fleet:—

“Off Alexandria, June 16th, 1882.

“My dear ——, . . . We are dwelling in the midst of alarms, with our loins girded, etc., all ready to knock down forts and otherwise protect British interests. That was a deuce of a row last Sunday, and we were all precious lucky to get back to the ship alive. I fancy the row was arranged by Arabi, so that he could have the pleasure of putting it down; but, like every other row, it had to have some raison d’être, and this was easily found in a squabble between some Arabs and Greeks. The Arabs began to break windows, and the Greeks produced firearms, and let fly amongst them. I was in the same street about a couple of hundred yards off, and saw the stones flying and the shooting; but though there were Arabs all about us, they never made an attempt to annoy us in any way. Presently up came some troops, all anyhow, without a single officer, and began to blaze away with great impartiality; but it struck us all that for choice they went for the Europeans. We, being between the bulk of the mob and the troops, and seeing people beginning to drop, thought, on the whole, we were not very happily placed, and having by the blessing of Providence found ourselves near a door, executed a strategic movement to the left, got inside the door, and locked it. The house we got into turned out to be a sort of monastery school, and there we remained for over an hour. Meanwhile, outside the fun was becoming decidedly fast and furious. The soldiers pegged away merrily, and the Arabs looted. We could see them through the shutters carrying off all sorts of trash—toys, chairs, baths (and what could an Arab do with a bath?)—in fact, anything they could lay hands on. Presently, the soldiers having evidently got our part of the town into something like order, we strolled out trying to look as if we were not in a funk, and in fact rather liked it. My friend and I were just getting into a trap to drive down to the landing-place, when an Egyptian policeman, who could speak English, came up and told us it was certain death to drive down where we were going, as the mob were at their worst there, and were hauling the people out of the cabs and cutting their throats. We at once came to the conclusion that we would give up our drive, and went to the nearest consulate, where we waited till the disturbance was over.

“All this was child’s play compared to what happened to another lot. About half an hour before we got to the consulate four of our fellows—a great friend of mine (S.), a little Swede we are educating on board here, one of our doctors and an engineer got into a cab, and proceeded to drive down. All of a sudden they were surrounded by a mob of Arabs, who stopped the horses and went for them with their sticks. Being, of course, completely unarmed, they ran—S. and the Swede on one side, and the doctor and engineer the other. Dear old S., having been rather a professor at football in the days of his youth, being very strong and quick on his pins, and the little Swede also being as hard as nails, they managed to get through the brutes, with no injury except a good hammering all over. Of the others, one was stabbed and beaten to death, and the other, who is still in bed, after being beaten most frightfully, managed to crawl up to a soldier, who, for a wonder, behaved like a trump, stood over him with a fixed bayonet, and finally shoved him into a house, where he stopped all night, and was fetched on board next day, poor chap, in a most pitiable condition.

“And now comes the most extraordinary thing of all. One of our chief petty officers was ashore on leave. Our poor engineer was picked up by another trap going the other way, and was taken to the police-station. As he was being helped out of the trap, another Arab came up, banged him over the head and knocked him down. The petty officer went for the beast with a common thorn walking-stick he had in his hand, jammed it into his mouth with such force that it came out behind the ear, and killed him dead. There certainly is a Providence watching over sailors, because this fellow was hardly touched. When he came on board and said that he had killed his Arab, as before described, nobody believed him. However, it turned out to be absolutely true.

“The telegrams will have told you more than we know about the numbers killed, but there is no doubt that they finished off at least sixty Europeans, and Heaven only knows how many Arabs.”

Nowadays there are few Englishmen who have not served in the Army or Navy in some capacity, so they will be able to appreciate how the month dragged its weary way along from the 11th of June to the 11th of July, when at last we were permitted to “get a little of our own back” by bombarding the forts. Meanwhile we had fretted and raged at the idea, of Englishmen, many of whom were officers in the Navy, being treated like dogs by a lot of half-naked Arabs, and that we, though on the spot and serving in a powerful Fleet, were not allowed to retaliate. I have never witnessed such discontent as existed, and certainly on board my own ship the cases of men refusing to obey orders became commoner every day; but while the officers and men of the Service suffered, they could expect no sympathy from the gentlemen of the House of Commons for anything so ordinary as the ill-treatment of British subjects. Among the members of that House of Parliament there are always men who have no enemies in the world except their own countrymen, and the rest of them are engaged in that most amusing and engrossing sport known as “Politics.” Anything outside the region of political exigencies matters nothing to them. I have the opinion of one of the ablest of them that ever lived in support of this theory. Years ago I was travelling back from a race meeting with Lord Randolph Churchill, and I well remember his conversation. He told me he had tried most things in the shape of excitement. He admitted that big game shooting was excellent fun, that engineering a successful coup on the Turf (and he and his racing partner, Lord Dunraven, had lately pulled off a remarkably successful coup when that good mare l’Abbesse de Jouarre won a great handicap) was enthralling; but he went on to say that nothing in the world was half so engrossing, as were the almost daily intrigues and manœuvres that formed the meat and drink of the politician. But this is a digression, and I must return to Alexandria.

During the ensuing month Alexandria was being rapidly deserted, and an enormous number of refugees of all nations were being deported as rapidly as possible to their homes. Commander Lord Charles Beresford was placed in charge, and the work of chartering ships for the embarkation of passengers was no light one. So far as the Superb was concerned, our first duty, after the massacre, was to embark a number of corpses, one being that of our own engineer officer. Many others were those of men in the Fleet. We had to take them out to sea, and, in the words of our Burial Service, commit them to the deep. Bluejackets have not the smallest objection to seeing their comrades buried at sea when there are obvious reasons for so doing, but they bitterly resented being sent to sea to bury their dead when there was a Christian churchyard ashore, and this was another cause of much of the discontent of which I have spoken. Mercifully, things in England were improving. Public indignation forced the Government reluctantly to take action, and the Admiral was allowed to send an ultimatum, which I believe was principally to the effect that if the work of strengthening the coast fortifications still proceeded the Fleet would bombard and destroy the forts. Arabi replied by bringing more troops to Alexandria and continued to labour on the coast defences, so at last, on July 10th, all merchant ships and foreign men-of-war were ordered out of the harbour, and at 6 a.m., July 11th, the bombardment began.

I am not proposing to write any sort of description of the bombardment as a whole, but am simply relating what came under my personal observation as a lieutenant commanding a battery on board the Superb. The Superb mounted twelve 18-ton muzzle-loading 10-inch guns in her main battery. My old comrade, the above-mentioned Lieutenant Charles Graves Sawle, commanded the six guns that were mounted on one side, and I commanded the other six. There were then no hydraulic lifts or mechanical appliances of any sort, so what really happened in action was that the side that was unengaged hoisted the shell up by hand from the bowels of the ship, and the engaged battery fired them off. My own battery was terribly under-officered when my side was in action. To assist me to control the firing of six 400-pounders (to revert to the old-fashioned measurement) I had only one subaltern of marines and one midshipman. It may be imagined how difficult it was to give orders and exercise control with something like a hundred men rushing projectiles up from the shell-room on one side, while the guns on my engaged side were in action with all the accompanying noise of firing and the clanking of chains and winches for the process of training and loading the guns. After some rather wild shooting at the commencement, when the men, owing to their keenness, were difficult to restrain, we settled down steadily to work, and at last we were able to appreciate by actual practice how scandalous was the sighting of our guns; how poor their shooting capacity, and how faulty their projectiles. Ten years before Alexandria, the French Navy possessed a breech-loading heavy gun, working on the same principle as does our gun of to-day; but owing, I believe, to the wiseacres at Woolwich at the time of which I write, our guns were provided for us by soldiers, and the Navy was condemned to go on with these ridiculous muzzle-loaders.

The first part of the bombardment was carried out by the outside squadron under weigh, but we soon found that, when moving, it was impossible to make, with our weapons, any sort of accurate shooting, so the squadron was anchored. Luckily for us, the Egyptian guns were practically just as faulty as our own, their ammunition was a great deal worse, and their shooting beneath contempt, so the damage done to the fleet was very slight, and the casualties were trifling. After a long day’s firing the Egyptians were driven away from their guns, and a considerable amount of damage was done to the forts. One lucky shot from the Superb’s battery set fire to the magazine of Fort Adah, which we were then engaging, and blew it up, and that brought the day to a conclusion as far as my ship was concerned.

Although the Egyptians had been driven from their guns, their powers for mischief had by no means come to an end, and the very next day the town of Alexandria was set on fire and looted. The Khedive being in considerable danger in his palace at Ramleh, he was safely moved to another palace at Ras el Tin, situated on the peninsula of that name, which had been occupied by a landing-party of bluejackets and marines, and a few days afterwards I was landed in command of a company of bluejackets to form part of the garrison of Ras el Tin, our duty being to ensure the safety of the Khedive. Like all sailors, we were delighted to get out of the ship, but I do not know that we were much better off than our brother officers who were left on board. It sounded very Oriental and romantic to be quartered in a harem, but as the harem was very stuffy and dirty, and only inhabited by swarms of flies, it did not quite come up to my ideas of Eastern luxury.

But events were beginning to move—the fires in Alexandria were gradually got under, and order had been restored to the town by the unceasing exertions of Lord Charles Beresford. He began his work ashore with only 140 men under him, bluejackets and marines, who, to use his own words, “had to patrol the town, stop the looting, stop the fresh burning of houses, bury the corpses, and protect the lives of those who had come on shore.” His force was subsequently increased by 600 marines, and they were assisted by a mixed force of Americans, Germans, Greeks, and Italians. Moreover, for cleaning-up purposes, he succeeded in hiring Arab labour. By the 21st all the fires were out and the city was beginning to reassume its normal shape, and on the 1st August he was able to turn over his post as Provost-Marshal and Chief-of-Police at Alexandria to the Military Authorities and return to his ship.

The late Admiral Lord Beresford did much good service for his country in many capacities and for many years; but I greatly doubt whether he ever performed a much finer piece of work than when Chief-of-Police at Alexandria.

Soon, troops began to pour into Egypt. On the 17th between 2000 and 3000 were landed under the command of General Sir Archibald Alison, and shortly afterwards all the sailors ashore were relieved by soldiers. By the 15th August, when the General Commander-in-Chief, Sir Garnet Wolseley, arrived, the bulk of his army, some 40,000 men, were either landed in Egypt or else on board transports at Alexandria. Sir Garnet was, without any doubt, one of the ablest soldiers this country has produced since the days of Wellington, and nobody knew better than he how to disseminate false information that was sure to trickle through and deceive the enemy.

On the 18th August the Superb received orders to form part of an escorting squadron of iron-clads, destined to shepherd the transports to some destination, name unknown. Gradually a whisper went round that Aboukir Bay was to be the jumping-off place for the invasion of Egypt. It was rumoured that Sir Garnet had confided the fact to one man,—it was not quite sure whether the man was his Chief of the Staff or an influential Pressman. As to this, opinions differed. Anyhow, the one man in question had been told under the seal of profound secrecy that Aboukir was the destination of the transports. He must have babbled in his sleep, for obviously he would not knowingly have betrayed the confidence of the Commander-in-Chief, but however it might have been, the rumour spread, and many hours before we started there was not a soul on board the combined fleet of iron-clads and transports who was not thoroughly convinced that we were going to Aboukir. The night before we started I succeeded in collecting three of my brothers, who were serving at the time, to dine with me on board my ship. One, subsequently killed at Diamond Hill, outside Pretoria, in the South African Campaign, was on leave from his regiment, the 17th Lancers, from India, and was trying to get the Military Authorities in Cairo to give him a temporary job; the second was in the Coldstream Guards, and was on board one of the transports that was under our charge, and anchored close by, he died in 1895; and the third, then a Midshipman in the Carysfort, was fated to be drowned a few years later, when a Sub-Lieutenant on the gunboat Wasp, that went down in the China Seas with all hands, and was never heard of again. I rather doubt whether we four brothers had ever been all together before, but we certainly never met all together again.

The next morning the transports and their convoy weighed, and proceeded to Aboukir, and a very imposing spectacle they made. Each iron-clad was in charge of three large transports, by which means quite respectable station could be kept, and, unlike most convoys, there were no stragglers.

Just before arriving at Aboukir Bay, as the Fleet was preparing to anchor and excitement was at its highest, a signal was made directing us all to steer on a certain course, and some hours later we found ourselves at the entrance to the Suez Canal, of which entire possession had been already taken by another portion of the Fleet. Suez had, meanwhile, been seized by Admiral Hewett. The transports were passed as rapidly through the canal as possible, with the view of disembarking their troops at Ismailia, and we remained in masterly inactivity off Port Said.

It was at that time that I suffered one of the greatest disappointments in my life, and I can still recall the absolute tears of rage and mortification that I shed. A night or two after our arrival at Port Said, unluckily for me, I had kept the middle watch, from midnight until 4 a.m. Very shortly after 4 a.m. a signal was made to the ships in harbour to land a Naval Brigade for service at the front, the force to be ready to start in two hours’ time. The officer of the morning watch took the signal to the Captain, who at once gave the necessary orders. By right of seniority I should have been selected, but when the Captain was informed that I had just turned in after night duty, he decided not to disturb me and sent a lieutenant who was my junior instead. When I appeared next morning, about eight, I was told the news, and I fairly tore my hair out with vexation. I insisted on seeing the Captain, and he quite agreed that, without meaning any harm, he had treated me badly; but no reparation was possible, for it was too late, the Naval Brigade being already some miles up the Canal in the tug that was conveying them. Philosophy does sometimes fail to bring comfort, and mine for the moment became a negligible quantity. I did succeed in getting up to Cairo a little later for a short time, after its occupation by the British troops, but in the days of one’s youth it seemed a bitter disappointment not to have been at Tel-el-Kebir, and not to have marched into Cairo as part of the victorious army.

The Superb’s portion of this Naval Brigade was landed in such haste that nothing had been provided for the officers and men of the force in the way of camp equipment, not so much as a kettle. When they arrived at the front the Chief Petty Officer reported this fact to the Lieutenant in command, and they put their heads together as to what steps to take. The C.P.O. was an old warrior who had served in the Naval Brigade at Perak, so by his advice the officer made himself scarce for an hour or two, and when he returned he found all things in readiness for supper, a large kettle swinging over the fire, and a general air of comfort. He subsequently asked his C.P.O. how he managed to provide all these necessaries, and this was the answer: “Well, sir, I don’t exactly know, but I do hear that there is a . . . row in the Scots Guards Camp!”

[CHAPTER V]

FROM GALATZ TO SOUAKIM VIA LONDON

Shortly after the return of the Fleet to Malta, Sir Beauchamp Seymour, who had been created Lord Alcester for his services in Egypt, returned to England, Vice-Admiral Lord John Hay having arrived to take over the Mediterranean Station as Commander-in-Chief, hoisting his flag in the Alexandra, with Captain Harry Rawson for his Flag-Captain and the Honourable Hugh Tyrrwhitt as Flag-Lieutenant. Hugh Tyrrwhitt, who had been in the Britannia during my time there, was one of my greatest friends. Alas! he died in 1907, and his death brought an untimely end to what was already a distinguished career in the Navy. Shortly before his death, when still only of the rank of Captain, he had been offered the Indian Command; ill-health compelled him to decline it, and he died shortly afterwards on board a steamer on his way to Egypt, to which country he had been ordered by his doctors. As a Captain he had held some very important posts, having been in turn Flag-Captain to Sir John Fisher, when Commander-in-Chief in the Mediterranean; had commanded the Renown when the present King paid a visit to India as Prince of Wales, and was subsequently Naval Private Secretary to Lord Cawdor when First Lord of the Admiralty. Lord Cawdor brought his great experience of business (he had been a most successful Chairman of the Board of the Great Western Railway) to the service of his country, and was generally acknowledged, at any rate by the Navy, to have been one of the very best First Lords of his generation. He was far from being an advertising politician; but with his sound judgment and his great administrative capacity, his death was none the less a great loss to England. During his reign at the Admiralty it was several times my good fortune to meet him at little dinners given by Hugh Tyrrwhitt, at which Sir John Fisher and I were the other guests, and the amount of naval “shop” that was discussed in the course of one of these pleasant evenings is more easily imagined than described.

The rest of my time in the Superb was uneventful enough, and we were all beginning to look forward to paying off and a little leave in England, when my personal plans were completely changed by the arrival of a very small craft, the Cockatrice by name, at Malta. This curious little river vessel had left her station up the Danube for a refit at Malta, and her first and only lieutenant having been invalided, the vacancy thus occurring was offered to me. I was rather curious to see something of the Balkan States, and anyhow it meant a very pleasant winter at Malta with only a tiny river craft to look after, instead of being a hard-worked watch-keeper on board an iron-clad. I was quite right about the winter at Malta; it was a very pleasant one. There happened to be some particularly nice visitors at Valetta, any work connected with the repairs that were being executed by the Dockyard was easily got over in the forenoon, after which time I was as free as air, and ready to take part in anything going on that was likely to be amusing, whether ashore or afloat, for, having hired a little cutter yacht, I could take small parties round by sail to picnic at some of the interesting places outside the harbour, and, moreover, during that particular winter, the Opera Company was well above the average.

In the spring the Cockatrice had to get round to her headquarters on the Danube where she represented Great Britain on the Danube Commission. This Commission was a legacy from the Treaty of Paris, all the Signatory Powers having agreed to be represented by a stationnaire of some sort up the river, their main object being to see that the Russians did not divert the course of the stream, so that large steamers would be compelled to use the St. George’s mouths which emptied themselves into the Black Sea in Russian territory, instead of the Kilia mouths which debouched at Sulina.

A voyage from Malta to Constantinople was quite a serious undertaking for the little Cockatrice. So near the water were our scuttles (as the small windows which give light and air are called on board a man-of-war) that even up a river it was generally necessary to keep them closed, as the smallest ripple would splash water into them. This is only mentioned to give an idea of how unseaworthy a craft she was, and no blame to any one, as she was entirely designed for river service. The elements were kind, and we never encountered anything more serious than a fresh breeze, and arrived at our first port of call, Constantinople, without a mishap of any kind. The Cockatrice was well known at Constantinople, as she went there regularly for a refit every year,—it was only on very rare occasions that she went to Malta. Our little ship was anchored at Kadikoi, which is over on the Asiatic side, and I was quickly introduced by my messmates to the pleasant Levantine Society that is the feature of that neighbourhood, and is so well described by Claude Farrère in L’Homme qui Assassina. We were most hospitably entertained by the occupants of the numerous villas, and the time passed very agreeably. Indeed, I found Kadikoi such a pleasant place that I believe I only once troubled to go over to Pera, and that was to attend a ball which was given at our Embassy and to which it was rather a matter of duty to go. I found diplomatic society, however exalted it might be, with “their Excellencies” and their “chers collègues” (for apparently not even the humblest member of a small Legation, is ever alluded to by a member of any other Legation, or Embassy, in any terms other than “Mon cher collègue”), very dull as compared with some of the humbler, but sometimes exceedingly attractive inhabitants of Kadikoi.

Our next move was through the Bosphorus, perhaps the most beautiful strait in the world, and up the Black Sea to Sulina, and thence up the river to Galatz, where we duly tied ourselves up, and re-assumed our business as one of the line of stationnaires of the Signatory Powers.

The Danube, even as high up as Galatz, is certainly an imposing stream and is still some three or four miles in breadth. It was there that a large portion of the Russian Army crossed in the 1877-8 campaign, and a difficult operation it must have been. For the rest, it is only necessary to say that the town is, or was, thoroughly Oriental. One of the main roads ran parallel to the river bank, close to where we were secured, and to give an instance of the extreme Orientalism existing there, the following is a typical example. It used to interest us much to watch the numerous carts that passed along that thoroughfare, one and all in turn subsiding into an enormous hole in the road, day after day and month after month, for the simple reason that it never occurred to the Eastern mind to fill the hole up. The mosquitoes up the Danube have to be experienced to be realised, but their attentions were discounted by our mode of life, which consisted mainly in sleeping a considerable portion of the day and sitting up the greater part of the night. There was a small, but very hospitable, colony of English merchants there, and it became the invariable custom for a number of them to lunch on board every day. This was convenient, as the Cockatrice lay close to their places of business. After this early luncheon we used to drive up to their villas, which were situated on the further outskirts of the town, and there we settled down for the rest of the day. A prolonged siesta was the first operation; a large, cool, dark room being infinitely preferable for that purpose than the stuffy little cabins on board the ship. After the siesta there would be a couple of hours strenuous lawn-tennis, then a very late dinner, and finally a prolonged visit to one of the music-halls of the town, which began their evening’s business about 11 p.m. and did not bring it to an end until any hour in the morning, and finally back to the ship for two or three hours’ sleep before the “labours” of the next day began.

While stationed at Galatz I took the opportunity of visiting Bucharest. I have never been there since; but in those days it was a most attractive little capital, somewhat like Brussels in appearance, with charming shady boulevards. There was an excellent hotel, and I was fortunate in being able to make the acquaintance of Mr. and Mrs. White, he being then our Consul-General there. I was fated to meet him later when Sir William White, British Ambassador at Constantinople. During his long tenure of office in the Turkish capital he succeeded in raising British prestige, which had woefully declined for some years, to a higher level than it probably had attained since the days of Lord Stratford de Redcliffe, the great Eltchi.

To spend a few months up the Danube was interesting enough, but life there soon began to get wearisome and unprofitable from a professional point of view, so I proceeded to cast about for a change. The only way that suggested itself was to apply to the Admiralty for permission to return to England, with the object of going through the long course at Greenwich and Portsmouth, necessary for qualifying as a Gunnery Lieutenant. My Captain was good enough to support my application, so in the autumn of 1883 I found myself back at Greenwich again as one of a class of about a dozen lieutenants who were aspiring to become gunnery experts. I soon found out that I had mistaken my new profession. Most of my comrades were comparatively fresh from school, having only been at sea for one year, whereas I had five years’ service to my credit. I found that, after my long absence from anything in the way of school-work, high mathematics were no joke, and it seemed probable that when the examination time came, after labouring very hard at very uncongenial work, I should inevitably find myself at the bottom of my class. Consequently, I candidly admit that I was looking about for some fresh job all the time I was at Greenwich. Meanwhile, London was close by, and, feeling pretty sure that I should never get to the examination stage, I spent most of my time there, and only turned up at Greenwich for the lectures I was bound to attend.

One way and another I spent a very pleasant winter, and a good deal of it was passed at a very amusing little club that was established for a short time at 87, St. James’s Street, where whist was played for moderate points, and where, moreover, I met a number of very pleasant people. 87, St. James’s Street was then a very curious house and stood on the site of the new post-office buildings. Mr. Tom Wallace, the well-known wine merchant, occupied the basement. He was a conspicuous figure in London, especially in St. James’s Street, for he was in the habit of sitting in a chair on the pavement in front of his business premises, smoking his cigar there, and exchanging courtesies with his large circle of friends, who were almost sure to pass that particular corner at some time in the morning or early afternoon.

On the ground floor there was a Starting Price Betting Office, one of the very first of its kind to be inaugurated in London, and on the first floor was the Whist Club before alluded to. I was accused of assisting the members of that institution to sit up till unconscionable hours, for when it got very late (or rather very early in the morning) the most reasonable thing for me to do, seemed to consist in sitting up until the first train could convey me to Greenwich in time for a mathematical lecture, and, naturally, I was not anxious to sit up alone, and play patience!

It was there that I first made the acquaintance of a lifelong friend of mine, Mr. Cecil Clay. He was one of the sons of the well-known Major Clay, who was for many years Radical Member for Hull, and was counted as the greatest living authority of his day on the science of whist. His son Cecil was a worthy successor to him; not only a fine player, he was, as he still is, a delightful man both as a companion and one of the wittiest of raconteurs. In those days he lived in a charming little house in Park Street, where I have certainly been to the most amusing Sunday luncheon parties that I can remember. Hostess and host were both the perfection of courtesy and kindness, and all the cleverest and most agreeable people in the dramatic profession were to be met there. I will mention only two of the habitués—who, alas! have both passed away, but were then young and bubbling over with wit and gaiety—Herbert Tree and Charles Brookfield. They were both constant guests, and those of my contemporaries who were fortunate enough to have met them in their irresponsible youth, will remember what a pleasure it was to be with them, and to take a part in all the clever chaff that used to pass between them. But, somehow, this amusing life in London did not amalgamate very well with high mathematics, and it became more and more evident to me that a change would be welcome.

In February 1885 it became necessary to send a large force to Souakim. For this large force adequate sea-transport was needed, and to my great good fortune, a staunch friend of mine, Captain John Fellowes (subsequently Admiral Sir John Fellowes) was selected as head of it. The Admiralty could not possibly have chosen a better man. He was full of resource, full of the wisdom of the serpent, was a glutton for work himself, and had the knack of extracting the last ounce of work out of his subordinates. I lost no time in going to him, and he at once applied to the Admiralty asking that I should be appointed as one of the transport officers to serve under him. My relative, Lord Alcester, was back at the Admiralty as First Sea Lord, and once more I had to interview him in his stronghold. This time he really was annoyed. He pointed out that in one year I had been something like six different kinds of Lieutenants, that the Admiralty had had enough of me, and I really believe (kindest of men though he was) that his principal reason for acceding to my request, and Captain Fellowes’ application, was the vague chance that, in the Red Sea, a severe sunstroke might settle me and my business for ever.

Having obtained my point, I was in the seventh heaven of delight, and before carrying out the first order I received from the Admiralty, which was to go over to Kingstown, I went to pay a farewell visit to my friends at 87, St. James’s Street. Tom Wallace, previously alluded to, assured me that he had made a close study of Egyptian warfare (I suppose from the strategic corner of St. James’s Street and Pall Mall!), and that it was absolutely essential that any officer called on to serve in that trying climate should be suitably equipped in the way of wine. So the kind man fitted me out then and there with six dozen of excellent champagne and three dozen of remarkably sound port, on the understanding that if I came back I might pay for it at my leisure, and, if anything untoward happened, it obviously would not matter to me and very little to him. Another kind friend insisted on my standing in with him in a bet he had taken on a horse which was expected to win the Grand National, so I started for Ireland feeling that anyhow my campaigning kit would compare favourably with that of any one else, consolidated as it was by nine dozen of wine and a bet on the great Steeplechase.

Another farewell visit that I paid was to the Transport Department of the Admiralty, where I tried to glean some information about my duties. All I could get out of them was that, for the time being, I was appointed transport officer of the Lydian Monarch, a vessel that had been hired to convey a regiment of Lancers to Souakim or elsewhere, that I was to embark these troops at Kingstown, but when I tried to find out what authority was vested in me when on board a hired transport, nothing could I discover. In fact it was conveyed to me in a general way that my duties and responsibilities would solvitur ambulando, and with these vague directions I was obliged to be content.

To Kingstown I accordingly went in the night boat, and I must say that Ireland, which I was visiting for the first time, fully kept up its reputation for “divarsion,” for anything like the comicality of the scenes which I witnessed, when engaged next day in the embarkation of that distinguished Cavalry regiment, would need the pen of a Charles Lever to do them justice. On arriving on board the Lydian Monarch the first thing in the morning, I received a telegram from headquarters at Dublin, to the effect that a dismounted party would arrive from the barracks at 8 a.m. to make any further preparations which they might find necessary for the embarkation, and that the regiment would arrive about 11 a.m. About 9 a.m. the dismounted party arrived under the command of a very young subaltern. One of the first pieces of information of which I was in need, was whether the regiment was bringing lances or not. I had been told in London that they probably would not, but it was necessary to know, for they are very dangerous tools on board a ship if not properly stowed. I well knew their propensities for getting in the way and putting people’s eyes out from my personal acquaintance with that ancient weapon, the boarding pike, which was still part of our equipment on a man-of-war. When neither the youthful subaltern in charge of the party, nor any of the men under his command, could provide me with this very elementary piece of information, I began to fear the worst, and rather expected that the embarkation would be attended with some few difficulties. About three-quarters of an hour after the appointed time the regiment arrived, and if I, and the sailors of the Lydian Monarch rocked with laughing at seeing so many drunken men, it was nothing to the rocking that the Lancers were doing in their saddles before they had been successfully dismounted. Being convinced that nothing in the way of work was to be expected from the men of the regiment, I succeeded in borrowing a working party of bluejackets from the guardship to help tie up the horses, which is always rather a ticklish business. We got on famously with our work for some time, but, unfortunately, there was so much whisky about that the bluejackets were, very soon, all more or less drunk too. By this time the day was closing in, we were anxious to sail before dark, and the situation was not particularly promising. The Military Authorities in Dublin had meanwhile been told how things were not progressing, and presently the Commander-in-Chief in Dublin and his Staff arrived on the scene. Fortunately the horses were at last all on board (poor brutes! some of them had been standing with their saddles off in the snow for hours, for, in addition to our other difficulties, there was some inches of snow on the ground), and the next thing was to discover where the men of the regiment were. It was rumoured that a good many of them had left the immediate vicinity of the ship, and had wandered off, still being thirsty, to the numerous public-houses in the neighbourhood. Mercifully, a trumpeter, who was fairly sober, could be produced, and presently a swaying line of dismounted Lancers formed itself on the quay opposite the ship. There were a good many absentees, but the Commander-in-Chief decided to send the ship to sea, so away we went, and, in justice to a very fine regiment, I may mention that eventually the so-called absentees were all found on board the ship. One of them, I remember, did not turn up for three days, he having been buried during the whole of that time under a heap of kit bags, and when rescued was very much more dead than alive from a combination of suffocation and sea-sickness.

Unfortunately, there was a considerable clamour raised about what was described as a disgraceful scene, and the usual lurid descriptions were published of what really was a very trifling affair. The Commanding Officer had, perhaps, been a little over good-natured in letting his men out of barracks the night before they embarked, and very naturally the men had celebrated the occasion in the usual way. The rest was due to Irish hospitality, and to the sentiment that existed in those days in an Irish mob (a sentiment which, alas! owing to politicians of all kinds, exists no longer)—the love of the Irish for a soldier, especially if he happened to be an Irish cavalryman.

By way of making the story of the embarkation more sensational still, some enterprising Dublin journalist calmly took upon himself to sink the Lydian Monarch with all hands a few hours afterwards in the Irish Channel, and, as it did happen to blow very heavily at the time, a good deal of pain and anxiety was caused to those who had relatives and friends on board her. However, this lie was contradicted pretty soon, and we had the pleasure, on arriving at Souakim, of hearing that the delinquent had been imprisoned for circulating a mischievous story for which there was no foundation. We, out there, thought that hanging was much too good for him; but on reflection it was probably only a sense of dramatic fitness that impelled him to start the rumour, and, moreover, people have no right to believe any sort of rumour when a war is on, not more than one in a hundred being ever well founded.

We had hardly got fairly started on our journey before we picked up a real gale in the Channel, and I very soon discovered what fine material there was in the regiment. The ship was rolling very heavily, and nearly all the officers and men were prostrated with sea-sickness, and, moreover, had not yet found their sea-legs. As far as the crew was concerned, like all merchant ships, she only carried just enough men to do the necessary duties connected with the ship, and had certainly none to spare to look after the cargo, so it fell to the lot of two or three of the officers of the regiment, and perhaps half-a-dozen non-commissioned officers, who had managed to overcome their sea-sickness, and myself (because I had nothing else to do), to look after the horses. A great many had been cast in their stalls, owing to the very amateur fashion in which they had been tied up, and it was no light job to get the poor struggling animals on to their legs again and secure them properly with the ship rolling heavily. It was an all-night business; those few soldiers worked like heroes, and I, though I knew little about horses, could make myself useful, for a sailor does know how to tie a knot. It was therefore to the credit of all concerned that we never lost a horse at the time, though later on a few succumbed to violent pneumonia, brought on, I suppose, by the sudden change from severe cold to the appalling heat of the horse deck.

Two of the officers who did such good work all through that night I still occasionally meet. One was Captain Wenjy Jones, a fine horseman and a well-known owner of race-horses, and the other, then Lieutenant Sinclair, having retired from the Army and adopted a political career, after commencing as Assistant Private Secretary to Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman, is now Lord Pentland. He has, in his time, occupied several important posts, and has lately returned to England after serving his country for seven years as Governor of Madras.

It was not until we had nearly reached Gibraltar that the gale abated, and we were able to settle down in comparative comfort and take stock of our surroundings. When the weather was fine enough our precious horses were walked up inclined platforms to the upper deck, where they could get some light and air, and where, moreover, the men had room to groom them. They certainly needed strapping, for, having left Ireland as hairy as polar bears, and been suddenly translated into a warm climate, they literally shed their coats in handfuls.

On arriving at Port Said, I was set one of the most disagreeable tasks that ever came my way. Owing to the ridiculous fuss that had been made about the embarkation at Kingstown, the War Office Authorities were seized with one of their occasional spasmodic fits of virtue, and suddenly found it necessary to hold an inquiry into the conduct of the two Lieutenant-Colonels of the regiment; one having been left behind with one wing, while the other was commanding the portion ordered on active service. I received a telegram from the Admiralty ordering me to land the Lieutenant-Colonel in command, so I found myself in the position of having to go to a man who was old enough to be my father, much my superior in rank, and who had actually served in the Crimea, and tell him that he was to leave the ship. Whatever may have been his merits or demerits, it always seemed to me that he was treated with the grossest discourtesy by the Authorities, in his position of an officer commanding the wing of a regiment ordered on active service, and on the eve of taking the Field. Naturally, I had to obey orders, and landed he was, but I have always wondered whether he was not wrong to take such an order from a junior officer belonging to another service, and whether he would not have been wiser to ignore such an irregular communication altogether, and to have gone to Souakim with the troops under his orders.

A few days afterwards the Lydian Monarch arrived at Souakim and the regiment disembarked, and a very fine show they made. The officers and men were, of course, delighted to be quit of the ship, and to be on active service, and the horses, thanks to the fact that we had been able to move them about, were in wonderful condition, considering that they had been cooped up on board for the major part of three weeks.

Having now arrived safely at Souakim and delivered the goods entrusted to my charge in the shape of the regiment, it may be convenient to say something of that almost forgotten campaign, the Souakim Expedition of 1885. The more it is considered in the cold light of history, or from what remains in the memory of a spectator and humble participant, the more absolutely am I convinced that, to use a modern expression, the whole Expedition was designed to be nothing but political “eye-wash.” The fact is the public were extremely indignant at the fall of Khartoum and the death of Gordon. Their indignation was considerably, if illogically, accentuated by the harmless fact that the Prime Minister, Mr. Gladstone, had gone to the theatre the very night the news of Gordon’s death was received. Lord Salisbury, in the course of a debate on the announcement that the Government had decided to break the power of the Mahdi, had stated, what certainly looked to be the whole truth and nothing but the truth,—namely, “that Gordon had been sacrificed to the squabbles of a Cabinet and the necessities of Party Politics.” And what probably decided the dispatch of the Expedition, more than anything else, was the fact that a few days afterwards the Government only escaped defeat on a vote of censure on the Soudan policy, moved by Sir Stafford Northcote, by the narrow margin of fourteen votes. Altogether, things were not going at all happily for the Government, and so “eye-wash” of some kind was absolutely necessary, and I believe that those of us who were left till the last, save for the troops that remained to garrison the town of Souakim, one and all realised that nothing had ever been intended, and that all our labour and hardship had been only to keep a tottering Government in power for a little while longer. It is easy to show that nothing was intended, for exactly twelve months before, in March 1884, the hot weather had compelled the withdrawal of the troops from Souakim, although the route to Berber was then open; yet the Authorities were commencing an Expedition and sending troops from England at exactly the same time of the year at which they had brought a half-finished campaign to a close, with troops on the spot, only one year before! Of course, if, in the course of the fighting that would be sure to take place round about Souakim, Osman Digna’s men could be badly beaten and Osman himself captured, then they might reasonably assume that the Expedition had not been in vain, but it was pretty well known that Osman was an extremely elusive person, and anything but a likely captive. But enough has been said of the political emergencies of the moment and the sordid details connected with them. A British Army just taking the Field forms a far purer and more attractive spectacle.

As soon as the various transport officers arrived with the troops that had been put under their charge, they were employed entirely in duties connected with the port. We were about eight all told, under the orders of Captain Fellowes, Principal Naval Transport Officer, Commodore More Molyneux being the Senior Naval Officer who was in command of a squadron of small ships mainly drawn from the East Indian Station. We slept and messed on board a British India boat that had brought troops from India and had been reserved for the purpose, but except for a certain amount of sleep and extremely regular meals, we were never on board her. Captain Fellowes, and his Second in Command, Commander Morrison, who had commanded the Helicon at Alexandria and had been promoted, directed our labours. Two of the lieutenants did the work of harbour masters and brought the transports in and out of the coral reefs that formed the passage into the little harbour of Souakim. Their work was never-ending, from the time the sun was well up until shortly before nightfall. Even they, with all their skill and experience, could not take ships in and out when the sun was low, for the conning of the ships had to be done entirely by eye, and when a low sun was glimmering on the water it became impossible to see the edges of the reef; and on the rare occasions when, owing to the great pressure of work, it was necessary to go on when the sun was setting, we were almost invariably faced with a ship ashore on the reef, and a long day’s work with tugs would ensue, to grind her off.

The rest of us were in charge of gangs of natives who did the work of unloading stores and of landing all sorts of transport animals, from camels to the little Indian bullocks that had been sent for the Indian transport. We toiled from sunrise to sunset under a blazing sun, and it was certainly a strenuous life. Nevertheless, I personally enjoyed my time immensely up to the moment when it began to dawn upon me that the whole Expedition was an imposture, and that the more stuff we landed the more we should have to re-embark again. The gang of which I usually had charge consisted of Egyptian prisoners, who were daily marched down to their work by an armed party of Turkish soldiers. I used to love the procedure of the armed guard. Being practical men and also remarkably lazy ones, the men of the guard invariably made the prisoners carry their rifles!

Shortly after our arrival I succeeded in annexing a stray pony which I found wandering about the beach, apparently belonging to no one in particular. At the same time I secured the services of a beach-comber in the shape of a retired soldier, also found on the beach, and him I made my groom. There was any amount of forage littered about, so with a pony tethered to my tent and a man to look after him, I could always, when there was a spare moment, ride out to the lines and see what was going on.

On the 20th March, a very few days after we arrived at Souakim, General Sir Gerald Graham, who was Commander-in-Chief, ordered a reconnaissance on Hashin to be made in force, Hashin being a collection of huts about seven and a half miles from Souakim. I managed to get a day’s leave and rode out with my friends of the 5th Lancers, but as my pony was not capable of keeping up with the big English horses of the Lancers, I left them after a short time and attached myself to the Guards’ Brigade, amongst whose officers I had various friends. Inside the Guards’ square I found General Lord Abinger, who had commanded a battalion of the Scots Fusilier Guards in the Crimea; he had contrived to come out to Souakim, and had ridden out to be with his old regiment. Another friend of mine in that square, as a spectator, was Lieutenant Alfred Paget, who was serving on board a gun-vessel in the harbour. He, like myself, had got a day’s leave to go out and see the fun, and had attached himself to the Scots Guards, in which regiment his brother, now General Sir Arthur Paget, was serving. At one time it looked as if there was going to be a real action, for some 150 Soudanese, with the greatest gallantry, charged the Guards’ Brigade. Naturally, the fire with which they were received was more than they could stand, and those who were not shot down bolted and fled. It seemed to the spectator that the action was somewhat futile, for though some zeriba posts were established, the works were dismantled again, the place was abandoned a few days afterwards, and, as far as the day was concerned, the force having marched some seven miles out were marched back again, and we reached our base about six in the evening.

There were a certain number of casualties from what I judged to be long-range rifle fire, and, packed as the square was with transport, it presented a wonderful target even to very inferior marksmen. As Lord Abinger remarked at the time: “he had often heard of men shooting so badly that they could not hit a haystack, but nobody could miss a farm-yard.”

Two days afterwards the action known as McNeill’s Zareba was fought. I was not able to see anything of it. At the time it became a source of much controversy, but anyhow it was not altogether without results. For though we lost an enormous number of transport animals, 900 camels alone being killed, the Soudanese lost very heavily, over 1000 bodies being left on the field.

We laboured on throughout the rest of the months of March and April, landing stores, now supplemented by the necessary materials for the much-discussed Souakim to Berber Railway. Some advance was made with that railway; at one time it reached as far as Otao, eighteen miles from the base, but when, early in May, Lord Wolseley arrived on the scene, it became apparent to us all that the end was approaching. Gradually the navvies were withdrawn and sent back to England; many store ships, with railway material that, mercifully, had not been unloaded, were sent home. The Commander-in-Chief left on the 17th of May, and by the end of that month all the troops, with the exception of the Berkshire Regiment and a few Indian troops, who were left behind to garrison Souakim, had departed.

Captain Royle, in his book on the Egyptian Campaigns 1882 to 1899, mentions in a footnote that Osman wrote to the Madhi that “God struck fear into the hearts of the English and they went away.” And small wonder if Osman was able to boast in 1885, as he had previously done in 1884, that he had driven the British out of the country.

Captain Royle in another footnote gives the extra cost of the expedition as over two millions, and the cost of the Souakim-Berber Railway (including pipe and water lines), which, as mentioned before, was actually laid for eighteen miles, as over £865,000. This cost was incurred over and above the normal charge for the maintenance of the troops concerned. In the interests of economy it is pleasant to know that a small portion of the eighteen miles of line was picked up and re-shipped, to be used afterwards for some years as a light railway at Shorncliffe Camp, to take the men down to the sea to bathe.

Early in June the work of the Naval Transport came to an end. I remember well the last evening I spent there. I walked round the scene of our four months’ hard labour with my chief, Captain Fellowes, and thought that never had the forage which had fallen into the water, and the general debris on the beach, smelt more abominably. It was not for nothing that my sense of smell was so acute, for next morning I was down with fever. It was bad luck to be knocked out just as the work was finished, but so it was, and the climate of the Red Sea in the month of June is not the best in the world for a speedy recovery. However, I was packed up in a horrible little transport that was bound for Suez, and after a very long passage managed to reach Cairo. There was an old Indian doctor on board in charge of the odds and ends of troops and invalids, who had served all his life in India, and thoroughly understood the treatment of fever. His method, if drastic, was certainly efficient. Every two hours he used to appear with a huge tumbler of champagne and quinine and insist on its being swallowed. For the whole week that I was on board I was more or less insensible from the strength of this mixture, but after a couple of days in Cairo in a decent bed I was quite well again, though much pulled down, and was able to proceed home overland by way of Venice.

Barring the natural resentment we all felt at having laboured for months in the sun in unloading stores for an Expedition that was never intended to succeed, I personally have otherwise nothing but pleasant recollections of Souakim. Some of the finest men in the world were out there. I found many old friends, and made some new ones, one of whom remained a great ally of mine until his death two years ago. I refer to Lieutenant Alfred Paget, who died as Admiral Sir Alfred Paget. He also deserved the title of the bravest of the brave. When not on duty at Souakim he used to amuse himself by going into the dense bush outside our lines for the purpose of shooting sand grouse and gazelle. The bush was supposed to be crawling with Soudanese, but the old proverb of “where there is no fear there is no danger” held good in his case, and he was never interfered with. Years afterwards he was Naval Attaché at Washington during the American-Spanish War, and of course managed to see as much fighting as was possible. When the war came to an end, at a big dinner at which he was one of the guests, after the usual patriotic toasts had been honoured, the General Officer presiding at the dinner asked all present to charge their glasses to drink the health of the bravest man they had met during the campaign. No one had any idea whose name was to be coupled with this toast. The name was that of Captain Alfred Paget, Royal Navy, Naval Attaché at Washington. Surely one of the most graceful compliments that ever was paid to a British officer! and none who knew him could doubt how thoroughly it had been deserved. In the recent war he sank his rank of Admiral, and (until bad health compelled him to give up), served as a Commander of various patrol vessels and mine-sweepers. He died very suddenly at the age of sixty-seven.

Shortly after arriving in England I looked in at 87, St. James’s Street, to see my old friends. Thinking to enlist their compassion I informed them that, owing to hard work and fever, I had lost twenty pounds, upon which I was told that twenty pounds could be easily lost in less than an hour there, and that, very rightly, was the only sign of sympathy that I could extract from them.

[CHAPTER VI]

THE CHANNEL FLEET AND MEDITERRANEAN STATION

After a short leave I was appointed to the Minotaur, the Flagship of the Channel Squadron, and found myself once more as a watch-keeping lieutenant at sea, very pleased at having successfully eluded an examination in high mathematics at Greenwich.

My time in the Minotaur was one of the happiest of the whole of my service afloat. She flew the flag of Vice-Admiral Charles Fellowes, one of the most popular admirals in the Navy. My Souakim employer, John Fellowes, was Flag-Captain, and amongst the lieutenants were my old friend, Jimmy Startin, previously alluded to, and an old Red Sea comrade, Oliver Young by name. Oliver was a great character. Very good-looking, standing well over six feet, and of gigantic strength, he was passionately fond of fighting whenever a decent opportunity occurred; but at the same time he was no bully, and never exercised his great skill and strength except in a good cause. There were many amusing stories about him, and one of the best was the following:—

At one period of his career he was appointed as Junior Lieutenant to a gunboat in the Mediterranean, whose First-Lieutenant had the reputation of being the most disagreeable Commanding Officer in the Service, and one who always made life as unpleasant as possible to the unfortunate beings who were compelled to serve under his orders. Oliver, when he joined, was perfectly aware of this fact. On joining the gunboat, when pacing the deck with his new Commanding Officer, who, of course, had not yet had time to show the cloven hoof, Oliver began to expatiate on the joys of serving on a small craft, to his mind the only life in the Navy that was really agreeable. He went on to say that as long as everybody lived in harmony no life could be pleasanter. He mentioned that he had been received in the most charming way by his new messmates, and felt certain that he was going to be extremely happy in his new post. Then he pensively added: “Of course, it is only one’s own fault if anybody on board makes himself disagreeable; nothing is easier, on a dark night, than to catch hold of the delinquent and just drop him overboard, and that settles the matter.” The First-Lieutenant said nothing, but being a little man, hardly reaching up to Oliver’s shoulder, he thought a great deal, and for the rest of the commission treated his big subordinate with the greatest consideration.

Not long after the Minotaur days, Oliver left the Service and went into Parliament. But he never really recovered from a bad sunstroke that laid him low at Souakim, and, to the great regret of his many friends, both ashore and afloat, he died at a comparatively early age. Another old Minotaur friend was Sir Charles Cust, then a midshipman, now Naval Equerry to His Majesty.

We were extremely well off for lieutenants in the flagship, so the watch-keeping was far less onerous than in the Superb, the result being, that leave ashore was much easier to obtain. Nearly the whole winter was spent up the Tagus, and of Lisbon and its surroundings I have the most pleasant recollections. We had a wonderful Opera Season, with those incomparable artists, Mesdames Patti and Scalchi as prima donna and contralto, the primo tenore being the great Massini, one of the finest tenors of his days. We arranged a very comfortable omnibus box at the Opera for ourselves, and as an enterprising native had started an establishment where roulette was nightly played for the special benefit(?) of the officers of the Fleet, and as there was pigeon-shooting at the Sporting Club every Sunday, we certainly had plenty of distractions. It was at the Sporting Club there, that I first had the honour of making the acquaintance of King Carlos, who was so foully murdered years afterwards in the streets of his capital. He was a fine pigeon shot, and I was destined later on to see him shooting in Norfolk, where his skill with the gun became quite a topic of conversation.

But perhaps the happiest recollections of all were of the frequent visits we used to pay to Cintra, where we were treated by the English hotel-keeper and his family with the greatest kindness, and, moreover, on what can only be described as the “most favoured nation” terms. Among the many beautiful gardens in which we were allowed to stroll about was that belonging to the Villa of Monserrate, which had originally belonged to Beckford, the author of Vathek. It had been subsequently acquired by the family of the present Sir Frederick Cook. The present baronet, I believe, still retains the title of Vicomte de Monserrate. I remember the guide always used to explain: “Dis de villa of Vicomte de Monserrate, Mr. Cookey English!”

But there is no need for me to write at length on the beauties of Cintra. Many have written about it; many more have seen that lovely mountain of verdure that springs from what is apparently an absolutely arid plain. To me it simply remains as one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen, and one where I spent many happy days.

But life on board the Minotaur was very far from consisting entirely of amusement. Although we continued to use Lisbon as our headquarters, the Squadron constantly went to sea for short cruises and firing-practice. Moreover, sail-drill went on with almost the same regularity as when I joined the Service. The Minotaur had three full-rigged masts, to say nothing of two light masts further aft, and I, to my great delight, was in charge of one of the three. She also possessed a very fine clear upper deck, so, when not competing with other ships of the squadron, we could compete one mast against the other, to our great satisfaction. My mind still dwells with pleasure on the days of the old sailing frigates, and even on those of the rigged iron-clads that succeeded them. The Minotaur was to end sail-drill so far as I was concerned, as, after leaving her, I never served in a rigged ship again.

After a very pleasant winter, we started on a cruise, the first port of call being Gibraltar. Our Admiral had latterly been far from well, and on the way to Gibraltar was taken seriously ill. Shortly after we arrived at Gibraltar there was a sudden collapse, and he died, deeply to the regret of the officers and men of his squadron. The Minotaur was lying alongside the Mole, and for the first time since the Victory lay there with the mortal remains of Nelson on board, an admiral’s flag was to be seen flying half-masted in that historic bay. His funeral having been ordered to take place in England, the Minotaur proceeded to Portsmouth with the utmost dispatch. The funeral of a Flag-Officer, dying on service, is an impressive affair, as becomes the rank of the deceased and the extreme rarity of the occasion, there is something moving in the spectacle of the hoisting out of the coffin, while the flag flutters slowly down, not to be hoisted again until a successor comes on board to take over the command.

Our new Admiral turned out to be Sir William Hewett, V.C., a very distinguished officer, who had won his Victoria Cross as a mate in the Crimea. He had been lately commanding the naval forces on the East Indian Station, and during the first Egyptian campaign had been responsible for the occupation of Suez and the operations that were terminated by the middle of August 1882 to complete our occupation of the Canal. In February 1884, after Baker’s defeat at El Teb, he had landed a Naval Brigade at Souakim for the protection of the town, and had accompanied Sir Gerald Graham when he fought a successful action there, a fortnight later. Greatly to our satisfaction, Captain Fellowes remained on with him as Flag-Captain.

In the days of which I am writing the ignorance of the British public of everything regarding the Navy can only be described as colossal. Of course at great naval ports, such as Chatham, Portsmouth and Plymouth, the Navy was well known, but outside those three areas lived a huge public who had never seen a man-of-war, and hardly ever seen a sailor unless he happened to be on leave, and in plain clothes. The public took not the slightest interest in anything that concerned that Force, which (in the words of the special prayer that is read daily on the quarter-deck of every ship in the Service) enables the British public—in other words “the inhabitants of our Island”—to live in such security that they “may in peace and quietness serve Thee our God.” I am completely unaware if it is generally known that the insertion of this Prayer amongst other forms of prayer to be used at sea, in our Liturgy, was due to the action of the Long Parliament. The gorgeous language and rhetorical style of the whole Prayer is worthy of those great days, when England was so mighty abroad. Oliver Cromwell, one of the finest soldiers of the world, was keenly alive to the importance of Sea Power, and always maintained a strong Navy.

I suppose the Admiralty thought it was nearly time that the public should see something of one of the Forces for which they paid taxes, and consequently the Channel Squadron was ordered to cruise round the coasts of England and Scotland, besides which it was conveyed to those in command that every facility was to be given to enable sight-seers to visit the various ships of the Fleet to their hearts’ content. At some ports, Glasgow in particular, the tourists came literally in thousands, and of course converted the ships into temporary pigsties and bear gardens; but any trifling inconvenience of that sort was more than amply repaid by the universal kindness and hospitality that we received everywhere. The officers were invited to shoot over moors, of which, up to that time, they had only dreamt, and the men were lavishly entertained by all sorts of municipal authorities, and kind people in the neighbourhood.

I personally, was in luck’s way, as the shooting part of the business was generally put into the hands of the Flag-Captain, and, being an old friend, perhaps I got rather more than my fair share. Anyhow, I can remember a first-rate grouse drive over one of Sir Michael Shaw Stewart’s best beats at Ardnagowan, and, later on, when the Fleet lay at Cromarty Firth, a party of us stayed with Ross of Cromarty, at Cromarty House, and had a capital day’s mixed shooting. The Fleet was also magnificently entertained at a ball during our stay in the Firth, the great magnates of the district, including the then Duke of Sutherland, the grandfather of the present Duke, figuring amongst the hosts. Later on, whilst lying in the Firth of Forth, a party of us went to Selkirk, staying a night at the hotel there, for the purpose of shooting over one of the low-lying moors that the Duke of Buccleugh had placed at our disposal. Without exception it was the best mixed day’s shooting in which I have ever taken part. It was early in October, and towards the end of the day we were just off the moor itself, beating a small cover for pheasants, and then I saw a sight which personally I have never seen since. The beaters had included in their drive not only the cover before mentioned but also a large stubble field. Being late in the evening, the black game and grouse from the moors had got down to the stubble to feed on the stooks. The result was that, driven to the guns, and all in the air at the same time, were to be seen black game, pheasants, grouse and partridges.

A little later on we were anchored off the Norfolk coast, and the last shoot of the trip was from Yarmouth, where that splendid old sportsman, Mr. Fellowes of Shotesham, provided the sport. The Flag-Captain was a relative of Mr. Fellowes, and once more I was fortunate enough to be of the party. We were given a fine day’s partridge-driving by the Squire of Shotesham, and personally I am glad to have known, if only for a few hours, a man who, in his day, was not only one of the best shots in the kingdom, but who also had the reputation of being able to ride a half-broken three-year-old that was in the process of learning its future business as a hunter, better than any one else in this country.

The visit to Yarmouth having terminated, the squadron was presently back at Portsmouth again, and during the winter certain changes were made among the officers, notably in the case of the Captain. It had been arranged that Captain Fellowes was to go out to the Mediterranean as Flag-Captain to Admiral H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh, who had been selected for the important post of Commander-in-Chief of that Station. So, at the end of 1885, he left, much to our regret, and was succeeded by Captain Bouverie-Clark. On board the Minotaur we soon found out that, sorry as we might be to lose our old Captain, we had really lost nothing by the exchange, for his successor was one of the most charming men I ever served with.

Vice-Admiral Sir Bouverie-Clark, as he now is, had managed to see as much active service as had been possible in the days of his youth, for, as a midshipman, he had been present at the bombardment of Sveaborg in the Baltic during the Crimean war, had later on greatly distinguished himself by his gallantry when employed on the East Coast of Africa in the suppression of the Slave Trade, and was also an officer in the Naval Brigade that was landed during the New Zealand War in the early ’sixties. He was finally Director of Transports at the Admiralty for a period of five years, from 1906 onwards.

The remaining six months which I spent in the Minotaur were uneventful, but another change was about to be made, as in July 1886 I was appointed as First-Lieutenant to H.M. Dispatch Vessel Surprise, then a brand-new ship.

GROUP ON BOARD H.M.S. “SURPRISE”

The Surprise and her sister ship, the Alacrity were built to replace respectively the old dispatch boats Helicon and Vigilant, which had been serving for years on the Mediterranean and China Stations. Commander Charles le Strange, a very old friend of the Sultan days, was in command of the Surprise. He had recently become an Equerry to H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh, who had already taken over the command of the Mediterranean Station.

The Surprise was a fairly useful vessel in many respects and could have been made much better had not the Admiralty thought fit to arm her with four or five 4½-inch guns, which she really was unfit to carry; the weight might well have been utilised in other directions. The accommodation aft for distinguished passengers was very good, and when in harbour, as far as they were concerned, she was a very nice yacht; but at sea, when steaming at any speed, the vibration was so terrific, that very few of them could stand being aft, and they generally used to come on the bridge and camp out there, which was not always very convenient to the officers who were carrying out their duties. However, the sea trips were generally short, and on the whole she answered very well, and only disappeared from service a few years ago. Having commissioned her, I was of course on board during her steam trials. With picked coal, and, moreover, with (what is more important still) picked stokers, she succeeded in going about eighteen knots on the measured mile, and under the same favourable circumstances did quite well on her six hours’ full-speed trial, averaging nearly sixteen knots. But we were to be bitterly disappointed in her performances later on. Without adventitious aids she turned out to be a very moderate steamer and not the best of sea boats. The first distinguished passenger we were ordered to embark was the Duke of Connaught. His Royal Highness was about to start for India, and wishing to curtail the length of his journey, decided to travel to Marseilles overland, from thence to be conveyed to Malta in the Surprise, where he could hit off the P. & O. steamer which was to take him to his destination. It became a question of accurate timing, as the P. & O. boats were in the habit of staying but very few hours at Malta. Consequently, the question arose of the number of hours it would take the Surprise to go from Marseilles to Malta. The Captain and I put our heads together, and though we were much too old hands at the game to place very implicit reliance in full-speed trials as conducted by the Admiralty, we thought we could safely guarantee an average speed of thirteen knots, which seemed to leave a very fair margin up our sleeves. About the end of August we left the port of Marseilles with our Royal passenger on board, steaming gaily some fourteen and a half knots. The heat was very great, and the stokers, though very willing, were mostly young hands, the coal was very far from being picked, so the speed of the ship, in spite of every effort, gradually got lower and lower, and we finally crawled into Malta at the ignoble speed of about ten knots, a good many hours late. It was a very mortifying début to make on our station, and it was a long time before we heard the last of it.

People interested in the Navy, who read the official accounts of the trials of new ships that always used to be published in The Times, may gather from this sad experience what a difference there is in actual practice between the performances that are published, and what is apt to be realised later on under normal conditions. (Eye-wash again!)

From 1886 to 1888, during my term of service on board the Surprise, the Mediterranean Station was at its zenith as regards strength and importance. It had been looked upon for many years as the Blue Ribbon of the Navy, and as regards the person of the Commander-in-Chief, it naturally gained additional éclat from the fact that no less a personage than H.R.H. Vice-Admiral the Duke of Edinburgh, the second son of Queen Victoria, was Commander-in-Chief, with the local rank of Admiral. His Royal Highness had hoisted his flag in February 1886 in the Alexandra, and in addition to her had seven of the most modern of our armour-clad ships under his command, with a considerable number of small craft, principally employed on service in the Red Sea. The Admiral and many of his Captains have joined the majority, but amongst others who are still with us, are the present Admiral Sir Compton Domville, then Captain of the Temeraire, and subsequently Commander-in-Chief of the Mediterranean Station; Admiral Sir Henry Stephenson,[2] now Usher of the Black Rod, then commanding the Dreadnought, had under his orders our present King, serving as a Lieutenant on board that ship; Admiral of the Fleet Sir Hedworth Meux, then Commander Lambton, in command of the Dolphin sloop; another Admiral, now the Marquis of Milford Haven, was, as Prince Louis of Battenberg, Commander of the Dreadnought; while prominent among the Lieutenants serving in the different ships were the late Admirals Sir George Warrender, and Sir Frederick Hamilton, and the late Captain the Hon. Hugh Tyrrwhitt. Admirals Sir Cecil Colville, Sir Colin Keppel and Sir James Startin, all of whose names have already occurred in these notes, Midshipman David Beatty of the Alexandra, now Admiral of the Fleet Earl Beatty, are still, I am rejoiced to think, very much alive.

Malta, where I was to spend a great deal of my life for the next two years, was very gay. The Duchess of Edinburgh passed the whole of the winter there. The Governor had temporarily made over the palace of San Antonio, with its wonderful orange gardens, to the Duke and Duchess during their stay at Malta, so it was there that I first had the honour of making the acquaintance of Her Imperial Highness and her children. Her two eldest daughters were then only about eleven and twelve years of age, but already gave promise of great beauty; indeed, the eldest, the present Queen of Roumania, was, and still is, one of the most beautiful and attractive women in the world. The Duchess herself, if I may take the liberty of saying so, was, and is, a very remarkable woman. For the only daughter of the Emperor Alexander (in those days the greatest potentate in the world), it was in some ways rather a step downwards to marry a second son, even though he was the son of Queen Victoria; and, moreover, to be in a certain sense merely the wife of an Admiral when the Duke was employed on the duties of his profession; but she certainly succeeded, in her position as wife to the Commander-in-Chief, in making herself extremely popular with the Naval Officers at Malta. The dinners at San Antonio were infinitely more agreeable and less stiff than the sort of entertainments which were generally given at the various Admiralty Houses that I have known, and a command to dine there was not only an honour but a very distinct pleasure into the bargain.

Her Imperial Highness, like most of her compatriots, adored the South. She was devoted to Italian art, and lost no opportunity of seeing everything that was worth seeing in Italy and Sicily, and were I to catalogue all the interesting places that the Surprise visited in the course of two years, sometimes in company with the rest of the Fleet, and sometimes on detached cruises “on her own,” the result would be like nothing in the world so much as a portion of “Baedeker” on Italy.

But before saying anything more about trips, the main interest of which consisted in seeing some of the wonders of Italy, I must write of two or three cruises that were nothing if not official.

The first important duty which devolved on the Surprise, very shortly after her arrival on the station, was to convey the Admiral, in his dual capacity as a son of Queen Victoria and also as Commander-in-Chief of the Mediterranean, to pay an official visit to the Sultan. This visit was a very interesting one, and though I do not pretend to any inside knowledge of the motives which inspired it, or made its recurrence necessary, the following year, I have a shrewd suspicion that what was evident to any spectator, was not very far remote from the truth. The late Sir Edward Thornton, who was then our Ambassador to the Sublime Port, had served his country with great distinction and held many important posts. He had been Ambassador both at Washington and Petersburg, but none the less it is possible that, being a remarkably straightforward English gentleman, that hotbed of intrigue and lies, the Turkish Capital, was not exactly the place for him. At any rate, it was noticeable, even to an outsider like myself, that the Duke’s reception was distinctly of a cold nature. The last function of the visit consisted in a dinner at the Yildiz Kiosque, at which the Duke was the guest of the evening, most of his officers, I being one of the number, being included in the dinner party. There was considerable delay when the Englishmen arrived at the palace, and finally the Sultan sent a message to say that he was unwell and unable to be present. There was nothing for it but to dine, and it certainly seemed to me as if the honours of the house were done by Monsieur Nelidoff, the Russian Ambassador, who was known to be all-powerful at that moment, and having been there for a good many years, was the natural doyen of the Corps Diplomatique. Apparently, the Government at home were distinctly dissatisfied with the reception that had been accorded to an English Prince, who was also holding a very high official position, and the upshot of it was that Sir Edward Thornton was withdrawn and Sir William White, to whom allusion has already been made, was appointed in his place. The Duke, to make the outgoing Ambassador’s departure more dignified, placed the Surprise at his disposal, so, later in the year, towards the end of October, we found ourselves in Turkish waters again. The Ambassador was still at his summer residence at Therapia, and embarked from there with Lady Thornton and his daughters. His departure was certainly impressive enough, for all the “chers collègues” came in their state caïques to see him off, and the multitude of floral offerings reminded me of nothing so much as a very expensive funeral. Anyhow, one is glad to think that a very distinguished public servant, under such circumstances, had at any rate a more fitting conveyance than an ordinary mail steamer, though I am not sure that for the long passage, as it was to Marseilles, a mail steamer might not have been a more comfortable ship in which to travel.

Next year the Surprise again conveyed the Duke to Constantinople on a similar mission, and this time there was no mistake about the way in which he was received. We had hardly anchored in the Golden Horn, and the usual official callers had barely arrived on board when a huge caïque, with one of the Sultan’s Aides-de-Camp, came alongside laden up with every sort of thing—sheep, Turkish sweetmeats, countless cigarettes and cases of champagne—with a message to say that not only was the Duke the Sultan’s honoured guest, but that His Majesty wished every officer and man serving on board the Surprise to consider himself as a guest as well. The Sultan was, on this occasion, present at the dinner at Yildiz and all went well.

Sir William White had lived the greater part of his life in the Middle East and thoroughly understood how to handle the Turk. A diplomatist of that nation once told me the following story which I believe to be absolutely true. On one occasion, during Sir William’s reign at Constantinople, the Grand Vizier had come to see him on some business, and the interview had not been a very peaceable one. The Grand Vizier was insisting rather peremptorily on his point when he was suddenly interrupted: “Monsieur le Grand Vizier, je vous defends de me parler sur ce ton là—à la porte!”—and “à la porte” the Grand Vizier went, to return next day in a very chastened spirit to make his submission.

Some of the Surprise’s cruises are worth mentioning. One of the earliest, with the Duchess on board, after commencing at Naples extended itself to Leghorn and Genoa, from the first of which ports Florence could easily be reached. At Naples in those days the Consul was Mr. Neville-Rolfe. He was intended by Nature to be a Norfolk Squire and to live at his place, Heacham Hall, but fate and falling rents decreed otherwise, so he took up his residence at Naples, where he was Consul for many years. Naturally a keen lover of art, he had in addition made a close study of the late Greek, and early Roman periods, and a more delightful guide to Naples it was impossible to meet. Under his auspices, the Duchess, and we of the ship who were privileged to accompany her, saw Naples in a most interesting way. Excavation work was going on (as indeed it nearly always is) at Pompei, and for the benefit of such a distinguished visitor a very promising portion of a Pompeian house was excavated. Talk about sport! Nothing is really more exciting than digging, and I can remember the breathless way we hung over the digger when his delicately handled trowel had obviously met with something worth exhuming. The something was generally a fragment of one of the inevitable amphoræ that are dug up literally by the dozen, (as indeed befits vessels that once contained wine,) and are so common as to be valueless. The result of the investigation that we witnessed was very disappointing, like many another day’s sport. The only thing of the smallest interest that we discovered was an ivory make-up box that probably had belonged, some eighteen hundred years ago, to some Pompeian beauty. Baiæ was also visited. It was easy for the Surprise to run round and anchor in the bay there, and in fine weather there was no difficulty in landing passengers on the beach in the immediate vicinity of that splendid series of temples.

It is difficult to imagine a more agreeable place for a ship to winter in than was Malta at that time, especially in the Surprise’s case when a long stay there could be broken by cruises to Sicily and the mainland of Italy. Polo was our principal amusement, and besides a number of keen naval players, among whom must be included our present King, then Prince George of Wales, there were the officers of two or three very sporting regiments, (the Gordon Highlanders in particular,) who took an active part in the game, the result being that we were all hard at it two or three times in the week. Fortunately for me, the Surprise being looked upon as a sort of tender to the flagship, I generally made one of the Alexandra team in ship against ship, and fleet against garrison, matches. I am afraid in those days I was heathen enough to prefer polo to art, and so, much as I liked the cruises, I have to confess that it was a pleasure to get back to Malta and my ponies again. The pony racing, too, was capital fun. Hedworth Lambton, who had then, and still retains, his family’s love for the sport, had some good ponies, and many of the officers of the garrison went in for racing very seriously; any betting that was necessary, could be done on the Indian system of the selling lottery.

But in addition to ponies the Navy had a very valuable racing possession, which amounted almost to a monopoly, namely the best light-weight jockey in the island, in the person of Midshipman David Beatty, who, being of a riding family, had been well brought up by his father—the Major of that name. Major Beatty knew, and no man better, not only all about the animal, horse, but how he should be ridden, and his son had profited to the full by the lessons he had received as a small boy.

And so the winter slipped pleasantly away. The summer of 1887 was made memorable in England by the celebration of Queen Victoria’s Jubilee. It was, of course, necessary for the Duke of Edinburgh to be present in England during the period of the festivities, so in June the Surprise conveyed him to Marseilles en route to London. The Surprise was directed to remain at Marseilles until his expected return in a week’s time. Meanwhile, the Fleet was ordered to the Balearic Islands, where he could rejoin it and continue the summer cruise which had just begun. The port of La Joliette where we lay was somewhat malodorous and stuffy in the month of June, so, as soon as the Admiral had left the ship, the Captain and I decided to take a few days’ leave, he being bent on going to Paris, whilst I selected Monte Carlo. I duly returned the night before the Surprise was timed to sail, and, arriving on board heard, rather to my surprise, that the Captain had not yet appeared. However, as he had talked of going to Paris I came to the conclusion that he had arranged to meet the Duke there and would travel back with him. The Surprise was made ready for sea in the morning to move out the moment the Admiral was on board, and the officers were duly fallen in to meet him at the gangway, when it was noticed that the Captain was not in the boat. As he stepped on board the Admiral’s first question was the very natural one: “Where’s the Captain?” Of course no answer was forthcoming; the only things to do were to inform the Consul in case there had been any foul play, and to acquaint the Admiralty, both of which were done.

The Surprise at once proceeded on her way, and I received an acting-commission as Commander, pending the time when a new one could be appointed and join. Of course it was very pleasant to be in command, and I could only hope that the Admiralty would be a long time considering who they could appoint to supersede me; but meanwhile we were all greatly distressed about our missing Captain. Personally, I was devoted to him. Clever and agreeable, with a strong artistic sense which he had inherited from his father, the Squire of Hunstanton, who had been himself no mean frescoist in his time, I am deeply indebted to him for giving me my first introduction to the great painters and sculptors of Italy, of whose work he had made an intimate study, and a more interesting and amusing cicerone never existed. It turned out that instead of going to Paris he had betaken himself to Avignon, to visit the numerous antiquities there. The weather was very hot, and a sunstroke had been followed by brain fever. Many days passed before his family succeeded in tracing him, and, though he recovered, and served again as Commander of an iron-clad in the Mediterranean, he was never quite the same man again. It was not many years later that I was one of the mourners at his graveside when he was buried in the churchyard that lay close to his beautiful old home in Norfolk.

The Admiral, having rejoined his Fleet and been transhipped to his flagship, continued the summer cruise; but the Surprise was ordered off to Cadiz to be placed at the disposal of our Ambassador to Spain, the late Sir Clare Ford. The King of Spain had decided to open a maritime exhibition which was to be held at Cadiz, and there being a tremendous run on all the hotel accommodation there, the Duke, with his usual kindness, lent his dispatch boat to the Ambassador to be used as a temporary residence. Accordingly, Sir Clare and his son, Mr. Johnny Ford, took up their abode on board for a few days, while the festivities were taking place. The rest of the personnel of the Embassy had, I believe, billeted themselves on the many hospitable Englishmen connected with the Xeres wine trade, who lived in the neighbourhood. Sir Clare and his son were both very agreeable guests, and I continued to see a good deal of Johnny (as he was always called) until the time of his death, a short time ago. He served for some years in the Diplomatic Service, but his health broke down completely, owing, I have always heard, to some mysterious ailment which he was unfortunate enough to contract whilst serving at our Legation in Persia. He was very clever, and a well-known figure in the more artistic side of London Society. Sir Clare, at Madrid, was very much the right man in the right place, for he knew the country well; his father had lived there many years, and was responsible for that delightful book, Wanderings in Spain, which I have always heard was the precursor of all the Murray Guide Books. Would that all guide books were written with such a light and amusing pen.

The “Festa” at Cadiz came to an end like all other “Festas,” and so did my brief term of command, for in the first days of August our newly appointed Captain, Commander the Honourable Maurice Bourke, superseded me, and I reverted to my old duties of First-Lieutenant. Again Providence had been kind to the Surprise, as our new Captain was one of the most charming and beloved of men. At one time his career was almost a synonym for good luck. Everything had gone well with him. Very good-looking, with all the charm of the best sort of Irishman, one of the smartest and ablest officers afloat, he seemed inevitably destined to hold in turn every high command that the Navy in those days could offer. And then came a run of the most persistent ill-fortune. Not long after I left the Surprise she was badly in collision with a merchant steamer. It was not in the very remotest way the fault of the Captain, but at the same time it was an unpleasant incident. A very few years afterwards he was Flag-Captain to Sir George Tryon, when that terrible Victoria and Camperdown collision occurred, which cost so much loss of life, and, moreover, so much loss of reputation. Again, poor Maurice Bourke could not be blamed, but none the less he was the Captain of the ship in fault. He was unlucky for the third time later on, when Senior Officer in the Newfoundland, though the mishap to his ship was trifling. Unfortunately, his health had suffered greatly by the long immersion he had undergone, and the shock he had sustained, at the sinking of the Victoria, and he died, alas! at a comparatively early age. If it is ever true to write of a man, that he died regretted by all who knew him, I think it might be written of him. To me he was the kindest of friends and captains, and I was one of the very many who mourned his loss sincerely.