Chapter Twenty.
Adventures on the road.—Welcomed at home.—Confess my love for the little Rebel.—Tom’s grief for his mother’s death.—Hear of Captain Cook’s death.—Visit to London.—The Gordon riots.—Encounter with the mob.—Save an old gentleman in his carriage.—Give him my name.—Wonder who he can be.—Join the Charon, Captain Thomas Symonds.—Sail for West Indies.
Seldom, I suspect, have two rough-looking subjects made their appearance at an inn in the great City of London than Tom Rockets and I must have seemed when we arrived there by the Deal heavy coach on the evening of the 22nd of March, 1780. Our faces were of the colour of dark copper, and our beards were as rough and thick as holly bushes, while Tom sported a pig-tail and love-locks, which he flattered himself would prove the admiration of all the belles in his native village. They, at all events, drew forth not a few remarks from the little errand-boys in the streets of London, as we heard such remarks as, “There go two sea monsters!” “Where can those niggers have come from?” “Look there, at that sailor man with a bit of a cable fastened on to his pole!” More than once Tom turned to try and catch hold one of the little jackanapes, but he was off so fast down some lane or other that even Tom could not overtake him. I advised him to give up the attempt, and to take their impertinence coolly. I kept Tom by me wherever I went, for I felt pretty certain that, should I once lose sight of him, he might never find his way back to me.
I cannot stop to describe all the sights we saw, and the places we visited in the mighty metropolis. The town was talking a great deal of a duel which had taken place the very morning of our arrival in Hyde Park between Lord Shelbourne and Colonel Fullerton. The quarrel was about some reflection which the latter gentleman had cast upon his lordship. On the second shot the colonel hit Lord Shelbourne, who fell to the ground, but the wound was not considered dangerous. I bethought me of the duel I had fought when I was a boy, and that these two great people were very little wiser than I was then.
As soon as we could get places in the old coach we started for Falmouth, intending to visit the remainder of the sights on our way back to the ship. Away we rumbled, one fine morning, on board the big coach, as Tom called it, with a guard behind well armed with a huge blunderbuss and a brace of horse pistols. We stopped to change horses at an inn about thirty miles from London. A long line of horses, with packs on their backs, were collected in front of the stables to be watered. Twenty men or so were lounging about, apparently belonging to them. Presently there was a cry of, “The Custom-house officers! the Custom-house officers!” The men ran up from all directions, unloosed the halters, leaped on the backs of some saddle-horses standing ready, and the whole party began to move along the road. They had not gone many yards when another party of horsemen were seen galloping up from the direction in which they were going. The smugglers—for such the guard told us they were—turned round and dashed by us, but they were again met by another party of Custom-house officers. Swords were drawn, pistols were fired, the bullets came flying about the coach, greatly to the alarm of some of the passengers, who cried out and begged the combatants to desist. Our horses kicked and plunged, and nearly upset the coach. Tom and I could not help wishing to join the skirmish, and had jumped off for the purpose, though I had scarcely made up my mind with which party to side, when some of the smugglers threw down their arms and cried peccavi, while the rest tried to escape across the country over the hedges and ditches. Some were caught, but several effected their escape. I was well satisfied, when I had time to reflect on the matter, that I had not had time to mix in the affray. Altogether, thirty horses were captured, as were several of the smugglers, some of whom were wounded, as were five or six of the horses. We were, when passing through Devonshire, attacked by a party of highwaymen, but they, finding several armed men on the top of the coach who did not look as if we would stand any nonsense, thought it was wiser not to make any further attempt at robbing us. These trifling circumstances were the only events which occurred to us worthy of notice till we reached Falmouth. Tom accompanied me to my father’s house, for I wanted to show him to them all, and also to ascertain whether his mother was living before I let him go home. We had been so long without hearing that I could not tell what might have occurred during our absence; my knees positively trembled as I approached the dear old red-brick house, and I felt as if I could scarcely walk up the flight of stone steps in front of it. The door was open. A little child was playing on the steps, and when he saw us he ran into the house, crying out—
“Oh, Grannie, Grannie! dear me, dear me! there are two big ugly blackamoors a-coming!”
Tom made a face, and looked at himself as if he did not much like the compliment, though he might have felt he deserved it. I should have caught up the little fellow and kissed him heartily, for I guessed that he must be one of my dear sister Mary’s children, and the first kindred thing I had seen for many a long year. The cry brought out a neat, trim old lady, in a mob cap. She gave me an inquiring glance through her spectacles, and then, hurrying forward, caught me in her arms and kissed me again and again on both cheeks in spite of my huge beard and whiskers.
“My boy, my boy! you’ve came back at last to your old father and mother, bless Heaven far it?” she exclaimed, holding me at arms’ length to examine my features, and then drawing me to her again. Tom pulled off his hat, and scraped his feet, and hitched up his trousers, and looked as if he expected to receive a similar welcome. Poor fellow! his heart yearned, I dare say, to have the arms of his own old mother round his neck. My mother looked at him to inquire who he was, and when I told her, an expression of sorrow crossed over her features, and I too truly guessed that she had some sad tidings for him. She, however, summoned a maid-servant, to whom she whispered a few words, and then told her to take him into the kitchen and make him comfortable. My father was out, but while I was sitting in the parlour I heard him come in. My mother went out to tell him that I had arrived, and he came hurrying in with steps far more tottering than was formerly his wont. He wrung my hand with both of his for more than a minute. From the tremulous motion of his fingers, and the tone of his voice and his general appearance, with sorrow I observed that he was much broken and aged. Still his playful humour had not deserted him, and he soon began to amuse himself by cutting jokes on my swarthy features and unshorn visage. Mary’s little boy, Jack, in a very short time, became perfectly reconciled to my looks, and came and sat on my knee and let me dance him and ride him, and listened eagerly to the songs I sang him and the stories I told. Though I had not had a child in my hands for I don’t know how many years, it all came naturally, and the little chap and I became great friends. Only my sister Jane, the one just above me in age, was at home. All my brothers were scattered about, some in England, others in different parts of the world seeking their fortunes. I was in a great hurry to talk to Jane about Madeline. I knew that she would sympathise with me. I had not written home a word about her, for I knew that it would never do to say that I had fallen in love with the daughter of a rebel, as my feelings and motives and reasons would not fail to be misunderstood. I thought that I would first interest Jane, and then that we could win over my mother to listen to what we had to say, and then that my father would easily be brought round. Of course I knew that two important events must occur before anything I could say or do would be of any use. The abominable war between England and the United States must cease, and I must become possessed of a competence to support a wife as I felt Madeline ought to be supported.
I had not been long in the house before the news of my arrival had spread among our friends and neighbours. Many came in to see the long-absent sailor, as the ladies called me, and some to inquire about their relatives, my old shipmates and comrades. Of too many, unhappily, I could give but a bad account. Some had died of fever, others had been killed fighting with the enemy, and many, knocked up by hard work and disease, would, I thought, never return, or, if they found their way home, it would be but to die. I tried, however, to make the best of all the accounts I had to give, but I strained my conscience not a little a times to do so. This was a moral cowardice, I own. I could not stand the tears and sorrowful faces of friends when I would have wished to have had smiles and laughter. Still there can be no doubt that the truth should be spoken on all occasions, and I should, at every cost, have had it out at once. After all, the worst was to have to tell poor Tom that his mother was dead. For the life of me I could not do it, so I got Jane to go and break the sad news to him. I knew that the good girl would do it as gently as it could be done. She screwed up her courage, and went into the kitchen and sat down, and began to tell him how she was always talking of him, and hoping that he was a good lad, and then how ill she had been. At last Tom got up—
“Oh, Miss Jane!” said he, almost choking, “I know by your looks what you are going to tell me. Bless you for your kindness. The old lady has gone to heaven; that’s it, I know. She was a good mother to me, and I don’t care who knows, I would sooner by half have died myself. Bless you, miss! Bless you, miss!”
Then Tom sat down, and, putting his hands on the kitchen table, hid his face in them, and by the working of his brawny shoulders I knew how much he was affected. We left him to the care of our old cook, Betsy Treggle, who, we knew, could minister to his sorrow better than we could, and returned into the parlour.
“Sailors have got hearts, I see,” observed my mother.
“I should think so, mother,” said I; “the sea does not wash them away; and yet there isn’t a braver fellow ever stepped the deck of a ship than the same Tom Rockets, who seems to be almost pumping his heart out yonder.”
Then I gave them all an account of his adventure at the taking of San Fernando D’Omoa, when he handed the Spanish officer a cutlass to fight with him. In the first few days I was at home I was made more of than I ever had been before in my life. Tom stayed on with us. He had now no home to go to—no friends for whom he cared. He recovered his spirits and became as great a lion among his class as I was among mine—indeed, I suspect a far greater, as he made more than I could of all the adventures he had gone through, and was eager to tell about. The days passed by very pleasantly, but I felt a weight oppressing me, and could not rest till I had unburdened my mind to Jane about Madeline early on. At last I got her alone quietly, and told her all that had happened from beginning to end, and all my hopes and fears and wishes. She listened attentively. Her countenance changed its expression frequently as I went on. I looked at her earnestly to try and discover what she thought.
“Oh, brother,” she exclaimed at last, “I doubt not that she is a dear charming girl. I doubt not that you love her, and that she is deserving of your love, but she is the daughter of a rebel. She is living among rebels; she will not leave them; but for you to go to them, to wed with her would assuredly bring dishonour and disgrace upon your name.”
“Why, Jane, I did not expect you to speak thus,” I exclaimed. “You are hard upon me. I would not wish to go and live with rebels; but the Americans will not be rebels much longer. We are pressing them hard by land and sea, and they will soon come to terms. If they do not give in I think we shall give up, for everybody is heartily sick of the war. Nobody is gaining anything, and everybody is losing by it. Fighting the French and the Spaniards is a very different thing. Everybody feels that. It’s all natural, you know.”
“I’m sure that I shall be glad to hear that the war is over,” said Jane, with a sigh, “but surely the Americans must be very wicked people to behave as they have done to their lawful sovereign King George.”
“They say that he has been a very ill-advised King to behave as he has done to them,” I replied. “You see, dear Jane, that there are two sides to every question; but do not let us discuss that matter just now. You’ll say that, for the sake of Madeline Carlyon, I am siding too much with the Americans, but that is not the reason. I have been on the spot. I know the feelings of both sides. I have seen how things have been managed. I am sure the war can bring no honour or profit to England, and I heartily wish that it was ended one way or the other.”
“So do I, brother, believe me,” said Jane warmly; “and then, if Miss Carlyon is all you describe her, I for one will cordially welcome her as a sister if you can persuade her to come over here to visit our kith and kin.”
I jumped up and gave Jane a hearty kiss when she said this.
“Just like my own good sister,” said I at the same time, and in a moment I pictured to myself the happiness which would be mine, when perhaps in that very room I might be introducing Madeline to my family. I forgot that I was still a poor lieutenant—that the wealth I had so nearly possessed, and had fought so hard to obtain, had gone to the bottom in the old Leviathan—that I had saved but a few hundred pounds of prize-money—that England and the American States were still actively engaged in war—that the Atlantic still rolled between her and me, and that her kindred would probably exert their influence to make her give up all thoughts of one fighting on the side of their enemies. I was young, and hope was bright, and difficulties and impediments were speedily kicked away. Before another day Jane and I were talking away as if my marriage with Madeline Carlyon was a settled thing. At last we told our mother, dear old soul! She didn’t see how it could be exactly, but then that was her fault; and though she used to have some idea formerly that the Americans were red, and wore leathern cloaks and petticoats covered with beads and feathers, and painted their faces, yet, as I assured her that Miss Carlyon was quite fair, and spoke English like an English girl, she would be very glad to receive her as a daughter, and for my sake love her very much. The toughest job was to tell my father. I was half afraid how he would take the matter. He did not scold me, or say I had been acting foolishly, but merely smiled and remarked that he had heard of midshipmen falling in love before, and that he had no doubt that Miss Carlyon was a very charming young lady; but that when I brought her over as my wife he should be able to pronounce a more decided opinion on the matter. There was, however, a touch of irony in his tone which I did not altogether like. However, he used after that to listen very patiently when we were all talking about her, and, I flattered myself, began to take an interest in my project. The days flew by very rapidly. I was invited out everywhere, and became quite a lion, not only because I had been in so many engagements and storms and dangers of all sorts, and had had so many hair-breadth escapes, but more especially because I had actually seen and conversed with General Washington. The young ladies, however, looked upon me as a very insensible sort of a person, especially for a naval officer, and could not in any way make me out. Of course, neither Jane nor my mother and father said a word about Miss Carlyon, and so we let them wonder on till I believe that I completely lost my character among them. Six weeks thus passed rapidly away. The time thus spent was interesting to me, but no events occurred of sufficient importance to describe to my readers. My regular employment was to search the public papers for news from America, to see how affairs were going in that country; and though most naval officers would have been anxious for a continuance of the war, my great wish was to discover signs that there was a probability of its being brought to a conclusion.
Since I had known Captain Cook I had always taken great interest in his adventures, and just now the sad news arrived of his death on the island of Hawaii, one of a group of newly-discovered islands in the Pacific Ocean called the Sandwich Islands. Four of his marines were killed at the same time. At first the natives treated him and his people as divinities, but on some misunderstanding they furiously set upon Captain Cook, and killed him with their clubs as he was retreating to his boat. The Resolution and Discovery proceeded on their voyage under the command of Captain Clerke, but he soon after dying at sea, Mr King took command of the expedition. Captain Clerke was a very gallant fellow. I knew him well.
At last my leave was nearly up, and I had to set off to rejoin my ship, allowing myself a few days to spend in London. Jane advised me to stop at Bristol to visit our great-uncle, Sir Hurricane Tempest, but I replied that I did not think the old gentleman would care about seeing me, and I certainly should not find any pleasure in seeing him.
“You don’t know,” she answered, laughing; “he might take a fancy to you and make you his heir. He has asked me to visit him, and I think I will, some of these days.”
“I hope that you will, Jane, dear,” said I. “You are far more likely to win an old man’s heart than I am. I am as likely to become his heir as Sultan of the Turks.”
Jane still further urged the point, but I only laughed and went on to London without stopping to see him.
On arriving in London, accompanied by Tom Rockets, I went to the house of a relative of ours in Bloomsbury Square, one of the most fashionable and elegant quarters of London. He and his wife were very grand people, but they had a fancy for patronising celebrities small and great, and having by some chance heard that I had seen a good deal of service, and could talk about what I had seen, they begged I would come and see them, and make their house my home. I took them at their word, though I think they were somewhat astonished when Tom and I arrived in a coach with our traps stored inside and out of it. They looked, at all events, as if I had tumbled from the moon. However, I made myself perfectly at home, and we soon became great friends. I was on the point of leaving them when a letter reached me from Captain Luttrell, prolonging my leave, and I found that I might have remained three weeks longer at home. When they heard of it, they most kindly invited me to remain on with them. I amused myself pretty well, after I had seen all the sights of London, by wandering about and examining the outside, as it were, of the huge metropolis. One of the places at which I found myself was the suburb of Tyburn, to the north of Hyde Park. It was a considerable distance from London itself, and well it might be, for here was the place of execution of all ordinary malefactors. One day I was passing this spot when I saw four carts approaching. In each of them were three persons sitting, with their arms closely pinioned. On each side of the carts rode public officers, the sheriffs, city marshals, the ordinary of Newgate, and others. I asked a bystander where they were going and what was to be done to them, for I did not know at the time that I was near Tyburn.
“Why, of course, they are all going to be hung,” was his reply. “We are pretty well accustomed to such sights about here.”
“Are they all murderers?” I asked, thinking, perhaps, that they were a gang of pirates.
“No—oh no!” said my friend. “They are mostly guilty of robbery, though. You will hear what they have to say for themselves before they are turned off; I will learn for you, if you have a curiosity to know.”
He went away, and soon returned with a paper on which were written the names of the malefactors and their crimes. One had stolen some wearing apparel; another had robbed a gentleman of his watch on the highway; a third had purloined some silks and ribbons from a shop, and so on. None of the crimes, that I remember, were attended with violence, and most of the criminals were mere lads, from seventeen to twenty years of age, and only one or two above it. I remarked this to my companion.
“Yes,” he observed. “The older ones are too knowing to be caught.”
The poor lads seemed terribly agitated and cast down at their approaching fate, and shed abundance of tears. One after the other was led up to the fatal drop and cast off. I could not stop to see the end, but hurried away. I had seen hundreds of my fellow-creatures die, but I hoped that I might never again see any put to death as these were.
After this I went down to Chatham to see how the ship was getting on, and then returned to London. I found the city in a complete state of uproar and confusion. It was on a Friday, the 2nd of June, when Tom and I made our way towards the Houses of Parliament, for I had heard that Lord George Gordon was going with a large body of people to present a protest against the repeal of any of the penal laws against the Roman Catholics. I wanted to see the fun. There must have been twenty thousand people at least, who arrived in three different bodies before the Houses of Parliament. Here they behaved very orderly, and dispersed after being addressed by some of the magistrates; but the mob in other places broke out into all sorts of excesses, and as we went home we found them busily employed in demolishing a Romish Chapel in Duke Street, near Lincoln’s Inn Fields. They hauled out all the ornaments, and what they thought of no value they trampled under foot, but the rest they made off with. Several houses, either belonging to Romanists, or inhabited by persons supposed to be favourable to them, we saw completely gutted. The same sort of work went on for several days. At last I got so completely mixed up with one of the mobs that I could not get free of them.
“Here, you look a likely man to lead us!” exclaimed a fellow standing near me. “Where shall we go next?”
I did not answer him, but endeavoured to get away. This did not suit him.
“What does the captain say?” he exclaimed.
“To Sir George Saville’s, to Sir George Saville’s!” cried some one.
“Hurrah for Sir George Saville’s in Leicester Fields! He was the very man who brought the Romish Bill into Parliament. Down with his house, down with it!” shouted another fellow. “Lead on, captain—lead on!”
I at once saw that this was a trick that the real leader of the mob might be screened. I was determined to escape or I might be ruined. I told Tom to keep his eye on me, and to follow my movements. The mob began to move on, destroying one or two houses on their way. We at last passed the entrance to a narrow lane. Leaping aside, I darted down it. Tom followed. None of the mob missed me. I had got some way along the lane when a big, ill-favoured-looking fellow rushed out of a house with a thick stick in his hand, evidently with the intention of joining the rioters. Seeing a gentleman, and probably thinking I was a Romanist escaping from the mob, he immediately turned on me and aimed a blow at my head. I was just turning a corner, and he did not see Tom Rockets, but Tom saw him, and with a stroke of his fist felled him to the ground. Some other persons in the neighbouring houses saw the transaction, and the fellow quickly recovering there was a hue and cry made after us, the people rushing from their doors just as dogs are seen to run out from their kennels, yelping and barking when a stranger cur passes through the village.
As we were unarmed we could do nothing to defend ourselves, and had to trust to our heels for safety. Our pursuers were very likely, I knew, to tear us in pieces without asking any questions, and before we had time to explain who we were. I never ran faster in my life. How we were to escape them I could not tell. On we went: I sang out to Tom to stick by me, for if I should lose him I was afraid he might never find his way home again. We were distancing our pursuers. I made as many turns as I could, so as to cause them to lose the scent; but there were knowing fellows among them, and I conclude that they found as great an interest in the chase as a foxhunter does when following the hounds. At last I saw before me a large mob. There is safety in numbers, I thought to myself, so I called to Tom to dash in among them.
“Hurrah! hurrah! have you caught the fellow?” I sang out.
“No, he’s slipped out of his kennel, but we’ll take care that he does not burrow in it again,” replied some of the people.
I guessed that they referred to the unfortunate inmate of the mansion into which numbers of them were forcing their way, while pictures, books, and pieces of furniture were being thrown out of the windows. I pretended to be very eager to get into the house, but making my way round on the opposite side, followed by Tom, we got free; and when I looked back I saw that no one was following us. We now walked along as composedly as we could, but it was not without difficulty that we found our way into Bloomsbury Square. As we got there we saw a mob following at our heels, and we naturally thought they were after us. We had to run for it to reach my relative’s house. On came the mob. One of the finest houses in the square belonged to my Lord Mansfield. They rushed towards it, and began thundering at the door. They soon broke it open, and in they poured. In an instant the place became the scene of the most dreadful havoc and destruction. Again did I see pictures, clothes, books, furniture of the richest sorts, ruthlessly destroyed. I could scarcely have supposed that the work could have been done so rapidly. Then the most daring of the ruffians broke into the wine-cellar, and we saw them coming out with bottles and jugs and glasses, and distributing the rich liquor to the rabble outside.
What had become of my lord and his lady all this time we could not tell; we had great fears that they had fallen victims to the blind fury of the ignorant populace. I wanted to go out, but my relative would not let me. What the drunken mob might next have done I do not know, when a fresh party were seen entering the square; but they were a body of the royal guards with a magistrate at their head. He boldly approached the mob, and, halting the soldiers at no great distance from them, began to read the Riot Act. He finished it without faltering, the mob continuing as before their work of destruction. “Men,” he shouted, “I have warned you. I am going to give the order to the troops to fire if you do not desist. Once again I warn you—your blood be on your own heads—Fire!”
No sooner was the fatal command given than the soldiers levelled their muskets and let fly in among the rabble. Several fell; there were shrieks and cries and curses; but the people were too eager in their thirst for plunder to be driven off from the work they had in hand. Again the order was given to fire; but the humane magistrate ordered the troops to fire over the heads of the people. Some on this began to move off, but others continued their task of plunder and destruction. No one thought of attacking the soldiery. It showed the class of people composing the rioters—the very scum of the populace. This last fire of course did not produce any effect, and the mob began to proceed to greater extremities, and set fire both to the out-houses and stables, as also to the mansion itself, when they had possessed themselves of everything they thought of value. Only after repeated volleys from the soldiery were they driven off, and not till they had completed the work of destruction they had commenced. This did not take them long, and at last, several of their number having fallen, a panic seized them, and away they went helter-skelter in every direction out of the square. I could not resist the temptation of sallying out to see what they would next do, in spite of the warnings of my relative, who advised me to keep in the house. I laughed at the idea of there being any danger, and said that Tom and I would very soon be back again.
The troops stood their ground in readiness to march in any direction to which they might be sent. Some of the mob went off towards the east, and I went after them, hearing that they were about to attack some of the prisons, and having a fancy to see how they would proceed about the undertaking. Tom and I had gone about half a mile or more, when, coming along a street which crossed that we were in, I saw a coach driving somewhat fast. Some of the rioters saw it also, and some seizing the horses’ heads, others proceeded to open the door, crying out that the person inside was a papist escaping from justice.
“Papist! I am no papist,” cried out an old gentleman from the interior; “let my carriage proceed on, scoundrels, or I’ll break some of your heads for you.”
This threat had no effect; indeed, from the appearance of the fellows I had no doubt that their only object in attacking the carriage was for the sake of robbing the inmate. I had this time taken care to come out provided with a stout bludgeon and a sword. I knew pretty well the sort of coward hearts to be found in that sort of gentry, so telling Tom what I proposed doing, I sang out, “To the rescue! to the rescue!—off scoundrels, off!” and, drawing my sword, I rushed furiously at them, as if I had twenty stout fellows at my back. The desired effect was produced. They did not stop to see who was coming, but took to their heels and left the carriage free. I assisted back the old gentleman, who had been dragged half out of it, and, shutting the door, told the coachman to drive on as hard as he could go.
“Stop, stop! I want to know your name, young man, to thank you for your bravery,” exclaimed the old gentleman vehemently.
“Hurricane Hurry, at your service, sir, a lieutenant in his Majesty’s Navy,” I answered. “I hail from Falmouth, sir—but I won’t stop you, sir, the mob are coming back, and to a certainty they won’t let you off as easily as before. Drive on, coachman, drive on for your life: I can tackle them if they attack me.”
The coachman needed no second warning, but, lashing on his horses, drove furiously along the street, though the old gentleman put his head out of the coach window and ordered him to stop, as he had another word to say to me, and wanted me to get into the coach with him. I would gladly have done as he desired, as there was no object in exposing myself and Tom to the fury of the mob, and was running after the coach, when, looking over my shoulder, I saw some of the ruffians so close on my heels that I was obliged to turn round and defend myself, or I might have received a knock on the head which would probably have quieted me for ever. Knowing that there was nothing like a sudden onslaught, I turned suddenly round, and, seconded by Tom, made so furious an onslaught on the scoundrels that they one and all fled, as if a body of dragoons were upon them. The old gentleman, who was still looking out of the window, calling first to the coachman and then to me, must have seen this last manoeuvre of mine.
After Tom and I had with loud shouts pursued the mob a little way, we once more turned round and set off in order to overtake the coach. It had, however, by that time got out of sight, and though we followed in the direction I supposed it had gone, we did not again see it.
“Never mind,” said I, “I should have liked to have known who the old gentleman was; he looked like somebody of consequence. However, I am very glad to have been of service to him.”
After this adventure I began to reflect that it would be wiser to return home. I could not tell what might next happen. The day was drawing to a close. As we looked eastward, we saw the whole sky glowing with a lurid glare, which I afterwards found was produced by the conflagration of Newgate prison, which, after the mob had broken into and released all the prisoners, they set on fire. My relative was very glad to see me back safe, and on hearing of my adventures said that Tom and I were very fortunate to have escaped with our lives, and positively prohibited our again quitting the house. During the next day flames were seen bursting forth in every direction. Most of the prisons, as also many private houses, were broken open and burnt to the ground, and several hundred people were shot by the military, while perhaps an equal number died from drinking inordinately of spirits which they procured at the distillers’, into which they broke, or were burnt to death in the ruins of the houses they set on fire. At length, however, so many troops, regular and militia, poured into London, that the rioters were completely overcome, and numerous arrests took place. Among others, Lord George Gordon was apprehended and committed a prisoner to the Tower.
Not long after this, I bade my kind friends in London good-bye, and joined my ship at Chatham. I ought to have said that they were very much interested in the account I gave them of the way I had rescued the old gentleman in the coach. Who he could be they could not guess, but they said that they would make inquiries, and if they could hear they would let me know. I felt no little curiosity to obtain this information; but day after day passed by and I heard nothing about the matter. There was something in his look and in his eagerness to speak to me which struck me forcibly at the time, and over and over again his countenance recurred to me; but whether I had ever seen it before, or why it made so deep an impression on me, I could not tell. There was nothing very remarkable in saving an old gentleman from a mob, when mobs were parading all parts of London, and undoubtedly many old gentlemen, physicians and others, were driving about in their coaches, called out, however unwillingly, by urgent business. Hearing nothing, my curiosity at length died away, and I thought no more about the matter. I must remark that Lord George Gordon was afterwards brought to trial, but acquitted of having in any way participated in the riots and plundering and destruction of property which had occurred, as also that any of the disorders had occurred in consequence of his instigation or counsel. He undoubtedly was influenced in his proceedings by a warm affection for the Protestant faith, though it may be doubted whether he took the wisest course to support it. He wished that the multitudes he assembled should merely produce a moral effect on the Houses of Parliament. The ruffians and robbers of London took the opportunity, on finding large masses of people assembled, to create disturbances, and to incite the more ignorant masses to commit all sorts of outrages in order that they might have greater licence and opportunities of plunder. In this they unhappily succeeded, and brought no small amount of opprobrium and disgrace on the Protestant cause. I have now said, I think, enough about my adventures on shore.
On the 16th of June Captain Luttrell was superseded in his command of the Charon by Captain Thomas Symonds, whose son was appointed third lieutenant of the ship. On the 1st of July we dropped down to Sheerness, where we got in our guns. On the 12th we removed to the Little Nore, where the purser, surgeon, lieutenant of marines, gunner and carpenter quitted the ship. On the 24th we sailed from the Nore, and on the 25th anchored in the Downs. We quitted it with a convoy on the 28th, and arrived at Spithead the following morning. Here the first lieutenant was superseded by Mr Thomas Edwards. On the 6th of August we sailed from Spithead, and on the 7th anchored in Plymouth Sound. Here we remained till the 9th, when we proceeded down channel. On the 10th we took our departure from the Lizard, and once more I bade adieu to the British shore. I will not say that I quitted it with regret. I dearly loved England, in spite of all her faults, but I believed that I might on the other side of the Atlantic have a prospect of meeting with Madeline Carlyon, or at all events of hearing of her, and that alone was ample inducement to me gladly to encounter all the dangers and hardships to which I might be exposed.
Many others have, I suppose, thought and felt and hoped as I did, and many others have been disappointed.
“Hurrah for the West Indies—Spanish galleons—dark-eyed Creoles and prize-money!” was the general toast on board the Charon.
Chapter Twenty One.
Put into Cork harbour.—Sail with convoy.—Capture of the Compte D’Artois.—Arrive off Charleston.—British troops made prisoners.—Sail for New York.—Hear of Madeline through my hostess the Dutch widow.—Receive General Arnold and his men on board fleet.—In command of Arrow.—Reach the Chesapeake.—Hear of hurricane in the West Indies.—Loss of Thunderer, 74, and other ships.
Instead of at once proceeding on her voyage across the Atlantic, the old Charon was, we found, ordered to put into Cork harbour. We arrived at that port on the 11th of August, 1780, and found there HM’s ships Lennox, Bienfaisant, Licorne, and Hussar, with a hundred sail of transports.
Before I recount the events of our voyage I may as well make a few remarks about the ship and my brother-officers. Captain Symonds was himself a thorough sailor, and he showed his love of his profession by sending four of his sons into the navy. His eldest son, Jermyn John Symonds, was, though very young, our third lieutenant,—a fine, handsome fellow. He was afterwards, when in command of the Helena sloop-of-war, lost with all his crew in her on the coast of Holland. Another son, William, (see Note 1), though at that time a mere child, was, I believe, borne on our books as a midshipman. It was with no small satisfaction that I welcomed my old friend Paddy O’Driscoll, who came on board as a supernumerary, to rejoin his ship on the American station. I welcomed him the more gladly as so few of my old shipmates I was ever likely to meet again. Where were they? The deep sea—West India marshes—the shot of the enemy best could tell. But avast! I have bad enough of sentiment in these pages. I must not indulge in this vein. The rest of our officers were fine, gallant fellows, knowing their duty, and ready and able on all occasions to do it. What more can you ask of a man? Having a gentleman, and a kind, good man as our captain, our ship was a very pleasant and happy one, and that is more than can be said of many ships in my day. Captains were of necessity despots, and as they had very rough, untutored, disorderly subjects to deal with, too often very cruel, hard-hearted despots they were.
The day after our arrival at Cork we once more weighed and stood out of the harbour with the Bienfaisant, Captain McBride, having under our charge about seventy sail of victuallers bound for America. That ship and the Licorne had orders to escort us sixty leagues to the westward. We lay-to all night outside the harbour, waiting for the rest of the squadron to join us, which the Licorne and Hussar had been directed to bring up. We had drifted pretty well down to the old Head of Kinsale when, as the morning of the 13th of August broke upon us, we saw standing right into the fleet a large two-decked ship.
“If that fellow is an enemy he certainly does not seem to know what he is about,” observed Mr Edwards to me. “Does he expect to carry off some of our flock without our even barking at him? But see, Captain McBride is speaking us. What does he say?”
The signal midshipman on duty replied that he was ordering us to come within hail. We accordingly made sail towards the Bienfaisant, when Captain McBride directed us to join with him in chasing the stranger. Not till then apparently did she make us out from among the fleet of vessels crowding round us, shrouded, as we were, with the grey mists of the morning. We were all scrutinising her through our glasses, for it was still very uncertain what she might prove. Even when we stood out from among the fleet of merchantmen she gave no signs of any strong disposition to evade us, but steadily continued her course.
“She must be some English privateer. No Frenchman with a head on his shoulders would run it so near the lion’s den,” remarked Edwards.
“Faith, then, I don’t believe he’s got a head on his shoulders. That’s a French ship, depend on it,” observed O’Driscoll.
Some time longer passed before we got near the chase, for the wind was light. At half-past seven, to our great satisfaction, we saw her shorten sail and get ready, it appeared, to receive us. On this the Bienfaisant hoisted her colours and fired a shot ahead of her. We also hoisted our colours. The chase on this hoisted a blue ensign and hove-to with main-topsail to the mast. On our getting within hail of her, we and the Bienfaisant did the same, when Captain McBride spoke her and inquired her name.
“HMS ‘Romney,’” was the answer. “Last from Lisbon.”
“I told you so,” observed Mr Edwards, when the words reached us. “She’s a fifty-gun ship, I know, though I never saw her that I know of.”
“But that ship carries more than fifty-guns if I mistake not,” I replied. “Listen! Captain McBride is again speaking her.”
“What does she say?” asked Edwards, as some words, the import of which we could not make out, came wafted over the water towards no.
Our people, I ought to have remarked, were all at their quarters ready for friend or foe—and grim, determined-looking veterans many of them looked, with their sun-burnt faces and bearded chins.
“What does she say?” exclaimed O’Driscoll. “Why, listen!—that she’s French, and going to fight for the honour of la belle France. See, our consort’s beginning the game.”
As he spoke, a volley of musketry was opened from the deck of the Bienfaisant, which was replied to in the most spirited way by the other ship, she at the same time hoisting French colours, and firing her stern-chasers at us. The Bienfaisant now ranged up alongside and fired her broadside right into the enemy. The Frenchman then fired hers, and by the way her shot flew we judged that her object was to cripple her opponent. We now stood on after the Bienfaisant, and as we ranged up fired our guns with terrible effect right across our enemy’s decks. Then on we stood, while our consort had in the meantime tacked and reached the place we had before occupied. In a short time she once more ranged up alongside the Frenchman, and poured a heavy broadside into him. Thus we continued, alternately changing places with each other. We suffered wonderfully little damage for some time. The Frenchman’s great aim was to wing us. He evidently fought not for victory, for he must have seen that was almost hopeless, but to escape capture. Never was a ship better handled or fought with more gallantry. For some time no one was hurt on board the Charon. At last one poor fellow got hit, and soon afterwards some blocks and splinters came rattling down from aloft. The mizen-topsail yard came down by the run, and I saw that it had been shot away in the slings. Tremendous was the pounding we were giving our enemy, but still he showed not the slightest intention of giving in. His deck was already covered with the dead and wounded, and the ship herself was in a very battered condition.
“That man is one of the bravest officers I ever encountered,” observed Captain Symonds, pointing to the captain of the French ship, whom we could see moving about, encouraging his people.
“I wonder whether he intends to give in at all!” said Mr Edwards as we prepared to pour another broadside into him.
“Not a bit of it; he has as much pluck as at the first left in him,” exclaimed O’Driscoll, as the thunder of our artillery once more ceased.
I could not help longing that, for the sake of the lives of his people, the French captain would give in. The action had now lasted from a quarter to eight to half-past eight. Of course the time appeared very much longer. The Bienfaisant was about to pour in another of her broadsides which had already produced such fearful effects. The deck of the Frenchman was truly a shamble; not a spot appeared free from some dead or wounded occupant. Just then the crew, fearful of encountering another iron shower, fled from their guns. Down came the Fleur-de-lys of France. Shouts arose from the deck of the Bienfaisant, which were loudly and joyfully echoed from ours. All three ships were now hove-to. On hailing our prize we found that we had captured “Le Compte D’Artois,” a private ship of war of sixty-four guns and seven hundred and fifty men, commanded by Monsieur Clenard.
A boat from each ship was sent on board. I went in the Charon’s. The brave captain of the Compte D’Artois came forward and delivered his sword to the lieutenant of the Bienfaisant. He was desperately wounded in the mouth, and he looked very sad; he had reason so to be, for his brother, a colonel of the Legion of Artois, lay dead on the deck, having been wounded early in the action, while he had lost no less than one hundred and nineteen killed and wounded of his brave crew. All his property, too, had probably been embarked in the enterprise. Many other people in the same way lost their fortunes during the war. They thought that they had only to fit out a ship of war and that they were certain to gain great wealth. They forgot that two might play at the same game, and that they were just as likely to fall into the hands of their enemies as to capture them. Poor monsieur had another brother on board. I did not exaggerate when I said that the deck of his ship was like a perfect shamble. So quickly had the poor Frenchmen been struck down that the survivors had not had time to carry them below, and there they lay, some stark and stiff, others writhing in their agony. It was enough to move the compassion even of their greatest enemies. We at once set to work to do all we could to help them and to relieve the wounded from their sufferings. Every one felt also much for poor Monsieur Clenard, for a braver man never commanded a ship or fought her longer, till not a prospect of escape remained for him. Strange as it may appear, we had only one man wounded, while the Bienfaisant had only two killed and two wounded. This extraordinary difference in the Frenchman’s loss and ours arose from two causes. He wished to escape, and fired high to try and destroy our spars and rigging; and also his crew, collected chiefly from the merchant service, and from boatmen and fishermen who had never till lately handled a gun, and having also a considerable proportion of landsmen among them, were in no way a match for our well-trained and hardy seamen. The ship was handled as well as she could be, while nothing could exceed the gallantry of her officers; her crew also fought with the greatest bravery, as indeed Frenchmen generally will fight, though perhaps not with the same bull-dog determination as the English. We agreed that when the French had had more practice, and had learned a few lessons from us, they would prove much tougher customers than they had hitherto been.
There was great cheering and congratulation on board the ships of the convoy as they came up, and in a short time the rest of them joined us with the Licorne and Hussar. In the interval the crew of the Compte D’Artois were transferred to the Bienfaisant, and she and her prize stood away for Crookhaven in Ireland. We, meantime, with the other two ships and the convoy, made sail for the westward. We had generally on the passage moderate gales and fine pleasant weather.
On the 12th a strange sail was seen to leeward, beating up towards us. She was after a time made out to be a ship of some size, probably watching her opportunity to pick off any stragglers in the fleet. To prevent this Captain Symonds ordered the Hussar to chase her away, we making as if we were about to follow. Seeing this, the stranger put up her helm and ran off before the wind, while the Hussar crowded all sail in chase. We watched her with no little interest, for the stranger was evidently a big ship, and, if the Hussar brought her to action, would very likely prove a powerful antagonist—not that odds, however great, were much thought of in those days, and I will take upon myself to say that there was scarcely an officer in the service in command of a fifty-gun frigate who would not have considered himself fortunate in having an opportunity of engaging an enemy’s ship of sixty guns or more. In a short time the sails of the chase and her pursuer disappeared below the horizon. The night closed in and passed away; the next day drew on and we saw nothing of the Hussar. Another day passed away and she did not make her appearance. Conjectures as to what had become of her now formed the general subject of conversation on board, but, like all conjectures, when there is no data on which to build up a conclusion, we always left off where we began, and waited till she came back, if ever she should do so, to tell her own tale.
O’Driscoll and I had now become great friends. I own that I wanted some one to whom I could talk to about my love for Madeline. With all his fun and humour and harum-scarum manner, he was a thoroughly honourable right-minded fellow, and I knew that I could trust him. He was delighted with the romance of the affair.
“If you can but point our where she is, by hook or by crook, I’ll help you to win her,” said he, in his full rich irish brogue. “You’ve already a pretty lot of prize-money, and please the pigs you’ll pick up not a little more before long. Where there’s a will there’s a way, that’s one comfort; and, by my faith, what I’ve seen of some of those little rebel colonists, they are well worth winning.”
It may amuse my sober-minded readers, when they reflect on all the difficulties, not to say impossibilities, which existed in my way, to think that O’Driscoll and I should ever dream of overcoming them. But they must remember that we were both very young, and that in the navy such things as impossibilities are not allowed to exist. During how many a midnight watch did my love serve me as a subject for contemplation, and, when I was occasionally joined by O’Driscoll, for conversation also! Although I was on excellent terms with the rest of my brother-officers, I never felt inclined to open out to any of them. Perhaps it was a weakness in me to do so even to O’Driscoll, and, as a general rule, I think a man is wise to keep such thoughts to himself.
Day after day passed by and our missing consort did not make her appearance. A whole week elapsed, and we began to entertain serious apprehensions about her, and to fear that she had been captured. Our course had been so direct, and the weather so fine, that she would have had no difficulty, we considered, in rejoining us. At length a sail appeared standing towards the fleet. She was not one of the convoy, for all were together. Every glass on board was turned towards her. As the stranger drew nearer and nearer we were more and more puzzled to make out what she was.
“I see, I see!” exclaimed O’Driscoll at last. “She is a frigate and under jury-top-masts. She has been in a smart action. I see the shot-holes through her canvas. There can be no mistake about the matter. She is the ‘Hussar,’ I believe, after all.”
On she came towards us, and the Hussar she proved to be; but the trim little frigate which she had been when she left us a week before was now sadly shorn of her beauty. As soon as she came up with the fleet Captain Symonds sent me on board to inquire what had happened. The story was soon told. She had fought a very desperate and gallant action, which, by-the-bye, I have never seen recorded in any naval history. She, it must be remembered, was only an eight-and-twenty gun frigate. The stranger after which she had been sent in chase, when she had drawn her completely away from the squadron, backed his main-topsail to the mast and waited, prepared for battle, till she came up. The enemy was soon made out to be a French forty-gun frigate, but that disparity of fores did not deter her gallant captain from proceeding to the attack. Ranging up within pistol-shot she opened her broadside, to which the Frenchman quickly replied in the same way with equal spirit. As was the case in our action with the Compte D’Artois, the Frenchmen fired high, evidently with the idea that, by crippling their opponent, they might have her at their mercy. This system might under some instances be very good, but, unfortunately for them, they frequently themselves got so completely thrashed before they had succeeded in accomplishing their purpose, that they had to cry peccavi and haul down their flags. The gallant little Hussar had no intention of running away, and therefore poured her broadsides into the hull of the Frenchman, committing great havoc along his decks. The action was continued for some time with great guns and musketry, every man in the English frigate striving his utmost to gain the victory. Numbers of the gallant fellows were struck down—some never to rise again, others desperately wounded. Each attempt of the Frenchman was bravely repulsed, and every shot fired was responded to with still greater vigour. Still the captain of the Hussar could not help watching the progress of the fight with the greatest anxiety. Already two of her top-masts had been shot away, her lower-masts were wounded, and five or six of her crew lay dead, while as many more were hurt. Still he had determined not to give in as long as his ship would float. The Frenchmen had already suffered severely, but it was impossible to say how long their endurance might last. He had no doubt that they had lost far more in killed and wounded than he had, and he saw that they had some shot between wind and water, and that their rigging was much cut up. All this gave him hopes that he might yet come off victorious. Again he ranged up alongside his big antagonist and received her fire while he delivered his own. Down came his mizen-top-mast by the run—several more of his crew fell to the deck—his rigging hung in festoons—his canvas was full of shot-holes. He thought to himself, “Ought I to sacrifice the lives of my people in a hopeless contest? But is it hopeless? No, it is not. Hurrah, my brave fellows! One broadside more, and we shall do for the enemy!” he shouted loudly. The combatants were standing on a bow-line alongside each other. Once more the Hussar fired. The Frenchman returned her broadside, and then, before the smoke cleared off and the English had time to reload to rake her, put up her helm and ran off before the wind. The Hussar was not in a condition to follow. She, however, kept firing at the Frenchman as long as her shot could reach him, and then hauled her wind and stood away to the westward after us. She had seven killed and six badly wounded, besides other hurts. She had lost her three top-masts, while her lower-masts were disabled. Fortunately the weather was fine, for had she encountered a gale of wind her condition would have been bad indeed. I have never, as I have said, seen an account of this very gallant action in any naval history, and I therefore give it as it was described to me by the officers of the Hussar.
On the 14th of October we arrived off Charleston, South Carolina, with our whole convoy, after a favourable passage of nine weeks, and we were congratulating ourselves on its successful termination, little thinking what was to be the fate of many of the ships of the fleet. Charleston stands on a broad neck of land, with Cooper’s river on one side and Ashley river on the other. They flow into a wide sheet of water, which forms the harbour of Charleston, but which is shallow, and has a bar at its mouth, on which there is very little water.
This, on our arrival, we could not cross, and the convoy had consequently to anchor outside. Charleston had, after a brave defence on the 12th of May, been captured from the Americans under General Lincoln by Sir Henry Howe and Lord Cornwallis. The latter on our arrival commanded the army which held it. Sir Henry, with part of his forces, had gone to New York. The capture of Charleston was considered a very fortunate circumstance, and it was believed that in consequence the whole of the Carolinas would yield to our arms. Never perhaps were people more mistaken. The day of our arrival at Charleston I accompanied Captain Symonds on shore. We went to the house where a friend of his, Colonel Balfour, had taken up his quarters. He most kindly received us, and invited us to his table whenever we were on shore. We slept, however, at one of the largest houses in the place, occupied by Lord Cornwallis. His lordship had just returned from an unsuccessful expedition to North Carolina, where a force of nearly a thousand men, regulars and royalists, under Colonel Ferguson, who was killed, had been taken prisoners by the Americans; many also lost their lives with their leader. Colonel Ferguson had made a foray into North Carolina, and in his retreat had been surprised among the fastnesses of the mountains by an overwhelming force of the most hardy and brave of the irregular troops of the neighbouring districts, especially accustomed to the sort of warfare in which they were called on to engage. Colonel Ferguson was a very brave and good officer, and Lord Cornwallis took his defeat and death very much to heart. As we had executed some of the rebels who, after receiving royal passes, were taken in arms against us, so now the Americans in retaliation hung several of the royalists who were captured on this occasion. In consequence of this there was, we found, a great deal of bitter feeling in the town against the rebels, and in no time had the contest been carried on in so sanguinary a way as at present.
We were aroused at daybreak by the sound of a terrifically heavy gale which had sprung up, and in going down to the harbour we found that the bar was perfectly impassable, while the ships at anchor off it were in a great state of confusion. Some were striking top-masts and letting go fresh anchors, in the hopes of riding out the gale, while others were slipping or cutting their cables, and running out to sea, several of them getting foul of each other and committing all sorts of damage. It was not till the 20th that the weather moderated sufficiently to enable us to get off to rejoin our ship. By degrees some of the ships of the convoy which had run to sea came back, but several never returned, having been captured by the enemy or lost.
On the 22nd we again sailed from Charleston with a convoy of fifty sail of transports, bound for New York. On our passage we captured a rebel privateer of eight guns and fifty men, and took a merchant brig bound from London to Charleston with bale goods. We found at Sandy Hook, where we arrived on the 4th of November, Sir George Rodney, with eight sail of the line and several frigates, waiting for a wind to sail for the West Indies. The following day we proceeded through the Narrows up to New York, where we set to work to refit the ship for sea,—an operation she very much required. I need not say that I employed my time on shore in endeavouring to gain intelligence of Miss Carlyon and her family. In making my inquiries I had, however, to exert great caution, for I knew that I might very easily bring upon myself the suspicion of corresponding with the enemy for treasonable purposes. When I slept on shore I went to the house of a worthy Dutch widow, where I had before lodged. I did my utmost to ingratiate myself with her, for I knew that if any one could obtain the information I required she would do so. Old women, I have found, nearly always are ready to listen with complacency and attention to the love tales of young men or young women, and so my kind hostess not only listened to as much of mine as I thought it necessary to tell her, but gladly promised to assist me to the best of her ability.
“And now, my dear Mrs Von Tromp, what news have you for me?” I asked eagerly one day as I walked into her little back parlour where she received her select visitors. Considering her origin, she spoke excellent English.
“Listen!” she replied; “I have not learned much for you, but what I have learned you may believe is the truth. I lately had a talk with a Virginian gentleman. Do not be afraid, sir, for he is a neutral; no rebel I ever talk with. He knows the family of the lady you want to hear about. He heard them speaking of her not long ago; she is unmarried, and they thought she would remain so. She was then in Virginia with her father, who is a very active rebel, you know.”
Not listening to her last remark, the thought at once struck me that I would write to her to assure her of my constancy, and would try to send my letter by means of the gentleman Mrs Von Tromp mentioned. My good hostess was, however, terrified when I made the proposal.
“Oh, dear—no, no, it would never do!” she explained. “It would be a great deal too dangerous to attempt. The letter would be intercepted, and we should be accused of corresponding with the enemy, and some of us would be hung to a certainty. Just think, how should you like to suffer the fate of poor Major André? Ah, poor young gentleman! he was, indeed, a fine, handsome man—or almost a boy, I might say—he looked so young; he was so civil and polite and kind. I can’t think of his cruel death without crying, that I can’t.”
Major André had been captured by the Americans, having crossed into their territory for the purpose of communicating with General Arnold, who succeeded in escaping from them and joining the British forces. He was considered as a spy, and as such, tried, condemned, and had just before this been executed—his hard fate creating much commiseration even in the bosoms of his enemies. He was fully as brave, talented, polite, and accomplished in every way as the widow described him. I assured her that I had no wish to share his lamentable fate, but that, as I was not holding any treasonable correspondence with the enemy, I could not be found guilty of so doing. I argued the subject with her for some time.
“Ah, you know the way to an old woman’s heart as well as to that of a young one!” at last exclaimed the good-natured dame. “I cannot refuse you. Write the letter, and I will do my best to forward it. But be careful what you say. Nothing but love, remember, nothing but love—don’t forget that.”
“No fear, no fear,” I answered, laughing. “I’ll stick to my text, depend on it.”
“I don’t doubt you, and a pretty long one it will be, I suspect,” she remarked, as I got up to go off to my room. “When it is ready, bring it to me. I will do my best, and if it does not reach its destination, that is no fault of mine.”
I hurried up-stairs to the room I slept in, and was soon deeply immersed in the occupation of writing a letter to Madeline. I had no fears how it would be received, so I seized my pen, and, after a few moments’ thought, wrote on. Once having begun, my pen flew rapidly over the paper, but not so rapidly as my thoughts. When I had covered the sheet I had not said one quarter of what I wished to say. I took another and another. At last I finished and folded them up.
“Umph!” said the widow, when I took the package to her. “You will want a special courier and a pack-horse to carry this document—but don’t frown now, I am only joking. I am sure that the young lady is well worthy of the letter, and that you have not said a word more than she will be glad to hear.”
I was not in a humour to quarrel with Madame Von Tromp for anything she might say. Leaving my precious letter with her, I hurried away to attend to my duties on board my ship. At this time Admiral Arbuthnot’s squadron was lying in Gardner’s Bay, at the other end of Long Island. On the 9th, Sir Henry Howe having some important despatches to send to the admiral, the gallant little Hussar was directed to get under weigh to convey them.
Little did I think at the time that, after all she had gone through, we should see her no more. I have already described the dangerous passage of Hell Gate, where already, in consequence of the fearful rapidity of the currents, so many vessels had been lost. I watched the Hussar get under weigh. I had hoped to take the trip in her, for I had some old friends on board different ships in the squadron whom I wished to see, and I was rather annoyed at not being able to get leave to go. That was one of the numberless instances where I have discovered how little we mortals know what is good for us. To make a long story short, for I cannot now stop to give a full description of the accident, in going through that justly-dreaded passage the Hussar met with baffling winds, and, the currents catching her, sent her bodily on the rocks. Thus she became utterly helpless. No seamanship could avail her. The short, chopping, boiling sea dashed over her and beat her to pieces. Before hawsers could be got to the shore, by which her crew could make their escape, several of the poor fellows had been drowned. In the boisterous and bitterly cold weather of that season many of them suffered much before they got back to New York.
Once more we were ready for sea, and on the 2nd of December we hoisted Admiral Arbuthnot’s flag, and, proceeding to Statten Island, we were joined by HMS Thames, Charlestown, Medea, Amphitrite, Fowey, Hope, Bonetta, Swift, and several armed vessels.
I was just now speaking of the death of Major André, who was captured by the Americans when communicating with General Arnold. That officer had deserted the liberal cause, and, having succeeded in reaching the British lines in safety, had now been appointed a brigadier-general in our army. On the 3rd we received him on board with two troops distributed among the ships of the squadron. All we knew was, that some expedition of importance was to be undertaken, but on what part of the coast the descent was to be made did not transpire. I do not believe that the commanders on our side put much confidence in General Arnold, and of course the Americans, whose cause he had so basely betrayed, perfectly detested him. Had he, by the chances of war, fallen into their hands, they would have treated him as they had done poor André.
We sailed from New York on the 12th of December. In order to deceive the enemy, and to make them believe that an expedition of very great importance was about to be undertaken, we kept the admiral’s flag flying till we were out of sight of land. A course was steered to the southward; it was then understood that we were bound for the Chesapeake, and it was supposed that a landing would be made somewhere on the shores of Virginia. I scarcely knew whether to grieve or to rejoice at the prospect thus held out to me. Of course, I could not but regret that my countrymen were about to carry the war into the very part of the country where Madeline, I believed, was residing; at the same time, under the supposition that such would be done, I rejoiced at the thoughts that I might meet her, or might render her or her family assistance. Still I would not venture to reckon much on the prospect of our meeting. Numberless circumstances might intervene to prevent it. I might not even be sent on shore. I might not go near where she might be residing, or, what was probable, her friends might gain tidings of the expedition, when she would, with other ladies, move away more into the interior. Still, notwithstanding these considerations, I could not help indulging myself in the belief that, by some means or other, we should meet once again, or, at all events, that I should gain tidings of her, and be able to communicate with her. The very idea gave buoyancy to my step and manner, and made many of my companions inquire what had put me in such unusual spirits.
O’Driscoll had returned on board, having again joined the ship as a supernumerary, and as an old tried friend he entered, and, I believe, heartily, into all my hopes and fears. Some of his plans and proposals, however, though very much in accordance with the notions of Irishmen in those days, were not such, even with all my harum-scarum habits, which I could by any possibility adopt.
“Hurry, my boy, I have been thinking over this affair of yours,” said he, as we were walking the deck together. “I don’t like shilly-shallying in matters of this sort—I never did. The lady loves you, and you love the lady—well, then, to my mind, the first difficulty is got over, because, according to my notion, where there’s a will there’s a way. You’ll find her out, that’s certain. Then the next thing to be done is to get her to run away with you. She’ll go, depend on that. You take her prisoner, you know! Bring her aboard; we’ll get a chaplain to splice you. You can take her up to New York; she’ll be safe there. And then we come to another little matter; I’ve arranged that in a satisfactory way. You’ve some prize-money. I’ve saved a good mint one way and another, and, old fellow, I don’t want it—my purse is yours. Old messmates don’t stand on ceremony about such matters. My own dear little Kathleen, the only creature I wanted it for, went to glory while I was last at sea. When I got home I was desolate. I’ve no kith nor kin I care for, and if you don’t take the money it’s likely enough I’ll heave it into the sea one of these days, or pitch it where it won’t do any one any good, so don’t think that I am doing you any wonderful favour if you take it. The truth is, Hurry, I’d be more than paid ten times over in having the pleasure of helping you to run off with the lady. I’m in my element in an affair of this sort—there’s nothing I like better, barring a good stand-up scrimmage, and that’s generally too soon over. Now, Hurry, just do as I say. Promise me!”
I was struck dumb; so rapidly did he pour out his proposals that I could not answer him. He took my silence for consent, and ran on. At first I was somewhat inclined to resent his remarks, but his generosity and evident unconsciousness that he was proposing anything in any way incorrect completely disarmed my anger, and, when he ceased speaking, greatly to his surprise, I burst out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
“I am most thankful, my dear O’Driscoll, for your kind sympathy, and for the assistance you so liberally offer me,” I exclaimed, as soon as I could recover myself. “But supposing I could or would persuade her to leave her home, and the protection of her family, just consider all the hardships, inconveniences, and danger she would be exposed to on board ship before I could place her in safety; and then, how could she, delicately brought up, live on a lieutenant’s pay, even with such prize-money as I might save, and your aid, my kind fellow!” I added. “No, no! the thing is out of the question.”
“Faith, I hadn’t thought all about those little obstructions to matrimonial felicity,” he answered. “Still I can’t give up the idea, in case the chance should offer, of your running away with the young lady. It seems such a natural thing to do. There’s a fine fellow, be prepared, that’s all—and only just let me help you.”
“Well, well! I have no friend on whom I can more fully rely than you,” I replied. “I promise you that I will not fail to apply to you if I see that you can in any way help me.”
“That’s all right,” said he, fully satisfied. “I knew that you would, before long, come into my views.”
Our passage to the south was very tedious, for we had light winds, sad were also constantly compelled to heave-to for the laggards.
Soon after the conversation I have mentioned, on the 23rd of December, it being still calm, one of the leading ships signalled that a ship and four small sail were in sight to the southward, and that they had all the appearance of enemies. We, accordingly, crowded all sail in chase, but scarcely had we got beyond the van of the fleet when it became evident that, at the rate we were progressing, we should not come up with the chase before dark. We had, in company, a small privateer schooner fitted with long sweeps, and which rowed remarkably well. Captain Symonds directed her by signal to come within hail, and then ordered me to take thirty men and go on board her and to proceed in chase of the strangers.
“If they prove to be enemies,” said he, “bring them to action, and keep them engaged at long range, knocking away their spars, if you can, so that they cannot escape till we come up. If we take the ship, as I have no doubt we shall, I will give you the command of her to take her to New York. She is evidently a big craft, and will be worth not a little.”
I suspect that it was with no good grace that I thanked the captain for the confidence he placed in me. He looked surprised, I thought, but said nothing. Under other circumstances I should have been well pleased with the task confided to me, but now, when I had set my heart on landing on the shores of Virginia, suddenly to find that I might have to go back to New York was a sore trial to me. Little do we know, however, what is the best for us. As soon as the Arrow privateer came up, I and my crew went on board, and, getting out all the long sweeps, away we pulled in chase of the strangers. Every man put his full strength into the work, and we sent the little vessel along at the rate of fully three knots an hour. We felt as if we were going at a great speed, and we rapidly neared the strangers. Little did I think in those days that in my old age I should see vessels sent along in a dead calm without the slightest exertion of human agency at four or five times that speed. We kept minutely examining the strangers as we drew near. One was a man-of-war—of that there was no doubt; the others were merchantmen, probably, under her convoy. Still she did not show her colours. The Arrow carried a couple of unusually long guns, and I fully expected to commit great execution with them. They were all ready. Nol Grampus had charge of one of them. We had got within range of the ship. I hoisted English colours. The ship showed none in return. I waited a minute longer. The word “fire” was on my lips when up went the British ensign at her peak. Still I was not convinced till she made the private signal.
Never perhaps in my life before had I been so satisfied at finding a friend instead of an enemy. She proved to be HMS Royal Oak, the other vessels being prizes she had taken. Two days after this we took two other prizes, the charge of which was given to Lieutenants Seymour and Bruton. Their absence of course gave me much more work to do—not a bad thing, perhaps, under my circumstances. The following day a heavy gale of wind sprang up, and we separated from the fleet as well as from our prizes. We were knocking about for three days somewhat concerned for the fate of the convoy. There were so many privateers cruising about, that it was likely some of them could be picked off, and if any of the transports were taken or lost, the whole plan of the expedition might be disconcerted. General Arnold especially was in a state of considerable anxiety for several reasons. If this, his first expedition, should fail, he could scarcely expect his new friends to trust him again, while if by any accident he should fall into the hands of those whose cause he had betrayed, he knew full well the fate which awaited him. He was, I believe, a man possessed of considerable military talents and of general ability, but he wanted principle; and his extravagant habits placed him in difficulties from which he saw no ordinary way of extricating himself. He had just put forth an elaborate address to the inhabitants of America, not only excusing his conduct, but taking great credit for the motives which had induced him to join the King’s arms. He stated that he had taken up arms to redress grievances, and that those grievances no longer existed, because Great Britain, with the open arms of a parent, offered to embrace the colonists as children, and grant them the wished-for redress. Her worst enemies, he told them, were in the bosom of America. The French alliance, he assured them, was calculated not only to ruin the mother-country, but the colonies themselves; and that the heads of the rebellion, neglecting to take the sentiments of the people at large, had refused to accept the British proposals for peace; that for his part, rather than trust to the insidious offers of France, “I preferred,” he continues, “those of Great Britain, thinking it infinitely wiser and safer to place my confidence in her justice and generosity than to trust a monarchy too feeble to establish your independency, so perilous to her distant dominions; the enemy of the Protestant faith, and fraudulently avowing an affection for the liberties of mankind while she holds her native sons in vassalage and chains.” He winds up by stating his conviction that it was the generous intention of Great Britain not only to leave the rights and privileges of the colonies unimpaired, together with their perpetual exemption from taxation, but to superadd such further benefits as might be consistent with the common prosperity of the empire; and then he says, “I am now led to devote my life to the reunion of the British Empire as the best and only means to dry up the streams of misery that have deluged this country.”
We had numberless copies of this address on board, ready to be distributed throughout the country whenever we should effect a landing. That was far from a pleasant time we had on our voyage. Not only had we the effects of the gale to dread, but we were aware that a French squadron was not far-off; and we were kept constantly on the look-out in the unpleasant expectation of falling in with them, and having to take to flight or of undergoing a still worse fate, and of falling into their hands. Many people, in my day especially, had an idea that ships were fated to be lucky or unlucky, either because they were launched on a Friday, or that their keel was laid on a Friday, or that they were cursed when building or when about to sail, or had a Jonas on board, or for some other equally cogent reason. I always found that a bad captain and master and a careless crew was the Jonas most to be dreaded, and that to ill-fit and ill-find a ship was the worst curse which could be bestowed on her. I should have been considered a great heretic if I had publicly expressed such opinions in my younger days; indeed, I probably did not think of them as I do now. The Charon was considered a lucky ship, or, in other words, Captain Symonds was a careful commander, and so few on board had any fear of our falling in with an overpowering enemy or meeting with any other mishap. They could not as yet be proved to be wrong; the gale abated on the 28th. The following day the weather became moderate and fair, and we rejoined the fleet off the capes at the entrance of the Chesapeake. We found the squadron augmented by the arrival of two or three ships from the West India station. These were to have joined to take part in the operations about to be commenced, but the terrific hurricane which had lately raged over those regions had either totally destroyed or disabled so many, that no others were then in a fit condition to proceed to our assistance. Several of the officers came on board of us, among them many old friends of mine, and from them I gathered some accounts of that tremendous visitation.
It first broke on the Island of Jamaica, at the little seaport town of Savannah-la-Mer. That hapless place, with the adjacent country, was almost entirely overwhelmed by the sea, which rushed in over it with tremendous force, driven on by the fury of a tempest whose force has rarely been surpassed. The gale began at about one o’clock in the afternoon from the south-east, increasing in violence till four p.m., when it veered to the south, then reaching its height, and continued thus till eight, when it began to abate. Terrible was the havoc committed in these few hours. The waves, raised to a height never before witnessed, foaming and roaring, rushed with irresistible impetuosity towards the land, sweeping into the bay and carrying before it every building it encountered; numbers of the inhabitants it overtook being drowned, while the rest fled shrieking before it for safety to the Savannah. There the ruins only of houses remained to afford them shelter. To add to the horror of the scene, lightning of the most vivid description flashed from the skies—the wind and waves howled and roared in concert—darkness came on, and the earth itself shook and trembled as if about to swallow up those whom the waters or their falling habitations had spared. The smaller vessels at anchor in the bay were driven on shore and dashed to pieces, and the largest were torn from their anchors and carried up far into the morass, whence they could never be removed. One ship, the Princess Royal, was hove on her beam-ends, but again righted by the earthquake or by the force of the wind, and was left fixed firmly in the ground.
With the morning light the scene of destruction presented to the eyes of the survivors was truly heart-rending. The ground where the town had stood was strewed with the mangled forms of the dead and dying, scattered among the fragments of their dwellings. Scarcely a roof remained whole or a wall standing. Of all the sugar-works none remained; the plantain walks were destroyed; every cane-piece was levelled; and some hundred people, whites and negroes, were killed. In Montego Bay, and indeed throughout the island, the consequences of the tempest were equally disastrous. But if people on shore suffered thus, still more melancholy was the fate of the numerous fleets which came within its influence. Those of England, France, and Spain equally suffered; many being wrecked, and others foundering with all hands.
The hurricane did not reach the Leeward Islands till the 19th. It raged at Bridgetown, Barbadoes, from the 10th to the 16th, with no less fury than elsewhere. The evening of the 9th was particularly calm, though a glow of an unusual red appeared in the sky, and heavy rain began to fall. On the morning of the 10th the hurricane began, and by the afternoon the Albemarle frigate and all the merchantmen in the bay parted from their anchors and drove to sea. By night the fury of the tempest had reached its utmost height, and dreadful were the consequences. It is impossible to describe the scenes of horror and distress occurring on every side. A friend of mine was at the house of the governor, which was a circular building with very thick walls. The roof, however, soon began to fall in, and the family were compelled to take shelter in the cellar. The water, however, speedily found its way there, and, rising four feet, drove them into the open air, through showers of tiles and bricks and timber falling on every side. They at last took shelter under a gun-carriage, but several guns were dismounted, and every instant they dreaded being crushed by the one under which they were sitting. They were close, also, to the powder magazine. A flash of lightning might destroy them in a moment. The armoury had been already blown down, and all the arms and stores and other things in it were scattered around. No place seemed safe, for whole roofs were lifted up, and beams were blown about like feathers, and darted with violence to the ground: so that the roar of the elements, the crashing made by the falling houses, and the shrieks of the inhabitants, were almost more than human courage could bear.
All waited anxiously looking for the dawn of day, but the light only exhibited a scene which made them wish that it were again dark. Only ruin and desolation were visible on every side; houses overthrown, trees and plantations levelled, the ground strewed with dead bodies, and the shore covered with wrecks. At the other islands life and property suffered equally. At Saint Pierre, in Martinique, the new hospital of Notre Dame was blown down, overwhelming 1600 patients, and 1400 other houses were destroyed. In Fort Royal Bay four ships foundered, and every soul perished. At Saint Lucia the destruction was very great. His Majesty’s ship Amazon was driven to sea and most miraculously escaped foundering. She was commanded by the Honourable Captain William Clement Finch. An old friend of mine, one of the lieutenants, gave me the following account:—
“We saw by the look of the weather that a hurricane was coming on, but while we were making everything snug it was down upon us, and we were driven from our anchors, happily out to sea, instead of on the shore. We at once got the ship under storm staysails, and as long as the canvas held she behaved admirably; but as night drew on the gale increased and every stitch of canvas was blown from the bolt-ropes. It is impossible to describe the terrific fury of the gale by this time. One thing was very clear, that if we did not cut away the masts they would either go by the board, or she herself, from her terrific labouring, would go down. The captain evidently did not like to cripple the ship by cutting away the masts, and kept waiting in the hopes that the gale was at its height and would soon abate. Vain was the hope. The gale, on the contrary, kept increasing. At last he sent them aloft to cut away the main-topmast. Quick as lightning they flew to obey the order, for they well knew how much depended on its execution. Scarcely were they aloft when the hurricane struck us with greater fury than ever.
“‘Down, down, for your lives!’ shouted the captain; ‘the mainmast must go.’
“While we were waiting for the men to come down—and never did a few moments of my life appear so long, for I knew that every single one was of importance—a terrific gust struck the ship. Over she heeled; down, down she went.
“‘She’s gone, she’s gone!’ shrieked out many on deck.
“I hoped that she would lift again, but she did not. Lower and lower she sank. All who were on deck, captain, officers and crew, who could manage it, clambered up on the ship’s side. Some poor fellows who were to leeward, and unable to haul themselves up to the weather side, were washed off by the foaming sea, and, unable to help them, we saw them drowned before our eyes. We felt that in another moment their fate might be ours, for so far gone was the ship that the wheel on the quarter-deck was already under water, and to our dismay we saw that the ship was settling down every moment lower and lower. All the time she kept moving about terrifically, and all we could do was to cling on and watch for our approaching dissolution. Higher every instant rose the water, and it had now reached the after part of the carronade slides on the weather side. All hope was now gone. No ship with a heavy armament like ours had ever floated in such a position. Those who could or dared pray prayed; the rest waited in dull or hardened indifference for their fate. There was a tremendous deafening crash. I thought our last moment had come, but no, at that instant I saw the masts breaking away like mere faggots; the bowsprit, spanker-boom, everything went, and with a spring the ship righted so much that the lee gunwale rose even with the water’s edge.
“‘Now, my lads,’ shouted out our captain in a tone which animated all hands; ‘now’s our time! Overboard with the guns; we shall yet keep the ship afloat.’
“We all scrambled back on the deck, and everybody, fore and aft, set to work with a will to obey the captain’s orders. Capstan-bars, handspikes and axes were in requisition for active service. First we got the lee quarter-deck guns and carronades overboard; then we hurried forward and launched one of the forecastle guns into the sea, and cut away the sheet anchor. All the weight we took off the lee-side had so good an effect that still more of the ship’s side rose above water, and we found that we could get at the lee-guns on the main deck. What was of equal importance also, we were able to reach the pumps. The first thing was to get the lee main deck guns overboard. It was some of the most trying work we had yet to perform. As I looked aft, and then glanced forward, I could not help perceiving, as I believed, that the ship was going down stern foremost. Others were under the same impression. Still a daring body, led by the gallant Packenham, our first lieutenant, worked away with such determination that one gun after the other was sent plunging into the ocean. Meantime the pumps were rigged, and we made a desperate attempt to free the ship from water. Already it was above the cable on the orlop deck, and there was an immense quantity between decks. Our previous unexpected success encouraged us to proceed. No men ever worked with a better will than did our people; still, it’s my belief that seamen always will thus work when a good example is set them. We were evidently diminishing the water, and the ship was no longer sinking, when an accident occurred which made us again almost abandon hope. On examination, it proved to be that the stump of the mainmast had worked out of the stop and been driven against one of the chain-pumps. The carpenter and his mate and crew hurried below to see what could be done, but scarcely were they there when the cry arose that the other pump was useless. Still they were undaunted. While the stump of the mast was being secured, they laboured away to repair the damage. At length one of the pumps was put to rights: a cheerful shout announced the fact. Then we set to work on the other, which was in time cleared, and once more the water flowed out at the lee scuppers in a full stream. The ship was strong, and tight as a corked bottle. Wonderful as it may seem, not a leak had been sprung. The ship having at length been got somewhat to rights, the crew were mustered, when it was found that twenty men had been drowned or seriously disabled. In a few hours she was cleared of water, but there we lay, a helpless wreck on the ocean, an easy prey to the smallest enemy. Our safety existed, we knew, in the fact that every other vessel afloat must be in nearly an equally bad condition. When the weather moderated we rigged jury-masts, and after great exertion got back into harbour, thankful to heaven for our providential preservation from a fate to which so many of our fellow-men had been doomed.”
Of his Majesty’s ships alone, a great number were lost or dismasted. The Thunderer, 74, Captain Walshingham, which had just arrived at the station with a convoy from England, was lost with all hands. The Scarborough, of 20 guns, was also lost with all hands. The Stirling Castle, 64 guns, was lost, only the captain, Carteret, and fifty people escaping. The Phoenix, 44—Deal Castle, 24—Endeavour brig, 14, were lost, part only of the crews escaping. The Berwick, 74—Hector, 74—Grafton, 74, Captain Collingwood—Trident, 64—Ruby, 64—Bristol, 50—Ulysses, 44, and Pomona, lost all their masts, while the two first had also to throw all their guns overboard. They formed the squadron which had sailed from Port Royal with the trade for Europe, under Rear-Admiral Rowley. He, with five only of his ships in a most shattered condition, returned to Jamaica, while the Berwick separated from him, and, almost a wreck, arrived under jury-masts in England, no one expecting that she would keep afloat till they got there.
Again I must sing, as I often have to do—
“Ye gentlemen of England, who live at home at ease,
Ah! little do you think upon the dangers of the seas.”
Note 1. Afterwards Sir William Symonds, Surveyor of the Navy. Another son was the late Admiral Thomas Symonds, several of whose sons are or were in the Navy. Captain Thomas Symonds here spoken of was also the son, I believe, of a naval officer. His brother was Dr Symonds, Professor of Modern History in the University of Cambridge.