LETTER XXVI.
It occurs to me that, amidst all the uncertainties of our unfortunate fleet, it may be pleasant to you and others of our friends to know which of the ships have made good the passage; I send you, therefore, the annexed list of upwards of sixty, which are now safe at anchor in Carlisle Bay.
A vessel from Liverpool is come into harbour, which sailed on the 9th of January, but we are still without any late news of the fleet, which took its departure on the 9th of December; and, singular to tell, the Liverpool ship, now arrived, performed the whole voyage without falling in with any one of the convoy. It is now thirteen weeks since the fleet left England, and we know about as much concerning the great body of it, at this moment, as if it were sailing in the moon.
We, who are destined to proceed to St. Domingo, have new disappointment in finding that the Cork division, intended for that island, had not sailed at a date many weeks subsequent to the time when it had been reported to be at sea; and we now feel it probable that we may be long detained or even placed on duty at Barbadoes, in consequence of the increasing number of sick, and the non-arrival of the medical officers of the Charibbee Island, or what is incorrectly called the Leeward-Island staff.
You will be surprised, perhaps, to know that the transports in Carlisle Bay have been several times interrupted, and the whole harbour disturbed, and brought into a state of anxiety, by the visitings of different press-gangs, in the exercise of that necessary custom, so repugnant to the feelings, and the freedom of Englishmen.
In one instance an alarming scene took place in consequence of the sailors of one of the ships resisting this arbitrary and unconstitutional method of obtaining their services. They opposed the boarding, and beat off the agent, and two boats with the press-gang. This resistance was soon followed by the appearance of a party of soldiers, with firelocks and fixed bayonets, who were called to aid the press-party, and to force the sailors to submission.
It has been our fortune on board the Lord Sheffield to be visited by two different bodies of the press-gang in the course of the same night: one of which came alongside at midnight; the other at two o’clock in the morning. From stealing upon us unexpectedly, and in the dark, you will suppose that much hurry and confusion was created. Being wakened by the noise of people over my head, I put on my robe de chambre, and went up to learn the cause, when, finding what visitors they were, I felt a strong disposition to observe their conduct and manner of proceeding, and therefore remained upon deck, during the time they continued on board.
A Lieutenant of the navy was stalking up and down with a huge drawn sabre in his hand, calling out, with boatswain’s lungs, for the steward to bring a light. His men were running about every part of the ship with cutlasses, pistols, hangers, and various other weapons. The sailors whom they found upon deck, were instantly tumbled into a boat at the side, filled with armed men; the others secreted themselves in holes and corners, while the old steward with seeming haste, but with fox-like cunning, delayed the candle. Perhaps you will say it was a little severe to demand a light, at all, from the ship, in order to rob her of her own men; but the whole proceeding was alike arbitrary and despotic, and this only consistent with the other parts of it. They came in darkness, and with muffled oars, that they might take the vessel by surprise.
The steward, somewhat endangered, from the ire which he had provoked by his well-contrived delay, at length appeared with the lantern; and a general search was immediately made below. The cabins,—the cable-tier,—the pantries,—the lockers,—the very pig-sty,—every hole and corner they could think of were hunted out, and they seemed resolved that not a spot should be omitted. Yet, notwithstanding all their vigilance, several of the sailors contrived to elude the search. One, who had not time to escape to a place of more probable security, remained quietly in his hammock, and, when they came to examine it, affected to awake uttering a loud groan, strongly expressive of pain and suffering. Hearing this, the press-gang asked who it was, and if a sailor. The mate, who was watching them with a vigilance not inferior to their own, immediately replied that it was a sick man, who had been long confined to his birth. His promptitude was successful: sick men they did not want; and the sailor was left undisturbed—his freedom the fruit of his well-timed stratagem, and of the expertness of the mate in promoting it.