More than a year had passed away since those Christmas holidays when the wreck happened, and my brother and I were again to become inmates of Uncle Boz’s unique abode. It was midsummer; the trees were green, the air warm and balmy, the wind blew gently, and the broad blue sea sparkled brightly, and seemed joyously to welcome our return.
A somewhat poetical notion; the fact being that we were so happy to get back to the dear old spot, and the dearer old people, that we could not help feeling that all the objects, inanimate as well as animate, on which our eyes rested were equally delighted to see us. Yes, I am certain of it. The yellow sand looked cleaner and yellower; the sun shone, and the wide ocean glittered more brightly; and the blue sky looked bluer, with the bold cliffs standing up into it; and the gulls’ wings whiter, as they darted through the glowing atmosphere, than we had ever seen them before. At all events, there were certain animate objects who were delighted to see us, or we must have been very bad decipherers of the human countenance. There stood Uncle Boz, Aunt Deborah, and Bambo, and another personage who presented a very great contrast in personal appearance to any one of the three. Not from being very tall, or very thin, or very grave, or very sour-looking, or very white, or very ugly. The personage in question had none of these peculiarities. Who said that Uncle Boz was ugly? He wasn’t! nor was Aunt Deborah, nor was Bambo. They were all beautiful in their way; at least, I thought so then, and do now. Well, but about this personage. There was a pair of large blue eyes—the sky wasn’t bluer, nor the sea more sparkling when they laughed; and there was a face round them very fair, with a delicate colour on the cheeks and lips. I should like to see the coral which could surpass them, polished ever so much. There was hair in ringlets, adorning the face; not flaxen exactly, though light with a tinge from the sun, or from something which gave it a bright glow. This head belonged to a little girl—very little, and fairy-like, and beautiful. A different sort of beauty to Bambo’s or Uncle Boz’s, or even to Aunt Deborah’s. I don’t indeed think that Aunt Deb ever could have been like Katty Brand, even in her childhood’s days, or if she had, she was very considerably altered since then. The blue eyes opened wider than ever with astonishment, and the lips parted, as, jumping out of the carriage, we were kissed by Aunt Deb, and had our hands wrung in the cordial grasp, first of Uncle Boz, and then of jolly old Bambo. It was evidently a matter of consideration in that little head of Katty’s how she should receive us. We settled the point by each of us giving her some hearty kisses, which I don’t think offended her much, though she did wipe her cheeks after the operation, and we very soon became fast friends.
“She is a beauty,” whispered Jack to Aunt Deb; on which Aunt Deb nodded and smiled, as much as to say, “Indeed she is.”
We were soon discussing with Uncle Boz the programme for our summer amusements. We were to have salt-water fishing and fresh-water fishing, and shooting, and boating, and egg hunting, and shells and other curiosities were to be looked for on the seashore, and long walks were to be taken; and then we were to have bathing, and to learn to knot and splice, and to cut out and rig a ship; indeed, every moment of our time would be fully occupied.
Somebody wishes to know about the owner of those blue eyes. I first saw them, on the evening of the wreck, watching Aunt Deb performing certain culinary operations at the drawing-room fire. There is a sad story connected with the beautiful little owner of which I have not liked before to speak. I mentioned a lady in one room, and a gentleman in another, and a little baby in a basket. They all now lay at rest in the burying-ground of the church we went to that memorable Christmas morning.
We little thought at the time that there would be soon so many fresh occupants. The lady soon sank under the effects of her exposure on the stormy ocean that bitter winter’s day. Her baby followed, and her husband did not survive many days. Katty alone of the family remained. She was too young to know the extent of her loss, or feel it long; and had Aunt Deborah been her mother’s dearest friend, instead of a total stranger, she could not possibly have more tenderly cared for the little orphan. This event formed a melancholy termination to those Christmas holidays, and excited the warmest sympathy in our hearts for Katty Brand. We knew well, however, that she was in good hands while Uncle Boz and Aunt Deborah had charge of her. We were not disappointed. Hers was a happy life, and a brighter or sweeter little rosebud never was seen.
It may easily be supposed that she was a pet among us boys in the holidays, and each one of us would have gone through fire and water to serve her. Jack, who was somewhat emphatic in his assertions, declared that he would swim through hot pitch and burning sulphur, or sit on the top of an iceberg in the coldest day of an arctic winter, if so doing would give her a particle of pleasure. He was very safe in making the offer; for as she was the most sensible, amiable little creature in existence, it was not likely that she would ever thus test his regard. I must say that Miss Katty ran a very great chance of being spoiled between Uncle Boz and Aunt Deborah and Bambo, in spite of the wise saws about training children to which Uncle Boz continually gave utterance. “The little lady mustn’t have her way, or mustn’t do that thing,” he was continually saying; but the little lady notwithstanding had her way, and did the very thing she wished. However, Aunt Deborah, with her watchful care, though loving the little creature as much as any one, managed quietly to correct the faults which would undoubtedly otherwise have sprung up in her character, and deeply grateful some one is to her for so doing. However, of that more anon. She was, of course, rather a pet than a playmate of us youngsters; but even the least sentimental among us considered her infinitely superior to any dog, even though he could have danced a hornpipe, or monkey, however full of tricks, or parrot, however talkative, which could have been provided for that purpose. As Aunt Deborah was not much addicted to rapid locomotion, nor accustomed to walk to any distance, Katty was her constant companion. Indeed, as we were out all day shooting, or fishing, or boating, with Uncle Boz or Bambo, we saw her, except on Sundays, only in the morning and evening. When by any chance Aunt Deborah was unable to go out with her, my brother Jack was always ready to take her place; and certainly no mother could have watched over the little creature with more gentle care. It happened that Aunt Deborah had caught a cold, and was compelled to keep the house; the rest of us were going out trout-fishing with Uncle Boz; but Jack made excuses for remaining behind, wishing, in fact, to offer his services to take Katty a walk, or perhaps a row in our boat, if Bambo could be spared to accompany him; if not, he proposed asking one of the fishermen from the village, should any be found sauntering about on the beach. As it happened, Bambo could not go; but Jack did not mind that, as he knew that Bill Cockle would be ready to accompany him. We left him working away at a vessel he was rigging, and waiting patiently till the afternoon, when Aunt Deborah would let Katty go out with him. We had a capital day’s sport. Uncle Boz caught ten brace of trout, I killed five, and the rest not many less. We took our dinner with us, and discussed it sitting on a green bank, under the shade of a willow, with the rapid stream flashing and sparkling by over its pebbly bed at our feet. It would be a memorable day, we all agreed, as it was a most pleasant one. What trout-fisher cannot recall some such to his memory, not to be surpassed by others in subsequent years!
When we got back we found Aunt Deb in a state of agitation at the non-appearance of Katty and Jack. Bambo had gone out to look for them, and had not returned. We, of course, ran off immediately to the beach, expecting to find them there. Neither up nor down on the beach were they to be seen. We ran to where our boat was moored in the little harbour; she was not there. We cast our eyes over the sea: there were several specks in the distance, undoubtedly boats; ours might be one of them. There were also white sails in the horizon, vessels sailing to or from Scottish ports. Every fishing-boat had gone out; Uncle Boz’s large boat was hauled up, undergoing repairs. We saw Bambo up at the village, making inquiries. Bill Cockle had gone away early in one of the boats. The women had been busily engaged in their houses, and had not watched the harbour. I did not for one moment believe that Jack would have taken Katty into the boat, and pulled out of the harbour by himself; yet how to account for their disappearance? Uncle Boz himself, tired as he was, very soon came down to us. He seemed quite calm; but loving the little girl as he did, I knew how anxious he must have felt. Having first examined the boat, “She’ll float,” he observed, and he then directed Bambo to get her gear down from the boat-house in the village. The news spread that something was wrong, and women and a few old men collected from all sides to hear about it. The children also came, and were seen talking among themselves. They had seen something unusual. We tried to elicit what it was. We, not without difficulty, discovered at last that they had seen some strange people on the beach; that they had come down in a cart or waggon, which had afterwards driven rapidly off; that they had got into a small boat, and pulled away for a lugger, which stood in to meet them. Uncle Boz inquired where the coastguard men had been at the time. They had been summoned in different directions, so that none were near at hand.
“I see it all,” he exclaimed; “the scoundrels! That is the way they take their revenge on me. They cannot have got far with this breeze; we must be after them.”
It may seem surprising that Uncle Boz should have had any enemies—that he could have offended any one; but the fact that he had is only another proof that men who act uprightly cannot at all times avoid giving offence to the bad. This part of the coast was occasionally visited by smugglers from Dunkirk, as well as from the coast of Holland. Their vessels were manned by a mixture of Dutch, French, and English, and they were in league with Englishmen of various grades, who took charge of the goods they brought over. During the previous winter, a young man, struck down by sickness, and brought to repentance, sent, just as he was dying, to Uncle Boz, and revealed to him a plot, in which he was concerned, to run a large cargo, in doing which there was great risk that the lives both of coastguard men and smugglers would be sacrificed. Uncle Boz instantly went off himself to the Inspecting Commander of the district; and so strong a force was sent down to the spot, and so sharp a look-out kept up along the coast, that the smugglers found their design impracticable, and were compelled to abandon it. Had the young smuggler survived, they would have wreaked their vengeance on him; but he was safe from them in his grave. Their rage, therefore, was turned towards Uncle Boz, as they had discovered that he had given the information, and assisted to make the arrangements which had defeated their plans. Although not wishing to act the part of a volunteer coastguard man, Uncle Boz had always set his face against the smugglers, and spoke of their proceedings as lawless and wicked. “Black is black, and white is white; and it is because people will persist in calling black white that the ignorant are left in their ignorance, and unable to discern right from wrong,” he used to observe, when speaking on the subject. It seemed almost incredible, however, that the smugglers, bad as they might be, would maliciously injure a young boy and a little child, even though they might suppose, as they probably did, that they were the children of the man who had offended them. Still, such things had been done before. There was no other way of accounting for the disappearance of Jack and Katty. Jack would never have put off in the boat by himself. Had he done so she would still be visible, and there had been no wind to upset her. He would certainly not have remained out so long willingly; besides, the account given by the children, who had seen the strangers come down to the beach and push off in a boat, seemed to settle the question. We had still to wait for a crew. Uncle Boz sent up to the house for his tools, and an old carpenter in the village lent a hand, and they, with Bambo, worked away to get the boat ready for sea. We, meantime, hunted among the rocks along the shore for any traces of the missing ones, not without a feeling of fear and dread that we might discover some; then we searched the cliffs, and every cave and cranny we could think of. Poor Aunt Deborah came down, when at length her fears had been aroused, to ascertain what had become of her little darling. I never saw her so grieved and agitated before. I was afraid that she would blame Jack; but not a word against him did she utter. On the contrary, she could only say, “Poor, poor fellow! I know that he would die sooner than let the sweet angel be injured; and if she has gone, so has he.” Before I heard her say that I had not realised what might have happened, and I burst into tears. While we were waiting, in the hopes that some of the men for whom Uncle Boz had sent might be found, one of the specks in the distance, which we knew to be boats, was seen approaching. Slowly she drew nearer and nearer the shore. We watched her anxiously. She might bring us some information. At length she was seen to be a fishing-boat. We hurried down to the beach, as with a light breeze she came skimming in over the calm sea. The first person who jumped out of her was Bill Cockle.
“Have you seen Jack? Have you seen Katty Brand?” I eagerly cried out.
Bill pulled off his hat, scratched his head, and with a look of astonishment, turning round his head as if some one had hit him, exclaimed, “No! Why, what’s happened?”
We told him. On which giving a slap on his thigh, and a hitch to his waistband, with a forcible expression, which I need not repeat, he exclaimed, “The villains! That’s what we saw, then. We couldn’t make it out. Well, I didn’t—”
“What was it you saw? What happened? Say, say!” we all exclaimed in one breath.
Cockle’s explanation was somewhat long, and sorely tried our patience. He and his mates had hauled in about half of one of their long nets, when a large lugger, they had not before seen, passed them, very nearly running them down. She stood close in, and exchanged signals with the shore. A boat in a little time was seen to come off with several people in her, and Cockle declared that he had seen a boy handed up the side of the lugger, and he was nearly certain a baby or little child. The lugger then hoisted in the boat, and made sail to the southward. As, however, there had been either a calm, or but a slight breeze ever since, from the southward, she could not have got far. This seemed to settle the question. We had now collected enough men to form a crew. We required arms and authority for boarding the lugger. Edward Grahame was with us, but though a midshipman, dressed in his uniform, with a dirk by his side, he could scarcely in his own person answer all our requirements. He was of course to go, and, to my great satisfaction, Uncle Boz gave me leave to be of the party, in consideration that it was my brother who was lost. The rest went back somewhat unwillingly to attend on Aunt Deborah. In spite of her grief, Aunt Deborah recollected that we could not live without eating, and had gone home to provide as large a store of provisions as the house could furnish. The men, meantime, got some kegs with water, and several loaves of bread and a cheese. We all ran backwards and forwards bringing the provisions Aunt Deborah had provided. We were not likely to starve, even though we might have had a chase of many days before we should overtake the lugger.
Though we had collected all the weapons to be found, we were not over well armed. “Never mind, lads,” cried Uncle Boz, “we have the boat’s stretchers, stout hearts, and a right cause, and if we can once get alongside the villains, there’s no fear but that we’ll win back our little jewel, and give them some broken heads for the trouble of heart and body they’ve caused us.”
“Yes, dat we will,” echoed Bambo, flourishing a heavy handspike over his head, with a vehemence which showed that age had not impaired his vigour. “We will treat dem as we did dem picarooning villains in de Vest Indies, ven you led de boarders, massa Boz, eh!”
“And you followed close at my side, and saved my life, Bambo,” cried Uncle Boz. “Shove away boys, lift her handsomely, she’ll be afloat directly.”
We were running the heavy boat down the beach into the water. Just as we were about to shove off, who should appear but Lieutenant Kelson, of the coastguard, with two of his men.
“There’s not much chance that he’ll ever set the Thames on fire,” I heard Uncle Boz once remark of him, from which I concluded that he was not a very bright genius. However, he was now cordially welcomed. He possessed the authority we wanted. His men were well armed, and would help us in fighting, of which I had a secret hope that we should enjoy a fair amount. I did not know what fighting was in those days. I had never seen blood drawn—human beings in the pride of manhood, shot down, and mangled and torn by shot and shell and langrage fired by brethren’s hands, writhing and shrieking in their death agony. Fighting may be a necessary evil, but an evil it is, and a dreadful one too. Mr Kelson hearing what had occurred, agreed to come, and he jumping in with his men, off we shoved amid the cheers of all who remained on shore, and their good wishes for our success. The men let fall their oars. Bob Grahame and I had one between us, and Uncle Boz steered; Kelson sitting like an admiral in his barge, and doing nothing. The little wind there had been fell completely, that was just what we wanted. If the calm continued, we should be nearly certain to come up with the lugger. Though the days were long, the sun was sinking down over the land, amid a rich orange glow which suffused the whole western sky. We were anxious before daylight had gone to catch sight of the lugger, lest we might pass her during the night. Fast as she was, however, with the light breeze which had been blowing for a short time, she might have slipped along through the water for a considerable distance. Cockle reported that she had edged off from the coast, and so having no other course to choose, we steered in the same direction, at the same time keeping a bright look-out in-shore, lest she might have afterwards kept in again, in the hopes of a chance of running some contraband. Several of the revenue cutters on the station had gone into port to refit, and the smugglers were just now indulging themselves, as do mice when the cat’s away. Numerous vessels were seen in the offing, but none of them like the lugger. We pulled steadily on. It was not likely that the smuggler would have gone much to the eastward, as she was probably bound for the coast of Holland or France. We should be certain, therefore, to come up with her. Twilight lessened, and darkness was gathering round us, when the moon, a vast globe of golden hue, rose out of the water, and as she shot upwards, cast a brilliant sparkling pathway of light athwart its surface. Never was I out in a more glorious night. Had we not had serious work before us, it was one to engross all our thoughts. Even the fish seemed to enjoy it, as we could see them leaping up on either hand. Many of them must have been big fellows, by the loud splash they made. On, on we pulled. “If we don’t soon come up with her, it will make our fellows very savage,” observed Kelson to Uncle Boz.
“Yes, we eat ’um,” cried out Bambo, who was a privileged joker.
The remark was appreciated by the other men.
“Yes Bambo, a jolly good supper we’ll make of them, the waggabonds,” sung out one of the other men.
It was time, however, for real supper, so we knocked off rowing, and provisions, with grog, were served out, and not sorry I was to rest my arms. A capital supper was made, and the crew seemed to enjoy it much. Once more, with renewed strength, we took to our oars. To pull all night long, with the chance of a fight at the end of it, is not so pleasant as lying snugly in bed; but, under the circumstances, I infinitely preferred being where I was—eagerness gave strength to our arms. We could not go on much longer without falling in with her, it was thought.
“It depends whether she is full or empty,” observed the lieutenant. “If the latter, she’ll be making the best of her way across to the Continent; but if she’s full she’ll be hovering about the coast for the chance of running her cargo. She’ll probably just now have her canvas lowered on deck, so that it will be a hard job to make her out.”
There seemed wisdom in this remark, but as she could have run some of her cargo when she stood in in the afternoon if she had had any on board, the general opinion was that she was steering a course for Dunkirk, to which a smuggling lugger frequenting the coast was known to belong, and it was thought that she must be that same lugger. All we hoped for was that the calm would continue. We were pulling steadily on, the men chatting with each other, when Mr Kelson sung out, “Silence! a sail ahead!” I could not help looking anxiously over my shoulder to ascertain what she was. I could just discern a dark object no great height out of the water.
“She’s the lugger, I really think,” observed Mr Kelson. “I hope she may have some tubs aboard.”
“I pray that she may have the dear children safe,” said Uncle Boz.
“Yes, she’s a lugger, there’s no doubt about that,” remarked the lieutenant.
Everyone was now on the alert, and I saw the men feeling that their weapons were ready for use. My heart beat considerably quicker than usual. We neared the stranger.
“Pull out of stroke, lads,” said Uncle Boz. “They’ll take us for some merchantman’s crew.”
There were several men we could see on the deck of the lugger. It was very difficult to prevent ourselves from dashing up alongside in the way our feelings would have dictated. It seemed strange, however, that they did not exhibit any alarm at our approach. Uncle Boz steered as if going to pass her, then suddenly shearing the boat alongside, we jumped on board.
“Well, what is all this about?” exclaimed a man standing aft, no one offering a show of resistance.
“That we are in His Majesty’s revenue service, and that you are our prisoners,” cried Lieutenant Kelson.
“That we have contraband on board, or that you have a right to detain us, must be proved,” said the master calmly. “Step below, you will find my papers correct; there is some mistake, I suspect.”
The lieutenant went down into the little cabin and I followed, half hoping to find Jack and Katty; but not a sign of them was there. Uncle Boz now came below; when the mate saw him he exclaimed, “Ah, sir, I know you; I was second mate of the Rosamond, wrecked near your house, when you saved our lives and treated us all so kindly. What has happened?” Uncle Boz told him.
“Then I’ll help you if I can,” said the master. “A lugger with sweeps passed us not an hour ago, quite close. I had an idea I knew the fellow, and but little honesty is there in him. Do you pull on as before, and I will follow if there comes a breeze, and lend a hand should you want me.”
There was no time for talking, and as the vessel was evidently honest, we tumbled into our boat and pulled on as lustily as before.
We soon caught sight of another vessel. “Hurrah! there she is,” cried Uncle Boz. “The fellows won’t balk you this time; but we must go alongside as we did the other.”
The lugger had taken in her sweeps, having got well off from the land. As we drew near we began to pull carelessly as before. The people on her deck evidently did not know what to make of us. They seemed, however, satisfied, for several continued to walk up and down the deck, as they had at first been doing, hands in pockets. We quickly made them draw them out though. The boat in another instant was alongside, and we were leaping on deck. Oaths in Dutch, French, and English burst from the lips of the crew.
“We are betrayed,” shouted the captain of the lugger. “But cheer up, lads. Overboard with the fellows!”
As he began to show fight, a knock on the head silenced him, and the crew on deck quickly succumbed. The lieutenant and his men jumped below, and secured several of the men in their berths. Uncle Boz and I meantime made our way into the cabin. A bright lamp hung from a beam above. On a locker was seated my brother Jack, Katty resting on one arm, while with his other hand he was feeding her with gruel from a basin held by a tall thin old Frenchman, dressed in a faded suit, of ancient cut, and a white nightcap on his bald head. I should have said had been feeding, for the process was arrested by the noise on deck. They all looked up as we entered, and Katty in her eagerness upset the basin as she sprang forward to throw herself into Uncle Boz’s arms. She instantly ran back and took Jack by the hand, crying out, “Dear Jack couldn’t help it. If he bigger, he wouldn’t let naughty smuggler carry me away.”
They had not been ill-treated; the old Frenchman especially had been very kind to them.
“Ah! yes, I have von littel grandchild lik dat at home,” he remarked.
So sudden had been our attack that we found plenty of things on board to condemn the vessel; while, of course, those concerned would be tried for the abduction of Jack and Katty. As the old Frenchman was clearly only a passenger, he was put on board the lugger we had previously boarded. I was glad that he escaped, on account of his kindness to sweet Katty and Jack, though I suspect that he was an absconding debtor. I should think, however, that his creditors might as well have tried to skin a flint as him. We carried the lugger in off the coastguard station, where more hands were put on board. Before noon we had placed sweet Katty in Aunt Deb’s loving arms, not much the worse for her excursion.
Jack went to sea, and Katty’s cabinet was adorned with numberless articles strange and beautiful from all parts of the world. Jack, of course, wherever he could get a run on shore, had to come and inspect them. By many a gallant deed he won his commander’s commission, and then Katty became his fond, devoted wife.
In that old churchyard high above the German Ocean are three small monuments placed by some loving friends of those who lie beneath. To no one more truly can the epitaph be applied than that which is cut on each tomb—that of the brother, of the sister, and of the faithful African—Hic jacet in pace.
There was not a happier ship in the service, when I joined her towards the end of the year 1794, than the gallant San Fiorenzo, Captain Sir Harry Burrard Neale, and those were not days when ships were reckoned little paradises afloat, even by enthusiastic misses or sanguine young midshipmen. They were generally quite the other thing.
The crews of many ships found it that other thing, and the officers, of course, found it so likewise. If the men are not contented, the officers must be uncomfortable; and, at the same time, I will say, from my experience, that when a ship gained the title of a hell-afloat, it was always in consequence of the officers not knowing their duty, or not doing it. Pride, arrogance, and an utter disregard for the feelings of those beneath them in rank, was too prevalent among the officers of the service, and was the secret of the calamitous events which occasionally happened about that time.
My noble commander was not such an one as those of whom I have spoken. There were some like him, but not many his equals. I may truly say of him “that he belonged to the race of admirals of which the navy of Old England has a right to be proud; that he was a perfect seaman, and a perfect gentleman.”
“He was one of the most humane, brave, and zealous commanders that ever trod a deck, to whom every man under him looked up as a father.” I was with him for many, very many years—from my boyish days to manhood,—and I may safely say that I never saw him in a passion, or even out of temper, though I have seen him indignant; and never more so than when merit—the merit of the junior officers of the service—has been overlooked or disregarded. I never heard him utter an oath, and I believe firmly that he never allowed one to escape his lips. I will say of him what I dare say of few men, that, in the whole course of his life, he was never guilty of an act unworthy of the character of a Christian and a gentleman. I was with him when his career was run—when, living in private on his own estate, the brave old sailor, who had ever kept himself unspotted from the world, spent his days in “visiting the fatherless and widows in their affliction”—walking from cottage to cottage, with his basket of provisions or medicines, or books, where the first were not required.
Genuine were the tears shed on his grave, and hearty was the response as the following band gave forth the air of “The Fine Old English Gentleman, all of the Olden Time?”
And now, on the borders of his estate, visible afar over the Solent Sea (Note 1), there stands a monument, raised by his sovereign and by those who knew and loved him well, all eager to add their testimony to his worth. But yet he lives in the heart of many a seaman, and will live while one remains who served under his command. But, avast! whither am I driving? My feelings have carried me away.
After what I have said, it is not surprising that the San Fiorenzo should have been a happy ship. Her captain made her so. From the highest to the lowest, all trusted him; all knew that he had their interest at heart—all loved him. The San Fiorenzo might have been a happy ship under an inferior commander—that is possible; but I doubt very much whether her crew would have done what they did do under any officer not possessed of those high qualities for which Sir Harry was so eminently distinguished. The San Fiorenzo was highly honoured, for she was the favourite ship, or rather, Sir Harry was the favourite captain of His Majesty George the Third, who, let people say what they will of him, was truly the sailors’ friend, and wished to be his subjects’ friend, as far as he had the power. Sir Harry was a favourite, not because he was a flatterer, but because the King knew him to be an honest man.
George the Third, as is well known, was very fond of spending the summer months at Weymouth, whence he could easily put to sea in his yacht, or on board a man-of-war, placed at his disposal. He seemed never to tire of sailing, especially with Sir Harry.
Whist was the constant game in the royal cabins. Sir Harry, who did everything as well as he could, though far from a good player, often beat the King, who was an indifferent one. Lord A—, a practised courtier, was, on the contrary, a remarkably good one, and generally beat Sir Harry. When, however, Lord A— played with the King, His Majesty always came off victorious. The King used to pretend to be exceedingly puzzled.
“It’s very odd—very odd. I beat Lord A—, Lord A— beats Sir Harry, and Sir Harry beats me. How can it be—how can it be?”
The King was always anxious to stand out to sea, so as to lose sight of land. This, however, was too dangerous an amusement to allow him. Sir Harry’s plan was to put the ship’s head off-shore, and to make all sail. This satisfied the King, who was then easily persuaded to go below to luncheon, dinner, or tea, or to indulge in his favourite game. Sail was soon again quietly shortened, and the ship headed in for the shore. Sometimes the King seemed rather surprised that we should have made the land again so soon; but whether or not he suspected a trick, I cannot say. His only remark was, “All right, Sir Harry; you are always right.”
It was impossible for a monarch to be more condescending and affable than was the good old King to all on board. He used to go among the men, and talk to them in the most familiar way, inquiring about their adventures and family histories, and evidently showing a sympathy with their feelings and ideas. Did they love the old King? Ay, there was not a man of them who would not gladly have died for him. It was the same with the midshipmen and officers. He used to delight in calling up us youngsters, and would chat with us as familiarly as would any private gentleman. He showed his real disposition, when able thus to cast aside the cares of state, and to give way to the kindly feelings of his heart. I say again, in that respect the King and his captain were worthy of each other. The following anecdote will prove it:—
We had gone to Portsmouth, leaving the King at Weymouth, and were returning through the Needles, when, as we got off Poole harbour, a small boat, with three people in her, was seen a little on the starboard bow. One man was rowing, the other two persons were beckoning, evidently towards the ship. As we drew near, we saw, through our glasses, that the two people were an old man and woman, and, as we appeared to be passing them, their gestures became more and more vehement. Many captains would have laughed, or taken no notice of the old people. Not so Sir Harry—he had a feeling for everyone. Ordering the ship to be hove-to, he allowed the boat to come alongside.
“Oh, captain, is our ain bairn Davie on board?” shouted the old people, in chorus.
Sir Harry, with the benignant smile his countenance so often wore, directed that they might be assisted up the side.
“Who is it you want, good people?” he asked, as soon as their feet were safely planted on the deck, where they stood, gazing round with astonished countenances.
“Our ain son, Davie—David Campbell, sir,” was again the reply.
“Is there any man of that name on board?” inquired Sir Harry. “Let him be called aft.”
A stout lad soon made his appearance, and was immediately pressed in the old people’s arms. This son was a truant, long absent from his home. At length, grown weary at delay, quitting their abode near Edinburgh, they had travelled south, inquiring at every port for their lost son, and only that morning had they arrived by waggon at Poole, believing that it was a port where men-of-war were to be found. A boatman, for the sake of a freight, had persuaded them to come off with him, pointing out the ship which was then coming out through the Needles.
Sir Harry was so pleased with the perseverance and affection which the old couple had exhibited, that he took them on to Weymouth, when the story was told to the King. His Majesty had them presented to him, and he and Queen Charlotte paid them all sorts of attention, and at length, after they had spent some weeks with their son, dismissed them, highly gratified, to their home in the North.
Queen Charlotte was as good a woman as ever lived, and, in her way, was as kind and affable as was the King. She had a quaint humour about her, too, which frequently exhibited itself, in spite of the somewhat painful formality of the usual court circle. As an example—Sir Harry had had a present of bottled green peas made to him the previous year, and, looking on them as a great rarity, he had kept them to be placed on the table before his royal guests. As he knew more about ploughing the ocean than ploughing the land, and affairs nautical than horticultural, it did not occur to him that fresh green peas were to obtained on shore. The bottled green peas were therefore proudly produced on the first opportunity.
“Your Majesty,” said Sir Harry, as the Queen was served, “those green peas have been kept a whole year.”
The Queen made no reply till she had eaten a few, and sent several flying off from the prongs of her fork. Then, nodding with a smile, she quietly said, “So I did tink.”
To the end of his days, Sir Harry used to laugh over the story, adding, “Sure enough, they were very green; but as hard as swan-shot.”
But I undertook to narrate a circumstance which exhibited Sir Harry Burrard Neale’s character in its true colours. I need not enter into an account of that painful event, the Mutiny of the British Fleet. It broke out first at Spithead, on the 15th April, 1797, on board Lord Bridport’s flag-ship, the Royal George; the crews of the other ships of the fleet following the example thus set them. The men, there can be no doubt, had very considerable grievances of which to complain; nor can it be well explained how, in those days, they could by legal means have had them redressed. One thing only is certain, mutiny was not the proper way of proceeding. We were at Spithead, and not an officer in the fleet knew what was about to occur, when, on the 14th, two of our men desired to speak with the captain, and then gave him the astounding intelligence that the ships’ companies of the whole fleet had bound themselves to make certain important demands, and which, if not granted, that they would refuse to put to sea. The two men—they were quartermasters—moreover, stated that they had themselves been chosen delegates to represent the ship’s company of the San Fiorenzo, by the rest of the fleet, but that they could assure him that all the men would prove true and loyal, and would obey their officers as far as was consistent with prudence.
Sir Harry thanked them, assuring them, in return, that he would trust them thoroughly. He, however, scarcely believed at that time the extent to which the mischief had gone. The next day evidence was given of the wide spread of the disaffection. Affairs day after day grew worse and worse; and although some of the superior officers acted with great judgment and moderation, others very nearly drove matters to the greatest extremity.
Meantime, the delegates of the San Fiorenzo attended the meetings of the mutineers, and, though at the imminent risk of their lives, regularly brought Sir Harry information of all that occurred. He transmitted it to the Admiralty, and it was chiefly through his representations and advice that conciliatory measures were adopted by the Government. Nearly all the just demands of the seamen having been granted, they returned to their duty and it was supposed that the mutiny was at an end. Just before this, the Princess Royal had married the Duke of Wirtemberg, and the San Fiorenzo had been appointed to carry Her Royal Highness over to Cuxhaven. We could not, however, move without permission from the delegates. This was granted. Our upper-deck guns were stowed below, and the larger portion of the upper-deck fitted with cabins. In this condition, when arriving at Sheerness, we found to our surprise that the red flag was still flying on board the guardship, the Sandwich. Supposing that her crew had not been informed of what had taken place at Spithead, Sir Harry sent our delegates on board her, that they might explain the real state of affairs. The disgust of our men was very great when they were informed that fresh demands had been made by the crews of the North Sea fleet, of so frivolous a nature that it was not probable they would be granted. Our men, in spite of the character of delegates, which had been forced on them, could not help showing their indignation, and expressing themselves in no very courteous terms. This showed the mutineers that they were not over-zealous in their cause, and our people were warned that, should they prove treacherous, they and their ship would be sent to the bottom.
On returning on board, they informed Sir Harry of all that had occurred. Our delegates, at his suggestion, immediately communicated with those of the Clyde, an old fellow-cruiser, commanded by Captain Cunningham. That officer, on account of his justice, humanity, and bravery, enjoyed, as did Sir Harry, the confidence of his ship’s company. An arrangement was therefore made between the captains and their crews that, should the mutineers persevere in their misconduct, they would take the ships out from amidst the fleet, fighting our way, if necessary, and run for protection under cover of the forts at Sheerness. Every preparation was made. We waited till the last moment. The mutineers showed no disposition to return to their duty. The Clyde was the in-shore ship; she was therefore to move first (Note 2). We watched her with intense interest, while we remained still as death. Not one of our officers appeared on deck, and but few of the men, though numerous eager eyes were gazing through the ports. The Clyde had springs on her cables, we knew, but as yet not a movement was perceptible. Suddenly her seamen swarmed on the yards, the topsails were let fall and sheeted home. She canted the right way. Hurrah! all sail was made. Away she went; and, before one of the mutinous fleet could go in chase, she was under the protection of the guns on shore. It was now our turn; but we had not a moment to lose, as the tide was on the turn to ebb, when we should have had it against us. What was our vexation, therefore, when the order was given to get under weigh, to find that the pilot, either from fear, incompetency, or treachery, had declared that he could not take charge of the ship! Sir Harry would have taken her out himself; but the delay was fatal to his purpose, and before we could have moved, boats from the other ships were seen approaching the San Fiorenzo. They contained the delegates from the fleet, who, as they came up the side, began, with furious looks, to abuse our men for not having fired into the Clyde, and prevented her escaping. High words ensued, and so enraged did our men become at being abused because they did not fire on friends and countrymen, that one of the quartermasters, John Aynsley by name, came aft to the first lieutenant, and entreated that they might be allowed “to heave the blackguards overboard.”
A nod from him would have sealed the fate of the delegates. I thought then (and I am not certain that I was wrong) that we might at that moment have seized the whole of the scoundrels, and carried them off prisoners to Sheerness. It would have been too great a risk to have run them up to the yard-arm, or hove them overboard, as our men wished, lest their followers might have retaliated on the officers in their power.
No man was more careful of human life than Sir Harry, and it was a plan to which he would never have consented. The delegates, therefore, carried things with a high hand, and, convinced that our crew were loyal to their king and country, they ordered us to take up a berth between the Inflexible and Director, to unbend our sails, and to send our powder on board the Sandwich, at the mast-head of which ship the flag of the so-called Admiral Parker was then flying. That man, Richard Parker, had been shipmate with a considerable number of the crew of the San Fiorenzo, as acting lieutenant, but had been dismissed his ship for drunkenness, and having lost all hope of promotion, had entered before the mast.
Our people had, therefore, a great contempt for him, and said that he was no sailor, and that his conduct had ever been unlike that of an officer and a gentleman. Such a man, knowing that he acted with a rope round his neck, was of course the advocate of the most desperate measures. Everything that took place was communicated immediately to Sir Harry, who advised the men to pretend compliance, and, much to our relief, the other delegates took their departure. As soon as they were gone, Sir Harry told the ship’s company that, provided they would agree to stand by him, he would take the ship into Sheerness, as before intended. The men expressed their readiness to incur every possible risk to effect that purpose. The almost unarmed condition of the ship at the time must be remembered. The men set zealously to work to prepare for the enterprise. Springs were got on our cables. All was ready. The flood had made. The object was to cast in-shore. The men were at their stations. We were heaving on the spring—it broke at the most critical moment, and we cast outward. There was no help for it. Nothing could prevent us from running right in among the two ships of the mutinous fleet which I have mentioned, and which lay with their guns double shotted, and the men at quarters, with the lanyards in their hands, ready to fire at us. Our destruction seemed certain; but not for a moment did our captain lose his presence of mind. Calm as ever, he ordered the quartermaster Aynsley to appear on deck as if in command, while the officers concealed themselves in different parts of the ship, he standing where he could issue his orders and watch what was taking place. All was sheeted home in a moment, and we stood in between the two line-of-battle ships, the Director and Inflexible. The ship, by this time, had got good way on her. It appeared that we were about to take up the berth into which we had been ordered, when Sir Harry directed that all the sheets should suddenly be let fly. This took the mutineers so completely by surprise, that not a gun was then fired at us. Sir Harry next ordered the helm to be put “hard-a-port,” which caused the ship to shoot ahead of the Inflexible—we were once more outside our enemies. Springing immediately on deck, he took the command, crying out, in his encouraging tone, “Well done, my lads—well done!”
A loud murmur of applause and satisfaction was heard fore and aft; but we had no time for a cheer.
“Now clear away the bulkheads, and mount the guns,” he added.
Every man flew with a hearty will to obey his orders. And need there was; for scarcely were the words out of his mouth than the whole fleet of thirty-two sail opened their fire on us. The shot flew like hail around us, and thick as hail, ploughing up the water as they leaped along it, chasing each other across the surface on every side of the ship. We could have expected nothing else than to be sunk instantly, had we had time for consideration; but, as it was, wonderfully few struck our hull, while not a shroud was cut away, nor was a man hurt. The huge Director, close to us, might have sent us to the bottom with a broadside, but not a shot from her, that we could see, came aboard us.
“They have not the heart to fire at us, the blackguards!” observed one of the men near me.
“It may be that, Bill; but, to my mind, they’re struck all of a heap at seeing the brave way our captain did that,” answered another. “If we’d had the guns mounted he’d have fired smack into them. We send our powder aboard that pirate Parker’s ship! we unbend our sails to please such a sneaking scoundrel as he!”
“It’s just this, that the misguided chaps are slaves against their will, and they haven’t become bad enough yet to fire on their countrymen, and maybe old friends and shipmates,” said a third.
Such were the opinions generally expressed on board. It was reported afterwards that the Director fired blank cartridges, and this may have been the case, but I think more probably that her people were first struck with astonishment at our manoeuvre, and then, with admiration at the bravery displayed, purposely fired wide of us. As, however, we were frequently struck, some shots by traitorous hands must have been aimed at us from her, or from some of the other ships. In little more than two hours the bulkheads were cleared away from the cabin door, to the break of the quarter-deck (the whole space having, as I before said, been fitted up with cabins for the suite of Her Royal Highness). The guns on both sides were got up from the hold and mounted, and we were ready for action. As soon as the task was accomplished, the men came aft in a body, and entreated, should any ships be sent after us by the mutineers, that they might be allowed to fight to the last, and go down with our colours flying, rather than yield, and return to the fleet at the Nore.
Sir Harry readily promised not to disappoint their wishes.
We stood on, but as yet no sign was perceptible of chase being made after us. It was possible, we thought, that no ship’s company could be induced to weigh in pursuit. They well knew that we should prove a tough bargain, had any single ship come up with us. Should we prove victorious, every man might have been hung as a pirate. As to Parker, he dared not leave his fleet, as he ventured to call it.
Our master, although a good navigator, did not feel himself justified in taking charge of the ship, within the boundaries of a Branch pilot, and we were therefore on the look-out for a pilot vessel, when a lugger was discovered on the lee bow, and we were on the point of bearing down to her, when we made out first a ship or two, then several sail, and lastly, a whole fleet, which we guessed must be the North Sea Fleet standing for the Nore. We were steering for them, to give the admiral notice of what had occurred, when the red flag was discovered flying on board them also. They had, as it appeared, left their station in a state of mutiny, having placed the admiral and all the officers under arrest. To avoid them altogether was impossible, and before long a frigate bore down to us. Should our real character be discovered, we must be captured by an overwhelming force. Still Sir Harry remained calm and self-possessed as ever. As the frigate approached, he ordered all the officers below, and giving the speaking-trumpet to Stanley, the quartermaster, told him to reply as he might direct. The frigate hailed and inquired what we were about. “Looking out to stop ships with provisions, that we may supply the fleet,” was the answer. The people of the frigate, satisfied with this reply, proceeded to rejoin the fleet, while we, glad to escape further questioning, made sail in chase of the lugger. She was a fast craft, and led us a chase of four hours before we captured her. She proved to be the Castor and Pollux privateer of sixteen guns. Having taken out the prisoners, and put a prize crew on board, we were proceeding to Portsmouth, when the lugger, being to windward, spoke a brig, which had left that place the day before, and from her gained the information that the mutiny had again broken out at Spithead. Under these circumstances, Sir Harry thought it prudent to anchor under Dungeness until he could communicate with the Admiralty. This we did; but it was a time of great anxiety, for the mutineers might consider it important to capture us, to hold Sir Harry and his officers as hostages, and to wreak their vengeance on our men. We got springs on the cable, and the ship ready for action. During the middle watch a ship was made out bearing down towards us; she was high out of the water, and was pronounced by many to be a line-of-battle ship. Sir Harry was on deck in an instant—the private signal was made—would it be answered? Yes; but there was no security in this, as, should the ship’s company have mutinied, they would naturally have possessed themselves of it. The drum beat to quarters, the fighting lanterns were up, their light streaming through our ports. Our men earnestly repeated their request to be allowed to sink rather than surrender to the mutineers. No sight of the sort could be finer, as the brave fellows stood stripped to the waist, dauntless and resolute, not about to fight with a common foe, but one that would prove cruel and revengeful in the extreme. The wind was extremely light, and the stranger closed very slowly. The suspense was awful. In a short time we might be engaged in a deadly struggle with a vastly superior foe, and deadly all determined that it should be. Nearer and nearer the stranger drew; at length our captain hailed. The answer came: “The Huzzar! Lord Garlais! from the West Indies.” She anchored close to us, and we exchanged visits. Her people, ignorant of the mutiny, could not understand the necessity of the precaution we had taken. They were so struck, when made acquainted with what had occurred, at the bravery and determination of our ship’s company, that they immediately swore they would stick by us, and that, should any ship be sent to take us back to the Nore, they would share our fate, whatever that might be. I am sure that they would have proved as good as their word, but daylight came, and no enemy appeared. We lay here for some time, that Sir Harry might ascertain what was occurring on shore. He found that most active and energetic measures were being taken to repress the mutiny, and in a few days we heard that the ship’s company of the Sandwich had taken her into Sheerness, and allowed their late leader, Parker, to be arrested by a guard of soldiers, sent on board for that purpose by Admiral Buckner. We sailed for Plymouth, and another ship was appointed to have the honour of taking over the Princess Royal.
I must say a word or two about that mutiny. I am convinced that the proportion of disaffected men was comparatively small. The seamen had grievances, but those would have been redressed without their proceeding to the extremities into which they plunged, led by a few disappointed and desperate men like Parker. Had greater energy been shown from the first, during some of the opportunities which occurred, the whole affair might have been concluded in a more dignified manner, at a much earlier date. I will instance one occasion. Having one day got leave from the delegates of our ship, while we lay off Sheerness, to go on shore, I landed at the dockyard. I found, as I passed through it, that I was followed by the whole body of delegates, walking two-and-two in procession, Parker and Davis leading, arm-in-arm. Just as we got outside the gates, the Lancashire Fencibles appeared, coming to strengthen the garrison. As soon as the seamen got near the soldiers, they began to abuse them in so scurrilous a manner, that the officer in command halted his men, and seeing the admiral and superintendent, close to whom I at the time was standing opposite the gates, he came, and, complaining of the insults offered to himself and men, asked permission to surround and capture them. So eager did I feel, that I involuntarily exclaimed, “Yes! yes! now’s the time!” The admiral, on hearing me, turned sharply round, and demanded how I dared to speak in that way? “Because there they all are, sir, and we may have them in a bunch!” I replied, pointing to Parker, Davis, and the rest. The admiral told me that I did not know what I was saying; but I did, and I have no cause to suppose that I was wrong.
When the truly loyal and heroic conduct of our ship’s company became known, it was intended to raise a sum in every seaport town in England to present to them. From some reason, however, the Government put a stop to it, and the only subscription received was from Ludlow in Shropshire, from whence the authorities sent 500 pounds to Sir Harry Neale, which he Distributed to the ship’s company on the quarter-deck.
Note 1. The “Solent Sea” is the name of the channel between the Isle of Wight and the mainland.
Note 2. The plan was proposed and executed by the late Mr W. Bardo, pilot, then a mate in the navy. He returned to the San Fiorenzo, and piloted her as he had the Clyde, when her own pilot refused to take charge.