Every Man Will Do His Duty Read online

  At Cadiz there is a beautiful walk with trees, called the Alameda, much frequented, particularly on a Sunday. It has three walks for the different grades of people. I happened to be on shore with some of our officers on the above day, and taking a stroll through the Alameda, we observed several well-dressed women in a balcony of one of the large houses that overlooked the walks. When they caught sight of us, they beckoned, and we went, as we thought, into the house. On going up two pairs of stairs without seeing any one, we imagined it was a trick, when casting my eye to a door that was partly open, I saw a fellow with a drawn stilletto ready to make a stab; upon which I called to the rest to make their retreat as fast as possible. One of them (a Mr. Crump) was deaf, and I was obliged to push him downstairs as I could not make him understand. This was a warning not lost upon us.

  The America, 64, having arrived at Cadiz to take charge of the convoy, we were put under her orders, and having got on board the money, sailed with the convoy for Lisbon.

  Farewell and adieu, ye fair Spanish Ladies,

  Farewell and adieu, ye Ladies of Spain;

  For we’ve received orders to sail for old England,

  In hopes in short time for to see you again.—Old Song.

  After a passage of near three weeks we arrived in the Tagus, fortunately the day before a tremendous hurricane, which blew dead upon the shore, came on and lasted a considerable time.

  A droll circumstance happened while at Lisbon. A party of us had been to see the famous aqueduct over the valley of Alcantara, and on coming back, one of them (Tomlinson, of the Berwick) to show his dexterity jumped on the back of a donkey. He had on a round jacket and light nankin pantaloons; the latter he split from clue to earing, and was obliged to walk to the boat in that situation, and by way of helping a lame dog over a stile, we took the longest way, where we had to pass by several ladies, with his shirt sticking out and every one laughing at him. He declared to me it was the most miserable time he ever experienced in the whole course of his life.

  We were one day accosted while walking in Black-Horse Square, by a genteel-looking young man who, in broken English, said he would be happy to show us about the city, which offer was accepted, though much against my will. As we were walking through the streets, I observed the people as they passed us to laugh and point to others and then at us. At last we met an officer belonging to our squadron, who asked if we knew the person we had in company, because, says he, “If you don’t I’ll tell you. He is the noted pimp of Lisbon, and makes a trade of showing, not only the city, but all the ladies of easy virtue from the lowest brothel in Bull Bay to the highest in the upper town.” This was quite enough, and we told the fellow to be off, but he had the impudence to follow us to the boat for payment, and even got upon the gang board and was coming in, when Jennings, in his dry way, said to the bowman, “Don’t you see the gentleman is dusty? Have you no way of rubbing it off?” winking at the time. Upon this the bowman without any ceremony pitched him overboard up to his neck and then shoved off. We met the fellow several times after, but he took good care to steer clear.

  I went with Lieutenant Chantrell to dinner at an ordinary at Lisbon. Among the company were several Americans. One of the dishes at the bottom of the table occasioned a dispute that had nearly terminated in a battle. A Yankee from the head of the table came and snatched up a beef-steak pie that an English master of a transport (one of our convoy) was serving out, and carried it off to his companions; upon which the Englishman stood up and harangued his countrymen as follows: “I say, if you stand this you ought to be damned, and may as well take a purser’s shirt out of the rigging.3 Now, I move that all you that are Englishmen shall rise from the table and throw the Yankees out of the window.” This speech had the same effect as that of Nestor’s to the Greeks, and the Yankees would for a certainty have been thrown into the street, had not Lieutenant Chantrell requested them to forbear, observing that abuse was innocent where men were worthless. This had the desired effect; and the pie being restored to its place in rather a diminished state, and the Yankee who took it away saying he only meant it in Har-mo-ny, the war was put an end to, and the dinner ended in peace.

  One of our men having deserted, I was sent with Ducker, the boatswain, and a couple of marines to hunt in Bull Bay, which is the Wapping of Lisbon, and after a long search we found him and were returning to the boat. In passing through one of their dirty streets, something which shall be nameless was hove out of a window and fell upon the shoulder of Ducker, about the size of a large epaulette. I wished him joy of his promotion and told him that he looked extremely well in his new uniform. A piece of the same material fell on his nose and stuck out like the horn of a rhinoceros. I never saw a fellow so vexed. He was going to break the windows, but I told him to consider, as Bull Bay was not to be attacked too hastily. I had hardly made the observation when his foot slipped, and he fell back in the gutter, where he lay cursing the whole race of Portuguese. Then

  Vigorous he rose; and from the effluvia strong

  Imbibed new strength, and scoured and stunk along.4

  I thought I should have died a-laughing, while he was cursing every native he met with until he got to the boat.

  We remained several weeks at Lisbon collecting the convoy. At last when everything was ready we got under way, I think the latter end of September, the following men of war in company: America, 64 (Hon. John Rodney, commodore, having charge of the convoy); Gorgon, 44 (Captain Wallis); Pearl, 36; Topaze, 36; St. Fiorenzo, 36 (Capt. Sir C. Hamilton (?)); Modeste, 32 (Captain [Byam Martin]); Alert, 18.

  We had a most dreadful passage home, blowing a gale of wind the whole time with seldom more sail set than a close-reefed main topsail. The French squadron that captured the Alexander, 74, had been on the look-out for us. We had several French officers (emigrants) who had left Toulon at the evacuation. They were in the greatest tribulation all the passage for fear of being taken. We had also many invalids from the fleet, of very little service had we met with an enemy; and our effective complement I think mustered under a hundred, so that we should have stood but a poor chance had we met with the squadron. The forty-seven French prisoners that we had with us were left at Gibraltar, which was a great relief to the emigrants we had on board, as they were in constant fear of their taking the ship from us. Fortunately for them and for us the Jacobin squadron got on the wrong scent.

  I don’t know how it happened, but some people kept an odd kind of reckoning, and we had some idea of making the banks of Newfoundland instead of the British Channel. However, at last we got to the northward and westward of Scilly, with the wind at SW; but it must be understood, to give the devil his due, that we had not an observation for a long time, and our dead reckoning was not to be trusted; but at last we found out by instinct or soundings that we were not in the right place. Now it so happened that we were lying to on the larboard tack, the wind, as I have stated, at SW, under a close-reefed main topsail and storm staysails, when in a thundering squall it shifted to NNW and took us slap aback. Over she went, with the upper dead-eyes on the lower rigging in the water, and we thought she never would right, but the old ship came to herself again. She was a noble sea-boat; it would have been worth any man’s while to leave the feast, the dance, or even his wife, to have been on board this ship in a gale of wind to witness her glorious qualities.

  I must now speak of Jerry Hacker, the purser. He was a man, take him all in all, ye ne’er will see his like again. He messed by himself in the cockpit, and would sit in his cabin in the dark with a long stick in his hand, calling out to everyone that came down the cockpit ladder, “What strange man is that?” He was in constant fear of being robbed or cheated, and lived in the most miserable manner. I have known him to corn meat in his hand-basin and in something else. He was suspicious to a degree and always saying he should be ruined, though there was little fear of that, as Jerry took good care to trust no one; and what he was only charged two shillings a gallon for, he kindly offered to let me hav
e for five shillings, paying ready money; but I was not to be taken in so easy. He could not bear the sight of a midshipman in the cockpit, and did everything in his power to annoy them, and before I joined the ship, he used to sing a verse of an old song reflecting on the midshipmen. One morning while I was in the cockpit, he was quarrelling with some of them, and then struck up his favourite air, not thinking that any person knew the song but himself. However, in this he was mistaken, and when he had finished the following verse, I struck up another that settled him.

  Tune, The Black Joke.

  Ye salt beef squires and quarter deck beaus,

  Who formerly lived upon blacking of shoes:

  With your anchors a-weigh and your topsails a-trip.

  If they call us by name and we don’t answer, Sir!

  They start us about till not able to stir;

  A lusty one and lay it well on.

  If you spare them an inch you ought to be damn’d;

  With your anchors a-weigh and your topsails a-trip.

  Our b—of a purser, he is very handy,

  He mixes the water along with the brandy;

  Your anchors a-weigh and your topsails a-trip.

  The bloody old thief he is very cruel;

  Instead of burgoo he gives us water gruel;

  A lusty one and lay it well on.

  If you spare him an inch you ought to be damn’d,

  With your anchors a-weigh and your topsails a-trip.

  After hearing the last verse Jerry’s “heavenly voice was heard no more to sing,” and he looked with an evil eye upon me ever after.

  In the gale of wind near the Channel, when we were taken aback in the squall that I have mentioned, every article we had was broken with the exception of the cover of a very large mess teapot. This we handed round as a measure to one another with wine from a black jack. I remember being at supper soon after the squall, in the midship berth in the cockpit, the ship rolling gunwale under, when we heard a noise in the after-hold like the rush of many waters, and it struck everyone that a butt end had started and that we should founder in a few minutes. The alarm was given immediately. The sick and lame left their hammocks; the latter forgot his crutch, and leaped—not exulting—like the bounding roe. Down came the captain and a whole posse of officers and men. The gratings were instantly unshipped, and in rushed the carpenter and his crew, horror-struck, with hair standing on end, like quills on the fretful porcupine; when, behold, it was a large cask of peas that had the head knocked out, and the peas as the ship rolled rushed along with a noise exactly like that of water.5

  After looking at one another for some time the following ludicrous scene took place, which I was an eye-witness to:—

  The captain shook his head, took snuff, and went upon deck.

  Old Edgar, first lieutenant, followed, and said, “God bass ’e all.”

  Billy Chantrell gave a grin, and damn’d his eyes.

  The parson exclaimed, “In the midst of life we are in death.”

  The carpenter said, “Damn and b— the peas.”

  Old Jerry Hacker, the purser, swore he was ruined, as no allowance would be made him; and cursed the field the peas grew in; and the French emigrant captain (Dubosc) said, “it was as vel for him to stay at de Toulon and be guillotined, as to come to dis place and be drowned in de vater.”

  I never shall forget this scene as long as I live. I dined with Captain Wallis the next day, and he asked me, in a very knowing manner, if he should help me to some peas soup.

  AFTER STANDING to the southward for some time until we thought we had got into 49°30’ by our dead reckoning, which is the latitude of mid-channel, we then altered our course to SEbE½E. I had a presentiment that something bad was hanging over us, and I went on the fore topsail yard (I think about nine at night) to look out ahead, the ship scudding at the rate of eleven knots, which brought to my mind the following lines:

  The fatal sisters on the surge before

  Yoked their infernal horses to the prow. —Falconer.

  But in this instance they were outwitted, for lo and behold, after running some time I saw a light right ahead, which I instantly knew to be Scilly light, and I called to Captain Wallis, who immediately hauled the ship off to the southward. If the weather had not cleared after the squall before mentioned we should certainly have made the port where Sir Clowdsiley Shovell6 took in his last moorings.

  The gale separated the convoy, and in standing up Channel we had near run on the Bolt Head, but hauled off just in time. At last we arrived at Spithead, where a large fleet of men of war were assembled. Before we came to an anchor we had nearly run foul of several ships, and I remember the Invincible, 74, hailing us, saying, “You have cut my cable, sir.” This was not all, for we shaved off the old Royal William’s quarter gallery, which some shipwrights were repairing—who had barely time to save themselves. We were not allowed to anchor at Spithead, but to proceed to the Motherbank to perform quarantine on December 4, 1794, after the most extraordinary voyage that ever took place since the expedition of the Argonauts. Here I left the Gorgon and joined the Victory, who I found to my astonishment at Spithead.

  BEFORE I QUIT the Gorgon I must relate a few things. As I have stated before, every ship has strange characters, and the Gorgon had her full share. I shall begin with the captain, who was a very good seaman and had many good qualities, but at times he appeared half mad. He once said to me, pointing to Ducker, the boatswain, on the forecastle, “I’ll hang that fellow; and you go down directly and take an inventory of his stores.” I could hardly keep my countenance, but went forward, and as the captain turned his back I said to Ducker, “You are going to be hanged, and I am sent for a piece of white line to tuck you up genteelly.” On my reporting progress, he seemed to have forgot that he gave such an order, and, taking a pinch of snuff, merely said, “Let the fellow go to hell, and say no more about him.”

  The first lieutenant, Edgar, was another strange and unaccountable being. He had sailed round the world with Cook, and was master of the ship Captain Clerke commanded. He was a good sailor and navigator, or rather had been, for he drank very hard, so as to entirely ruin his constitution. He and the captain often quarrelled, particularly at night. I have heard the captain say, “Edgar, I shall get another first lieutenant.” The other would answer, “Ye-ye-ye-yes, sir, another first lieutenant.” The captain again, “Edgar, you are drunk.” “No, sir, bass me if I am.” A day or two before we left Corsica, the captain ordered the sails to be bent and went on shore to St. Fiorenzo. On coming on board late at night he asked Edgar if the sails were bent. This question Edgar could not answer, his memory having failed him; and on the captain asking him again, he said, “Bass me if I know, but I’ll look up,” forgetting it was dark. “You need not do that,” says the other, “for damn me if you can see a hole through a grating.” Then taking a pinch of snuff, part of which blew into Edgar’s eye, he asked him down to supper. This the other readily agreed to, but said, Bass him, if he could see the way.

  Our gunner was one of the drollest fellows I ever met with—it was his delight to come on the forecastle in the first watch and sing comic songs to amuse the midshipmen assembled there. “Arthur O’Bradley” was one that he used to sing with a great deal of humour. I believe it contained forty verses. “Bryan O’Lynn” was another which I shall relate, leaving out the lines that may not be liked by those endued with fine feelings.

  Bryan O’Lynn and his wife, and wife’s mother,

  They all hid under a hedge together;

  But the rain came so fast they got wet to the skin—

  We shall catch a damned cold, says Bryan O’Lynn.

  Bryan O’Lynn and his wife, and wife’s mother,

  They went in a boat to catch sprats together;

  A butt end got stove and the water rushed in—

  We’re drowned, by the holy, says Bryan O’Lynn.

  Bryan O’Lynn and his wife, and wife’s mother, They all went on
a bridge together; The bridge it broke and they all fell in—Strike out and be damned, says Bryan O’Lynn.

  Bryan O’Lynn and his wife, and wife’s mother,

  They all went out to chapel together;

  The door it was shut and they could not get in—

  It’s a hell of a misfortune, says Bryan O’Lynn.

  Bryan O’Lynn and his wife, and wife’s mother,

  They went with the priest to a wake together,

  Where they all got drunk and thought it no sin—

  It keeps out the cold, says Bryan O’Lynn.

  Bryan O’Lynn and his wife, and wife’s mother,

  They went to the grave with the corpse together;

  The earth being loose they all fell in—

  Bear a hand and jump out, says Bryan O’Lynn.

  Bryan O’Lynn and his wife, and wife’s mother,

  When the herring was over went home together;

  In crossing a bog they got up to the chin—

  I’m damned but we’re smothered, says Bryan O’Lynn.

  Bryan O’Lynn and his wife, and wife’s mother,

  By good luck got out of the bog together;

  Then went to confess to Father O’Flinn—

  We’re damnation sinners, says Bryan O’Lynn.

  Bryan O’Lynn and his wife, and wife’s mother,

  Resolved to lead a new life together;

  And from that day to this have committed no sin—