The new Captain was a horrid speculation to us juniors. When it was announced that he was Sir Lewis Tobias Jones, dread ran through us. He was what we called a “taut hand”: an officer with a stern sense of duty, which was all he lived for on board ship. That was his reputation. We were agreeably surprised after a very short time. For myself, I had great admiration for his character, and none could question his great abilities. I was soon made his A.D.C., and got on swimmingly. I recollect his running foul of me only on one occasion; and no doubt I deserved it. It was a bitterly cold day, and (as is the custom when a ship is under canvas) the wretched middy of the watch had to walk the lee side of the deck. Unfortunately, the main trysail was set—the most draughty sail in the world, sending all its winds bang down your neck from one end of the quarter-deck to the other. I feltperished with cold, and in a moment of inadvertence put my poor little fingers into my pocket, to keep them warm. Now, the weather side is the sheltered side (it sounds illogical, but so it is); and no doubt Captain Jones did not realise my benumbed state, he being on the more sheltered side of the deck. Seeing my hands in my pockets on the sacred precincts of Her Majesty’s quarter-deck was beyond what he could bear. He called me up, therefore, and said, in rather a stentorian voice, “Pray, sir, who allowed you to keep your hands in your pockets on the quarter-deck? Go down immediately to the tailor on the half-deck [a worthy who was always seen squatting with his mate between two guns at the after end of the main deck, sewing clothes], and tell him from me to sew your pockets up instantly; and report to me, sir, when he has done so.” I fled, feeling disgraced, and knowing that the only chance of retrieving my character was to urge the tailor to “bear a hand”; as the sooner I appeared on deck sewn up, the better. It was but the work of an instant. The tailor twigged the situation, dropped all his work, and sewed me up in no time. When I reached the deck, trembling almost, with my report ready, the stentorian voice had disappeared, and I was accosted in the most fatherly manner. “Now, my boy, this is a lesson to you. Do not do it again.Go below to the tailor, and tell him to unsew your pockets.”
Now, I am going to moralise. I appreciated that form of reprimand much better than I should have relished a senseless punishment such as, unfortunately, often falls to the middy’s lot. I allude to the stopping of leave. Of course, that could have effect only when in harbour. Possibly, therefore, your ship might be weeks at sea after the punishment was awarded; and you had it hanging over your head. A boy was debarred from seeing some new place of interest, an experience which would have been more beneficial to his mind than the punishment was to his morals. Mast-heading was another form. “Go up to the mast-head, and wait until I call you down.” This, on a rough day was very disagreeable: the jerking of spars (to say nothing of the climb up into the skies) did not abate the feeling of sea-sickness; and woe betide you if by any chance you made an unfortunate exhibition of yourself! Among other punishments was what was termed “sticking you on the bitts.” You stood on the wooden framing round the mast, to which the ropes were belayed, for a specified number of hours; and you not only looked, but also felt, an abject fool. Sometimes you had watch-and-watch—four hours on duty to four hours off. During these punishments there was generally one friend who hadcompassion on you. That was the boatswain’s mate of the watch. When he got the opportunity, he would invariably go behind the mast and near where you might be undergoing your punishment, spin you a yarn of what he had seen in his time, and offer you some consolation, telling you to endure your disgrace like a man.
These boatswain’s mates were fine fellows, as a rule; but generally they had to bear the brunt if something went wrong with the sails or ropes. “Boatswain’s mate, why the Devil—” this or that—was constantly yelled out by the officer of the watch. Noise and repetition of orders emanating from that worthy were a sure sign that the officer of the watch was not up to his work.
Standing between two guns on the quarter-deck for so many half hours was another form of punishment. This was killing. It often happened that the poor middy found himself in close proximity to some dirty cook’s mate placed between two guns for neglecting to keep clean something under his charge.
These punishments were very senseless: irritating to some natures, and disgusting many a boy with the Service. I have known several serious cases of insubordination consequent on such punishments, which stung some characters to the quick. A case happened to myself that I shall never forget. As mid of the watch, I had tocall a certain Commander at 5.30A.M.Calling a strict Commander whom you very much funked was in itself a nervous transaction. But this officer seemed particularly to love cross-questioning the wretched small boy. The question usually first put to you was, “How is the weather?” followed by various others—some difficult to answer, perhaps. On the occasion to which I refer, it happened to be a washing-of-clothes morning; and this very bearish Commander asked me whether the clothes were up, meaning, Were all the clothes hung up on the lines and in their places? On my answering in the affirmative, he asked, “How many blue frocks are there hanging on the lower lines?” For the life of me, I could not tell; nor could one possibly discover by any depth of reasoning what object there was in knowing how many blue serge frocks were hanging up to dry out of a complement of 850 souls. I answered, “I don’t know exactly, sir; but I will go and see.” “You don’t know, sir!” exclaimed this infuriated gouty person. “I will see about that. Meantime, consider your leave stopped for a month.” And this in Malta Harbour—where we had our cricket, rackets, billiards, friends, and every sort of fun, besides a half-crown stall at the opera when we could afford it. The only consolation is that (I suppose) it did not do me much harm, but that, on the contrary, it taught me alesson for after life, when my turn for authority came. Such punishments, like flogging, were the remnants of barbarism; and it was a good day for the Navy when they ceased.
I am sorry to say I have often seen three men flogged, one after another. This hateful ceremony invariably (in my time) was gone through at 7.30A.M.All the officers had to appear on deck in frock-coats, and with swords, while the punishments were being inflicted. I do not believe that flogging ever cured a character. I think that it hardened nine men out of ten. It may have deterred others, and so had its effect; but the crimes committed were often, to my idea, too trifling for such retribution. Of course, in those days prisons—or, at any rate, the means of sending men to prison—were scarce; and it happened that we were a good deal on war service, when prisons were not accessible. But,coûte que coûte, bad characters—men who could not be reclaimed after several attempts—were best kicked out of the Service. They are a plague to their shipmates, and give trouble all round; though it was a curious fact that they were generally the best seamen. When I commanded ships I occasionally found characters that were past all hope. I spoke to them, explained matters, argued cases out. Nothing had the slightest effect. Crime appeared to be a second nature: they could not refrain fromthe temptation to disobey orders. They were not ill-treated by their shipmates, or soured by constant fault-finding. Their sole object in life seemed to be to go in a direction exactly opposite to that which was right. I believe this to be a mode of insanity.