III.CHIPS FROM AN OLD LOG
Capital letter
ON the 1st of May, 1839, before daybreak—having only been a few hours on board the Heroine—an unusual noise and turmoil gave me the first idea of the life of a “passager civil” on board a man-of-war.
My hammock was hung close to the gun-room in the gun-deck, where 32 caronades and 250 Jack-tars shared with me that rather close and murky dormitory, which at a given signal from the boatswain’s whistle had to be cleared of hammocks, washed, holystoned, and mopped—all before 5A.M.
This, I may say, was an operation commenced on that first morning an hour earlier than usual, owing to the fact that “Saint Philippe” being the patron saint of the King of the French, and the first of May being the birthday of the said saint (a fact I am not prepared to vouch for), the whole of the fleet at anchor in the port of Brest would thunder a royal salute at sunrise, in which our ship could not take part, as in those benighted days it was thought that the firing of 21 guns might cause a deviation of the chronometers.
It appears that an order received during the night—to clear out before daylight—had to be obeyed, so we weighed anchor and put out to sea. It was a rough, miserable day. I hadhardly managed to hurry on my clothes before the Heroine commenced to toss and pitch as only a heavily-gunned frigate can do in a short, heavy sea with half a gale blowing in her teeth.
I shall never forget an eventful night in the Bay of Biscay, when the frigate was rolling heavily from side to side. One of the racks between the caronades gave way under the weight of the eight or ten thirty-two pound shots it held. These cannon balls were of course sent rolling from starboard to port with increased velocity, threatening in their progress to knock the sides of the ship into splinters. The watch was piped down to stop this mischief, but the task was not an easy one. The men had only the dim light of lanterns to see the very lively balls, and stopping them in their mad career was fraught with much danger; indeed, before they were all secured, several poor fellows had to be carried into the hospital with bruised and broken limbs.
I must confess that had it been possible on that and the following few days to have changed places with the only brother I had left comfortably quartered under the paternal roof, these pages would never have been penned in New Zealand, and he, poor fellow, would have escaped the tragical death he met with in the trenches at Sebastopol during the Crimean war, where he fell mortally wounded at the head of his company, the 11th Artillery.
Youth and a healthy constitution soon overcame the effects of themal de mer. The Heroine was the smartest sailer in the French navy. Our orders were to keep in the wake of anadmiral’s ship—“La Gloire”—sent to Rio de Janeiro to arrange matters in connection with the intended marriage of the Prince de Joinville with the sister of Don Pedro, Emperor of Brazil. Whilst tossing in the Bay of Biscay, and in order to keep at a respectful distance astern of the admiral’s ship, our commander—a knowing old salt, well versed in seamanship—well aware that the best qualities of his frigate were under easy sail, crammed on as much canvas as she could stagger under. This manœuvre brought out a signal from La Gloire to reduce sail and “rendezvous” at the entrance of Rio harbour. This, happening at sunset, was at once acted upon. During the night, under reduced sail, we forged ahead, so that when daylight came the admiral’s ship was almost hull-down astern of the Heroine. A quarter-master came to the skipper saying that the Gloire had hoisted our number, and was signalling fresh orders. “Who told you to look astern, sir?” said the captain. “You deserve to lose a week’s grog for being so officious. Go on the fore-castle and see if there are any breakers ahead; leave it to me to watch the admiral’s signals!” The fact is the old boy wanted to call at the Azores to take in a supply of wine for his and the gun-room table; he knew well that as soon as the heavy pressure of canvas was taken off, the gallant ship would displace less water under her bows, and could give the flag-ship one mile in three.
Thanks to this dodge, we spent a few days at Madeira and Teneriffe, where I received my first idea of semi-tropical climate, vegetation, and manners.
By this time, though not much of a sailor, I had got over the nauseous feeling, and got somewhat used to the “hard tack” called food, served twice a day to the midshipmens’ mess, where I was quartered.
Two meals of half a kilogramme of biscuit, as hard as cast-iron and quite as dark in colour; half a pint of haricots or broad beans alternately, which, I should think, were bought at the sale of surplus stores of Noah’s ark after she stranded on Mount Ararat; salt beef or pork, quite as ancient; and oh! such water!—the stench of it made the washing of one’s hands in it a punishment. Yet we had to drink it, together with theVin de campagne—a bluish mixture which would have been most acceptable to Messrs Day and Martin for the dilution of their celebrated blacking, but certainly rejected with contempt by Cross and Blackwell for pickling purposes.
What a treat it was to land at Funchal and Teneriffe! Shall I ever forget the delicious treat to rush into a cook-shop and “tuck in” a regular “burster” of white bread, fresh meat, and fruit. Of the latter I made, of course, an ample provision—returning on board with baskets of oranges, bananas, &c. Alas! I had to learn that in a man-of-war, in the yearA.D.1839, a passenger was a kind of incubus—looked upon as a nuisance—an object everlastingly in everybody’s way—without a cabin, a locker, a place to resort to, barring the hammock devoted to his use from 8 p.m. till 6 a.m. next day. The consequence was that all my stores of “goodies” were summarily seized by, and devoured in, themidshipmens’ mess, who, less favoured, had not been allowed even a scamper on shore.
Prior to embarkation my father’s last words were—“A few months on board one of His Majesty’s ships will give you an idea of the world.” Most truly had he spoken. Barely one month from the parental roof, I had already acquired some experience. I already found out that a sea life was notcouleur de rose, as I had painted it in imagination. The petty tyranny of my messmates soon knocked out of me all boyish, nursery, and even college notions of self-importance.
The Peak of Teneriffe was soon lost in the far horizon; the gallant ship, once more under canvas, sped her course through lovely weather, shaping a direct course for the South American coast. Gradually getting accustomed to what at first seemed a hard life, making good friends in the gun-room—more especially with our portly head surgeon and the purser, to whose kindness I was indebted for leave to use the surgery and the clerk’s room, as well as the free run of the ship’s library—time hung less wearily. Besides, we were nearing the Brazilian shores. The land breeze every evening wafted to sea the balmy-scented air of orange groves; all eyes strained throughout the day to follow the varied indentations of distant ranges. We passed daily a number of quaintly rigged vessels and coast boats.
At last we reached our rendezvous with the Gloire, and paid the penalty of our treachery. She was not there, and for five dreary long days we had to tack off and on in view of one of the most lovely harbours in the world, scanningthe blue line of the sky for the pennant of the old admiral. He came at last—his pride in finding the Heroine newly painted, scrubbed, and in every plank, spar, or rigging—a perfect picture of neat, trim beauty—made him overlook the otherwise unpardonable sin of having out-sailed his old boat.