BRITISH CROSSES & MEDALS,
see Key
[larger version]

BRITISH CROSSES AND MEDALS.—(Coloured Frontispiece.)

BY
F. WHYMPER,
AUTHOR OF “TRAVELS IN ALASKA,” ETC.

CONTENTS.

[pg vii]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

[pg 1]

THE SEA.

One can hardly gaze upon the great ocean without feelings akin to awe and reverence. Whether viewed from some promontory where the eye seeks in vain another resting-place, or when sailing over the deep, one looks around on the unbounded expanse of waters, the sea must always give rise to ideas of infinite space and indefinable mystery hardly paralleled by anything of the earth itself. Beneficent in its calmer aspect, when the silvery moon lights up the ripples and the good ship scuds along before a favouring breeze; terrible in its might, when its merciless breakers dash upon some rock-girt coast, carrying the gallant bark to destruction, or when, rising mountains high, the spars quiver and snap before the tempest’s power, it is always grand, sublime, irresistible. The great highway of commerce and source of boundless supplies, it is, notwithstanding its terrors, infinitely more man’s friend than his enemy. In how great a variety of aspects may it not be viewed!

The poets have seen in it a “type of the Infinite,” [pg 2]and one of the greatest[1] has taken us back to those early days of earth’s history when God said—

“ ‘Let there be firmament

Amid the waters, and let it divide

The waters from the waters.’ ...

So He the world

Built on circumfluous waters calm, in wide

Crystalline ocean.”

“Water,” said the great Greek lyric poet,[2] “is the chief of all.” The ocean covers nearly three-fourths of the surface of our globe. Earth is its mere offspring. The continents and islands have been and still are being elaborated from its depths. All in all, it has not, however, been treated fairly at the hands of the poets, too many of whom could only see it in its sterner lights. Young speaks of it as merely a

“Dreadful and tumultuous home

Of dangers, at eternal war with man,

Wide opening and loud roaring still for more,”

ignoring the blessings and benefits it has bestowed so freely, forgetting that man is daily becoming more and more its master, and that his own country in particular has most successfully conquered the seemingly unconquerable. Byron, again, says:—

“Roll on, thou dark and deep blue ocean—roll!

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;

Man marks the earth with ruin—his control

Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain

The wrecks are all thy deeds.”

And though this is but the exaggerated and not strictly accurate language of poetry, we may, with Pollok, fairly address the great sea as “strongest of creation’s sons.” The first impressions produced on most animals—not excluding altogether man—by the aspect of the ocean, are of terror in greater or lesser degree. Livingstone tells us that he had intended to bring to England from Africa a friendly native, a man courageous as the lion he had often braved. He had never voyaged upon nor even beheld the sea, and on board the ship which would have safely borne him to a friendly shore he became delirious and insane. Though assured of safety and carefully watched, he escaped one day, and blindly threw himself headlong into the waves. The sea terrified him, and yet held and drew him, fascinated as under a spell. “Even at ebb-tide,” says Michelet,[3] “when, placid and weary, the wave crawls softly on the sand, the horse does not recover his courage. He trembles, and frequently refuses to pass the languishing ripple. The dog barks and recoils, and, according to his manner, insults the billows which he fears.... We are told by a traveller that the dogs of Kamtschatka, though accustomed to the spectacle, are not the less terrified and irritated by it. In numerous troops, they howl through the protracted night against the howling waves, and endeavour to outvie in fury the Ocean of the North.”

The civilised man’s fear is founded, it must be admitted, on a reasonable knowledge of the ocean, so much his friend and yet so often his foe. Man is not independent of his fellow-man in distant countries, nor is it desirable that he should be. No land produces all the necessaries, and the luxuries which have begun to be considered necessaries, sufficient for itself. Transportation by land is often impracticable, or too costly, and the ocean thus becomes the great highway of nations. Vessel after vessel, fleet after fleet, arrive safely and speedily. But as there is danger for man lurking everywhere on land, so also is there on the sea. The world’s wreck-chart for one year must, as we shall see hereafter, be something appalling. That for the British Empire alone in one year has often exceeded 1,000 vessels, great and small! Averaging three years, we find that there was an annual loss during that period of 1,095 vessels and 1,952 lives.[4] Nor are the ravages of ocean confined to the engulfment of vessels, from rotten “coffin-ships” to splendid ironclads. The coasts often bear witness of her fury.

The history of the sea virtually comprises the history of adventure, conquest, and commerce, in all times, and might almost be said to be that of the world itself. We cannot think of it without remembering the great voyagers and sea-captains, the brave naval commanders, the pirates, rovers, and buccaneers of bygone days. Great sea-fights and notable shipwrecks recur to our memory—the progress of naval supremacy, and the means by which millions of people and countless millions of wealth have been transferred from one part of the earth to another. We cannot help thinking, too, of “Poor Jack” and life before the mast, whether on the finest vessel of the Royal Navy, or in the worst form of trading ship. We recall the famous ships themselves, and their careers. We remember, too, the “toilers of the sea”—the fishermen, whalers, pearl-divers, and coral-gatherers; the noble men of the lighthouse, lifeboat, and coastguard services. The horrors of the sea—its storms, hurricanes, whirlpools, waterspouts, impetuous and treacherous currents—rise vividly before our mental vision. Then there are the inhabitants of the sea to be considered—from the tiniest germ of life to the great leviathan, or even the doubtful sea-serpent. And even the lowest depths of ocean, with their mountains, valleys, plains, and luxurious marine vegetation, are full of interest; while at the same time we irresistibly think of the submerged treasure-ships of days gone by, and the submarine cables of to-day. Such are among the subjects we propose to lay before our readers. The Sea, as one great topic, must comprise descriptions of life on, around, and in the ocean—the perils, mysteries, phenomena, and poetry of the great deep. The subject is too vast for superfluous detail: it would require as many volumes as a grand encyclopædia to do it justice; whilst a formal and chronological history would weary the reader. At all events, the present writer purposes to occasionally gossip and digress, and to arrange facts in groups, not always following the strict sequence of events. The voyage of to-day may recall that of long ago: the discovery made long ago may be traced, by successive leaps, as it were, to its results in the present epoch. We can hardly be wrong in believing that this grand subject has an especial interest for the English reader everywhere; for the spirit of enterprise, enthusiasm, and daring which has carried our flag to the uttermost parts of the earth, and has made the proud words “Britannia rules the waves” no idle vaunt, is shared by a very large [pg 4]proportion of her sons and daughters, at home and abroad. Britain’s part in the exploration and settlement of the whole world has been so pre-eminent that there can be no wonder if, among the English-speaking races everywhere, a peculiar fascination attaches to the sea and all concerning it. Countless thousands of books have been devoted to the land, not a tithe of the number to the ocean. Yet the subject is one of almost boundless interest, and has a special importance at the present time, when so much intelligent attention and humane effort is being put forth to ameliorate the condition of our seafarers.

CHAPTER I.

Men-of-War.

Our Wooden Walls—The Victory—Siege of Toulon—Battle of St. Vincent—Nelson’s Bridge—Trafalgar’s glorious Day—The Day for such Battles gone—Iron v. Wood—Lessons of the Crimean War—Moral Effect of the Presence of our Fleets—Bombardment of Sebastopol—Red-hot Shot and Gibraltar—The Ironclad Movement—The Warrior—Experiences with Ironclads—The Merrimac in Hampton Roads—A speedily decided Action—The Cumberland sunk and Congress burned—The first Monitor—Engagement with the Merrimac—Notes on recent Actions—The Shah and Huascar—An Ironclad tackled by a Merchantman.

If the reader should at any time find himself a visitor to the first naval port of Great Britain—which he need not be told is Portsmouth—he will find, lying placidly in the noble harbour, which is large enough to accommodate a whole fleet, a vessel of modern-antique appearance, and evidently very carefully preserved. Should he happen to be there on October 21st, he would find the ship gaily decorated with wreaths of evergreen and flags, her appearance attracting to her side an unusual number of visitors in small boats from the shore. Nor will he be surprised at this when he learns that it is none other than the famous Victory, that carried Nelson’s flag on the sad but glorious day of Trafalgar, and went bravely through so many a storm of war and weather. Very little of the oft-shattered hulk of the original vessel remains, it is true—she has been so often renewed and patched and painted; yet the lines and form of the old three-decker remain to show us what the flag-ship of Hood, and Jervis, and Nelson was in general appearance. She towers grandly out of the water, making the few sailors and loiterers on deck look like marionettes—mere miniature men; and as our wherry approaches the entrance-port, we admire the really graceful lines of the planks, diminishing in perspective. The triple battery of formidable guns, peeping from under the stout old ports which overshadowed them, the enormous cables and spare anchors, and the immensely thick masts, heavy shrouds and rigging, which she had in old times, must have given an impression of solidity in this good old “heart of oak” which is wanting even in [pg 5]the strongest-built iron vessel. Many a brave tar has lost his life on her, but yet she is no coffin-ship. On board, one notes the scrupulous order, the absolute perfection of cleanliness and trimness; the large guns and carriages alternating with the mess-tables of the crew. And we should not think much of the man who could stand emotionless and unmoved over the spots—still pointed out on the upper deck and cockpit below—where Nelson fell and Nelson died, on that memorable 21st, off Trafalgar Bay. He had embarked, only five weeks before, from the present resting-place of his brave old ship, when enthusiastic crowds had pressed forward to bless and take one last look at England’s preserver. “I had their hurrahs before,” said the poor shattered hero; “now I have their hearts!” And when, three months later, his body was brought home, the sailors divided the leaden coffin into fragments, as relics of “Saint Nelson,” as his gunner had termed him.

THE “VICTORY” AT PORTSMOUTH.

The Victory was one of the largest ships of war of her day and generation. She was rated for 100 guns, but really carried 102, and was classed first-rate with such ships as the Royal Sovereign and Britannia, both of 100, carrying only two in excess of the “brave old Téméraire”—made still more famous by Turner’s great picture—and the Dreadnought, which [pg 6]but a few years back was such a familiar feature of the reach of the Thames in front of Greenwich. She was of 2,164 tons burden, and, having been launched in 1765, is now a good 112 years of age. Her complement was 841 men. From the first she deserved her name, and seemed destined to be associated with little else than success and triumph. Nelson frequently complains in his journals of the unseaworthiness of many of his vessels; but this, his last flag-ship, was a veritable “heart of oak,” and endured all the tests that the warfare of the elements or of man could bring against her.

The good ship of which we have spoken more particularly is now enjoying a well-earned repose, after passing nearly unscathed through the very thick of battles inscribed on the most brilliant page of our national history. Her part was in reality a very prominent one; and a glance at a few of the engagements at which she was present may serve to show us what she and other ships like her were made of, and what they were able to effect in naval warfare. The Victory had been built nearly thirty years when, in 1793, she first came prominently to the front, at the occupation and subsequent siege of Toulon, as the flag-ship of Lord Hood, then in command of a large fleet destined for the Mediterranean.

France was at that moment in a very revolutionary condition, but in Toulon there was a strong feeling of loyalty for the Bourbons and monarchical institutions. In the harbour a large French fleet was assembled—some seventeen vessels of the line, besides many other smaller craft—while several large ships of war were refitting and building; the whole under the command of the Comte de Trogoff, an ardent Royalist. On the appearance of the British fleet in the offing, two commissioners came out to the flag-ship, the Victory, to treat for the conditional surrender of the port and shipping. The Government had not miscalculated the disaffection existing, and the negotiations being completely successful, 1,700 of our soldiers, sailors, and marines were landed, and shortly afterwards, when a Spanish fleet appeared, an English governor and a Spanish commandant were appointed, while Louis XVII. was proclaimed king. But it is needless to say that the French Republic strongly objected to all this, and soon assembled a force numbering 45,000 men for the recapture of Toulon. The English and their Royalist allies numbered under 13,000, and it became evident that the city must be evacuated, although not until it should be half destroyed. The important service of destroying the ships and magazines had been mainly entrusted to Captain Sir Sidney Smith, who performed his difficult task with wonderful precision and order, and without the loss of one man. Shots and shells were plunged into the very arsenal, and trains were laid up to the magazines and storehouses; a fire-ship was towed into the basin, and in a few hours gave out flames and shot, accompanied by terrible explosions. The Spanish admiral had undertaken the destruction of the shipping in the basin, and to scuttle two powder-vessels, but his men, in their flurry, managed to ignite one of them in place of sinking it, and the explosion which occurred can be better imagined than described. The explosion shook the Union gunboat to pieces, killing the commander and three of the crew; and a second boat was blown into the air, but her crew were miraculously saved. Having completed the destruction of the arsenal, Sir Sidney proceeded towards the basin in front of the town, across which a boom had been laid, where he and his men were received with such volleys of musketry that they turned their attention in another direction. In the inner road were lying two large 74-gun [pg 7]ships—the Héros and Thémistocle—filled with French prisoners. Although the latter were greatly superior to the attacking force, they were so terrified that they agreed to be removed and landed in a place of safety, after which the ships were destroyed by fire. Having done all that man could do, they were preparing to return, when the second powder-vessel, which should only have been scuttled by the Spaniards, exploded. Wonderful to relate, although the little Swallow, Sir Sidney’s tender, and three boats were in the midst of the falling timbers, and nearly swamped by the waves produced, they escaped in safety. Nowadays torpedoes would settle the business of blowing up vessels of the kind in a much safer and surer manner. The evacuation was effected without loss, nearly 15,000 Toulonese refugees—men, women, and children—being taken on board for removal to England. Fifteen French ships of war were taken off as prizes, while the magazines, storehouses, and shipping were destroyed by fire. The total number of vessels taken or burned by the British was eighteen of the line, nine frigates, and eleven corvettes, and would have been much greater but for the blundering or treachery of the Spaniards, and the pusillanimous flight of the Neapolitans. Thus the Victory was the silent witness of an almost bloodless success, so far as our forces were concerned, in spite of the noise and smoke and flame by which it was accompanied. A little later, she was engaged in the siege of Bastia, Corsica, which was taken by a naval force numbering about one-fourth of their opponents; and again at Calvi, where Nelson lost an eye and helped to gain the day. In the spring of 1795 she was again in the Mediterranean, and for once was engaged in what has been described as a “miserable action,” although the action, or want thereof, was all on the part of a vice-admiral who, as Nelson said, “took things too coolly.” Twenty-three British line-of-battle ships, whilst engaging, off the Hyères Isles, only seventeen French, with the certainty of triumphant results, if not, indeed, of the complete annihilation of the enemy, were signalled by Admiral Hotham to discontinue the fight. The disgust of the commanders in general and Nelson in particular can well be understood. The only prize taken, the Alcide, blew up, with the loss of half her crew, as if in very disgust at having surrendered, and we can well believe that even the inanimate timbers of the Victory and her consorts groaned as they were drawn off from the scene of action. The fight off the Hyères must be inscribed in black, but happily the next to be recorded might well be written with letters of gold in the annals of our country, although its glory was soon afterwards partially eclipsed by others still greater.

When Sir John Jervis hoisted his flag on board the Victory it marked an epoch not merely in our career of conquest, but also in the history of the navy as a navy. Jervis, though then over sixty years of age, was hale and hearty, and if sometimes stern and severe as a disciplinarian, should long be remembered as one who honestly and constantly strove to raise the character of the service to its highest condition of efficiency, and he was brave as a lion. As the Spanish fleet loomed through the morning fog, off Cape St. Vincent, it was found that Cordova’s force consisted of twenty-nine large men-of-war, exclusive of a dozen 34-gun frigates, seventy transports, and other vessels. Jervis was walking the quarter-deck as the successive reports were brought to him. “There are eighteen sail of the line, Sir John.” “Very well, sir.” “There are twenty sail, Sir John.” “Very well, sir.” “There are twenty-seven sail of the line, Sir John; nearly double our own.” “Enough, sir, no more of [pg 8]that, sir; if there are fifty I’ll go through them.” “That’s right, Sir John,” said Halliwell, his flag-captain, “and a jolly good licking we’ll give them.”

The grand fleet of Spain included six ships of 112 guns each, and the flag-ship Santissima Trinidada, a four-decker, carrying 130. There were, besides, twenty-two vessels of eighty and seventy-four guns. To this large force Jervis could only oppose fifteen vessels of the line, only two of which carried 100 guns, three of ninety-eight guns, one of ninety, and the remainder, with one exception, seventy-four each. Owing to gross mismanagement on the part of the Spaniards, their vessels were scattered about in all directions, and six[5] of them were separated wholly from the main body, neither could they rejoin it. The English vessels advanced in two lines, compactly and steadily, and as they neared the Spaniards, were signalled from the Victory to tack in succession. Nelson, on the Captain, was in the rear of the line, and he perceived that the Spaniards were bearing up before the wind, either with the intention of trying to join their separated ships, or perhaps to avoid an engagement altogether. By disobeying the admiral’s signal, he managed to run clear athwart the bows of the Spanish ships, and was soon engaged with the great Santissima Trinidada, four other of the larger vessels, and two smaller ones. Trowbridge, in the Culloden, immediately came to the support, and for nearly an hour the unequal contest continued, till the Blenheim passed between them and the enemy, and gave them a little respite, pouring in her fire upon the Spaniards. One of the Spanish seventy-fours struck, and Nelson thought that the Salvador, of 112 guns, struck also. “Collingwood,” wrote Nelson, “disdaining the parade of taking possession of beaten enemies, most gallantly pushed up, with every sail set, to save his old friend and messmate, who was, to appearance, in a critical situation,” for the Captain was being peppered by five vessels of the enemy’s fleet, and shortly afterwards was rendered absolutely incapable—not a sail, shroud, or rope left, with a topmast and the steering-wheel shot away. As Dr. Bennett sings[6]—

“Ringed round by five three-deckers, she had fought through all the fight,

And now, a log upon the waves, she lay—a glorious sight—

All crippled, but still full of fight, for still her broadsides roared,

Still death and wounds, fear and defeat, into the Don she poured.”

Two of Nelson’s antagonists were now nearly hors de combat, one of them, the San Nicolas, in trying to escape from Collingwood’s fire, having got foul of the San Josef. Nelson resolved in an instant to board and capture both—an unparalleled feat, which, however, was accomplished, although

“To get at the San Josef, it seemed beyond a hope;

Out then our admiral spoke, and well his words our blood could stir—

‘In, boarders, to their seventy-four! We’ll make a bridge of her.’ ”

The “bridge” was soon taken; but a steady fire of musketry was poured upon them from the San Josef. Nelson directed his people to fire into the stern, and sending for more boarders, led the way up the main-chains, exclaiming, “Westminster Abbey or victory!” In a few moments the officers and crew surrendered; and on the quarter-deck of a Spanish first-rate he received the swords of the vanquished, which he handed to William Fearney, [pg 9]one of his bargemen, who tucked them, with the greatest sang-froid, in a perfect sheaf under his arm. The Victory came up at the moment, and saluted the conquerors with hearty cheers.

It will be hardly necessary here to point out the altered circumstances of naval warfare at the present day. A wooden vessel of the old type, with large and numerous portholes, and affording other opportunities for entering or climbing the sides, is a very different affair to the modern smooth-walled iron vessel, on which a fly would hardly get a foothold, with few openings or weak points, and where the grappling-iron would be useless. Apart from this, with heavy guns carrying with great accuracy, and the facilities afforded by steam, we shall seldom hear, in the future, of a fight at close quarters; skilful manœuvring, impossible with a sailing vessel, will doubtless be more in vogue.

ROCKS NEAR CAPE ST. VINCENT.

Meantime, the Victory had not been idle. In conjunction with two of the fleet, she had succeeded in silencing the Salvador del Mundi, a first-rate of 112 guns. When, after the fight, Nelson went on board the Victory, Sir John Jervis took him to his arms, and insisted that he should keep the sword taken from the Spanish rear-admiral. When it was hinted, during some private conversation, that Nelson’s move was unauthorised, [pg 10]Jervis had to admit the fact, but promised to forgive any such breach of orders, accompanied with the same measure of success.

The battle had now lasted from noon, and at five p.m. four Spanish line-of-battle vessels had lowered their colours. Even the great Santissima Trinidada might then have become a prize but for the return of the vessels which had been cut off from the fleet in the morning, and which alone saved her. Her colours had been shot away, and she had hoisted English colours in token of submission, when the other ships came up, and Cordova reconsidered his step. Jervis did not think that his fleet was quite equal to a fresh conflict; and the Spaniards showed no desire to renew the fight. They had lost on the four prizes, alone, 261 killed, and 342 wounded, and in all, probably, nearly double the above. The British loss was seventy-three killed, and 227 wounded.

Of Trafalgar and of Nelson, both day and man so intimately associated with our good ship, what can yet be said or sung that has gone unsaid, unsung?—how when he left Portsmouth the crowds pressed forward to obtain one last look at their hero—England’s greatest hero—and “knelt down before him, and blessed him as he passed;”[7] that beautiful prayer, indited in his cabin, “May the great God whom I worship grant to my country, and for the benefit of Europe in general, a great and glorious victory, and may no misconduct in any one tarnish it, and may humanity after victory be the predominant feature of the British fleet,” or the now historical signal which flew from the mizen top-gallant mast of that noble old ship, and which has become one of the grand mottoes of our tongue, are facts as familiar to every reader as household words.

The part directly played by the Victory herself in the battle of Trafalgar was second to none. From the very first she received a raking fire from all sides, which must have been indeed severe, when we find the words extorted from Nelson, “This is too warm work to last long,” addressed to Captain Hardy. At that moment fifty of his men were lying dead or wounded, while the Victory’s mizen-mast and wheel were shot away, and her sails hanging in ribbons. To the terrible cannonading of the enemy, Nelson had not yet returned a shot. He had determined to be in the very thick of the fight, and was reserving his fire. Now it was that Captain Hardy represented to Nelson the impracticability of passing through the enemy’s line without running on board one of their ships; he was coolly told to take his choice. The Victory was accordingly turned on board the Redoubtable, the commander of which, Captain Lucas, in a resolute endeavour to block the passage, himself ran his bowsprit into the figurehead of the Bucentaure, and the two vessels became locked together. Not many minutes later, Captain Harvey, of the Téméraire, seeing the position of the Victory with her two assailants, fell on board the Redoubtable, on the other side, so that these four ships formed as compact a tier as though moored together. The Victory fired her middle and lower deck guns into the Redoubtable, which returned the fire from her main-deck, employing also musketry and brass pieces of larger size with most destructive effects from the tops.

“Redoubtable they called her—a curse upon her name!

’Twas from her tops the bullet that killed our hero came.”

Within a few minutes of Lord Nelson’s fall, several officers and about forty men were either killed or wounded from this source. But a few minutes afterwards the Redoubtable fell on board the Téméraire, the French ship’s bowsprit passing over the British ship. Now came one of the warmest episodes of the fight. The crew of the Téméraire lashed their vessel to their assailants’ ship, and poured in a raking fire. But the French captain, having discovered that—owing, perhaps, to the sympathy exhibited for the dying hero on board the Victory, and her excessive losses in men—her quarter-deck was quite deserted, now ordered an attempt at boarding the latter. This cost our flag-ship the lives of Captain Adair and eighteen men, but at the same moment the Téméraire opened fire on the Redoubtable with such effect that Captain Lucas and 200 men were themselves placed hors de combat.

In the contest we have been relating, the coolness of the Victory’s men was signally evinced. “When the guns on the lower deck were run out, their muzzles came in contact with the sides of the Redoubtable, and now was seen an astounding spectacle. Knowing that there was danger of the French ship taking fire, the fireman of each gun on board the British ship stood ready with a bucketful of water to dash into the hole made by the shot of his gun—thus beautifully illustrating Nelson’s prayer, ‘that the British might be distinguished by humanity in victory.’ Less considerate than her antagonist, the Redoubtable threw hand-grenades from her tops, which, falling on board herself, set fire to her, ... and the flame communicated with the foresail of the Téméraire, and caught some ropes and canvas on the booms of the Victory, risking the destruction of all; but by immense exertions the fire was subdued in the British ships, whose crews lent their assistance to extinguish the flames on board the Redoubtable, by throwing buckets of water upon her chains and forecastle.”[8]

Setting aside, for the purpose of clearness, the episode of the taking of the Fougueux, which got foul of the Téméraire and speedily surrendered, we find, five minutes later, the main and mizen masts of the Redoubtable falling—the former in such a way across the Téméraire that it formed a bridge, over which the boarding-party passed and took quiet possession. Captain Lucas had so stoutly defended his flag, that, out of a crew of 643, only 123 were in a condition to continue the fight; 522 were lying killed or wounded. The Bucentaure soon met her fate, after being defended with nearly equal bravery. The French admiral, Villeneuve, who was on board, said bitterly, just before surrendering, “Le Bucentaure a rempli sa tâche; la mienne n’est pas encore achevée.”

Let the reader remember that the above are but a few episodes of the most complete and glorious victory ever obtained in naval warfare. Without the loss of one single vessel to the conqueror, more than half the ships of the enemy were captured or destroyed, while the remainder escaped into harbour to rot in utter uselessness. Twenty-one vessels were lost for ever to France and Spain. It is to be hoped and believed that no such contest will ever again be needed; but should it be needed, it will have to be fought by very different means. The instance of four great ships locked together, dealing death and destruction to each other, has never been paralleled. Imagine that [pg 13]seething, fighting, dying mass of humanity, with all the horrible concomitants of deafening noise and blinding smoke and flashing fire! It is not likely ever to occur in modern warfare. The commanders of steam-vessels of all classes will be more likely to fight at out-manœuvring and shelling each other than to come to close quarters, which would generally mean blowing up together. It would be interesting to consider how Nelson would have acted with, and opposed to, steam-frigates and ironclads. He would, no doubt, have been as courageous and far-seeing and rapid in action as ever, but hardly as reckless, or even daring.

THE “VICTORY” AT CLOSE QUARTERS WITH THE “REDOUBTABLE.”

“And still, though seventy years, boys,

Have gone, who, without pride,

Names his name—tells his fame

Who at Trafalgar died?”

May we always have a Nelson in the hour of national need!

The day for such battles as this is over; there may be others as gloriously fought, but never again by the same means. Ships, armaments, and modes of attack and defence are, and will be, increasingly different. Those who have read Nelson’s private letters and journals will remember how he gloried in the appreciation of his subordinate officers just before Trafalgar’s happy and yet fatal day, when he had explained to them his intention to attack the enemy with what was practically a wedge-formed fleet. He was determined to break their line, and, Nelson-like, he did. But that which he facetiously christened the “Nelson touch” would itself nowadays be broken up in a few minutes and thrown into utter confusion by any powerfully-armed vessel hovering about under steam. Or if the wedge of wooden vessels were allowed to form, as they approached the apex, a couple of ironclads would take them in hand coolly, one by one, and send them to the bottom, while their guns might as well shoot peas at the ironclads as the shot of former days.

Taking the Victory as a fair type of the best war-ships of her day (a day when there was not that painful uncertainty with regard to naval construction and armament existing now, in spite of our vaunted progress), we still know that in the presence of a powerful steam-frigate with heavy guns, or an 11,000-ton ironclad, she would be literally nowhere. She was one of the last specimens, and a very perfect specimen, too, of the wooden age. This is the age of iron and steam. One of the largest vessels of her day, she is now excelled by hundreds employed in ordinary commerce. The Royal Navy to-day possesses frigates nearly three times her tonnage, while we have ironclads of five times the same. The monster Great Eastern, which has proved a monstrous mistake, is 22,500 tons.

But size is by no means the only consideration in constructing vessels of war, and, indeed, there are good reasons to believe that, in the end, vessels of moderate dimensions will be preferred for most purposes of actual warfare. Of the advantages of steam-power there can, of course, be only one opinion; but as regards iron versus oak, there are many points which may be urged in favour of either, with a preponderance in favour of the former. A strong iron ship, strange as it may appear, is not more than half the weight of a wooden vessel of the same size and class. It will, to the unthinking, seem absurd to say that an iron ship is more buoyant than one of oak, but the fact is that the proportion of actual weight in iron and wooden vessels of ordinary construction is about six to twenty. The iron [pg 14]ship, therefore, stands high out of the water, and to sink it to the same line will require a greater weight on board. From this fact, and the actual thinness of its walls, its carrying capacity and stowage are so much the greater. This, which is a great point in vessels destined for commerce, would be equally important in war. But these remarks do not apply to the modern armoured vessel. We have ironclads with plates eighteen inches and upwards in thickness. What is the consequence? Their actual weight, with that of the necessary engines and monster guns employed, is so great that a vast deal of room on board has to be unemployed. Day by day we hear of fresh experiments in gunnery, which keep pace with the increased strength of the vessels. The invulnerable of to-day is the vulnerable of to-morrow, and there are many leading authorities who believe in a return to a smaller and weaker class of vessel—provided, however, with all the appliances for great speed and offensive warfare at a distance. Nelson’s preference for small, easily-worked frigates over the great ships of the line is well known, and were he alive to-day we can well believe that he would prefer a medium-sized vessel of strong construction, to steam with great speed, and carrying heavy, but, perhaps, not the heaviest guns, to one of those modern unwieldy masses of iron, which have had, so far, a most disastrous history. The former might, so to speak, act while the latter was making up her mind. Even a Nelson might hesitate to risk a vessel representing six or seven hundred thousand pounds of the nation’s money, in anything short of an assured success. We have, however, yet to learn the full value and power of our ironclad fleet. Of its cost there is not a doubt. Some time ago our leading newspaper estimated the expense of construction and maintenance of our existing ironclads at £18,000,000. Mr. Reed states that they have cost the country a million sterling per annum since the first organisation of the fleet. Warfare will soon become a luxury only for the richest nations, and, regarding it in this light, perhaps the very men who are racking their powers of invention to discover terrible engines of war are the greatest peacemakers, after all. They may succeed in making it an impossibility.

“Hereafter, naval powers prepared with the necessary fleet will be able to transport the base of operations to any point on the enemy’s coast, turn the strongest positions, and baffle the best-arranged combinations. Thanks to steam, the sea has become a means of communication more certain and more simple than the land; and fleets will be able to act the part of movable bases of operations, rendering them very formidable to powers which, possessing coasts, will not have any navy sufficiently powerful to cause their being respected.”[9] So far as navy to navy is concerned, this is undoubtedly true; yet there is another side to the question. A fort is sometimes able to inflict far greater damage upon its naval assailants than the latter can inflict upon it. A single shot may send a ship to the bottom, whilst the fire from the ship during action is more or less inaccurate. At Sebastopol, a whole French fleet, firing at ranges of 1,600 to 1,800 yards, failed to make any great impression on a fort close to the water’s edge; while a wretched earthen battery, mounting only five guns, inflicted terrible losses and injury on four powerful English men-of-war, actually disabling two of them, without itself losing one man or having a gun dismounted; while, as has been often calculated, the cost of a single sloop of war with its equipment will construct a fine fort which will last almost for [pg 15]ever, while that of two or three line-of-battle ships would raise a considerable fortress. Whilst the monster ironclad with heavy guns would deal out death and destruction when surrounded by an enemy’s fleet of lighter iron vessels or wooden ones as strong as was the Victory, she would herself run great risk in approaching closely-fortified harbours and coasts, where a single shot from a gun heavy enough to pierce her armour might sink her. Her safety would consist in firing at long ranges and in steaming backwards and forwards.

The lessons of the Crimean war, as regards the navy, were few, but of the gravest importance, and they have led to results of which we cannot yet determine the end. The war opened by a Russian attack on a Turkish squadron at Sinope, November 20th, 1853.[10] That determined the fact that a whole fleet might be annihilated in an hour or so by the use of large shells. No more necessity for grappling and close quarters; the iron age was full in view, and wooden walls had outlived their usefulness, and must perish.

But the lesson had to be again impressed, and that upon a large English and French fleet. Yet, in fairness to our navy, it must be remembered that the Russians had spent every attention to rendering Sebastopol nearly impregnable on the sea-side, while a distinguished writer,[11] who was present throughout the siege, assures us that until the preceding spring they had been quite indifferent in regard to the strength of the fortifications on the land-side. And the presence of the allied fleets was the undeniable cause of one Russian fleet being sunk in the harbour of Sebastopol, while another dared not venture out, season after season, from behind stone fortresses in the shallow waters of Cronstadt.[12] A great naval authority thinks that, while England was, at the time, almost totally deficient in the class of vessels essential to attacking the fleets and fortifications of Russia, the fact that the former never dared “to accept the challenge of any British squadron, however small, is one the record of which we certainly may read without shame.” But of that period it would be more pleasant to write exultingly than apologetically.

When the Allies had decided to commence the bombardment of Sebastopol, on October 17th, 1854, it was understood that the fleet should co-operate, and that the attack should be made by the line-of-battle ships in a semicircle. They were ready at one p.m. to commence [pg 16]the bombardment. Lyons brought the Agamemnon, followed by half a dozen other vessels, to within 700 yards of Fort Constantine, the others staying at the safer distances of 1,800 to 2,200 yards. The whole fleet opened with a tremendous roar of artillery, to which the Russians replied almost as heavily. Fort Constantine was several times silenced, and greatly damaged; but, on the other hand, the Russians managed to kill forty-seven and wound 234 men in the English fleet, and a slightly smaller number in the French. They had an unpleasant knack of firing red-hot shot in profusion, and of hitting the vessels even at the distance at which they lay. Several were set on fire, and two for a time had to retire from the action. These were practical shots at our wooden walls. This naval attack has been characterised as “even a greater failure than that by land”—meaning, of course, the first attack.

Here we may for a moment be allowed to digress and remind the reader of the important part played by red-hot shot at that greatest of all great sieges—Gibraltar. As each accession to the enemy’s force arrived, General Elliott calmly built more furnaces and more grates for heating his most effective means of defence. Just as one of their wooden batteries was on the point of completion, he gave it what was termed at the time a dose of “cayenne pepper;” in other words, with red-hot shot and shells he set it on fire. When the ordnance portable furnaces for heating shot proved insufficient to supply the demands of the artillery, he ordered large bonfires to be kindled, on which the cannon-balls were thrown; and these supplies were termed by the soldiers “hot potatoes” for the enemy. But the great triumph of red-hot shot was on that memorable 13th of September, 1782, when forty-six sail of the line, and a countless fleet of gun and mortar boats attacked the fortress. With all these appliances of warfare, the great confidence of the enemy—or rather, combined enemies—was in their floating batteries, planned by D’Arcon, an eminent French engineer, and which had cost a good half million sterling. They were supposed to be impervious to shells or red-hot shot. After persistently firing at the fleet, Elliott started the admiral’s ship and one of the batteries commanded by the Prince of Nassau. This was but the commencement of the end. The unwieldy leviathans could not be shifted from their moorings, and they lay helpless and immovable, and yet dangerous to their neighbours; for they were filled with the instruments of destruction. Early the next morning eight of these vaunted batteries “indicated the efficacy of the red-hot defence. The light produced by the flames was nearly equal to noonday, and greatly exposed the enemy to observation, enabling the artillery to be pointed upon them with the utmost precision. The rock and neighbouring objects are stated to have been highly illuminated by the constant flashes of cannon and the flames of the burning ships, forming a mingled scene of sublimity and terror.”[13] “An indistinct clamour, with lamentable cries and groans, arose from all quarters.”[14]

When 400 pieces of artillery were playing on the rock at the same moment, Elliott returned the compliment with a shower of red-hot balls, bombs, and carcases, that filled the air, with little or no intermission. The Count d’Artois had hastened from Paris to [pg 18]witness a capitulation. He arrived in time to see the total destruction of the floating batteries and a large part of the combined fleet. Attempting a somewhat feeble joke, he wrote to France:—“La batterie la plus effective était ma batterie de cuisine.” Elliott’s cooking-apparatus and “roasted balls” beat it all to nothing. Red-hot shot has been entirely superseded in “civilised” warfare by shells. It was usually handled much in the same way that ordinary shot and shell is to-day. Each ball was carried by two men, having between them a strong iron frame, with a ring in the middle to hold it. There were two heavy wads, one dry and the other slightly damped, between the powder and ball. At the siege of Gibraltar, however, matters were managed in a much more rough-and-ready style. The shot was heated at furnaces and wheeled off to the guns in wheelbarrows lined with sand.

THE SIEGE OF GIBRALTAR

The partial failure of the navy to co-operate successfully with the land-forces, so far as bombardment was concerned, during the Crimean war, has had much to do with the adoption of the costly ironclad floating fortresses, armed with enormously powerful guns, of the present day. The earliest form, indeed, was adopted during the above war, but not used to any great extent or advantage. The late Emperor of the French[15] saw that the coming necessity or necessary evil would be some form of strongly-armoured and protected floating battery that could cope with fortresses ashore, and this was the germ of the ironclad movement. The first batteries of this kind, used successfully at Kinburn, were otherwise unseaworthy and unmanageable, and were little more than heavily-plated and more or less covered barges.

The two earliest European ironclads were La Gloire in France and the Warrior in England—the latter launched in 1860. Neither of these vessels presented any great departure from the established types of build in large ships of war. The Warrior is an undeniably fine, handsome-looking frigate, masted and rigged as usual, but she and her sister-ship, the Black Prince, are about the only ironclads to which these remarks apply—every form and variety of construction having been adopted since. As regarded size, she was considerably larger than the largest frigate or ship of the line of our navy, although greatly exceeded by many ironclads subsequently built. She is 380 feet in length, and her displacement of more than 9,100 tons was 3,000 tons greater than that of the largest of the wooden men-of-war she was superseding. The Warrior is still among the fastest of the iron-armoured fleet. Considered as an ironclad, however, she is a weak example. Her armour, which protects only three-fifths of her sides, is but four and a half inches thick, with eighteen inches of (wood) backing, and five-eighths of an inch of what is technically called “skin-plating,” for protection inside. The remote possibility of a red-hot shot or shell falling inside has to be considered. Her bow and stern, rudder-head and steering-gear, would, of course, be the vulnerable points.

From this small beginning—one armoured vessel—our ironclad fleet has grown with [pg 19]the greatest rapidity, till it now numbers over sixty of all denominations of vessels. The late Emperor of the French gave a great impetus to the movement; and other foreign nations speedily following in his wake, it clearly behoved England to be able to cope with them on their own ground, should occasion demand. Then there was the “scare” of invasion which took some hold of the public mind, and was exaggerated by certain portions of the press, at one period, till it assumed serious proportions. Leading journals complained that by the time the Admiralty would have one or two ironclads in commission, the French would have ten or twelve. Thus urged, the Government of the day must be excused if they made some doubtful experiments and costly failures.

But apart from the lessons of the Crimea, and the activity and rivalry of foreign powers, attention was seriously drawn to the ironclad question by the events of the day. It was easy to guess and theorise concerning this new feature in warfare, but early in 1862 practical proof was afforded of its power. The naval engagement which took place in Hampton Roads, near the outset of the great American civil war, was the first time in which an ironclad ship was brought into collision with wooden vessels, and also the first time in which two distinct varieties of the species were brought into collision with each other.

The Southerners had, when the strife commenced, seized and partially burned the Merrimac, a steam-frigate belonging to the United States navy, then lying at the Norfolk Navy-yard. The hulk was regarded as nearly worthless,[16] until, looking about for ways and means to annoy their opponents, they hit on the idea of armouring her, in the best manner attainable at the moment; and for awhile at least, this condemned wreck, resuscitated, patched up, and covered with iron plates,[17] became the terror of the enemy. She was provided with an iron prow or ram capable of inflicting a severe blow under water. Her hull, cut down to within three feet of the water-line, was covered by a bomb-proof, sloping-roofed house, which extended over the screw and rudder. This was built of oak and pine, covered with iron; the latter being four and a half inches thick, and the former aggregating twenty inches in thickness. While the hull was generally iron-plated, the bow and stern were covered with steel. There were no masts—nothing seen above but the “smoke-stack” (funnel), pilot-house, and flagstaff. She carried eight powerful guns, most of them eleven-inch. “As she came ploughing through the water,” wrote one eyewitness of her movements, “she looked like a huge half-submerged crocodile.” The Southerners re-christened her the Virginia, but her older name has clung to her. The smaller vessels with her contributed little to the issue of the fight, but those opposed to her were of no inconsiderable size. The Congress, Cumberland, [pg 20]Minnesota, and Roanoake were frigates carrying an aggregate of over 150 guns and nearly 2,000 men. They, however, were wooden vessels; and although, in two cases in particular, defended with persistent heroism, had no chance against the ironclad, hastily as she had been prepared. There is little doubt that the officers of the two former vessels, in particular, knew something of the nature of the “forlorn hope” in which they were about to engage, when she hove in sight on that memorable 8th of March, 1862. It is said that the sailors, however, derided her till she was close upon them—so close that their laughter and remarks were heard on board. “That Southern Bugaboo,” “that old Secesh curiosity,” were among the milder titles applied to her.

THE ORIGINAL “MERRIMAC.”

The engagement was fought in the Hampton Roads, which is virtually an outlet of the James River, Virginia. The latter, like the Thames, has considerable breadth and many shallows near its mouth. The Merrimac left Norfolk Navy-yard (which holds to the James River somewhat the position that Sheerness does to the Thames) hurriedly on the morning of the 8th, and steamed steadily towards the enemy’s fleet, accompanied by some smaller vessels of war and a few tug-boats.

“Meanwhile, the shapeless iron mass

Came moving o’er the wave,

As gloomy as a passing hearse,

As silent as the grave.”

The morning was still and calm as that of a Sabbath-day. That the Merrimac was not expected was evidenced by the boats at the booms, and the sailors’ clothes still hanging in the rigging of the enemy’s vessels. “Did they see the long, dark hull? Had they made it out? Was it ignorance, apathy, or composure that made them so indifferent? or were they provided with torpedoes, which could sink even the Merrimac in a minute?” were questions mooted on the Southern side by those watching on board the boats and from the shore.

As soon, however, as she was plainly discerned, the crews of the Cumberland, Congress, and other vessels were beat to quarters, and preparations made for the fight. “The engagement,” wrote the Confederate Secretary of the Navy, “commenced at half-past three p.m., and at four p.m. Captain Buchanan had sunk the Cumberland, captured and burned the Congress, disabled and driven the Minnesota ashore, and defeated the St. Lawrence and Roanoake, which sought shelter under the guns of Fortress Monroe. Two of the enemy’s small steamers were blown up, and the two transport steamers were captured.” This, as will be seen, must, as regards time, be taken cum grano salis, but in its main points is correct.

The Merrimac commenced the action by discharging a broadside at the Congress, one shell from which killed or disabled a number of men at the guns, and then kept on towards the Cumberland, which she approached with full steam on, striking her on the port side near the bow, her stem knocking two of the ports into one, and her ram striking the vessel under the water-line. Almost instantaneously a large shell was discharged from her forward gun, which raked the gun-deck of the doomed ship, and killed ten men. Five minutes later the ship began to sink by the head, a large hole having been made [pg 21]by the point of the ram, through which the water rushed in. As the Merrimac rounded and rapidly came up again, she once more raked the Cumberland, killing or wounding sixteen more men. Meantime the latter was endeavouring to defend herself, and poured broadside after broadside into the Merrimac; but the balls, as one of the survivors tells us, bounced “upon her mailed sides like india-rubber, apparently making not the least impression except to cut off her flagstaff, and thus bring down the Confederate colours. None of her crew ventured at that time on her outside to replace them, and she fought thenceforward with only her pennant flying.”[18] Shortly after this, the Merrimac again attacked the unfortunate ship, advancing with her greatest speed, her ram making another hole below the water-line. The Cumberland began to fill rapidly. The scene on board is hardly to be described in words. It was one of horrible desperation and fruitless heroism. The decks were slippery with human gore; shreds of human flesh, and portions of the body, arms, legs, and headless trunks were scattered everywhere. Below, the cockpit was filled with wounded, whom it would be impossible to succour, for the ship was sinking fast. Meantime the men stuck to their posts, powder was still served out, and the firing kept up steadily, several of the crew lingering so long in the after shell-room, [pg 22]in their eagerness to pass up shell, that they were drowned there. The water had now reached the main gun-deck, and it became evident that the contest was nearly over. Still the men lingered, anxious for one last shot, when their guns were nearly under water.

“Shall we give them a broadside, my boys, as she goes?

Shall we send yet another to tell,

In iron-tongued words, to Columbia’s foes,

How bravely her sons say ‘Farewell?’ ”

The word was passed for each man to save himself. Even then, one man, an active little fellow, named Matthew Tenney, whose courage had been conspicuous during the action, determined to fire once more, the next gun to his own being then under water, the vessel going down by the head. He succeeded, but at the cost of his life, for immediately afterwards, attempting to scramble out of the port-hole, the water suddenly rushed in with such force that he was washed back and drowned. Scores of poor fellows were unable to reach the upper deck, and were carried down with the vessel. The Cumberland sank in water up to the cross-trees, and went down with her flag still flying from the peak.[19] The whole number lost was not less than 120 souls. Her top-masts, with the pennant flying far above the water, long marked the locality of one of the bravest and most desperate defences ever made

“By men who knew that all else was wrong

But to die when a sailor ought.”

The Cumberland being utterly demolished, the Merrimac turned her attention to the Congress. The Southerners showed their chivalric instincts at this juncture by not firing on the boats, or on a small steamer, which were engaged in picking up the survivors of the Cumberland’s crew. The officers of the Congress, seeing the fate of the Cumberland, determined that the Merrimac should not, at least, sink their vessel. They therefore got all sail on the ship, and attempted to run ashore. The Merrimac was soon close on them, and delivered a broadside, which was terribly destructive, a shell killing, at one of the guns, every man engaged except one. Backing, and then returning several times, she delivered broadside after broadside at less than 100 yards’ distance. The Congress replied manfully and obstinately, but with little effect. One shot is supposed to have entered one of the ironclad’s port-holes, and dismounted a gun, as there was no further firing from that port, and a few splinters of iron were struck off her sloping mailed roof, but this was all. The guns of the Merrimac appeared to have been specially trained on the after-magazine of the Congress, and shot after shot entered that part of the ship. Thus, slowly drifting down with the current, and again steaming up, the Merrimac continued for an hour to fire into her opponent. Several times the Congress was on fire, but the flames were kept under. At length the ship was on fire in so many places, and the flames gathering with such force, that it was hopeless and suicidal to keep up the defence any longer. [pg 23]The national flag was sadly and sorrowfully hauled down, and a white flag hoisted at the peak. The Merrimac did not for a few minutes see this token of surrender, and continued to fire. At last, however, it was discerned through the clouds of smoke, and the broadsides ceased. A tug that had followed the Merrimac out of Norfolk then came alongside the Congress, and ordered the officers on board. This they refused, hoping that, from the nearness of the shore, they would be able to escape. Some of the men, to the number, it is believed, of about forty, thought the tug was one of the Northern (Federal) vessels, and rushed on board, and were, of course, soon carried off as prisoners. By the time that all the able men were off ashore and elsewhere, it was seven o’clock in the evening, and the Congress was a bright sheet of flame fore and aft, her guns, which were loaded and trained, going off as the fire reached them. A shell from one struck a sloop at some distance, and blew her up. At midnight the fire reached her magazines, containing five tons of gunpowder, and, with a terrific explosion, her charred remains blew up. Thus had the Merrimac sunk one and burned a second of the largest of the vessels of the enemy.

Having settled the fate of these two ships, the Merrimac had, about 5 o’clock in the afternoon, started to tackle the Minnesota. Here, as was afterwards proved, the commander of the former had the intention of capturing the latter as a prize, and had no wish to destroy her. He, therefore, stood off about a mile distant, and with the Yorktown and Jamestown, threw shot and shell at the frigate, doing it considerable damage, and killing six men. One shell entered near her waist, passed through the chief engineer’s room, knocking two rooms into one, and wounded several men; a shot passed through the main-mast. At nightfall the Merrimac, satisfied with her afternoon’s work of death and destruction, steamed in under Sewall’s Point. “The day,” said the Baltimore American, “thus closed most dismally for our side, and with the most gloomy apprehensions of what would occur the next day. The Minnesota was at the mercy of the Merrimac, and there appeared no reason why the iron monster might not clear the Roads of our fleet, destroy all the stores and warehouses on the beach, drive our troops into the fortress, and command Hampton Roads against any number of wooden vessels the Government might send there. Saturday was a terribly dismal night at Fortress Monroe.”

But about nine o’clock that evening Ericsson’s battery, the Monitor,[20] arrived in Hampton Roads, and hope revived in the breasts of the despondent Northerners. She was not a very formidable-looking craft, for, lying low on the water, with a plain structure amidships, a small pilot-house forward, and a diminutive funnel aft, she might have been taken for a raft. It was only on board that her real strength might be discovered. She carried armour about five inches thick over a large part of her, and had practically two hulls, the lower of which had sides inclining at an angle of 51° from the vertical line. It was considered that no shot could hurt this lower hull, on account of the angle at which it must strike it. The revolving turret, an iron cylinder, nine feet high, and twenty feet in diameter, eight or nine inches thick everywhere, and about the portholes eleven inches, was moved round by steam-power. When the two heavy Dahlgren guns were [pg 24]run in for loading, a kind of pendulum port fell over the holes in the turret. The propeller, rudder, and even anchor, were all hidden.

This was a war of surprises and sudden changes. It is doubtful if the Southerners knew what to make of the strange-looking battery which steamed towards them next morning, or whether they despised it. The Merrimac and the Monitor kept on approaching each other, the former waiting until she would choose her distance, and the latter apparently not knowing what to make of her queer-looking antagonist. The first shot from the Monitor was fired when about one hundred yards distant from the Merrimac, and this distance was subsequently reduced to fifty yards; and at no time during the furious cannonading that ensued were the vessels more than two hundred yards apart. The scene was in plain view from Fortress Monroe, and in the main facts all the spectators agree. At first the fight was very furious, and the guns of the Monitor were fired rapidly. The latter carried only two guns, to its opponent’s eight, and received two or three shots for every one she gave. Finding that she was much more formidable than she looked, the Merrimac attempted to run her down; but her superior speed and quicker handling enabled her to dodge and turn rapidly. “Once the Merrimac struck her near midships, but only to prove that the battery could not be run down nor shot down. She spun round like a top; and as she got her bearing again, sent one of her formidable missiles into her huge opponent.

“The officers of the Monitor at this time had gained such confidence in the impregnability of their battery that they no longer fired at random nor hastily. The fight then assumed its most interesting aspect. The Monitor went round the Merrimac repeatedly, probing her sides, seeking for weak points, and reserving her fire with coolness, until she had the right spot and the right range, and made her experiments accordingly. In this way the Merrimac received three shots.... Neither of these three shots rebounded at all, but appeared to cut their way clear through iron and wood into the ship.”[21] Soon after receiving the third shot, the Merrimac made off at full speed, and the contest was not renewed. Thus ended this particular episode of the American war.

ENGAGEMENT BETWEEN THE “MERRIMAC” AND “MONITOR.”

Lieutenant Worden was in the pilot-house of the Monitor when the Merrimac directed a whole broadside at her, and was, besides being thrown down and stunned by the concussion, temporarily blinded by the minute fragments of shells and powder driven through the eye-holes—only an inch each in diameter—made through the iron to enable them to keep a look-out. He was carried away, but, on recovering consciousness, his first thoughts reverted to the action. “Have I saved the Minnesota?” said he, eagerly. “Yes; and whipped the Merrimac!” was the answer. “Then,” replied he, “I don’t care what becomes of me.” The concussion in the turret is described as something terrible; and several of the men, though not otherwise hurt, were rendered insensible for the time. Each side claimed that they had seriously damaged the other, but there seems to have been no foundation for these assertions in facts.

But although this, the original Monitor, was efficient, if not omnipotent, in the calm [pg 026]waters at the mouth of the James River, she was, as might be expected with her flat, barge-like bottom, a bad sea-boat, and was afterwards lost. Her ports had to be closed and caulked, being only five feet above the water, and she was therefore unable to work her guns at sea. Her constructor had neglected Sir Walter Raleigh’s advice to Prince Henry touching the model of a ship, “that her ports be so laid, as that she may carry out her guns all weathers.” She plunged heavily—completely submerging her pilot-house at times, the sea washing over and into her turret. The heavy shocks and jars of the armour, as it came down upon the waves, made her leaky, and she went to the bottom in spite of pumps capable of throwing 2,000 gallons a minute, which were in good order and working incessantly.

THE PERUVIAN IRONCLAD HUASCAR ATTACKED BY TWO CHILIAN IRONCLADS.

Since the conclusion of the American war, the ironclad question has assumed serious aspects, and many facts could be cited to show that they have not by any means always confirmed the first impressions of their strength and invulnerability. Two recent cases will be fresh in the memories of our readers. The first is the recent engagement off Peru between the Peruvian ironclad turret-ship Huascar and the British unarmoured men-of-war Shah and Amethyst. With the political aspect of the affair we have nothing, of course, to do, in our present work. It was really a question between the guns quite as much as between the vessels. The Huascar is only a moderately-strong armoured vessel, her plates being the same thickness as those of the earliest English ironclad, the Warrior, and her armament is two 300-pounders in her turret, and three shell-guns. On the other hand, the Shah, the principal one of the two British vessels, is only a large iron vessel sheathed in wood, and not armoured at all; but she carries, besides smaller guns, a formidable armament in the shape of two 12-ton and sixteen 6½-ton guns. An eyewitness of the engagement states[22] that, after three hours’ firing, at a distance of from 400 to 3,000 yards, the only damage inflicted by the opposing vessels was a hole in the Huascar’s side, made by a shell, the bursting of which killed one man. “One 9-in. shot (from a 12-ton gun) also penetrated three inches into the turret without effecting any material damage. There were nearly 100 dents of various depths in the plates, but none of sufficient depth to materially injure them. The upper works—boats, and everything destructible by shell—were, of course, destroyed. Her colours were also shot down.” According to theory, the Shah’s two larger guns should have penetrated the Huascar’s sides when fired at upwards of 3,000 yards’ distance. The facts are very different, doubtless because the shots struck the armour obliquely, at any angles but right ones. The Huascar was admirably handled and manœuvred, but her gunnery was so indifferent that none of the shots even struck the Shah, except to cut away a couple of ropes, and the latter kept up so hot a fire of shells that the crew of the former were completely demoralised, and the officers had to train and fire the guns. She eventually escaped to Iquique, under cover of a pitchy-dark night. The same correspondent admits, however, that the Shah, although a magnificent vessel, is not fitted for the South American station, since Peru has three ironclads, Chili two, and Brazil and the River Plate Republics several, against which no ordinary English man-of-war could cope, were the former properly handled.

THE PERUVIAN IRONCLAD HUASCAR.

The recent story of the saucy Russian merchantman,[23] which not merely dared the Turkish ironclad, but fought her for five hours, and inflicted quite as much damage as she received, will also be remembered, although it may be taken just for what it is worth. One Captain Baranoff, of the Imperial Russian Navy, had, in an article published in the Golos, of St. Petersburg, recommended his Government to abandon ironclads, avoid naval battles, and confine operations at sea to the letting loose of a number of cruisers against the enemy’s merchantmen. Where a naval engagement was inevitable, he “preferred fighting with small craft, making up by agility and speed what they lacked in cuirass, and if the worst came to the worst, easily replaced by other specimens of the same type.” The article created much notice; and at the beginning of the present war, the author was given to understand by the Russian Admiralty that he should have an opportunity of proving his theories by deeds. The Vesta, an ordinary iron steamer of light build, was selected; she had been employed previously in no more warlike functions than the conveyance of corn and tallow from Russia to foreign ports. She was equipped immediately with a few 6-in. mortars, her decks being strengthened to receive them, but no other changes were made. On the morning of the 23rd of July, cruising in the Black Sea, Captain Baranoff encountered the Turkish ironclad Assari Tefvik, a formidable vessel armoured with twelve inches of iron, and carrying 12-ton guns, and nothing daunted by the disproportion in size and strength, immediately engaged her. Both vessels were skilfully manœuvred, the ironclad moving about with extraordinary alertness and speed. She was only hit three times with large balls; the second went through her deck, “kindling a fire which was quickly extinguished;” the third was believed to have injured the turret. Meantime, the Vesta was herself badly injured, a grenade hitting her close to the powder-magazine, which would have soon blown up but for the rapid measures taken by her commander. Her rudder was struck and partially disabled, but still she was not sunk, as she should have been, according to all theoretical considerations. She eventually steamed back again to Sebastopol—after two other vessels had come to the ironclad’s assistance—covered with glory, having for five hours worried, and somewhat injured, a giant vessel to which, in proportion, she was but a weak and miserable dwarf.

It will be obvious that from neither of the above cases can any positive inferences be safely drawn. In the former case, the weaker vessel had the stronger guns, and so matters were partially balanced; in the second example, the ironclad ought to have easily sunk the merchantman by means of her heavy guns, even from a great distance—but she didn’t. The ironclad question will engage our attention again, as it will, we fear, that of the nation, for a very long time to come.

[pg 28]

CHAPTER II.

Men of Peace.

Naval Life in Peace Times—A Grand Exploring Voyage—The Cruise of the Challenger—Its Work—Deep-sea Soundings—Five Miles Down—Apparatus Employed—Ocean Treasures—A Gigantic Sea-monster—Tristan d’Acunha—A Discovery Interesting to the Discovered—The Two Crusoes—The Inaccessible Island—Solitary Life—The Sea-cart—Swimming Pigs—Rescued at Last—The Real Crusoe Island to Let—Down South—The Land of Desolation—Kerguelen—The Sealers’ Dreary Life—In the Antarctic—Among the Icebergs.

No form of life presents greater contrasts than that of the sailor. Storm and calm alternate; to-day in the thick of the fight—battling man or the elements—to-morrow we find him tranquilly pursuing some peaceful scheme of discovery or exploration, or calmly cruising from one station to another, protecting by moral influence alone the interests of his country. His deeds may be none the less heroic because his conquests are peaceful, and because Neptune rather than Mars is challenged to cede his treasures. Anson, Cook, and Vancouver, Parry, Franklin, M’Clintock, and M’Clure, among a host of others, stand worthily by the side of our fighting sailors, because made of the same stuff. Let us also, then, for a time, leave behind the smoke and din, the glories and horrors of war, and cool our fevered imaginations by descending, in spirit at least, to the depths of the great sea. The records of the famous voyage of the Challenger[24] will afford a capital opportunity of contrasting the deeds of the men of peace with those of men of war.

We may commence by saying that no such voyage has in truth ever been undertaken before.[25] Nearly 70,000 miles of the earth’s watery surface were traversed, and the Atlantic and Pacific crossed and recrossed several times. It was a veritable voyage en zigzag. Apart from ordinary soundings innumerable, 374 deep-sea soundings, when the progress of the vessel had to be stopped, and which occupied an hour or two apiece, were made, and at least two-thirds as many successful dredgings and trawlings. The greatest depth of ocean reached was 4,575 fathoms (27,450 feet), or over five miles. This was in the Pacific, about 1,400 miles S.E. of Japan. We all know that this ocean derives its name from its generally calmer weather and less tempestuous seas; and the researches of the officers of the Challenger, and of the United States vessel Tuscarora, show that the bottom slopes to its greatest depths very evenly and gradually, little broken by submarine mountain ranges, except off volcanic islands and coasts like those of the Hawaiian (Sandwich) Islands. Off the latter there are mountains in the sea ranging to as high as 12,000 feet. The general evenness of the bottom helps to account for the long, sweeping waves of the Pacific, so distinguishable from the short, [pg 29]cut-up, and “choppy” waves of the Atlantic. In the Atlantic, on the voyage of the Challenger from Teneriffe to St. Thomas, a pretty level bottom off the African coast gradually deepened till it reached 3,125 fathoms (over three and a half miles), at about one-third of the way across to the West Indies. If the Alps, Mont Blanc and all, were submerged at this spot, there would still be more than half a mile of water above them! Five hundred miles further west there is a comparatively shallow part—two miles or so deep—which afterwards deepens to three miles, and continues at the same depth nearly as far as the West Indies.

EXAMINING A “HAUL” ON BOARD THE “CHALLENGER.”

A few words as to the work laid out for the Challenger, and how she did it. She is a 2,000-ton corvette, of moderate steam-power, and was put into commission, with a reduced complement of officers and men, Captain (now Sir) George S. Nares, later the commander of the Arctic expedition, having complete charge and control. Her work was to include soundings, thermometric and magnetic observations, dredgings and chemical examinations of sea-water, the surveying of unsurveyed harbours and coasts, and the resurveying, where practicable, of partially surveyed coasts. The (civil) scientific corps, under the charge of Professor Wyville Thomson, comprised three naturalists, a chemist and physicist, and a photographer. The naturalists had their special rooms, the chemist his laboratory, the photographer his “dark-room,” and the surveyors their chart-room, to make room for which all the guns were removed except two. On the upper deck was another analysing-room, “devoted to mud, fish, birds, and vertebrates generally;” a donkey-engine for hauling in the sounding, dredging, and other lines, and a broad bridge amidships, from which the officer for the day gave the necessary orders for the performance of the many duties connected with their scientific labours. Thousands of fathoms of rope of all sizes, for dredging and sounding; tons of sounding-weights, from half to a whole hundredweight apiece; dozens of thermometers for deep-sea temperatures, and gallons of methylated spirits for preserving the specimens obtained, were carried on board.

THE “ACCUMULATOR.”[26]

Steam-power is always very essential to deep-sea sounding. No trustworthy results can be obtained from a ship under sail; a perpendicular sounding is the one thing required, and, of course, with steam the vessel can be kept head to the wind, regulating her speed so that she remains nearly stationary. The sounding apparatus used needs some little description. A block was fixed to the main-yard, from which depended the “accumulator,” consisting of strong india-rubber bands, each three-fourths of an inch in diameter and three feet long, which ran through circular discs of wood at either end. These are capable of stretching seventeen feet, and their object is to prevent sudden strain on the lead-line from the inevitable jerks and motion of the vessel. The sounding-rod used for great depths is, with its weights,[27] so arranged that on touching bottom a spring releases a wire sling, and the weights slip off and are left there. These rods were only employed when the depths were considered to be over 1,500 fathoms; for less depths a long, conical lead weight was used, with a “butterfly valve,” or trap, at its basis for securing specimens from the ocean bed. There are several kinds of “slip” water-bottles for securing samples of sea-water (and marine objects of small size floating in it) at great depths. One of the most ingenious is a brass tube, two and a half feet in length, fitted with easily-working stop-cocks at each end, connected by means of a rod, on [pg 30]which is a movable float. As the bottle descends the stop-cocks must remain open, but as it is hauled up again the flat float receives the opposing pressure of the water above it, and, acting by means of the connecting-rod, shuts both cocks simultaneously, thus inclosing a specimen of the water at that particular depth. Self-registering thermometers were employed, sometimes attached at intervals of 100 fathoms to the sounding-line, so as to test the temperatures at various depths. For dredging, bags or nets from three to five feet in depth, and nine to fifteen inches in width, attached to iron frames, were employed, whilst at the bottom of the bags a number of “swabs,” similar to those used in cleaning decks, were attached, so as to sweep along the bottom, and bring up small specimens of animal life—coral, sponges, &c. These swabs were, however, always termed “hempen tangles”—so much does science dignify every object it touches! The dredges were afterwards set aside for the ordinary beam-trawls used in shallow water around our own coasts. Their open meshes allowed the mud and sand to filter through easily, and their adoption was a source of satisfaction to some of the officers who looked with horror on the state of their usually immaculate decks, when the dredges were emptied of their contents.

Not so very long ago, our knowledge of anything beneath the ocean’s surface was extremely indefinite; for even of the coasts and shallows we knew little, marine zoology and botany being the last, and not the earliest, branches of natural history investigated by men of science. It was asserted that the specific gravity of water at great depths would cause the heaviest weights to remain suspended in mid-sea, and that animal existence was impossible at the bottom. When, some sixteen years ago, a few star-fish were brought up by a line from a depth of 1,200 fathoms, it was seriously considered that they had attached themselves at some midway point, and not at the bottom. In 1868-9-70, the Royal Society borrowed from the Admiralty two of Her Majesty’s vessels, the Lightning and Porcupine; and in one of the latter’s trips, considerably to the south and west of Ireland, she sounded to a depth of 2,400 fathoms,[28] and was very successful in many dredging operations. As a result, it was then suggested that a vessel should be specially fitted out for a more important ocean voyage round the world, to occupy three or more years, and the cruise of the Challenger was then determined upon.

The story of that cruise is utterly unsensational; it is one simply of calm and unremitting scientific work, almost unaccompanied by peril. To some the treasures acquired will seem valueless. Among the earliest gains, obtained near Cape St. Vincent, with a common trawl, was a beautiful specimen of the Euplectella, “glass-rope sponge,” or “Venus’s flower-basket,” alive. This object of beauty and interest, sometimes seen in working naturalists’ and conchologists’ windows in London, had always previously been obtained from the seas [pg 31]of the Philippine Islands and Japan, to which it was thought to be confined, and its discovery so much nearer home was hailed with delight. It has a most graceful form, consisting of a slightly curved conical tube, eight or ten inches in height, contracted beneath to a blunt point. The walls are of light tracery, resembling opaque spun glass, covered with a lace-work of delicate pattern. The lower end is surrounded by an upturned fringe of lustrous fibres, and the wider end is closed by a lid of open network. These beautiful objects of nature make most charming ornaments for a drawing-room, but have to be kept under a glass case, as they are somewhat frail. In their native element they lie buried in the mud. They were afterwards found to be “the most characteristic inhabitants of the great depths all over the world.” Early in the voyage, no lack of living things were brought up—strange-looking fish, with their eyes blown nearly out of their heads by the expansion of the air in their air-bladders, whilst entangled among the meshes were many star-fish and delicate zoophytes, shining with a vivid phosphorescent light. A rare specimen of the clustered sea-polyp, twelve gigantic polyps, each with eight long fringed arms, terminating in a close cluster on a stalk or stem three feet high, was obtained. “Two specimens of this fine species were brought from the coast of Greenland early in the last century; somehow these were lost, and for a century the animal was never seen.” Two were brought home by one of the Swedish Arctic expeditions, and these are the only specimens ever obtained. One of the lions of the expedition was not “a rare sea-fowl,” but a transparent lobster, while a new crustacean, perfectly blind, which feels its way with most beautifully delicate claws, was one of the greatest curiosities obtained. Of these wonders, and of some geological points determined, more anon. But they did not even sight the sea-serpent, much less attempt to catch it. Jules Verne’s twenty miles of inexhaustible pearl-meadows were evidently missed, nor did they even catch a glimpse of his gigantic oyster, with the pearl as big as a cocoa-nut, and worth 10,000,000 francs. They could not, with Captain Nemo, dive to the bottom and land amid submarine forests, where tigers and cobras have their counterparts in enormous sharks and vicious cephalopods. Victor Hugo’s “devil-fish” did not attack a single sailor, nor did, indeed, any formidable cuttle-fish take even a passing peep at the Challenger, much less attempt to stop its progress. Does the reader remember the story recited both by Figuier and Moquin Tandon,[29] concerning one of these gigantic sea-monsters, which should have a strong basis of truth in it, as it was laid before the French Académie des Sciences by a lieutenant of their navy and a French consul?

OBJECTS OF INTEREST BROUGHT HOME BY THE “CHALLENGER.”
Fig. 1.—Shell of Globigerina (highly magnified). Fig. 2.—Ophioglypha bullata (six times the size in nature). Fig. 3.—Euplectella Suberea (popularly “Venus’s Flower-basket”). Fig. 4.—Deidamia leptodactyla (a Blind Lobster).
(From “The Voyage of the Challenger,” by permission of Messrs. Macmillan & Co.)

The steam-corvette Alecton, when between Teneriffe and Madeira, fell in with a gigantic cuttle-fish, fifty feet long in the body, without counting its eight formidable arms covered with suckers. The head was of enormous size, out of all proportion to the body, and had eyes as large as plates. The other extremity terminated in two fleshy lobes or fins of great size. The estimated weight of the whole creature was 4,000 lbs., and the flesh was soft, glutinous, and of a reddish-brick colour. “The commandant, wishing, in the interests of science, to secure the monster, actually engaged it in battle. Numerous shots were aimed at it, but the balls traversed its flaccid and glutinous mass without causing it any vital injury. But after one of these attacks, the waves were [pg 32]observed to be covered with foam and blood, and—singular thing—a strong odour of musk was inhaled by the spectators.... The musket-shots not having produced the desired results, harpoons were employed, but they took no hold on the soft, impalpable flesh of the marine monster. When it escaped from the harpoon, it dived under the ship and came up again at the other side. They succeeded, at last, in getting the harpoon to bite, and in passing a bowling-hitch round the posterior part of the animal. But when they attempted to hoist it out of the water, the rope penetrated deeply into the flesh, and separated it into two parts, the head, with the arms and tentacles, dropping into the sea and making off, while the fins and posterior parts were brought on board; they weighed about forty pounds. The crew were eager to pursue, and would have launched a boat, but the commander refused, fearing that the animal might capsize it. The object was not, in his opinion, one in which he could risk the lives of his crew.” M. Moquin Tandon, commenting on M. Berthelot’s recital, considers “that this colossal mollusc was sick and exhausted at the time by some recent struggle with some other monster of the deep, which would account for its having quitted its native rocks in the depths of the ocean. Otherwise it would have been more active in its movements, or it would have [pg 33]obscured the waves with the inky liquid which all the cephalopods have at command. Judging from its size, it would carry at least a barrel of this black liquid.”

The Challenger afterwards visited Juan Fernandez, the real Robinson Crusoe island where Alexander Selkirk passed his enforced residence of four years. Thanks to Defoe, he lived to find himself so famous, that he could hardly have grudged the time spent in his solitary sojourn with his dumb companions and man Friday. Alas! the romance which enveloped Juan Fernandez has somewhat dimmed. For a brief time it was a Chilian penal colony, and after sundry vicissitudes, was a few years ago leased to a merchant, who kept cattle to sell to whalers and passing ships, and also went seal-hunting on a neighbouring islet. He was “monarch of all he surveyed”—lord of an island over a dozen miles long and five or six broad, with cattle, and herds of wild goats, and capital fishing all round—all for two hundred a year! Fancy this, ye sportsmen, who pay as much or more for the privileges of a barren moor! Yet the merchant was not satisfied with his venture, and, at the time of the Challenger’s visit, was on the point of abandoning it: by this time it is probably to let. Excepting the cattle dotted about the foot of the hills and a civilised house or two, the appearance of the island must be precisely the same now as when the piratical buccaneers of olden time made it their rendezvous and haunt wherefrom to dash out and harry the Spaniards; the same to-day as when Alexander Selkirk lived in it as its involuntary monarch; the same to-day as when Commodore Anson arrived with his scurvy-stricken “crazy ship, a great scarcity of water, and a crew so universally diseased that there were not above ten foremast-men in a watch capable of doing duty,” and recruited them with fresh meat, vegetables, and wild fruits.

THE “CHALLENGER” AT JUAN FERNANDEZ.

“The scenery,” writes Lord George Campbell, “is grand: gloomy and wild enough on the dull, stormy day on which we arrived, clouds driving past and enveloping the highest ridge of the mountain, a dark-coloured sea pelting against the steep cliffs and shores, and [pg 34]clouds of sea-birds swaying in great flocks to and fro over the water; but cheerful and beautiful on the bright sunny morning which followed—so beautiful that I thought, ‘This beats Tahiti!’ ” The anchorage of the Challenger was in Cumberland Bay, a deep-water inlet from which rises a semi-circle of high land, with two bold headlands, “sweeping brokenly up thence to the highest ridge—a square-shaped, craggy, precipitous mass of rock, with trees clinging to its sides to near the summit. The spurs of these hills are covered with coarse grass or moss.... Down the beds of the small ravines run burns, overgrown by dock-leaves of enormous size, and the banks are clothed with a rich vegetation of dark-leaved myrtle, bignonia, and winter-bark, tree-shrubs, with tall grass, ferns, and flowering plants. And as you lie there, humming-birds come darting and thrumming within reach of your stick, flitting from flower to flower, which dot blue and white the foliage of bignonias and myrtles. And on the steep grassy slopes above the sea-cliffs herds of wild goats are seen quietly browsing—quietly, that is, till they scent you, when they are off—as wild as chamois.” This is indeed a description of a rugged paradise!

Near the ship they found splendid, but laborious, cod-fishing; laborious on account of sharks playing with the bait, and treating the stoutest lines as though made of single gut; also on account of the forty-fathom depth these cod-fish lived in. Cray-fish and conger-eels were hauled up in lobster-pots by dozens, while round the ship’s sides flashed shoals of cavalli, fish that are caught by a hook with a piece of worsted tied roughly on, swished over the surface, giving splendid play with a rod. “And on shore, too, there was something to be seen and done. There was Selkirk’s ‘look-out’ to clamber up the hill-side to—the spot where tradition says he watched day after day for a passing sail, and from whence he could look down on both sides of his island home, over the wooded slopes, down to the cliff-fringed shore, on to the deserted ocean’s expanse.”

The Challenger, in its cruise of over three years, naturally visited many oft-described ports and settlements with which we shall have nought to do. After a visit to Kerguelen’s Land—“the Land of Desolation,” as Captain Cook called it—in the Southern Indian Ocean, for the purpose of selecting a spot for the erection of an observatory, from whence the transit of Venus should be later observed, they proceeded to Heard Island, the position of which required determining with more accuracy. They anchored, in the evening, in a bay of this most gloomy and utterly desolate place, where they found half-a-dozen wretched sealers living in two miserable huts near the beach, which were sunk into the ground for warmth and protection against the fierce winds. Their work is to kill and boil down sea-elephants. One of the men had been there for two years, and was going to stay another. They are left on the island every year by the schooners, which go sealing or whaling elsewhere. Some forty men were on the island, unable to communicate with each other by land, as the interior is entirely covered with glacier, like Greenland. They have barrels of salt pork, beef, and a small store of coals, and little else, and are wretchedly paid. “Books,” says Lord Campbell, “tell us that these sea-elephants grow to the length of twenty-four feet; but the sealers did not confirm this at all. One of us tried hard to make the Scotch mate say he had seen one eighteen feet long; but ‘waull, he couldn’t say.’ Sixteen feet? ‘Waull, he couldn’t say.’ Fourteen feet? ‘Waull, yes, yes—something more like that;’ but thirteen feet would seem a fair average size.... One of our fellows bought a [pg 35]clever little clay model of two men killing a sea-elephant, giving for it—he being an extravagant man—one pound and a bottle of rum. This pound was instantly offered to the servants outside in exchange for another bottle.”

Crossing the Antarctic Circle, they were soon among the icebergs, keeping a sharp look-out for Termination Land, which has been marked on charts as a good stretch of coast seen by Wilkes, of the American expedition, thirty years before. To make a long story short, Captain Nares, after a careful search, un-discovered this discovery, finding no traces of the land. It was probably a long stretch of ice, or possibly a mirage, which phenomenon has deceived many a sailor before. John Ross once thought that he had discovered some grand mountains in the Arctic regions, which he named after the then First Lord of the Admiralty, Croker. Next year Parry sailed over the site of the supposed range; and the “Croker” Mountains became a standing joke against Ross.

“THE CHALLENGER” IN ANTARCTIC ICE.

Icebergs of enormous size were encountered; several of three miles in length and two hundred feet or more in height were seen one day, all close together. But bergs of this calibre were exceptional; they were, however, very often over half a mile in length. “There are few people now alive,” says the author we have recently quoted, “who have seen such superb Antarctic iceberg scenery as we have. We are steaming towards the supposed position of land, only some thirty miles distant, over a glass-like sea, unruffled by a breath of wind; past great masses of ice, grouped so close together in some cases as to form an unbroken wall of cliff several miles in length. Then, as we pass within a few hundred yards, the chain breaks up into two or three separate bergs, and one sees—and beautifully from the mast-head—the blue sea and distant horizon between perpendicular walls of glistening alabaster white, against which the long swell dashes, rearing up in great blue-green heaps, falling back in a torrent of rainbow-flashing spray, or goes roaring into the azure caverns, followed immediately by a thundering thud, as the compressed air within buffets it back again in a torrent of seething white foam.” Neither words adequately describe the beauty of many of the icebergs seen. One had three high arched caverns penetrating far to its interior; another had a large tunnel through which they could see the horizon. The delicate colouring of these bergs is most lovely—sweeps of azure blue and pale sea-green with dazzling white; glittering, sparkling crystal merging into depths of indigo blue; stalactite icicles hanging from the walls and roofs of cavernous openings. The reader will imagine the beauty of the scene at sunrise and sunset, when as many as eighty or ninety bergs were sometimes in sight. The sea was intensely green from the presence of minute algæ, through belts of which the vessel passed, while the sun, sinking in a golden blaze, tipped and lighted up the ice and snow, making them sparkle as with [pg 37]brightest gems. A large number of tabular icebergs, with quantities of snow on their level tops, were met. They amused themselves by firing a 9-pounder Armstrong at one, which brought the ice down with a rattling crash, the face of the berg cracking, splitting, and splashing down with a roar, making the water below white with foam and powdered ice. These icebergs were all stratified, at more or less regular distances, with blue lines, which before they capsized or canted from displacement of their centres of gravity, were always horizontal. During a gale, the Challenger came into collision with a berg, and lost her jibboom, “dolphin-striker,” and other head-gear. An iceberg in a fog or gale of wind is not a desirable obstruction to meet at sea.

THE CHALLENGER MADE FAST TO ST. PAUL’S ROCKS (SOUTH ATLANTIC).

The observations made for deep-sea temperatures gave some remarkable results. Here, among the icebergs, a band or stratum of water was found, at a depth of eighty to 200 fathoms, colder than the water either above or below it. Take one day as an example: on the 19th of February the surface temperature of the sea-water was 32°; at 100 fathoms it was 29·2°; while at 300 fathoms it had risen to 33°. In the Atlantic, on the eastern side about the tropics, the bottom temperature was found to be very uniform at 35·2°, while it might be broiling hot on the surface. Further south, on the west side of the Atlantic below the equator, the bottom was found to be very nearly three degrees cooler. It is believed that the cold current enters the Atlantic from the Antarctic, and does not rise to within 1,700 fathoms of the surface. These, and many kindred points, belong more properly to another section of this work, to be hereafter discussed.

THE NATURALIST’S ROOM ON BOARD THE “CHALLENGER.”

The Challenger had crossed, and sounded, and dredged the broad Atlantic from Madeira to the West Indies—finding their deepest water off the Virgin Islands; thence to Halifax, Nova Scotia; recrossed it to the Azores, Canary, and Cape de Verde Islands; recrossed it once more in a great zig-zag from the African coast, through the equatorial regions to Bahia, Brazil; and thence, if the expression may be used, by a great angular [pg 38]sweep through the Southern Ocean to Tristan d’Acunha en route to the Cape, where they made an interesting discovery, one that, unlike their other findings, was most interesting to the discovered also. It was that of two modern Robinson Crusoes, who had been living by themselves a couple of years on a desolate rocky island, the name of which, “Inaccessible,” rightly describes its character and position in mid ocean. Juan Fernandez, the locale of Defoe’s immortal story, is nothing to it now-a-days, and is constantly visited. On arrival at the island of Tristan d’Acunha, itself a miserable settlement of about a dozen cottages, the people, mostly from the Cape and St. Helena, some of them mulattoes, informed the officers of the Challenger that two Germans, brothers, had some time before settled, for the purpose of catching seals, on a small island about thirty miles off, and that, not having been over there or seen any signs of them for a long time, they feared that they had perished. It turned out afterwards that the Tristan d’Acunha people had not taken any trouble in the matter, looking on them as interlopers on their fishing-grounds. They had promised to send them some animals—a bull, cow, and heifer—but, although they had stock and fowls of all kinds, had left them to their fate. But first as to this [pg 39]little-known Tristan d’Acunha, of which Lord George Campbell[30] furnishes the following account:—“It is a circular-shaped island, some nine miles in diameter, a peak rising in the centre 8,300 feet high—a fine sight, snow-covered as it is two-thirds of the way down. In the time of Napoleon a guard of our marines was sent there from the Cape; but the connection between Nap’s being caged at St. Helena and a guard of marines occupying this island is not very obvious, is it? Any way, that was the commencement of a settlement which has continued with varying numbers to this day, the marines having long ago been withdrawn, and now eighty-six people—men, women, and children—live here.... A precipitous wall of cliff, rising abruptly from the sea, encircles the island, excepting where the settlement is, and there the cliff recedes and leaves a long grass slope of considerable extent, covered with grey boulders. The cottages, in number about a dozen, look very Scotch from the ship, with their white walls, straw roofs, and stone dykes around them. Sheep, cattle, pigs, geese, ducks, and fowls they have in plenty, also potatoes and other vegetables, all of which they sell to whalers, who give them flour or money in exchange. The appearance of the place makes one shudder; it looks so thoroughly as though it were always blowing there—which, indeed, it is, heavy storms continually sweeping over, killing their cattle right and left before they have time to drive them under shelter. They say that they have lost 100 head of cattle lately by these storms, which kill the animals, particularly the calves, from sheer fatigue.” The men of the place often go whaling or sealing cruises with the ships that touch there.

DREDGING IMPLEMENTS USED BY THE “CHALLENGER.”
Fig. 1, Sounding machines. Fig. 2, Slip water-bottles. Fig. 3, Deep-sea thermometer. Fig. 4, The dredge. Fig. 5, Cup sounding lead.

The Challenger steamed slowly over to Inaccessible Island during the night, and anchored next morning off its northern side, where rose a magnificent wall of black cliff, splashed green with moss and ferns, rising sheer 1,300 feet above the sea. Between two headlands a strip of stony beach, with a small hut on it, could be seen. This was the residence of our two Crusoes.

Their story, told when the first exuberance of joy at the prospect of being taken off the island had passed away, was as follows:—One of the brothers had been cast away on Tristan d’Acunha some years before, in consequence of the burning of his ship. There he and his companions of the crew had been kindly treated by the settlers, and told that at one of the neighbouring islands 1,700 seals had been captured in one season. Telling this to a brother when he at last reached home in the Fatherland, the two of them, fired with the ambition of acquiring money quickly, determined to exile themselves for a while to the islands. By taking passage on an outward-bound steamer from Southampton, and later transferring themselves to a whaler, they reached their destination in safety on the 27th of November, 1871. They had purchased an old whale-boat—mast, sails, and oars complete—and landed with a fair supply of flour, biscuit, coffee, tea, sugar, salt, and tobacco, sufficient for present needs. They had blankets and some covers, which were easily filled with bird’s feathers—a German could hardly forget his national luxury, his feather-bed. They had provided themselves with a wheelbarrow, sundry tools, pot and kettles; a short Enfield rifle, and an old fowling-piece, and a very limited supply [pg 40]of powder, bullets, and shot. They had also sensibly provided themselves with some seeds, so that, all in all, they started life on the island under favourable circumstances.

The west side of the island, on which they landed, consisted of a beach some three miles in length, with a bank of earth, covered with the strong long tussock grass, rising to the cliff, which it was just possible to scale. The walls of rock by which the island is bounded afforded few opportunities for reaching the comparatively level plateau at the top. Without the aid of the grass it was impossible, and in one place, which had to be climbed constantly, it took them an hour and a half of hard labour, holding on with hands and feet, and even teeth, to reach the summit. Meantime, they had found on the north side a suitable place for building their hut, near a waterfall that fell from the side of the mountain, and close to a wood, from which they could obtain all the firewood they required. Their humble dwelling was partly constructed of spars from the vessel that had brought them to the island, and was thatched with grass. About this time (December) the seals were landing in the coast, it being the pupping season, and they killed nineteen. In hunting them their whale-boat, which was too heavy for two men to handle, was seriously damaged in landing through the surf; but yet, with constant bailing, could be kept afloat. A little later they cut it in halves, and constructed from the best parts a smaller boat, which was christened the Sea Cart. During the summer rains their house became so leaky that they pulled it down, and shifted their quarters to another spot. At the beginning of April the tussock grass, by which they had ascended the cliff, caught fire, and their means of reaching game, in the shape of wild pigs and goats, was cut off. Winter (about our summer-time, as in Australia, &c.) was approaching, and it became imperative to think of laying in provisions. By means of the Sea Cart they went round to the west side, and succeeded in killing two goats and a pig, the latter of which furnished a bucket of fat for frying potatoes. The wild boars there were found to be almost uneatable; but the sows were good eating. The goats’ flesh was said to be very delicate. An English ship passed them far out at sea, and they lighted a fire to attract attention, but in vain; while the surf was running too high, and their Cart too shaky to attempt to reach it.

Hitherto they had experienced no greater hardships than they had expected, and were prepared for. But in June [mid-winter] their boat was, during a storm, washed off the beach, and broken up. This was to them a terrible disaster; their old supplies were exhausted, and they were practically cut off from not merely the world in general, but even the rest of the island. They got weaker and weaker, and by August were little better than two skeletons.

The sea was too tempestuous, and the distance too great for them to attempt to swim round (as they afterwards did) to another part of the island. But succour was at hand; they were saved by the penguins, a very clumsy form of relief. The female birds came ashore in August to lay their eggs in the nests already prepared by their lords and masters, the male birds, who had landed some two or three weeks previously. Our good Germans had divided their last potato, and were in a very weak and despondent condition when the pleasant fact stared them in the face that they might now fatten on eggs ad libitum. Their new diet soon put fresh heart and courage in them, and when, [pg 41]early in September, a French bark sent a boat ashore, they determined still to remain on the island. They arranged with the captain for the sale of their seal-skins, and bartered a quantity of eggs for some biscuit and a couple of pounds of tobacco. Late in October a schooner from the Cape of Good Hope called at the island, and on leaving, promised to return for them, as they had decided to quit the island, not having had any success in obtaining peltries or anything else that is valuable; but she did not re-appear, and in November their supplies were again at starvation-point. Selecting a calm day, the two Crusoes determined to swim round the headland to the eastward, taking with them their rifles and blankets, and towing after them an empty oil-barrel containing their clothes, powder, matches, and kettle. This they repeated later on several occasions, and, climbing the cliffs by the tussock grass, were able to kill or secure on the plateau a few of the wild pigs. Sometimes one of them only would mount, and after killing a pig would cut it up and lower the hams to his brother below. They caught three little sucking-pigs, and towed them alive through the waves, round the point of their landing-place, where they arrived half drowned. They were put in an enclosure, and fed on green stuff and penguin’s eggs—good feeding for a delicate little porker. Attempting on another occasion to tow a couple in the same way, the unfortunate pigs met a watery grave in the endeavour to weather the point, and one of the brothers barely escaped, with some few injuries, through a terrible surf which was beating on their part of the coast. Part of their time was passed in a cave during the cold weather. When the Challenger arrived their only rifle had burst in two places, and was of little use, while their musket was completely burst in all directions, and was being used as a blow-pipe to freshen the fire when it got low. Their only knives had been made by themselves from an old saw. Their library consisted of eight books and an atlas, and these, affording their only literary recreation for two years, they knew almost literally by heart. When they first landed they had a dog and two pups, which they, doubtless, hoped would prove something like companions. The dogs almost immediately left, and made for the penguin rookeries, where they killed and worried the birds by hundreds. One of them became mad, and the brothers thought it best to shoot the three of them. Captain Nares gave the two Crusoes a passage to the Cape, where one of them obtained a good situation; the other returned to Germany, doubtless thinking that about a couple of dozen seal-skins—all they obtained—was hardly enough to reward them for their two years’ dreary sojourn on Inaccessible Island.

[pg 42]

Chapter III.

The Men of the Sea.

The great Lexicographer on Sailors—The Dangers of the Sea—How Boys become Sailors—Young Amyas Leigh—The Genuine Jack Tar—Training-Ships versus the old Guard-Ships—“Sea-goers and Waisters”—The Training Undergone—Routine on Board—Never-ending Work—Ship like a Lady’s Watch—Watches and “Bells”—Old Grogram and Grog—The Sailor’s Sheet Anchor—Shadows in the Seaman’s Life—The Naval Cat—Testimony and Opinion of a Medical Officer—An Example—Boy Flogging in the Navy—Shakespeare and Herbert on Sailors and the Sea.

Dr. Johnson, whose personal weight seems to have had something to do with that carried by his opinion, considered going to sea a species of insanity.[31] “No man,” said he, “will be a sailor who has contrivance enough to get himself into a jail: for being in a ship is being in a jail, with the chance of being drowned.” The great lexicographer knew Fleet Street better than he did the fleet, and his opinion, as expressed above, was hardly even decently patriotic or sensible. Had all men thought as he professed to do—probably for the pleasure of saying something ponderously brilliant for the moment—we should have had no naval or commercial superiority to-day—in short, no England.

The dangers of the sea are serious enough, but need not be exaggerated. One writer[32] indeed, in serio-comic vein, makes his sailors sing in a gale—

“When you and I, Bill, on the deck

Are comfortably lying,

My eyes! what tiles and chimney-pots

About their heads are flying!”

leading us to infer that the dangers of town-life are greater than those of the sea in a moderate gale. We might remind the reader that Mark Twain has conclusively shown, from statistics, that more people die in bed comfortably at home than are killed by all the railroad, steamship, or other accidents in the world, the inference being that going to bed is a dangerous habit! But the fact is, that wherever there is danger there will be brave men found to face it—even when it takes the desperate form just indicated! So that there is nothing surprising in the fact that in all times there have been men ready to go to sea.

Of those who have succeeded, the larger proportion have been carried thither by the spirit of adventure. It would be difficult to say whether it has been more strongly developed through actual “surroundings,” as believed by one of England’s most intelligent and friendly critics,[33] who says, “The ocean draws them just as a pond attracts young ducks,” or through the influence of literature bringing the knowledge of wonderful voyages and discoveries within the reach of all. The former are immensely strong influences. The boy who lives by, and loves the sea, and notes daily the ships of all [pg 43]nations passing to and fro, or who, maybe, dwells in some naval or commercial port, and sees constantly great vessels arriving and departing, and hears the tales of sailors bold, concerning new lands and curious things, is very apt to become imbued with the spirit of adventure. How charmingly has Charles Kingsley written on the latter point![34] How young Amyas Leigh, gentle born, and a mere stripling schoolboy, edged his way under the elbows of the sailor men on Bideford Quay to listen to Captain John Oxenham tell his stories of heaps—“seventy foot long, ten foot broad, and twelve foot high”—of silver bars, and Spanish treasure, and far-off lands and peoples, and easy victories over the coward Dons! How Oxenham, on a recruiting bent, sang out, with good broad Devon accent, “Who ’lists? who ’lists? who’ll make his fortune?

“ ‘Oh, who will join, jolly mariners all?

And who will join, says he, O!

To fill his pockets with the good red goold,

By sailing on the sea, O!’ ”

And how young Leigh, fired with enthusiasm, made answer, boldly, “I want to go to sea; I want to see the Indies. I want to fight the Spaniards. Though I’m a gentleman’s son, I’d a deal liever be a cabin-boy on board your ship.” And how, although he did not go with swaggering John, he lived to first round the world with great Sir Francis Drake, and after fight against the “Invincible” Armada. The story had long before, and has many a time since, been enacted in various forms among all conditions of men. To some, however, the sea has been a last refuge, and many such have been converted into brave and hardy men, perforce themselves; while many others, in the good old days of press-gangs, appeared, as Marryat tells us, “to fight as hard not to be forced into the service as they did for the honour of the country after they were fairly embarked in it.” It may not generally be known that the law which concerns impressing has never been abolished, although there is no fear that it will ever again be resorted to in these days of naval reserves, training-ships, and naval volunteers.

The altered circumstances of the age, arising from the introduction of steam, and the greatly increased inter-commercial relations of the whole world, have made the Jack Tar pure and simple comparatively rare in these days; not, we believe, so much from his disappearance off the scene as by the numbers of differently employed men on board by whom he is surrounded, and in a sense hidden. A few A.B.’s and ordinary seamen are required on any steamship; but the whole tribe of mechanicians, from the important rank of chief engineer downwards, from assistants to stokers and coal-passers, need not know one rope from another. On the other hand, the rapid increase of commerce has apparently outrun the natural increase of qualified seamen, and many a good ship nowadays, we are sorry to say, goes to sea with a very motley crew of “green” hands, landlubbers, and foreigners of all nationalities, including Lascars, Malays, and Kanakas, from the Sandwich Islands. A “confusion of tongues,” not very desirable on board a vessel, reigns supreme, and renders the position of the officers by no means enviable. To obviate these difficulties, and furnish a supply of good material both to [pg 44]the Royal Navy and Mercantile Marine, training-ships have been organised, which have been, so far, highly successful. Let these embryo defenders of their country’s interests have the first place.

Of course, at all periods the boys, and others who entered to serve before the mast, received some training, and picked up the rest if they were reasonably clever. The brochure of “an old salt,”[35] which has recently appeared, gives a fair account of his own treatment and reception. Running away from London, as many another boy has done, with a few coppers in his pocket, he tramped to Sheerness, taking by the way a hearty supper of turnips with a family of sheep in a field. Arrived at his destination, he found a handsome flag-ship, surrounded by a number of large and small vessels. Selecting the very smallest—as best adapted to his own size—he went on board, and asked the first officer he met—one who wore but a single epaulet—whether his ship was “manned with boys?” He was answered, “No, I want men; and pray what may you want?” “I want to go to sea, sir, please.” “You had better go home to your mother,” was the answer. With the next officer—“a real captain, wearing grey hair, and as straight as a line”—he fared better, and was eventually entered as a third-class boy, and sent on board a guard-ship. Here he was rather fortunate in being taken in charge by a petty officer, who had, as was often the case then, his wife living on board. The lady ruled supreme in the mess. She served out the grog, too, and, to prevent intoxication among the men, used to keep one finger inside the measure! This enabled her to the better take care of her husband. She is described as the best “man” in the mess, and irresistibly reminds us of Mrs. Trotter in “Peter Simple,” who had such a horror of rum that she could not be induced to take it except when the water was bad. The water, however, always was bad! But the former lady took good care of the new-comer, while, as we know, Mrs. Trotter fleeced poor Peter out of three pounds sterling and twelve pairs of stockings before he had been an hour on board. Mr. Mindry tells the usual stories of the practical jokes he had to endure—about being sent to the doctor’s mate for mustard, for which he received a peppering; of the constant thrashings he received—in one case, with a number of others, receiving two dozen for losing his dinner. He was cook of the mess for the time, and having mixed his dough, had taken it to the galley-oven, from the door of which a sudden lurch of the ship had ejected it on the main deck, “the contents making a very good representation of the White Sea.” The crime for which he and his companions suffered was for endeavouring to scrape it up again! But the gradual steps by which he was educated upwards, till he became a gunner of the first class, prove that, all in all, he had cheerily taken the bull by the horns, determined to rise as far and fast as he might in an honourable profession. He was after a year or so transferred to a vessel fitting for the West Indies, and soon got a taste of active life. This was in 1837. Forty or fifty years before, the guard-ships were generally little better than floating pandemoniums. They were used partly for breaking in raw hands, and were also the intermediate stopping-places for men waiting to join other ships. In a guard-ship of the period described, a most heterogeneous mass of humanity [pg 45]was assembled. Human invention could not scheme work for the whole, while skulking, impracticable in other vessels of the Royal Navy, was deemed highly meritorious there. A great body of men were thus very often assembled together, who resolved themselves into hostile classes, separated as any two castes of the Hindoos. A clever writer in Blackwood’s Magazine, more than fifty years ago, describes them first as “sea-goers,”—i.e., sailors separated from their vessels by illness, or temporary causes, or ordered to other vessels, who looked on the guard-ship as a floating hotel, and, having what they were pleased to call ships of their own, were the aristocrats of the occasion, who would do no more work than they were obliged. The second, and by far the most numerous class, were termed “waisters,” and were the simple, the unfortunate, or the utterly abandoned, a body held on board in the utmost contempt, and most of whom, in regard to clothing, were wretched in the extreme. The “waister” had to do everything on board that was menial—swabbing, sweeping, and drudging generally. At night, in defiance of his hard and unceasing labour, he too often became a bandit, prowling about seeking what he might devour or appropriate. What a contrast to the clean orderly training-ships of to-day! Some little information on this subject, but imperfectly understood by the public, may perhaps be permitted here.

THE “CHICHESTER” TRAINING-SHIP.

It is not generally known that our supply of seamen for the Royal Navy is nowadays almost entirely derived from the training-ships—first established about fourteen years ago. In a late blue-book it was stated that during a period of five years only 107 men had been entered from other sources, who had not previously served. Training-ships, accommodating about 3,000, are stationed at Devonport, Falmouth, Portsmouth, and Portland, where the lads remain for about a year previous to being sent on sea-going ships. The age of entry has varied at different periods; it is now fifteen to sixteen and a half years. The recruiting statistics show whence a large proportion come—from the men of Devon, who contribute, as they did in the days of Drake and Hawkins, Gilbert and Raleigh, the largest quota of men willing to make their “heritage the sea.”

Dr. Peter Comrie, R.N., a gentleman who has made this matter a study, informs the writer that on board these ships, as regards cleanliness, few gentlemen’s sons are better attended to, while their education is not neglected, as they have a good schoolmaster on all ships of any size. He says that boys brought up in the service not merely make the best seamen, but generally like the navy, and stick to it. The order, cleanliness, and tidy ways obligatory on board a man-of-war, make, in many cases, the ill-regulated fo’castle of most merchant ships very distasteful to them. Their drilling is just sufficient to keep them in healthy condition. No one can well imagine the difference wrought in the appearance of the street arab, or the Irish peasant boy, by a short residence on board one of these ships. He fills out, becomes plump, loses his gaunt, haggard, hunted look; is natty in his appearance, and assumes that jaunty, rolling gait that a person gifted with what is called “sea-legs” is supposed to exhibit. Still, “we,” writes the doctor, “have known Irish boys, who had very rarely even perhaps seen animal food, when first put upon the liberal dietary of the service, complain that they were being starved, their stomachs having been so used to be distended with large quantities of vegetables, that it took some time before the organ accommodated itself to a more nutritious but less filling dietary.”

You have only got to watch the boy from the training-ship on leave to judge that the navy has yet some popularity. Neatly dressed, clean and natty, surrounded by his quondam playmates, he is “the observed of all observers,” and is gazed at with admiring respect by the street arab from a respectful distance. He has, perhaps, learned to “spin a few yarns,” and give the approved hitch to his trousers, and, while giving a favourable account of his life on board ship, with its forecastle jollity and “four bitter,” is the best recruiting-officer the service can have. The great point to be attended to, in order to make him a sailor, is that “you must catch him young.”[36] That a good number have been so caught is proved by the navy estimates, which now provide for over 7,000 boys, 4,000 of the number in sea-going ships.

Governments, as governments, may be paternal, but are rarely very benevolent, and the above excellent institutions are only organised for the safety and strength of the navy. There is another class of training-ships, which owe their existence to benevolence, and deserve every encouragement—those for rescuing our street waifs from the treadmill and prison. The larger part of these do not enter the navy, but are passed into the Merchant Marine, their training being very similar. The Government simply lends the ship. Thus the Chichester, at Greenhithe, a vessel which had been in 1868 a quarter of a century lying useless—never having seen service—was turned over to a society, a mere shell or carcase, her masts, rigging, and other fittings having to be provided by private subscriptions. Her case irresistibly reminds the writer of a vessel, imaginary only in name, described by James Hannay:[37]—“H.M.S. Patagonian was built as a three-decker, at a cost of £120,000, when it was discovered that she could not sail. She was then cut down into a frigate, at a cost of £50,000, when it was found out that she would not tack. She was next built up into a two-decker, at a cost of another £50,000, and then it was discovered she could be made useful, so the Admiralty kept her unemployed for ten years!” A good use was, however, found at last for the Chichester, thanks to benevolent people, the quality of whose mercy is twice blessed, for they both help the wretched youngsters, and turn them into good boys for our ships. Some of these street arabs previously have hardly been under a roof at night for years together. Hear M. Esquiros:—“To these little ones London is a desert, and, though lost in the drifting sands of the crowd, they never fail to find their way. The greater part of them contract a singular taste for this hard and almost savage kind of life. They love the open sky, and at night all they dread is the eye of the policeman; their young minds become fertile in resources, and glory in their independence in the ‘battle of life;’ but if no helping hand is stretched out to arrest them in this fatal and down-hill path, they surely gravitate to the treadmill and the prison. How could it be otherwise?... The question is, what are these lads good for?” That problem, M. Esquiros, as you with others predicted, has been solved satisfactorily. The poor lads form excellent raw material for our ever-increasing sea-service.

The training of a naval cadet—i.e., an embryo midshipman, or “midshipmite” (as poor Peter Simple was irreverently called—before, however, the days of naval cadets)—is very similar in many respects to that of an embryo seaman, but includes many other acquirements. After obtaining his nomination from the Admiralty, and undergoing a simple preliminary examination at the Royal Naval College in ordinary branches of knowledge, he is passed to a training-ship, which to-day is the Britannia at Dartmouth. Here he is taught all the ordinary acquirements in rigging, seamanship, and gunnery; and, to fit him to be an officer, he is instructed in taking observations for latitude and longitude, in geometry, trigonometry, and algebra. He also goes through a course of drawing-lessons and modern languages. He is occasionally sent off on a brig for a short cruise, and after a year on the training-ship, during which he undergoes a quarterly examination, he is passed to a sea-going ship. His position on leaving depends entirely on his certificate—if he obtains one of the First Class, he [pg 48]is immediately rated midshipman; while if he only obtains a Third Class certificate, he will have to serve twelve months more on the sea-going ship, and pass another examination before he can claim that rank.[38]

The actual experiences of intelligent sailors, or voyagers, written by themselves, have, of course, a greater practical value than the sea-stories of clever novelists, while the latter, as a class, confine themselves very much to the quarter-deck. Dana’s “Two Years Before the Mast” is so well known that few of our readers need to be told that it is the story of an American student, who had undermined his health by over-application, and who took a voyage, viâ Cape Horn, to California in order to recover it. But the old brig Pilgrim, bound to the northern Pacific coast for a cargo of hides, was hardly a fair example, in some respects, of an ordinary merchant-vessel, to say nothing of a fine clipper or modern steam-ship. Dana’s experiences were of the roughest type, and may be read by boys, anxious to go to sea, with advantage, if taken in conjunction with those of others; many of them are common to all grades of sea service. A little work by a “Sailor-boy,”[39] published some years ago, gives a very fair idea of a seaman’s lot in the Royal Navy, and the two stories in conjunction present a fair average view of sea-life and its duties.

Passing over the young sailor-boy’s admission to the training-ship—the “Guardho,” as he terms it—we find his first days on board devoted to the mysteries of knots and hitch-making, in learning to lash hammocks, and in rowing, and in acquiring the arts of “feathering” and “tossing” an oar. Incidentally he gives us some information on the etiquette observed in boats passing with an officer on board. “For a lieutenant, the coxswain only gets up and takes his cap off; for a captain, the boat’s crew lay on their oars, and the coxswain takes his cap off; and for an admiral the oars are tossed (i.e., raised perpendicularly, not thrown in the air!), and all caps go off.” Who would not be an admiral? While in this “instruction” he received his sailor’s clothes—a pair of blue cloth trousers, two pairs of white duck ditto, two blue serge and two white frocks, two pairs of white “jumpers,” two caps, two pairs of stockings, a knife, and a marking-type. As soon as he is “made a sailor” by these means, he was ordered to the mast-head, and tells with glee how he was able to go up outside by the futtock shrouds, and not through “lubber’s hole.” The reader doubtless knows that the lubber’s hole is an open space between the head of the lower mast and the edge of the top; it is so named from the supposition that a “land-lubber” would prefer that route. The French call it the trou du chat—the hole through which the cat would climb. Next he commenced cutlass-drill, followed by rifle-drill, big-gun practice, instruction in splicing, and all useful knots, and in using the compass and lead-line. He was afterwards sent on a brig for a short sea cruise. “Having,” says he, “to run aloft without shoes was a heavy trial to me, and my feet often were so sore and blistered that I have sat down in the ‘tops’ and cried with the pain; yet up I had to go, and furl and loose my sails; and up I did go, blisters and all. Sometimes the pain was so bad I could not move smartly, and then the unmerited rebuke from a thoughtless officer was as gall and wormwood to me.”

Dana, in speaking of the incessant work on board any vessel, says, “A ship is like a lady’s [pg 49]watch—always out of repair.” When, for example, in a calm, the sails hanging loosely, the hot sun pouring down on deck, and no way on the vessel, which lies

“As idle as a painted ship

Upon a painted ocean,”

there is always sufficient work for the men, in “setting up” the rigging, which constantly requires lightening and repairing, in picking oakum for caulking, in brightening up the metal-work, and in holystoning the deck. The holystone is a large piece of porous stone,[40] which is dragged in alternate ways by two sailors over the deck, sand being used to increase its effect. It obtains its name from the fact that Sunday morning is a very common time on many merchant-vessels for cleaning up generally.

INSTRUCTION ON BOARD A MAN-OF-WAR.

The daily routine of our young sailor on the experimental cruises gave him plenty of employment. In his own words it was as follows:—Commencing at five a.m.—“Turn hands up; holystone or scrub upper deck; coil down ropes. Half-past six—breakfast, half an [pg 50]hour; call the watch, watch below, clean the upper deck; watch on deck, clean wood and brass-work; put the upper decks to rights. Eight a.m.—hands to quarters; clean guns and arms; division for inspection; prayers; make sail, reef topsails, furl top-sails, top-gallant sails, royals; reef courses, down top-gallant and royal yards. This continued till eight bells, twelve o’clock, dinner one hour. ‘All hands again; cutlass, rifle, and big-gun drill till four o’clock; clear up decks, coil up ropes;’ and then our day’s work is done.” Then they would make little trips to sea, many of them to experience the woes of sea-sickness for the first time.

But the boys on the clean and well-kept training-brig were better off in all respects than poor Dana. When first ordered aloft, he tells us, “I had not got my ‘sea-legs’ on, was dreadfully sea-sick, with hardly strength to hold on to anything, and it was ‘pitch-dark’ * * * How I got along I cannot now remember. I ‘laid out’ on the yards, and held on with all my strength. I could not have been of much service; for I remember having been sick several times before I left the top-sail yard. Soon all was snug aloft, and we were again allowed to go below. This I did not consider much of a favour; for the confusion of everything below, and that inexpressibly sickening smell, caused by the shaking up of bilge-water in the hold, made the steerage but an indifferent refuge to the cold, wet decks. I had often read of the nautical experiences of others, but I felt as though there could be none worse than mine; for, in addition to every other evil, I could not but remember that this was only the first night of a two years’ voyage. When we were all on deck, we were not much better off, for we were continually ordered about by the officer, who said that it was good for us to be in motion. Yet anything was better than the horrible state of things below. I remember very well going to the hatchway and putting my head down, when I was oppressed by nausea, and felt like being relieved immediately.” We can fully recommend the example of Dana, who, acting on the advice of the black cook on board, munched away at a good half-pound of salt beef and hard biscuit, which, washed down with cold water, soon, he says, made a man of him.

Some little explanation of the mode of dividing time on board ship may be here found useful. A “watch” is a term both for a division of the crew and of their time: a full watch is four hours. At the expiration of each four hours, commencing from twelve o’clock noon, the men below are called in these or similar terms—“All the starboard (or port) watch ahoy! Eight bells!” The watch from four p.m. to eight p.m. is divided, on a well-regulated ship, into two “dog-watches;” the object of this is to make an uneven number of periods—seven, instead of six, so that the men change the order of their watches daily. Otherwise, it will be seen that a man, who, on leaving port, stood in a particular watch—from twelve noon to four p.m.—would stand in the same watch throughout the voyage; and he who had two night-watches at first would always have them. The periods of the “dog-watches” are usually devoted to smoking and recreation for those off duty.

As the terms involved must occur frequently in this work, it is necessary also to explain for some readers the division of time itself by “bells.” The limit is “eight bells,” which are struck at twelve, four, and eight o’clock a.m. or p.m. The ship’s bell is sounded each half-hour. Half-past any of the above hours is “one bell” struck sharply by itself. At the hour, two strokes are made sharply following each other. Expressing the strokes by signs, half-past twelve would be | (representing one stroke); one o’clock would be || (two strokes [pg 51]sharply struck, one after the other); half-past one, || |; two o’clock, || ||; half-past two, || || |; three o’clock, || || ||; half-past three, || || || |; and four o’clock, || || || ||, or “eight bells.” The process is then repeated in the next watch, and the only disturbing element comes from the elements, which occasionally, when the vessel rolls or pitches greatly, cause the bell to strike without leave.

Seamen before the mast are divided into three classes—able, ordinary, and boys. In the merchant service a “green hand” of forty may be rated as a boy; a landsman must ship for boy’s wages on the first voyage. Merchant seamen rate themselves—in other words, they cause themselves to be entered on the ship’s books according to their qualifications and experience. There are few instances of abuse in this matter, and for good reason. Apart from the disgrace and reduction of wages and rating which would follow, woe to the man who sets himself up for an A.B. when he should enter as a boy; for the rest of the crew consider it a fraud on themselves. The vessel would be short-handed of a man of the class required, and their work would be proportionately increased. No mercy would be shown to such an impostor, and his life on board would be that of a dog, but anything rather than that of a “jolly sea-dog.”[41]

There are lights in the sailor’s chequered life. Seamen are, Shakespeare tells us, “but men”—and, if we are to believe Dibdin, grog is a decided element in their happier hours. “Grog” is now a generic term; but it was not always. One Admiral Vernon—who persisted in wearing a grogram[42] tunic so much that he was known among his subordinates as “Old Grog”—earned immortality of a disagreeable nature by watering the rum-ration of the navy to its present standard. At 11.30 a.m., on all ships of the Royal Navy nowadays, half a gill of watered rum—two parts of water to one of the stronger drink—is served out to each of the crew, unless they have forfeited it by some act of insubordination. The officers, including the petty officers, draw half a gill of pure rum; the former put it into the general mess, and many never taste it. “Six-water” grog is a mild form of punishment. “Splicing the main-brace” infers extra grog served out for extraordinary service. Formerly, and, indeed, as late as forty odd years ago, the daily ration was a full gill; but, as sailors traded and bartered their drinks among themselves, it would happen once in awhile that one would get too much “on board.” It has happened occasionally in consequence that a seaman has tumbled overboard, or fallen from the yards or rigging, and has met an inglorious death. Boys are not allowed grog in the Royal Navy, and there is no absolute rule among merchant-vessels. In the American navy there is a coin allowance in lieu of rum, and every nation has its own peculiarities in this matter. In the French navy, wine, very ordinaire, and a little brandy is issued.

There are shadows, too, in the sailor’s life—as a rule, he brings them on himself, but by no means always. If sailors are “but men,” officers rank in the same category, and occasionally act like brutes. So much has been written on the subject of the naval “cat”—a punishment once dealt out for most trifling offences, and not abolished yet, that the writer has some diffidence in approaching the subject. A volume might be [pg 52]written on the theme; let the testimony of Dr. Stables,[43] a surgeon of the Royal Navy, suffice. It shall be told in his own words:—

“One item of duty there is, which occasionally devolves on the medical officer, and for the most part goes greatly against the feeling of the young surgeon; I refer to his compulsory attendance at floggings. It is only fair to state that the majority of captains and commanders use the cat as seldom as possible, and that, too, only sparingly. In some ships, however, flogging is nearly as frequent as prayers of a morning. Again, it is more common on foreign stations than at home, and boys of the first or second class, marines, and ordinary seamen, are for the most part the victims.... We were at anchor in Simon’s Bay. All the minutiæ of the scene I remember as though it were but yesterday. The morning was cool and clear, the hills clad in lilac and green, sea-birds floating high in air, and the waters of the bay reflecting the blue of the sky, and the lofty mountain-sides forming a picture almost dream-like in its quietude and serenity. The men were standing about in groups, dressed in their whitest of pantaloons, bluest of smocks, and neatest of black-silk neckerchiefs. By-and-by the culprit was led in by a file of marines, and I went below with him to make the preliminary examination, in order to report whether or not he might be fit for the punishment.

“He was as good a specimen of the British mariner as one could wish to look upon—hardy, bold, and wiry. His crime had been smuggling spirits on board.

“ ‘Needn’t examine me, doctor,’ said he; ‘I aint afeared of their four dozen; they can’t hurt me, sir—leastways my back, you know—my breast, though; hum—m!’ and he shook his head, rather sadly I thought, as he bent down his eyes.

“ ‘What,’ said I, ‘have you anything the matter with your chest?’

“ ‘Nay, doctor, nay; it’s my feelings they’ll hurt. I’ve a little girl at home that loves me, and, bless you, sir, I won’t look her in the face again nohow.’

“I felt his pulse. No lack of strength there, no nervousness; the artery had the firm beat of health, the tendons felt like rods of iron beneath the finger, and his biceps stood out hard and round as the mainstay of an old seventy-four.... All hands had already assembled—the men and boys on one side, and the officers, in cocked hats and swords, on the other. A grating had been lashed against the bulwark, and another placed on deck beside it. The culprit’s shoulders and back were bared, and a strong belt fastened around the lower part of the loins for protection; he was then firmly tied by the hands to the upper, and by the feet to the lower grating; a little basin of cold water was placed at his feet, and all was now prepared. The sentence was read, and orders given to proceed with the punishment. The cat is a terrible instrument of torture; I would not use it on a bull unless in self-defence; the shaft is about a foot and a half long, and covered with green or red baize, according to taste; the thongs are nine, about twenty-eight inches in length, of the thickness of a goose-quill, and with two knots tied on each. Men describe the first blow as like a shower of molten lead.

“Combing out the thongs with his five fingers before each blow, firmly and determinedly was the first dozen delivered by the bo’swain’s mate, and as unflinchingly received.

“Then, ‘One dozen, sir, please,’ he reported, saluting the commander.

“ ‘Continue the punishment,’ was the calm reply.

“A new man, and a new cat. Another dozen reported; again the same reply. Three dozen. The flesh, like burning steel, had changed from red to purple, and blue, and white; and between the third and fourth dozen, the suffering wretch, pale enough now, and in all probability sick, begged a comrade to give him a mouthful of water.

“There was a tear in the eye of the hardy sailor who obeyed him, whispering as he did so, ‘Keep up, Bill; it’ll soon be over now.’

“ ‘Five, six,’ the corporal slowly counted; ‘seven, eight.’ It is the last dozen, and how acute must be the torture! ‘Nine, ten.’ The blood comes now fast enough, and—yes, gentle reader, I will spare your feelings. The man was cast loose at last, and put on the sick-list; he had borne his punishment without a groan, and without moving a muscle. A large pet monkey sat crunching nuts in the rigging, and grinning all the time; I have no doubt he enjoyed the spectacle immensely, for he was only an ape.”

Dr. Stables gives his opinion on the use of the cat in honest and outspoken terms. He considers “corporal punishment, as applied to men, cowardly, cruel, and debasing to human nature; and as applied to boys, brutal, and sometimes even fiendish.”

The writer has statistics before him which prove that 456 cases of flogging boys took place in 1875, and that only seven men were punished during that year. There is every probability that the use of the naval cat will ere long be abolished, and important as is good discipline on board ship, there are many leading authorities who believe that it can be maintained without it. The captain of a vessel is its king, reigning in a little world of his own, and separated for weeks or months from the possibility of reprimand. If he is a tyrannical man, he can make his ship a floating hell for all on board. A system of fines for small offences has been proposed, and the idea has this advantage, that in case they prove on investigation to have been unjustly imposed, the money can be returned. The disgrace of a flogging sticks to a boy or man, and, besides, as a punishment is infinitely too severe for most of the offences for which it is inflicted. It would be a cruel punishment were the judge infallible, but with an erring human being for an irresponsible judge, the matter is far worse. And that good seamen are deterred from entering the Royal Navy, knowing that the commission of a peccadillo or two may bring down the cat on their unlucky shoulders, is a matter of fact.

We shall meet the sailor on the sea many a time and again during the progress of this work, and see how hardly he earns his scanty reward in the midst of the awful dangers peculiar to the elements he dares. Shakespeare says that he is—

“A man whom both the waters and the wind,

In that vast tennis-court, hath made the ball

For them to play on”—

that the men of all others who have made England what she is, have not altogether a bed of roses even on a well-conducted vessel, whilst they may lose their lives at any moment by shipwreck and sudden death. George Herbert says—

“Praise the sea, but keep on land.”

And while the present writer would be sorry to prevent any healthy, capable, adventurous boy from entering a noble profession, he recommends him to first study the literature of the sea to the best and fullest of his ability. Our succeeding chapter will exhibit some of the special perils which surround the sailor’s life, whilst it will exemplify to some extent the qualities specially required and expected from him.

CHAPTER IV.

Perils of the Sailor’s Life.

The Loss of the Captain—Six Hundred Souls swept into Eternity without a Warning—The Mansion and the Cottage alike Sufferers—Causes of the Disaster—Horrors of the Scene—Noble Captain Burgoyne—Narratives of Survivors—An almost Incredible Feat—Loss of the Royal George—A great Disaster caused by a Trifle—Nine Hundred Lost—A Child saved by a Sheep—The Portholes Upright—An involuntary Bath of Tar—Rafts of Corpses—The Vessel Blown up in 1839-40—The Loss of the Vanguard—Half a Million sunk in Fifty Minutes—Admirable Discipline on Board—All Saved—The Court Martial.

England, and indeed all Europe, long prior to 1870 had been busily constructing ironclads, and the daily journals teemed with descriptions of new forms and varieties of ships, armour, and armament, as well as of new and enormous guns, which, rightly directed, might sink them to the bottom. Among the more curious of the ironclads of that period, and the construction of which had led to any quantity of discussion, sometimes of a very angry kind, was the turret-ship—practically the sea-going “monitor”—Captain, which Captain Cowper Phipps Coles had at length been permitted to construct. Coles, who was an enthusiast of great scientific attainments, as well as a practical seaman, which too many of our experimentalists in this direction have not been, had distinguished himself in the Crimea, and had later made many improvements in rendering vessels shot-proof. His revolving turrets are, however, the inventions with which his name are more intimately connected, although he had much to do with the general construction of the Captain, and other ironclads of the period.

The Captain was a large double-screw armour-plated vessel, of 4,272 tons. Her armour in the most exposed parts was eight inches in thickness, ranging elsewhere downwards from seven to as low as three inches. She had two revolving turrets, the strongest and heaviest yet built, and carried six powerful guns. Among the peculiarities of her construction were, that she had only nine feet of “free-board”—i.e., that was the height of her sides out of water. The forecastle and after-part of the vessel were raised above this, and they were connected with a light hurricane-deck. This, as we shall see, played an important part in the sad disaster we have to relate.

On the morning of the 8th of September, 1870, English readers, at their breakfast-tables, in railway carriages, and everywhere, were startled with the news that the Captain had foundered, with all hands, in the Bay of Biscay. Six hundred men had been swept into [pg 55]eternity without a moment’s warning. She had been in company with the squadron the night before, and, indeed, had been visited by the admiral, for purposes of inspection, the previous afternoon. The early part of the evening had been fine; later it had become what sailors call “dirty weather;” at midnight the wind rose fast, and soon culminated in a furious gale. At 2.15 in the morning of the 7th a heavy bank of clouds passed off, and the stars came out clear and bright, the moon then setting; but no vessel could be discerned where the Captain had been last observed. At daybreak the squadron was all in sight, but scattered. “Only ten ships instead of eleven could be discerned, the ‘Captain’ being the missing one.” Later, it appeared that seventeen of the men and the gunner had escaped, and landed at Corbucion, north of Cape Finisterre, on the afternoon of the 7th. All the men who were saved belonged to the starboard watch; or, in other words, none escaped except those on deck duty. Every man below, whether soundly sleeping after his day’s work, or tossing sleeplessly in his berth, thinking of home and friends and present peril, or watching the engines, or feeding the furnaces, went down, without the faintest possibility of escaping his doom.

Think of this catastrophe, and what it involved! The families and friends of 600 men plunged into mourning, and the scores on scores of wives and children into poverty! In one street of Portsea, thirty wives were made widows by the occurrence.[44] The shock of the news killed one poor woman, then in weak health. Nor were the sad effects confined to the cottages of the poor. The noble-hearted captain of the vessel was a son of Field-Marshal Burgoyne; Captain Coles, her inventor; a son of Mr. Childers, the then First Lord of the Admiralty; the younger son of Lord Northbrook; the third son of Lord Herbert of Lea; and Lord Lewis Gordon, brother of the Marquis of Huntley, were among the victims of that terrible morning. The intelligence arrived during the excitement caused by the defeat and capitulation of Sedan, which, involving, as it did, the deposition of the Emperor and the fate of France, was naturally the great topic of discussion, but for the time it overshadowed even those great events, for it was a national calamity.

From the statements of survivors we now know that the watch had been called a few minutes past midnight; and as the men were going on deck to muster, the ship gave a terrible lurch to starboard, soon, however, righting herself on that occasion. Robert Hirst, a seaman, who afterwards gave some valuable testimony, was on the forecastle. There was a very strong wind, and the ship was then only carrying her three top-sails, double reefs in each, and the foretop-mast stay-sail. The yards were braced sharp up, and the ship had little way upon her.[45] As the watch was mustered, he heard Captain Burgoyne give the order, “Let go the foretop-sail halyards!” followed by, “Let go fore and maintop-sail sheets!” By the time the men got to the top-sail sheets the ship was heeling over to starboard so much that others were being washed off the deck, [pg 57]the ship lying down on her side, as she was gradually turning over and trembling through her whole frame with every blow which the short, jumping, vicious seas, now white with the squall, gave her.[46] The roar of the steam from her boilers was terrific, “outscreaming the noise of the storm,” but not drowning the shrieks of the poor engineers and stokers which were heard by some of the survivors. The horrors of their situation can be imagined. The sea, breaking down the funnel, would soon, no doubt, extinguish the furnaces, but not until some of their contents had been dashed into the engine-room, with oceans of scalding water; the boilers themselves may, likely enough, have given way and burst also. Mercifully, it was not for long. Hirst, with two other men, rushed to the weather-forecastle netting and jumped overboard. It was hardly more than a few moments before they found themselves washed on to the bilge of the ship’s bottom, for in that brief space of time the ship had turned completely over, and almost immediately went down. Hirst and his companions went down with the ship, but the next feeling of consciousness by the former was coming into contact with a floating spar, to which he tied himself with his black silk handkerchief. He was soon, however, washed from the spar, but got hold of the stern of the second launch, which was covered with canvas, and floating as it was stowed on board the ship. Other men were there, on the top of the canvas covering. Immediately after, they fell in with the steam-lifeboat pinnace, bottom-up, with Captain Burgoyne and several men clinging to it. Four men, of whom Mr. May,[47] the gunner, was one, jumped from off the bottom of the steam-pinnace to the launch. One account says that Captain Burgoyne incited them, by calling out, “Jump, men, jump!” but did not do it himself. The canvas was immediately cut away, and with the oars free, they attempted to pull up to the steam-pinnace to rescue the captain and others remaining there. This they found impossible to accomplish. As soon as they endeavoured to get the boat’s head up to the sea to row her to windward to where the capsized boat was floating, their boat was swamped almost level to her [pg 58]thwarts, and two of the men were washed clean out of her. The pump was set going, and the boat bailed out with their caps, &c., as far as possible. They then made a second attempt to row the boat against the sea, which was as unsuccessful as before. Meantime, poor Burgoyne was still clinging to the pinnace, in “a storm of broken waters.” When the launch was swept towards him once, one of the men on board offered to throw him an oar, which he declined, saying, nobly, “For God’s sake, men, keep your oars: you will want them.” This piece of self-abnegation probably cost him his life, for he went down shortly after, following “the six hundred” of his devoted crew into “the valley of death.” The launch was beaten hither and thither; and a quarter of an hour after the Captain had capsized, sighted the lights of one of their own ships, which was driven by in the gale, its officers knowing nothing of the fate of these unfortunates, or their still more hapless companions. Mr. May, the gunner, took charge of the launch, and at daybreak they sighted Cape Finisterre, inside which they landed after twelve hours’ hard work at the oars.

THE “CAPTAIN” IN THE BAY OF BISCAY.

One man, when he found the vessel capsizing, crawled over the weather-netting on the port side, and performed an almost incredible feat. It is well told in his own laconic style:—“Felt ship heel over, and felt she would not right. Made for weather-hammock netting. She was then on her beam-ends. Got along her bottom by degrees, as she kept turning over, until I was where her keel would have been if she had one. The seas then washed me off. I saw a piece of wood about twenty yards off, and swam to it.” In other words, he got over her side, and walked up to the bottom! While in the water, two poor drowning wretches caught hold of him, and literally tore off the legs of his trousers. He could not help them, and they sank for the last time.

Many and varied were the explanations given of the causes of this disaster. There had evidently been some uneasiness in regard to her stability in the water at one time, but she had sailed so well on previous trips, in the same stormy waters, that confidence had been restored in her. The belief, afterwards, among many authorities, was that she ought not to have carried sail at all.[48] This was the primary cause of the disaster, no doubt; and then, in all probability, when the force of the wind had heeled her over, a heavy sea struck her and completely capsized her—the water on and over her depressed side assisting by weighting her downwards. The side of the hurricane-deck acted, when the vessel was heeled over, as one vast sail, and, no doubt, had much to do with putting her on her beam-ends. The general impression of the survivors appeared to be that, with the ship heeling over, the pressure of a strong wind upon the under part of the hurricane-deck had a greater effect or leverage upon the hull, than the pressure of the wind on her top-sails. They were also nearly unanimous in their opinion that when the Captain’s starboard side was well down in the water, with the weight of water on the turret-deck, and the pressure of the wind blowing from the port hand on the under surface of the hurricane-deck, and thus pushing the ship right over, she had no chance of righting herself again.

It is to be remarked that long after the Captain had sunk, the admiral of the squadron thought that he saw her, although it was very evident afterwards that it must have been some other vessel. In his despatch to the Admiralty,[49] which very plainly indicated that he had some anxiety in regard to her stability in bad weather, he described her appearance and behaviour up till 1.30 a.m.—more than an hour after her final exit to the depths below. In the days of superstitious belief, so common among sailors, a thrilling story of her image haunting the spot would surely have been built on this foundation.

In the old fighting-days of the Royal Navy, when success followed success, and prize after prize rewarded the daring and enterprise of its commanders, they did not think very much of the loss of a vessel more or less, but took the lesser evils with the greater goods. The seamanship was wonderful, but it was very often utterly reckless. A captain trained in the school of Nelson and Cochrane would stop at nothing. The country, accustomed to great naval battles, enriched by the spoils of the enemy—who furnished some of the finest vessels in our fleet—was not much affected by the loss of a ship, and the Admiralty was inclined to deal leniently with a spirited commander who had met with an accident. But then an accident in those days did not mean the loss of half a million pounds or so. The cost of a large ironclad of to-day would have built a small wooden fleet of those days.

The loss of the Captain irresistibly brings to memory another great loss to the Royal Navy, which occurred nearly ninety years before, and by which 900 lives were in a moment swept into eternity. It proved too plainly that “wooden walls” might capsize as readily as the “crankiest” ironclad. The reader will immediately guess that we refer to the loss of the Royal George, which took place at Spithead, on the 28th of August, 1782, in calm weather, but still under circumstances which, to a very great extent, explain how the Captain—at the best, a vessel of doubtful stability—capsized in the stormy waters of Biscay. The Royal George was, at the time, the oldest first-rate in the service, having been put into commission in 1755. She carried 108 guns, and was considered a staunch ship, and a good sailer. Anson, Boscawen, Rodney, Howe, and Hawke had all repeatedly commanded in her.

From what small causes may great and lamentable disasters arise! “During the washing of her decks, on the 28th, the carpenter discovered that the pipe which admitted the water to cleanse and sweeten the ship, and which was about three feet under the water, was out of repair—that it was necessary to replace it with a new one, and to heel her on one side for that purpose.” The guns on the port side of the ship were run out of the port-holes as far as they would go, and those from the starboard side were drawn in and secured amidships. This brought her porthole-sills on the lower side nearly even [pg 60]with the water. “At about 9 o’clock a.m., or rather before,” stated one of the survivors,[50] “we had just finished our breakfast, and the last lighter, with rum on board, had come alongside; this vessel was a sloop of about fifty tons, and belonged to three brothers, who used her to carry things on board the men-of-war. She was lashed to the larboard side of the Royal George, and we were piped to clear the lighter and get the rum out of her, and stow it in the hold.... At first, no danger was apprehended from the ship being on one side, although the water kept dashing in at the portholes at every wave; and there being mice in the lower part of the ship, which were disturbed by the water which dashed in, they were hunted in the water by the men, and there had been a rare game going on.” Their play was soon to be rudely stopped. The carpenter, perceiving that the ship was in great danger, went twice on the deck to ask the lieutenant of the watch to order the ship to be righted; the first time the latter barely answered him, and the second replied, savagely, “If you can manage the ship better than I can, you had better take the command.” In a very short time, he began himself to see the danger, and ordered the drummer to beat to right ship. It was too late—the ship was beginning to sink; a sudden breeze springing upheeled her still more; the guns, shot, and heavy articles generally, and a large part of the men on board, fell irresistibly to the lower side; and the water, forcing itself in at every port, weighed the vessel down still more. She fell on her broadside, with her masts nearly flat on the water, and sank to the bottom immediately. “The officers, in their confusion, made no signal of distress, nor, indeed, could any assistance have availed if they had, after her lower-deck ports were in the water, which forced itself in at every port with fearful velocity.” In going down, the main-yard of the Royal George caught the boom of the rum-lighter and sank her, drowning some of those on board.

At this terrible moment there were nearly 1,200 persons[51] on board. Deducting the larger proportion of the watch on deck, about 230, who were mostly saved by running up the rigging, and afterwards taken off by the boats sent for their rescue, and, perhaps, seventy others who managed to scramble out of the ports, &c., the whole of the remainder perished. Admiral Kempenfelt, whose flag-ship it was, and who was then writing in his cabin, and had just before been shaved by the barber, went down with her. The first-captain tried to acquaint him that the ship was sinking, but the heeling over of the ship had so jammed the doors of the cabin that they could not be opened. One young man was saved, as the vessel filled, by the force of the water rushing upwards, and sweeping him bodily before it through a hatchway. In a few seconds, he found himself floating on the surface of the sea, where he was, later, picked up by a boat. A little child was almost miraculously preserved by a sheep, which swam some time, and with which he had doubtless been playing on deck. He held by the fleece till rescued by a gentleman in a wherry. His father and mother were both drowned, and the poor little fellow did not [pg 61]even know their names; all that he knew was that his own name was Jack. His preserver provided for him.

THE WRECK OF THE “ROYAL GEORGE.”

One of the survivors,[52] who got through a porthole, looked back and saw the opening “as full of heads as it could cram, all trying to get out. I caught,” said he, “hold of the best bower-anchor, which was just above me, to prevent falling back again into the porthole, and seizing hold of a woman who was trying to get out of the same porthole, I dragged her out.” The same writer says that he saw “all the heads drop back again in at the porthole, for the ship had got so much on her larboard side that the starboard portholes were as upright as if the men had tried to get out of the top of a [pg 62]chimney, with nothing for their legs and feet to act upon.” The sinking of the vessel drew him down to the bottom, but he was enabled afterwards to rise to the surface and swim to one of the great blocks of the ship which had floated off. At the time the ship was sinking, an open barrel of tar stood on deck. When he rose, it was floating on the water like fat, and he got into the middle of it, coming out as black as a negro minstrel!

When this man had got on the block he observed the admiral’s baker in the shrouds of the mizentop-mast, which were above water not far off; and directly after, the poor woman whom he had pulled out of the porthole came rolling by. He called out to the baker to reach out his arm and catch her, which was done. She hung, quite insensible, for some time by her chin over one of the ratlines of the shrouds, but a surf soon washed her off again. She was again rescued shortly after, and life was not extinct; she recovered her senses when taken on board our old friend the Victory, then lying with other large ships near the Royal George. The captain of the latter was saved, but the poor carpenter, who did his best to save the ship, was drowned.

In a few days after the Royal George sank, bodies would come up, thirty or forty at a time. A corpse would rise “so suddenly as to frighten any one.” The watermen, there is no doubt, made a good thing of it; they took from the bodies of the men their buckles, money, and watches, and then made fast a rope to their heels and towed them to land.” The writer of the narrative from which this account is mainly derived says that he “saw them towed into Portsmouth Harbour, in their mutilated condition, in the same manner as rafts of floating timber, and promiscuously (for particularity was scarcely possible) put into carts, which conveyed them to their final sleeping-place, in an excavation prepared for them in Kingstown churchyard, the burial-place belonging to the parish of Portsea.” Many bodies were washed ashore on the Isle of Wight.

Futile attempts were made the following year to raise the wreck, but it was not till 1839-40 that Colonel Pasley proposed, and successfully carried out, the operations for its removal. Wrought-iron cylinders, some of the larger of which contained over a ton each of gunpowder, were lowered and fired by electricity, and the vessel was, by degrees, blown up. Many of the guns, the capstans, and other valuable parts of the wreck were recovered by the divers, and the timbers formed then, and since, a perfect godsend to some of the inhabitants of Portsmouth, who manufactured them into various forms of “relics” of the Royal George. It is said that the sale of these has been so enormous that if they could be collected and stuck together they would form several vessels of the size of the fine old first-rate, large as she was! But something similar has been said of the “wood of the true cross,” and, no doubt, is more than equally libellous.

It is said, by those who descended to the wreck, that its appearance was most beautiful, when seen from about a fathom above the deck. It was covered with seaweeds, shells, starfish, and anemones, while from and around its ports and openings the fish, large and small, swam and played—darting, flashing, and sparkling in the clear green water.

H.M.S. VANGUARD AT SEA.

There is probably no reasonable being in or out of the navy who does not believe that the ironclad is the war-vessel of the immediate future. But that a woeful amount of [pg 63]uncertainty, as thick as the fog in which the Vanguard went down, envelops the subject in many ways, is most certain. The circumstances connected with that great disaster are still in the memory of the public, and were simple and distinct enough. During the last week of August, 1875, the reserve squadron of the Channel Fleet, comprising the Warrior, Achilles, Hector, Iron Duke, and Vanguard, with Vice-Admiral Sir W. Tarleton’s yacht Hawk, had been stationed at Kingstown. At half-past ten on the morning of the 1st of September they got into line for the purpose of proceeding to Queenstown, Cork. Off the Irish lightship, which floats at sea, six miles off Kingstown, the Achilles hoisted her ensign to say farewell—her destination being Liverpool. The sea was moderate, but a fog came on and increased in density every moment. Half an hour after noon, the “look-out” could not distinguish fifty yards ahead, and the officers on the bridge could not see the bowsprit. The ships had been proceeding at the rate of twelve or fourteen knots, but their speed had been reduced when the fog came on, and they were running at not more than half the former speed. The Vanguard watch reported a sail ahead, and the helm was put hard aport to prevent running it down. The Iron Duke was then following close in the wake of the Vanguard, and the action of the latter simply brought them closer, and presented a broadside to the former, which, unaware of any change, had continued her course. The commander of the Iron Duke, Captain Hickley, who was on the bridge at the time, saw the spectre form of the Vanguard through the fog, and ordered his engines to be reversed, but it was too late. The ram of the Iron Duke struck the Vanguard below the armour-plates, on the port side, abreast of the engine-room. The rent made was very large—amounting, as the divers afterwards found, to four feet in width—and the water poured into the hold in torrents. It might be only a matter of minutes before she should go down.[53]

THE LOSS OF THE “VANGUARD.”

The vessel was doomed; a very brief examination proved that: nothing remained but to save the lives of those on board. Captain Dawkins gave the necessary orders with a coolness which did not represent, doubtless, the conflicting feelings within his breast. The officers ably seconded him, and the crew behaved magnificently. One of the mechanics went below in the engine-room to let off the steam, and so prevent an explosion, at the imminent risk of his life. The water rose quickly in the after-part, and rushed into the engine and boiler rooms, eventually finding its way into the provision-room flat, through imperfectly fastened (so-called) “water-tight” doors, and gradually over the whole ship. There was no time to be lost. Captain Dawkins called out to his men [pg 65]that if they preserved order all would be saved. The men stood as at an inspection—not one moved until ordered to do so. The boats of both ships were lowered. While the launching was going on, the swell of the tide caused a lifeboat to surge against the hull, and one of the crew had his finger crushed. This was absolutely the only casualty. In twenty minutes the whole of the men were transferred to the Iron Duke, no single breach of discipline occurring beyond the understandable request of a sailor once in awhile to be allowed to make one effort to secure some keepsake or article of special value to himself. But the order was stern: “Boys, come instantly.” As “four bells” (2 p.m.) was striking, the last man having been received on the Iron Duke, the doomed vessel whirled round two or three times, and then sank in deep water.[54]

It is obvious, then, that the discipline and courage of the service had not deteriorated from that always expected in the good old days. Captain Dawkins was the last man to leave his sinking ship, and his officers one and all behaved in the same spirit. They endeavoured to quiet and reassure the men—pointing out to them the fatal consequences of confusion. Captain Dawkins may or may not have been rightly censured for his seamanship; there can be no doubt that he performed his duty nobly in these systematic efforts to save his crew. However much was lost to the nation, no mother had to mourn the loss of her sailor-boy; no wife had been made a widow, no child an orphan; five hundred men had been saved to their country.

One of the officers of the Vanguard, in a letter to a friend, graphically described the scene at and after the collision. After having lunched, he entered the ward-room, where he encountered the surgeon, Dr. Fisher, who was reading a newspaper. “After remarking on the thickness of the fog, Fisher went to look out of one of the ports, and immediately cried out, ‘God help us! here is a ship right into us!’ We rushed on deck, and at that moment the Iron Duke struck us with fearful force, spars and blocks falling about, and causing great danger to us on deck. The Iron Duke then dropped astern, and was lost sight of in the fog. The water came into the engine-room in tons, stopping the engines, putting the fires out, and nearly drowning the engineers and stokers.... The ship was now reported sinking fast, although all the water-tight compartments had been closed. But in consequence of the shock, some of the water-tight doors leaked fearfully, letting water into the other parts of the ship. Minute-guns were being fired, and the boats were got out.... At this moment the Iron Duke appeared, lowering her boats and sending them as fast as possible. The sight of her cheered us up, as we had been frightened that she would not find us in the fog, in spite of the guns. The scene on deck can only be realised by those who have witnessed a similar calamity. The booming of the minute-guns, the noise of the immense volume of steam rushing out of the escape-funnel, and the orders of the captain, were strangely mingled, while a voice from a boat reported how fast she was sinking.”

When the vessel went down, the deck of the Iron Duke was crowded with men watching the finale of the catastrophe. When she was about to sink, she heeled gradually over until the whole of her enormous size to the keel was above water. Then she gradually sank, righting herself as she went down, stern first, the water being blown from hawse-holes in huge spouts by the force of the air rushing out of the ship. She then disappeared from view. The men were much saddened to see their home go down, carrying everything they possessed. They had been paid that morning, and a large number of them lost their little accumulated earnings. These were, of course, afterwards allowed them by the Admiralty.

THE “VANGUARD” AS SHE APPEARED AT LOW WATER.

The Vanguard and the Iron Duke were two of a class of broadside ironclads, built with a view to general and not special utility in warfare. Their thickest armour was eight inches, a mere strip, 100 feet long by three high, and much of the visible part of them was unarmoured altogether, while below it varied from six inches to as low as three-eighths of an inch. It was only the latter thickness where the point of the Iron Duke’s ram entered. Their advocates boasted that they could pass through the Suez Canal, and go anywhere.

Every reader will remember the stormy discussion which ensued, in which not merely the ironclad question, but the court-martial which followed—and the Admiralty decision which followed that—were severely handled. Nor could there be much wonder at all this, for a vessel which had cost the nation over a quarter of a million of pounds sterling, with equipment and property on board which had cost as much more,[55] was lost for ever. [pg 67]It was in vain that the then First Lord of the Admiralty[56] told us, in somewhat flippant tones, that we ought to be rather satisfied than otherwise with the occurrence. It was not altogether satisfactory to learn from Mr. Reed, the principal designer of both ships, that ironclads were in more danger in times of peace than in times of war.[57] In the former they were residences for several hundred sailors, and many of the water-tight doors could not be kept closed without inconvenience; in the latter they were fortresses, when the doors would be closed for safety. The court-martial, constituted of leading naval authorities and officers, imputed blame for the high rate of speed sustained in a fog; the public naturally inquired why a high rate of speed was necessary at all at the time, but their lordships declined to consider this as in any way contributing to the disaster. The Court expressed its opinion pretty strongly upon the conduct of the officers of the Iron Duke, which did the mischief, and also indirectly blamed the admiral in command of the squadron, but the Admiralty could find nothing wrong in either case, simply visiting their wrath on the unfortunate lieutenant on deck at the time. So, to make a long and very unpleasant story short, the loss of the Vanguard brought about a considerable loss of faith in some of our legally constituted naval authorities.[58]

THE LOSS OF THE “KENT.”

CHAPTER V.

Perils of the Sailor’s Life (continued).

The Value of Discipline—The Loss of the Kent—Fire on Board—The Ship Waterlogged—Death in Two Forms—A Sail in Sight—Transference of Six Hundred Passengers to a small Brig—Splendid Discipline of the Soldiers—Imperturbable Coolness of the Captain—Loss of the Birkenhead—Literally Broken in Two—Noble Conduct of the Military—A contrary Example—Wreck of the Medusa—Run on a Sand-bank—Panic on Board—Raft constructed—Insubordination and Selfishness—One Hundred and Fifty Souls Abandoned—Drunkenness and Mutiny on the Raft—Riots and Murders—Reduced to Thirty Persons—The stronger part Massacre the others—Fifteen Left—Rescued at Last—Another Contrast—Wreck of the Alceste—Admirable Conduct of the Crew—The Ironclad Movement—The Battle of the Guns.

It is impossible to read the account of any great disaster at sea, without being strongly impressed with the enormous value of maintaining in the hour of peril the same strict discipline which, under ordinary circumstances, is the rule of a vessel. Few more striking [pg 68]examples of this are to be found, than in the story of the loss of the Kent, which we are now about to relate. The disaster of the Medusa, which we shall record later, in which complete anarchy and disregard of discipline, aggravated a hundredfold the horrors of the situation, only teaches the same lesson from the opposite point of view. Though the most independent people on the earth, all Englishmen worthy of the name appreciate the value of proper subordination and obedience to those who have rightful authority to command. This was almost the only gratifying feature connected with the loss of the Vanguard, and the safe and rapid transference of the crew to the Iron Duke was due to it. But the circumstances of the case were as nought to some that have preceded it, where the difficulties and risks were infinitely greater and the reward much less certain. The Kent was a fine troop-ship, of 1,530 tons, bound from England for Bengal and China. She had on board 344 soldiers, forty-three women, and sixty-six children. The officers, private passengers, and crew brought the total number on board to 640. After leaving the Downs, on the 19th of February, 1825, she encountered terrible weather, culminating in a gale on the 1st of March, which obliged them almost to sail under bare poles. The narrative[59] by Sir Duncan MacGregor, one of the passengers, created an immense sensation at its first appearance, and was translated into almost every language of the civilised world. He states that the rolling of the ship, which was vastly increased by a dead weight of some hundred tons of shot and shells that formed a part of its lading, became so great about half-past eleven or twelve o’clock at night, that the main-chains were thrown by every lurch considerably under water; and the best cleated articles of furniture in the cabin and the cuddy were dashed about in all directions.

It was a little before this period that one of the officers of the ship, with the well-meant intention of ascertaining that all was fast below, descended with a lantern. He discovered one of the spirit-casks adrift, and sent two or three sailors for some billets of wood to secure it. While they were absent, he unfortunately dropped the lamp, and letting go his hold of the cask in his eagerness to recover it, the former suddenly stove, and the spirits communicating with the light, the whole deck at that part was speedily in a blaze. The fire spread rapidly, and all their efforts at extinguishing it were vain, although bucket after bucket of water, wet sails and hammocks, were immediately applied. The smoke began to ascend the hatchway, and although every effort was made to keep the passengers in ignorance, the terrible news soon spread that the ship was on fire. As long as the devouring element appeared to be confined to the spot where the fire originated, and which they were assured was surrounded on all sides with water-casks, there was some hope that it might be subdued; but soon the light-blue vapour that at first arose was succeeded by volumes of thick, dingy smoke, which ascended through all the hatchways and rolled over the ship. A thorough panic took possession of most on board.

The deck was covered with six hundred men, women, and children, many almost frantic with excitement—wives seeking their husbands, children their mothers; strong men appearing as though their reason was overthrown, weak men maudlin and weeping; many good people on their knees in earnest prayer. Some of the older and more stout-hearted soldiers and [pg 69]sailors sullenly took their seats directly over the powder-magazine, expecting momentarily that it would explode and put them out of their misery. A strong pitchy smell suddenly wafted over the ship. “The flames have reached the cable-tier!” exclaimed one; and it was found to be too true. The fire had now extended so far, that there was but one course to pursue: the lower decks must be swamped. Captain Cobb, the commander of the Kent, was a man of action, and, with an ability and decision that seemed only to increase with the imminence of the danger, ordered the lower decks to be scuttled, the coverings of the hatches removed, and the lower ports opened to the free admission of the waves. His instructions were speedily obeyed, the soldiers aiding the crew. The fury of the flames was, of course, checked; but several sick soldiers and children, and one woman, unable to gain the upper deck, were drowned, and others suffocated. As the risk of explosion somewhat diminished, a new horror arose. The ship became water-logged, and presented indications of settling down. Death in two forms stared them in the face.

No sail had been seen for many days, the vessel being somewhat out of the regular course. But, although it seemed hopeless, a man was sent up to the foretop to scan the horizon. How many anxious eyes were turned up to him, how many anxious hearts beat at that moment, can well be understood. The sailor threw his eyes rapidly over the waste of howling waters, and instantly waved his hat, exclaiming, in a voice hoarse with emotion, “A sail on the lee bow!” Flags of distress were soon hoisted, minute-guns fired, and an attempt made to bear down on the welcome stranger, which for some time did not notice them. But at last it seemed probable, by her slackening sail and altering her course, that the Kent had been seen. Hope revived on board; but there were still three painful problems to be solved. The vessel in the distance was but a small brig: could she take over six hundred persons on board? Could they be transferred during a terrible gale and heavy sea, likely enough to swamp all the boats? Might not the Kent either blow up or speedily founder, before even one soul were saved?

The vessel proved to be the Cambria, a brig bound to Vera Cruz, with a number of miners on board. For fifteen minutes it had been very doubtful to all on the Kent whether their signals of distress—and the smoke issuing from the hatchways formed no small item among them—were seen, or the minute-guns heard. But at length it became obvious that the brig was making for them, and preparations were made to clear and lower the boats of the East Indiaman. “Although,” says Sir Duncan MacGregor, “it was impossible, and would have been improper, to repress the rising hopes that were pretty generally diffused amongst us by the unexpected sight of the Cambria, yet I confess, that when I reflected on the long period our ship had been already burning—on the tremendous sea that was running—on the extreme smallness of the brig, and the immense number of human beings to be saved—I could only venture to hope that a few might be spared.” When the military officers were consulting together, as the brig was approaching, on the requisite preparations for getting out the boats, and other necessary courses of action, one of the officers asked Major MacGregor in what order it was intended the officers should move off, to which he replied, “Of course, in funeral order,” which injunction was instantly confirmed by Colonel Fearon, who said, “Most undoubtedly—the juniors first; but see that any man is cut down who presumes [pg 70]to enter the boats before the means of escape are presented to the women and children.” To prevent any rush of troops or sailors to the boats, the officers were stationed near them with drawn swords. But, to do the soldiers and seamen justice, it was little needed; the former particularly keeping perfect order, and assisting to save the ladies and children and private passengers generally. Some of the women and children were placed in the first boat, which was immediately lowered into a sea so tempestuous that there was great danger that it would be swamped, while the lowering-tackle not being properly disengaged at the stern, there was a great prospect for a few moments that its living freight would be upset in the water. A sailor, however, succeeded in cutting the ropes with an axe, and the first boat got off safely.

The Cambria had been intentionally lain at some distance from the Kent, lest she should be involved in her explosion, or exposed to the fire from the guns, which, being all shotted, went off as the flames reached them. The men had a considerable distance to row, and the success of the first experiment was naturally looked upon as the measure of their future hopes. The movements of this boat were watched with intense anxiety by all on board. “The better to balance the boat in the raging sea through which it had to pass, and to enable the seamen to ply their oars, the women and children were stowed promiscuously under the seats, and consequently exposed to the risk of being drowned by the continual dashing of the spray over their heads, which so filled the boat during the passage that before their arrival at the brig the poor females were sitting up to their waists in water, and their children kept with the greatest difficulty above it.” Happily, at the expiration of twenty minutes, the cutter was seen alongside their ark of refuge. The next difficulty was to get the ladies and children on board the Cambria, for the sea was running high, and there was danger of the boat being swamped or stove against the side of the brig. The children were almost thrown on board, while the women had to spring towards the many friendly arms extended from the vessel, when the waves lifted the boat momentarily in the right position. However, all were safely transferred to the brig without serious mishap.

It became impossible for the boats, after the first trip, to come alongside the Kent, and a plan was adopted for lowering the women and children from the stern by tying them two and two together. The heaving of the vessel, and the heavy sea raising the boat one instant and dropping it the next, rendered this somewhat perilous. Many of the poor women were plunged several times in the water before they succeeded in landing safely in the boat, and many young children died from the effects—“the same violent means which only reduced the parents to a state of exhaustion or insensibility,” having entirely quenched the vital spark in their feeble frames. One fine fellow, a soldier, who had neither wife nor child of his own, but who showed great solicitude for the safety of others, insisted on having three children lashed to him, with whom he plunged into the water to reach the boat more quickly. He swam well, but could not get near the boat; and when he was eventually drawn on board again, two of the children were dead. One man fell down the hatchway into the flames; another had his back broken, and was observed, quite doubled, falling overboard; a third fell between the boat and brig, and his head was literally crushed to pieces; others were lost in their attempts to ascend the [pg 71]sides of the Cambria; and others, again, were drowned in their hurry to get on board the boats.

One of the sailors, who had, with many others, taken his post over the magazine, at last cried out, almost in ill-humour, “Well! if she won’t blow up, I’ll see if I can’t get away from her.” He was saved—and must have felt quite disappointed. One of the three boats, swamped or stove during the day, had on board a number of men who had been robbing the cabins during the confusion on board. “It is suspected that one or two of those who went down, must have sunk beneath the weight of their spoils.”

As there was so much doubt as to how soon the vessel would explode or go down, while the process of transference between the vessels occupied three-quarters of an hour each trip, and other delays were caused by timid passengers and ladies who were naturally loath to be separated from their husbands, they determined on a quicker mode of placing them in the boat. A rope was suspended from the end of the spanker-boom, along the slippery top of which the passengers had either to walk, crawl, or be carried. The reader need not be told that this great boom or spar stretches out from the mizen-mast far over the stern in a vessel the size of the Kent. On ordinary occasions, in quiet weather, it would be fifteen or twenty feet above the water, but with the vessel pitching and tossing during the continuous storm, it was raised often as much as forty feet in the air. It will be seen that, under these circumstances, with the boat at the stern now swept to some distance in the hollow of a wave, and now raised high on its crest, the lowering of oneself by the rope, to drop at the right moment, was a perilous operation. It was a common thing for strong men to reach the boat in a state of utter exhaustion, having been several times immersed in the waves and half drowned. But there were many strong and willing hands among the soldiers and sailors ready to help the weak and fearful ones, and the transference went on with fair rapidity, though with every now and again some sad casualty to record. The coolness and determination of the officers, military and marine, the good order and subordination of most of the troops, and the bravery of many in risking their lives for others, seems at this time to have restored some little confidence among the timid and shrinking on board. A little later, and the declining rays and fiery glow on the waves indicated that the sun was setting. One can well understand the feeling of many on board as they witnessed its disappearance and the approach of darkness. Were their lives also to set in outer gloom—the ocean to be that night their grave?

Late at night Major MacGregor went down to his cabin in search of a blanket to shelter him from the increasing cold. “The scene of desolation that there presented itself was melancholy in the extreme. The place which, only a few short hours before, had been the scene of kindly intercourse and of social gaiety, was now entirely deserted, save by a few miserable wretches who were either stretched in irrecoverable intoxication on the floor, or prowling about, like beasts of prey, in search of plunder. The sofas, drawers, and other articles of furniture, the due arrangement of which had cost so much thought and pains, were now broken into a thousand pieces, and scattered in confusion around.... Some of the geese and other poultry, escaped from their confinement, were cackling in the cuddy; while a solitary pig, wandering from its sty in the forecastle, was ranging at large in undisturbed possession of the Brussels carpet.”

It is highly to the credit of the officers, more especially to those who had deck-cabins, from which it would be easy to remove many portable articles, and even trunks and boxes, that they entirely devoted their time and energies to saving life. They left the ship simply with the clothes they stood in, and were the last to leave it, except, of course, where subordinate officers were detailed to look after portions of the troops. Captain Cobb, in his resolution to be the last to leave the ship, tried all he could to urge the few remaining persons on board to drop on the ropes and save themselves. But finding all his entreaties fruitless, and hearing the guns successively explode in the hold, into which they had fallen, he at length, after doing all in his power to save them, got himself into the boat by “laying hold of the topping-lift, or rope that connects the driver-boom with the mizen-top, thereby getting over the heads of the infatuated men who occupied the boom, unable to go either backward or forward, and ultimately dropping himself into the water.” One of the boats persevered in keeping its station under the Kent’s stern, until the flames were bursting out of the cabin windows. The larger part of the poor wretches left on board were saved: when the vessel exploded, they sought shelter in the chains, where they stood till the masts fell overboard, to which they then clung for some hours. Ultimately, they were rescued by Captain Bibbey, of the Caroline, a vessel bound from Egypt to Liverpool, [pg 74]who happened to see the explosion at a great distance, and instantly made all sail in the direction whence it proceeded, afterwards cruising about for some time to pick up any survivors.

After the arrival of the last boat at the Cambria, “the flames, which had spread along the upper deck and poop, ascended with the rapidity of lightning to the masts and rigging, forming one general conflagration, that illumined the heavens to an immense distance, and was strongly reflected on several objects on board the brig. The flags of distress, hoisted in the morning, were seen for a considerable time waving amid the flames, until the masts to which they were suspended successively fell, like stately steeples, over the ship’s side.” At last, about half-past one o’clock in the morning, the devouring element having communicated to the magazine, the explosion was seen, and the blazing fragments of the once magnificent Kent were instantly hurled, like so many rockets, high into the air; leaving, in the comparative darkness that succeeded, “the deathful scene of that disastrous day floating before the mind like some feverish dream.”

The scene on board the brig beggared description. The captain, who bore the honoured name of Cook, and his crew of eight, did all that was in their power to alleviate the miseries of the six hundred persons added to their number; while they carried sail, even to the extent of danger, in order to make nine or ten knots to the nearest port. The Cornish miners and Yorkshire smelters on board gave up their beds and clothes and stores to the passengers; and it was extremely fortunate that the brig was on her outward voyage, for, had she been returning, she would not, in all probability, have had provisions enough to feed six hundred persons for a single day. But at the best their condition was miserable. In the cabin, intended for eight or ten, eighty were packed, many nearly in a nude condition, and many of the poor women not having space to lie down.

The gale increased; but still they crowded all sail—even at the risk of carrying away the masts—and at length the welcome cry of “Land ahead!” was reported from mouth to mouth. They were off the Scilly lights, and speedily afterwards reached Falmouth, where the inhabitants vied with each other in providing clothing and food and money for all who needed them.

FALMOUTH HARBOUR.

The total loss from the Kent was eighty-one souls; namely, fifty-four soldiers, one woman, twenty children, one seaman, and five boys of the crew. How much greater might it not have been but for the imperturbable coolness, the commanding abilities, and the persevering and prompt action of Captain Cobb, and the admirable discipline and subordination of the troops!

THE LOSS OF THE “BIRKENHEAD.”

Another remarkable instance of the same thing is to be found in the case of the Birkenhead, where there were desperate odds against any one surviving. The ship was a war-steamer, conveying troops from St. Simon’s Bay to Algoa Bay, Cape Colony, and had, with crew, a total complement of 638 souls on board. She struck on a reef, when steaming at the rate of eight and a half knots, and almost immediately became a total wreck. The rock penetrated her bottom, just aft of the fore-mast, and the rush of water was so great that most of the men on the lower troop-deck were drowned in their hammocks. The commanding officer, Major Seton, called his subordinate officers about him, and impressed upon them the necessity of preserving order and perfect discipline among the men, and of assisting the commander of the ship [pg 75]in everything possible. Sixty soldiers were immediately detailed for the pumps, in three reliefs; sixty more to hold on the tackles of the paddle-box boats, and the remainder were brought on the poop, so as to ease the fore-part of the ship, which was rolling heavily. The commander of the ship ordered the horses to be pitched out of the first-gangway, and the cutter to be got ready for the women and children, who were safely put on board. Just after they were out of the ship, the entire bow broke off at the fore-mast, and the funnel went over the side, carrying away the starboard paddle-box and boat. The other paddle-box boat capsized when being lowered, and their largest boat, in the centre of the ship, could not be got at, so encumbered was it. Five minutes later, the vessel actually “broke in two,” literally realising Falconer’s lines:—