[Illustration: BRITISH CROSSES & MEDALS, _see Key_]

          BRITISH CROSSES AND MEDALS.—(_Coloured Frontispiece._)


          1. MEDAL OF ELIZABETH. (DEFEAT OF THE ARMADA, 1588.)

 2. CRIMEA MEDAL AND         5. NAVAL MEDAL OF         3. CHINA MEDAL WITH
   NAVAL CLASP FOR              COMMONWEALTH              TWO NAVAL CLASPS
   AZOFF (1854-6).                 (1650).                   (1857-58).

            4. NAVAL WAR MEDAL            6. CONSPICUOUS GALLANTRY
            RIBBON (1793, 1840).             RIBBON (1854, 1874).

 7. NAVAL MEDAL OF           8. NAVAL MEDAL OF         9. NAVAL MEDAL OF
     COMMONWEALTH                CHARLES II.               COMMONWEALTH
 (BLAKE’S VICTORIES                                    (BLAKE’S VICTORIES
   OVER THE DUTCH)                                       OVER THE DUTCH)
       (1653).                                               (1653).

                    10. COLLAR OF THE ORDER OF THE BATH.

           11. GOOD CONDUCT AND          12. BALTIC MEDAL (1854).
            LONG-SERVICE MEDAL.

 13. VICTORIA CROSS                       15. ALBERT MEDAL (SEA).
 WITH NAVAL RIBBON.

                   14. BADGE OF THE KNIGHTS OF THE BATH
                       (MILITARY AND NAVAL DIVISION).






                  [Illustration: Illustrated title page]





                                THE SEA

          _Its Stirring Story of Adventure, Peril, & Heroism._


                                   BY

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


_ILLUSTRATED._


CASSELL PETTER & GALPIN:
_LONDON, PARIS & NEW YORK_.
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED]





                                CONTENTS.


CHAPTER I.
MEN-OF-WAR.                                                         PAGE
Our Wooden Walls—The _Victory_—Siege of Toulon—Battle of St.           4
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
CHAPTER II.
MEN OF PEACE.
Naval Life in Peace Times—A Grand Exploring Voyage—The Cruise of      28
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
CHAPTER III.
THE MEN OF THE SEA.
The Great Lexicographer on Sailors—The Dangers of the Sea—How         42
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
CHAPTER IV.
PERILS OF THE SAILOR’S LIFE.
The Loss of the _Captain_—Six Hundred Souls swept into Eternity       54
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
CHAPTER V.
PERILS OF THE SAILOR’S LIFE (_continued_).
The Value of Discipline—The Loss of the _Kent_—Fire on Board—The      67
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
CHAPTER VI.
ROUND THE WORLD ON A MAN-OF-WAR.
The Mediterranean—White, Blue, Green, and Purple                      87
Waters—Gibraltar—Its History—Its First Inhabitants the
Monkeys—The Moors—The Great Siege preceded by Thirteen Others—The
Voyage of Sigurd to the Holy Land—The Third Siege—Starvation—The
Fourth Siege—Red-hot Balls used before ordinary Cannon-balls—The
Great Plague—Gibraltar finally in Christian Hands—A Naval Action
between the Dutch and Spaniards—How England won the Rock—An
Unrewarded Hero—Spain’s Attempts to regain it—The Great Siege—The
Rock itself and its Surroundings—The Straits—Ceuta, Gibraltar’s
Rival—The Saltness of the Mediterranean—“Going aloft”—On to Malta
CHAPTER VII.
ROUND THE WORLD ON A MAN-OF-WAR (_continued_).
MALTA AND THE SUEZ CANAL.
Calypso’s Isle—A Convict Paradise—Malta, the “Flower of the           98
World”—The Knights of St. John—Rise of the Order—The Crescent and
the Cross—The Siege of Rhodes—L’Isle Adam in London—The Great
Siege of Malta—Horrible Episodes—Malta in French and English
Hands—St. Paul’s Cave—The Catacombs—Modern Incidents—The
Shipwreck of St. Paul—Gales in the Mediterranean—Experiences of
Nelson and Collingwood—Squalls in the Bay of San Francisco—A Man
Overboard—Special Winds of the Mediterranean—The Suez Canal and
M. de Lesseps—His Diplomatic Career—Saïd Pacha as a Boy—As a
Viceroy—The Plan settled—Financial Troubles—Construction of the
Canal—The Inauguration Fête—Suez—Passage of the Children of
Israel through the Red Sea
CHAPTER VIII.
ROUND THE WORLD ON A MAN-OF-WAR (_continued_).
THE INDIA AND CHINA STATIONS.
The Red Sea and its Name—Its Ports—On to the India                   117
Station—Bombay: Island, City, Presidency—Calcutta—Ceylon, a
Paradise—The China Station—Hong Kong—Macao—Canton—Capture of
Commissioner Yeh—The Sea of Soup—Shanghai—“Jack” Ashore
there—Luxuries in Market—Drawbacks: Earthquakes and Sand
Showers—Chinese Explanations of Earthquakes—The Roving Life of
the Sailor—Compensating Advantages—Japan and its People—The
Englishmen of the Pacific—Yokohama—Peculiarities of the
Japanese—Off to the North
CHAPTER IX.
ROUND THE WORLD ON A MAN-OF-WAR (_continued_).
NORTHWARD AND SOUTHWARD—THE AUSTRALIAN STATION.
The Port of Peter and Paul—Wonderful Colouring of Kamchatka          131
Hills—Grand Volcanoes—The Fight at Petropaulovski—A Contrast—An
International Pic-nic—A Double Wedding—Bering’s Voyages—Kamchatka
worthy of Further Exploration—Plover Bay—Tchuktchi
Natives—Whaling—A Terrible Gale—A Novel “Smoke-stack”—Southward
again—The Liverpool of the East—Singapore, a Paradise—New
Harbour—Wharves and Shipping—Cruelties of the Coolie Trade—Junks
and Prahus—The Kling-gharry Drivers—The Durian and its
Devotees—Australia—Its Discovery—Botany Bay and the Convicts—The
First Gold—Port Jackson—Beauty of Sydney—Port Philip and
Melbourne
CHAPTER X.
ROUND THE WORLD ON A MAN-OF-WAR (_continued_).
THE PACIFIC STATION.
Across the Pacific—Approach to the Golden Gate—The Bay of San        156
Francisco—The City—First Dinner Ashore—Cheap Luxury—San Francisco
by Night—The Land of Gold, Grain, and Grapes—Incidents of the
Early Days—Expensive Papers—A Lucky Sailor—Chances for English
Girls—The Baby at the Play—A capital Port for Seamen—Hospitality
of Californians—Victoria, Vancouver Island—The Naval Station at
Esquimalt—A Delightful Place—Advice to Intending
Emigrants—British Columbian Indians—Their Fine Canoes—Experiences
of the Writer—The Island on Fire—The Chinook Jargon—Indian
“Pigeon-English”—North to Alaska—The Purchase of Russian America
by the United States—Results—Life at Sitka—Grand Volcanoes of the
Aleutian Islands—The Great Yukon River—American Trading Posts
round Bering Sea
CHAPTER XI.
ROUND THE WORLD ON A MAN-OF-WAR (_continued_).
FROM THE HORN TO HALIFAX.
The Dreaded Horn—The Land of Fire—Basil Hall’s Phenomenon—A          175
Missing Volcano—The South American Station—Falkland Islands—A
Free Port and Naval Station—Penguins, Peat, and Kelp—Sea
Trees—The West India Station—Trinidad—Columbus’s First View of
it—Fatal Gold—Charles Kingsley’s Enthusiasm—The Port of Spain—A
Happy-go-lucky People—Negro Life—Letters from a Cottage
Ornée—Tropical Vegetation—Animal Life—Jamaica—Kingston
Harbour—Sugar Cultivation—The Queen of the Antilles—Its
Paseo—Beauty of the Archipelago—A Dutch Settlement in the Heart
of a Volcano—Among the Islands—The Souffrière—Historical
Reminiscences—Bermuda: Colony, Fortress, and Prison—Home of Ariel
and Caliban—The Whitest Place in the World—Bermuda Convicts—New
York Harbour—The City—First Impressions—Its Fine
Position—Splendid Harbour—Forest of Masts—The Ferry-boats,
Hotels, and Bars—Offenbach’s Impressions—Broadway, Fulton Market,
and Central Park—New York in Winter—Frozen Ships—The Great
Brooklyn Bridge—Halifax and its Beauties—Importance of the
Station—Bedford Basin—The Early Settlers—The Blue Noses—Adieu to
America
CHAPTER XII.
ROUND THE WORLD ON A MAN-OF-WAR (_continued_).
THE AFRICAN STATION.
Its Extent—Ascension—Turtle at a Discount—Sierra Leone—An            202
Unhealthy Station—The Cape of Good Hope—Cape Town—Visit of the
Sailor Prince—Grand Festivities—Enthusiasm of the Natives—Loyal
Demonstrations—An African “Derby”—Grand Dock Inaugurated—Elephant
Hunting—The Parting Ball—The Life of a Boer—Circular Farms—The
Diamond Discoveries—A £12,000 Gem—A Sailor First President of the
Fields—Precarious Nature of the Search—Natal—Inducements held out
to Settlers—St. Helena and Napoleon—Discourteous Treatment of a
Fallen Foe—The Home of the Caged Lion
CHAPTER XIII.
THE SERVICE.—OFFICERS’ LIFE ON BOARD.
Conditions of Life on Ship-board—A Model Ward-room—An Admiral’s      214
Cabin—Captains and Captains—The Sailor and his Superior
Officers—A Contrast—A Commander of the Old School—Jack
Larmour—Lord Cochrane’s Experiences—His Chest curtailed—The
Stinking Ship—The First Command—Shaving under Difficulties—The
_Speedy_ and her Prizes—The Doctor—On Board a Gun-boat—Cabin and
Dispensary—Cockroaches and Centipedes—Other Horrors—The Naval
Chaplain—His Duties—Stories of an Amateur—The Engineer—His
Increasing Importance—Popularity of the Navy—Nelson always a
Model Commander—The Idol of his Colleagues, Officers, and
Men—Taking the Men into his Confidence—The Action between the
_Bellona_ and _Courageux_—Captain Falknor’s Speech to the Crew—An
Obsolete Custom—Crossing the Line—Neptune’s Visit to the
Quarter-deck—The Navy of To-day—Its Backbone—Progressive Increase
in the Size of Vessels—Naval Volunteers—A Noble
Movement—Excellent Results—The Naval Reserve
CHAPTER XIV.
THE REVERSE OF THE PICTURE—MUTINY.
Bligh’s Bread-fruit Expedition—Voyage of the                         235
_Bounty_—Otaheite—The Happy Islanders—First Appearance of a
Mutinous Spirit—The Cutter stolen and recovered—The _Bounty_
sails with 1,000 Trees—The Mutiny—Bligh overpowered and
bound—Abandoned with Eighteen Others—Their Resources—Attacked by
Natives—A Boat Voyage of 3,618 Miles—Violent Gales—Miserable
Condition of the Boat’s Crew—Bread by the Ounce—Rum by the
Tea-spoonful—Noddies and Boobies—“Who shall have this?”—Off the
Barrier Reef—A Haven of Rest—Oyster and Palm-top Stews—Another
Thousand Miles of Ocean—Arrival at Coupang—Hospitality of the
Residents—Ghastly Looks of the Party—Death of Five of the
Number—The _Pandora_ dispatched to catch the Mutineers—Fourteen
in Irons—_Pandora’s_ Box—The Wreck—Great Loss of Life—Sentences
of the Court Martial—The Last of the Mutineers—Pitcairn Island—A
Model Settlement—Another Example: The Greatest Mutiny of
History—40,000 Disaffected Men at One Point—Causes—Legitimate
Action of the Men at First—Apathy of Government—Serious
Organisation—The Spithead Fleet ordered to Sea—Refusal of the
Crews—Concessions made, and the First Mutiny quelled—Second
Outbreak—Lord Howe’s Tact—The Great Mutiny of the Nore—Richard
Parker—A Vile Character but Man of Talent—Wins the Men to his
Side—Officers flogged and ducked—Gallant Duncan’s
Address—Accessions to the Mutineers—Parker practically Lord High
Admiral—His Extravagant Behaviour—Alarm in London—The Movement
dies out by Degrees—Parker’s Cause lost—His Execution—Mutinies at
Other Stations—Prompt Action of Lords St. Vincent and Macartney
CHAPTER XV.
THE HISTORY OF SHIPS AND SHIPPING INTERESTS.
The First Attempts to Float—Hollowed Logs and Rafts—The Ark and      258
its Dimensions—Skin Floats and Basket-boats—Maritime Commerce of
Antiquity—Phœnician Enterprise—Did they round the Cape?—The Ships
of Tyre—Carthage—Hanno’s Voyage to the West Coast of
Africa—Egyptian Galleys—The Great Ships of the Ptolemies—Hiero’s
Floating Palace—The Romans—Their Repugnance to Seafaring
Pursuits—Sea Battles with the Carthaginians—Cicero’s Opinions on
Commerce—Constantinople and its Commerce—Venice—Britain—The First
Invasion under Julius Cæsar—Benefits accruing—The Danish
Pirates—The London of the Period—The Father of the British
Navy—Alfred and his Victories—Canute’s Fleet—The Norman
Invasion—The Crusades—Richard Cœur de Lion’s Fleet—The Cinque
Ports and their Privileges—Foundation of a Maritime Code—Letters
of Marque—Opening of the Coal Trade—Chaucer’s Description of the
Sailors of his Time—A Glorious Period—The Victories at
Harfleur—Henry V.’s Fleet of 1,500 Vessels—The Channel
Marauders—The King-Maker Pirate—Sir Andrew Wood’s Victory—Action
with Scotch Pirates—The _Great Michael_ and the _Great
Harry_—Queen Elizabeth’s Astuteness—The Nation never so well
provided—“The Most Fortunate and Invincible Armada”—Its Size and
Strength—Elizabeth’s Appeal to the Country—A Noble
Response—Effingham’s Appointment—The Armada’s First
Disaster—Refitted, and resails from Corunna—Chased in the Rear—A
Series of _Contretemps_—English Volunteer Ships in Numbers—The
Fire-ships at Calais—The Final Action—Flight of the Armada—Fate
of Shipwrecked Spanish in Ireland—Total Loss to Spain—Rejoicings
and Thanksgivings in England
CHAPTER XVI.
THE HISTORY OF SHIPS AND SHIPPING INTERESTS (_continued_).
Noble Adventurers—The Earl of Cumberland as a Pirate—Rich            291
Prizes—Action with the _Madre de Dios_—Capture of the Great
Carrack—A Cargo worth £150,000—Burning of the _Cinco Chagas_—But
Fifteen saved out of Eleven Hundred Souls—The _Scourge of
Malice_—Establishment of the Slave Trade—Sir John Hawkins’
Ventures—High-handed Proceedings—The Spaniards forced to
purchase—A Fleet of Slavers—Hawkins sanctioned by “Good Queen
Bess”—Joins in a Negro War—A Disastrous Voyage—Sir Francis
Drake—His First Loss—The Treasure at Nombre de Dios—Drake’s First
Sight of the Pacific—Tons of Silver captured—John Oxenham’s
Voyage—The First Englishman on the Pacific—His Disasters and
Death—Drake’s Voyage Round the World—Blood-letting at the
Equator—Arrival at Port Julian—Trouble with the Natives—Execution
of a Mutineer—Passage of the Straits of Magellan—Vessels
separated in a Gale—Loss of the _Marigold_—Tragic Fate of Eight
Men—Drake driven to Cape Horn—Proceedings at Valparaiso—Prizes
taken—Capture of the Great Treasure Ship—Drake’s Resolve to
change his Course Home—Vessel refitted at Nicaragua—Stay in the
Bay of San Francisco—The Natives worship the English—Grand
Reception at Ternate—Drake’s Ship nearly wrecked—Return to
England—Honours accorded Drake—His Character and Influence—Sir
Humphrey Gilbert’s Disasters and Death—Raleigh’s Virginia
Settlements


                              [Illustration]





                          LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


                                                                      PAGE
British Crosses & Medals
Examining a “Haul” on Board the _Challenger_               _Frontispiece._
The _Victory_ at Portsmouth                                              5
Rocks near Cape St. Vincent                                              9
The _Victory_ at Close Quarters with the                                12
_Redoubtable_
The Siege of Gibraltar                                                  17
The Original _Merrimac_                                                 21
Engagement between the _Merrimac_ and _Monitor_                         25
The Peruvian Ironclad _Huascar_ attacked by two
Chilian Ironclads
The Peruvian Ironclad _Huascar_
Objects of Interest brought Home by the _Challenger_                    32
The _Challenger_ in Antarctic Ice                                       33
The “Accumulator”                                                       35
The _Challenger_ at Juan Fernandez                                      36
The _Challenger_ made fast to St. Paul’s Rocks (South
Atlantic)
The Naturalist’s Room on Board the _Challenger_                         37
Dredging Implements used by the _Challenger_                            38
The _Chichester_ Training-ship                                          45
Instruction on Board a Man-of-war                                       49
The _Captain_ in the Bay of Biscay                                      56
The Wreck of the _Royal George_                                         61
The Loss of the _Vanguard_                               _To face page_ 63
The Loss of the _Kent_                                                  64
H.M.S. _Vanguard_ at Sea
The _Vanguard_ as she appeared at Low Water                             65
Falmouth Harbour                                                        72
The Loss of the _Birkenhead_                                            73
The Raft of the _Medusa_                                                76
On the Raft of the _Medusa_—a Sail in sight                             81
Section of a First-class Man-of-war                                     84
The _Warrior_                                                           85
The Rock of Gibraltar from the Mainland                  _To face page_ 87
Gibraltar: the Neutral Ground                                           89
Moorish Tower at Gibraltar                                              93
Malta                                                                   96
The Defence of Malta by the Knights of St. John                        100
against the Turks in 1565
Catacombs at Citta Vecchia, Malta                                      101
M. Lesseps                                                             105
Bird’s-eye View of Suez Canal                                          109
Map of the Suez Canal                                                  111
Opening of the Suez Canal (Procession of Ships)         _To face page_ 113
The Suez Canal: Dredges at Work                                        113
Catching Pelicans on Lake Menzaleh                                     116
Jiddah, from the Sea                                                   117
Cyclone at Calcutta                                                    120
Macao                                                                  124
Vessels in the Port of Shanghai                                        125
Yokohama                                                               128
The Fusiyama Mountain                                                  129
A Tea Mart in Japan                                                    133
Petropaulovski and the Avatcha Mountain                                137
Whalers at Work                                                        140
Our “Patent Smoke-stack”                                               141
View in the Straits of Malacca                                         145
Junks in a Chinese Harbour                                             148
Island in the Straits of Malacca                        _To face page_ 149
Chinese Junk at Singapore                                              149
Singapore, looking Seawards                                            152
Looking down on Singapore                                              153
A Timber Wharf at San Francisco                                        156
The Bay of San Francisco                                               160
The British Camp: San Juan                                             165
The Port of Valparaiso                                                 173
Cape Horn                                                              176
The Landing of Columbus at Trinidad                                    177
View in Jamaica                                                        180
Kingston Harbour, Jamaica                                              181
Havana                                                                 184
The _Centaur_ at the Diamond Rock, Martinique           _To face page_ 187
Bermuda, from Gibbs Hills                                              188
The North Rock, Bermuda                                                189
The Bermuda Floating Dock                                              192
Voyage of the _Bermuda_                                                193
Map of New York Harbour                                                195
Brooklyn Bridge                                                        196
Ferry Boat, New York Harbour                                           197
The Island of Ascension                                                200
Tristan D’Acunha                                                       201
Sierra Leone                                                           204
Cape Town                                                              205
The _Galatea_ passing Knysna Heads                                     209
St. Helena                                                             213
On Deck a Man-of-war, Eighteenth Century                _To face page_ 214
Between Decks of a Man-of-war, Eighteenth Century                      217
Naval Officers and Seamen, Eighteenth Century                          221
Engine Room of H.M.S. _Warrior_                                        225
Fight between the _Courageux_ and the _Bellona_                        229
The _Great Harry_ and _Great Eastern_ in contrast                      233
The Crew of H.M.S. _Bounty_ landing at Otaheite                        236
The Mutineers seizing Captain Bligh                                    237
Bligh cast adrift                                                      240
Map of the Islands of the Pacific                                      245
H.M.S. _Briton_ at Pitcairn Island                                     248
Pitcairn Island
The Mutiny at Portsmouth                                _To face page_ 251
Admiral Duncan addressing his Crew                                     253
Lord St. Vincent                                                       257
Fleet of Roman Galleys                                                 261
Approach of the Danish Fleet                                           265
Ships of William the Conqueror                                         268
Crusaders and Saracens                                                 269
Duel between French and English Ships                                  272
Reverse of the Seal of Sandwich                                        274
Sir Andrew Wood’s Victory                                              277
Old Deptford Dockyard                                                  280
The Defeat of Sir A. Barton                             _To face page_ 280
The First Shot against the Armada                                      285
The Fire-ships attacking the Armada                                    288
Drake’s First View of the Pacific                       _To face page_ 289
Queen Elizabeth on her way to St. Paul’s                               289
The Earl of Cumberland and the _Madre de Dios_                         293
On the Coast of Cornwall                                               297
Sir John Hawkins                                                       300
Hawkins at St. Juan de Ulloa                                           301
Oxenham embarking on the Pacific                                       304
Sir F. Drake                                                           309
Drake’s Arrival at Ternate                                             312
The Death of Sir Humphrey Gilbert                                      317

                              [Illustration]






                              [Illustration]


                                 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,” 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 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.


                              [Illustration]

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 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.

               [Illustration: 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 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 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 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,
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.

               [Illustration: 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, 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 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.

 [Illustration: 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 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 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 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 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.

                  [Illustration: 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 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_, _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.

                 [Illustration: 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 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,
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. 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 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.

     [Illustration: 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 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.

  [Illustration: 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.

             [Illustration: 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.





                               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, 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.

      [Illustration: 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.

                    [Illustration: THE “ACCUMULATOR.”]

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,(26) 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 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,(27) 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 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,(28) 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?

  [Illustration: 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 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 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.

           [Illustration: 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 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 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.

            [Illustration: “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 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.

   [Illustration: 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.

     [Illustration: 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
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 little-known Tristan
d’Acunha, of which Lord George Campbell(29) 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.

      [Illustration: 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
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, 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.

                              [Illustration]





                               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.(30) “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(31) 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,(32)
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 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!(33) 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 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,”(34) 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
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.

             [Illustration: 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.”(35) 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:(36)—“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 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.(37)

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,”(38) 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 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,(39) 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.

            [Illustration: 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 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 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.”(40)

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(41)
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 written on the
theme; let the testimony of Dr. Stables,(42) 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 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.(43) 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.(44) 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, 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.(45) 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,(46) 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 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.

           [Illustration: 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.(47) 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,(48) 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 with the water. “At about 9 o’clock a.m., or rather
before,” stated one of the survivors,(49) “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(50) 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 even know their names;
all that he knew was that his own name was Jack. His preserver provided
for him.

             [Illustration: THE WRECK OF THE “ROYAL GEORGE.”]

One of the survivors,(51) 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 __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.

                [Illustration: 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 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.(52)

               [Illustration: 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 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.(53)

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.

       [Illustration: 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,(54) was lost for ever. It
was in vain that the then First Lord of the Admiralty(55) 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.(56) 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.(57)

                 [Illustration: 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 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(58) 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 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 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 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, 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.

                    [Illustration: 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!

              [Illustration: 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 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:—

  “Ah, Heaven! Behold, her crashing ribs divide!
  She loosens, parts, and spreads in ruin o’er the tide.”

“She parted just abaft the engine-room, and the stern part immediately
filled and went down. A few men jumped off just before she did so; but the
greater number remained to the last, and so did every officer belonging to
the troops.” A number of the soldiers were crushed to death when the
funnel fell, and few of those at the pumps could reach the deck before the
vessel broke up. The survivors clung, some to the rigging of the
main-mast, part of which was out of water, and others to floating pieces
of wood. When the _Birkenhead_ divided into two pieces, the commander of
the ship called out, “All those who can swim, jump overboard and make for
the boats!” Two of the military officers earnestly besought their men not
to do so, as, in that case, the boats with the women must be swamped; and,
to the honour of the soldiers, only three made the attempt.

The struggles of a part of them to reach the shore, the weary tramp
through a country covered with thick thorny bushes, before they could
reach any farm or settlement; the sufferings of thirty or more poor
fellows who were clinging, in a state of utter exhaustion, cold, and
wretchedness, to the main-topmast and topsail-yard of the submerged
vessel, before they were rescued by a passing schooner, have often been
told. The conduct of the troops was perfect; and it is questionable
whether there is any other instance of such thorough discipline at a time
of almost utter hopelessness. The loss of life was enormous, only 192 out
of 638 being saved. Had there been any panic, or mutiny, not even that
small remnant would have escaped.

Turn we now to another and a sadder case, where the opposite qualities
were most unhappily displayed, and the consequences of which were
proportionately terrible.

On the 17th of June, 1816, the _Medusa_, a fine French frigate, sailed
from Aix, with troops and colonists on board, destined for the west coast
of Africa. Several settlements which had previously belonged to France,
but which fell into the hands of the English during the war, were, on the
peace of 1815, restored to their original owners; and it was to take
re-possession that the French Government dispatched the expedition, which
consisted of two vessels, one of which was the _Medusa_. Besides infantry
and artillery, officers and men, there was a governor, with priests,
schoolmasters, notaries, surgeons, apothecaries, mining and other
engineers, naturalists, practical agriculturists, bakers, workmen, and
thirty-eight women, the whole expedition numbering 365 persons, exclusive
of the ship’s officers and company. Of these the _Medusa_ took 240,
making, with her crew and passengers, a total of 400 on board.

                [Illustration: THE RAFT OF THE “MEDUSA.”]

After making Cape Blanco, the expedition had been ordered to steer due
westward to sea for some sixty miles, in order to clear a well-known
sand-bank, that of Arguin. The captain, however, seems to have been an
ill-advised, foolhardy man, and he took a southward course. The vessel
shortened sail every two hours to sound, and every half-hour the lead was
cast, without slackening sail. For some little time the soundings
indicated deep water, but shortly after the course had been altered to
S.S.E., the colour of the water changed, seaweeds floated round the ship,
and fish were caught from its sides; all indications of shallowing. But
the captain heeded not these obvious signs, and the vessel suddenly
grounded on a bank. The weather being moderate, there was no reason for
alarm, and she would have been got off safely had the captain been even an
average sailor. For the time, the _Medusa_ stuck fast on the sand-bank,
and as a large part of those on board were landsmen, consternation and
disorder reigned supreme, and reproaches and curses were liberally
bestowed on the captain. The crew was set to work with anchors and cables
to endeavour to work the vessel off. During the day, the topmasts, yards,
and booms were unshipped and thrown overboard, which lightened her, but
were not sufficient to make her float. Meantime, a council was called, and
the governor of the colonies exhibited the plan of a raft, which was
considered large enough to carry two hundred persons, with all the
necessary stores and provisions. It was to be towed by the boats, while
their crews were to come to it at regular meal-times for their rations.
The whole party was to land in a body on the sandy shore of the
coast—known to be at no great distance—and proceed to the nearest
settlements. All this was, theoretically speaking, most admirable, and had
there been any leading spirit in command, the plan would have been, as was
afterwards proved, quite practicable. The raft was immediately
constructed, principally from the spars removed from the vessel as before
mentioned.

Various efforts were made to get the _Medusa_ off the sandbank, and at one
time she swung entirely, and turned her head to sea. She was, in fact,
almost afloat, and a tow-line applied in the usual way would have taken
her into deep water; but this familiar expedient was never even proposed.
Or, even had she been lightened by throwing overboard a part of her stores
temporarily—which could have been done without serious harm to many
articles—she might have been saved. Half-measures were tried, and even
these were not acted on with perseverance. During the next night there was
a strong gale and heavy swell, and the _Medusa_ heeled over with much
violence; the keel broke in two, the rudder was unshipped, and, still
holding to the stern-post by the chains, dashed against the vessel and
beat a hole into the captain’s cabin, through which the waves entered. It
was at this time that the first indications of that unruly spirit which
afterwards produced so many horrors appeared among the soldiers, who
assembled tumultuously on deck, and could hardly be quieted. Next morning
there were seven feet of water in the hold, and the pumps could not be
worked, so that it was resolved to quit the vessel without delay. Some
bags of biscuit were taken from the bread-room, and some casks of wine got
ready to put on the boats and raft. But there was an utter want of
management, and several of the boats only received twenty-five pounds of
biscuit and no wine, while the raft had a quantity of wine and no biscuit.
To avoid confusion, a list had been made the evening before, assigning to
each his place. No one paid the slightest attention to it, and no one of
those in authority tried to enforce obedience to it. It was a case of
“_Sauve qui peut!_” with a vengeance: a disorderly and disgraceful
scramble for the best places and an utter and total disregard for the
wants of others.

It is, and always has been, a point of honour for the officers to be among
the very last to leave (except, of course, where their presence might be
needed in the boats), and the captain to be the very last. Here, the
captain was among the _first_ to scramble over the side; and his
twelve-oared barge only took off twenty-eight persons, when it would have
easily carried many more. A large barge took the colonial governor and his
family, _and_ the governor’s trunks. His boat wanted for nothing, and
would have accommodated ten or more persons than it took. When several of
the unfortunate crew swam off and begged to be taken in, they were kept
off with drawn swords. The raft(59) took the larger part of the soldiers,
and had in all on board one hundred and fifty persons. The captain coolly
proposed to desert some sixty of the people still on board, and leave them
to shift for themselves; but an officer who threatened to shoot him was
the means of making him change his mind, and over forty were taken off in
the long-boat. Seventeen men, many of whom were helplessly intoxicated,
were, however, left to their fate.

On the morning of the 5th of July the signal was given to put to sea, and
at first some of the boats towed the raft, which had no one to command it
but a midshipman named Coudin, who, having a painful wound on his leg, was
utterly useless. The other officers consulted their own personal safety
only, and, with a few exceptions, this was the case with every one else.
When the lieutenant of the long-boat, fearing that he could not keep the
sea with eighty-eight men on board, and no oars, entreated three of the
other boats, one after the other, to relieve him of a part of his living
cargo, they refused utterly; and the officer of the third, in his hurry to
run away, loosed from the raft. This was the signal for a general
desertion. The word was passed from one boat to another to leave them to
their fate, and the captain had not the manliness to protest. The purser
of the _Medusa_, with a few others, opposed such a dastardly proceeding,
but in vain; and the raft, without means of propulsion, was abandoned. As
it proved afterwards, the boats, which all reached the land safely,
sighted the coast the same evening; and the raft could have been towed to
it in a day or two, or at all events sufficiently near for the purpose.
The people on it could not at first believe in this treacherous desertion,
and once and again buoyed themselves up with the hope that the boats would
return or send relief. The lieutenant on the long-boat seems to have been
one of the few officers possessing any spark of humanity and manliness. He
kept his own boat near the raft for a time, in the hope that the others
might be induced to return, but at length had to yield to the clamour of
some eighty men on board with him, who insisted on his proceeding in
search of land.

The consternation and despair of those on the raft beggars description.
The water was, even while the sea was calm, up to the knees of the larger
part on board, while the horrors of a slow death from starvation and
thirst, and the prospect of being washed off by the waves, should a storm
arise, stared them in the face. Several barrels of flour had been placed
on the raft at first, along with six barrels of wine and two small casks
of water. When only fifty persons had got on it, their weight sunk it so
low in the water that the flour was thrown into the sea, and lost. When
the raft quitted the ship, with a hundred and fifty souls on her, she was
a foot to a foot and a half under water, and the only food on board was a
twenty-five-pound bag of biscuit, in a semi-pulpy condition, which just
afforded them one meagre ration.

Some on board, to keep up the courage of the remainder, promulgated the
idea that the boats had merely made sail for the island of Arguin, and
that, having landed their crews, they would return. This for the moment
appeased the indignation of the soldiers and others who had, with frantic
gesticulations, been wringing their hands and tearing their hair. Night
came on, and the wind freshened, the waves rolling over them, and throwing
many down with violence. The cries of the people were mingled with the
roar of the waves, whilst heavy seas constantly lifted them off their legs
and threatened to wash them away. Thus, clinging desperately to the ropes,
they struggled with death the whole night through.

About seven the next morning, the sea was again calm, when they found that
twelve or more unfortunate men had, during the night, slipped between the
interstices of the raft and perished. The effects of starvation were
beginning to tell upon them:(60) all their faculties were strangely
impaired. Some fancied that they saw lighted signals in the distance, and
answered them by firing off their pistols, or by setting fire to small
heaps of gunpowder; others thought they saw ships or land, when there was
nothing in sight. The next day strong symptoms of mutiny broke out, the
officers being utterly disregarded by the soldiers. The evening again
brought bad weather. “The people were now dashed about by the fury of the
waves; there was no safety but in the centre of the raft,” where they
packed themselves so close that many were nearly suffocated. “The soldiers
and sailors, now considering their destruction inevitable, resolved to
drown the sense of their situation by drinking till they should lose their
reason;” nor could they be persuaded to forego their mad scheme. They
rushed upon a cask of wine which was near the centre, and making a hole in
it, drank so much, that the fumes soon mounted to their heads, in the
empty condition in which they were; and “they then resolved to rid
themselves of their officers, and afterwards to destroy the raft by
cutting the lashings which kept it together.” One of them commenced
hacking away at the ropes with a boarding-hatchet. The civil and military
officers rushed on this ringleader, and though he made a desperate
resistance, soon dispatched him. The people on the raft were now divided
into two antagonistic parties—about twenty civil officers and the better
class of passengers on one side, and a hundred or more soldiers and
workmen on the other. “The mutineers,” says the narrative, “drew their
swords, and were going to make a general attack, when the fall of another
of their number struck such a seasonable terror into them that they
retreated; but it was only to make another attempt at cutting the ropes.
One of them, pretending to rest on the side-rail of the raft, began to
work;” when he was discovered, and a few moments afterwards, with a
soldier who attempted to defend him, was sent to his last account. This
was followed by a general fight. An infantry captain was thrown into the
sea by the soldiers, but rescued by his friends. He was then seized a
second time, and the revolters attempted to put out his eyes. A charge was
made upon them, and many put to death. The wretches threw overboard the
only woman on the raft, together with her husband. They were, however,
saved, only to die miserably soon afterwards.

A second repulse brought many of the mutineers to their senses, and
temporarily awed the rest, some asking pardon on their knees. But at
midnight the revolt again broke out, the soldiers attacking the party in
the centre of the raft with the fury of madmen, even biting their
adversaries. They seized upon one of the lieutenants, mistaking him for
one of the ship’s officers who had deserted the raft, and he was rescued
and protected afterwards with the greatest difficulty. They threw
overboard M. Coudin, an elderly man, who was covered with wounds received
in opposing them, and a young boy of the party, in whom he took an
interest. M. Coudin had the presence of mind both to support the child and
to take hold of the raft; and his friends kept off the brutal soldiery
with drawn swords, until they were lifted on board again. The combat was
so fierce, and the weather at night so bad, that on the return of day it
was found that over sixty had perished off the raft. It is stated that the
mutineers had thrown over the remaining water and two casks of wine. The
indications in the narrative would not point to the latter conclusion, as
the soldiers and workmen were constantly intoxicated, and many, no doubt,
were washed off by the waves in that condition. A powerful temperance
tract might be written on the loss of the _Medusa_. On the morning of the
fourth day after their departure from the frigate, the dead bodies of
twelve of the company, who had expired during the night, were lying on the
raft. This day a shoal of flying-fish played round the raft, and a number
of them got on board,(61) and were entangled in the spaces between the
timbers. A small fire, lighted with flint and steel and gunpowder, was
made inside a barrel, and the fish, half-cooked, was greedily devoured.
They did not stop here; the account briefly indicates that they ate parts
of the flesh of their dead companions. Horror followed horror: a massacre
succeeded their savage feast. Some Spaniards, Italians, and negroes among
them, who had hitherto taken no part with the mutineers, now formed a plot
to throw their superiors into the sea. A bag of money, which had been
collected as a common fund, and was hanging from a rude mast hastily
extemporised, probably tempted them. The officers’ party threw their
ringleader overboard, while another of the conspirators, finding his
villainy discovered, weighted himself with a heavy boarding-axe, and
rushing to the fore part of the raft, plunged headlong into the sea and
was drowned. A desperate combat ensued, and the fatal raft was quickly
piled with dead bodies.

On the fifth morning, there were only thirty alive. The remnant suffered
severely, and one-third of the number were unable to stand up or move
about. The salt water and intense heat of the sun blistered their feet and
legs, and gave intense pain. In the course of the seventh day, two
soldiers were discovered stealing the wine, and they were immediately
pushed overboard. This day also, Leon, the poor little boy mentioned
before, died from sheer starvation.

The story has been so far nothing but a record of insubordination,
murderous brutality, and utter selfishness. But the worst has yet to come.
Let the survivors tell their own shameful and horrible story. There were
now but twenty-seven left, and “of these twelve, amongst them the woman,
were so ill that there was no hope of their surviving, even a few days;
they were covered with wounds, and had almost entirely lost their
reason.... They might have lived long enough to reduce our stock to a very
low ebb; but there was no hope that they could last more than a few days.
To put them on short allowance was only hastening their death; while
giving them a full ration, was uselessly diminishing a quantity already
too low. After an anxious consultation, we came to the resolution of
throwing them into the sea, and thus terminating at once their sufferings.
This was a horrible and unjustifiable expedient, but who amongst us would
have the cruelty to put it into execution? Three sailors and a soldier
took it on themselves. We turned away our eyes from the shocking sight,
trusting that, in thus endeavouring to prolong our own lives, we were
shortening theirs but a few hours. This gave us the means of subsistence
for six additional days. After this dreadful sacrifice, we cast our swords
into the sea, reserving but one sabre for cutting wood or cordage, as
might be necessary.” Was there ever such an example of demoniacal
hypocrisy, mingled with pretended humanity!

       [Illustration: ON THE RAFT OF THE “MEDUSA”—A SAIL IN SIGHT.
             (_After the celebrated Painting by Géricault._)]

One can hardly interest himself in the fate of the remaining fifteen, who,
if they were not all human devils, must have carried to their dying days
the brand of Cain indelibly impressed on their memories. A few days
passed, and the indications of a close approach to land became frequent.
Meantime, they were suffering from the intense heat, and from excessive
thirst. One more example of petty selfishness was afforded by an officer
who had found a lemon, which he resolved to keep entirely for himself,
until the ominous threats of the rest obliged him to share it. The wine,
which should have warmed their bodies and gladdened their hearts, produced
on their weakened frames the worst effects of intoxication. Five of the
number resolved, and were barely persuaded not to commit suicide, so
maddened were they by their potations. Perhaps the sight of the sharks,
which now came boldly up to the edges of the raft, had something to do
with sobering them, for they decided to live.

Three days now passed in intolerable torments. They had become so careless
of life, that they bathed even in sight of the sharks; others were not
afraid to place themselves naked upon the fore part of the raft, which was
then entirely under water; and, though it was exceedingly dangerous, it
had the effect of taking away their thirst. They now attempted to
construct a boat of planks and spars. When completed, a sailor went upon
it, when it immediately upset, and the design of reaching land by this
means was abandoned. On the morning of the 17th of July, the sun shone
brightly and the sky was cloudless. Just as they were receiving their
ration of wine, one of the infantry officers discerned the topmasts of a
vessel near the horizon. Uniting their efforts, they raised a man to the
top of the mast, who waved constantly a number of handkerchiefs tied
together. After two hours of painful suspense, the vessel, a brig,
disappeared, and they once more resigned themselves to despair. Deciding
that they must leave some record of their fate, they agreed to carve their
names, with some account of their disaster, on a plank, in the hope that
it might eventually reach their Government and families. But they were to
be saved: the brig reappeared, and bore down for them. She proved to be a
vessel which had been dispatched by the Governor of Senegal for the
purpose of rescuing any survivors; though, considering the raft had now
been seventeen days afloat, there was little expectation that any of its
hundred and fifty passengers still lived. The wounded and blistered limbs,
sunken eyes, and emaciated frames of the remnant told its own tale on
board. And yet, with due order and discipline, presence of mind, and
united helpfulness, the ship, with every soul who had sailed on her, might
have been saved; and a fearful story of cruelty, murder, and cannibalism
spared to us. The modern _Medusa_ has been branded with a name of infamy
worse than that of the famous classical monster after which she was named.
The celebrated picture by Géricault in the Louvre, at Paris, vividly
depicts the horrors of the scene.

The wreck of the _Medusa_ has very commonly been compared and contrasted
with that of the _Alceste_, an English frigate, which was wrecked the same
year. Lord Amherst was returning from China in this vessel, after
fulfilling his mission to the Court of Pekin, instituted at the instance
of the East India Company, who had complained to Government of the
impediments thrown in the way of their trade by the Chinese. His secretary
and suite were with him; and so there was some resemblance to the case of
the _Medusa_, which had a colonial governor and his staff on board. The
commander of the _Alceste_ was Captain (afterwards Sir) Murray Maxwell, a
true gentleman and a bluff, hearty sailor. Having touched at Manilla, they
were passing through the Straits of Gaspar, when the ship suddenly struck
on a reef of sunken rocks, and it became evident that she must inevitably
and speedily break up. The most perfect discipline prevailed; and the
first efforts of the captain were naturally directed to saving the
ambassador and his subordinates. The island of Palo Leat was a few miles
off; and, although its coast at this part was a salt-marsh, with
mangrove-trees growing out in the water so thick and entangled that it
almost prevented them landing, every soul was got off safely. Good feeling
and sensible councils prevailed. At first there was no fresh water to be
obtained. It was

  “Water, water everywhere,
  Yet not a drop to drink.”

In a short time, however, they dug a deep well, and soon reached plenty.
Then the Malays attacked and surrounded them; at first a few score, at
last six or seven hundred strong. Things looked black; but they erected a
stockade, made rude pikes by sticking their knives, dirks, and small
swords on the end of poles; and, although they had landed with just
seventy-five ball-cartridges, their stock soon grew to fifteen hundred.
How? Why, the sailors set to with a will, and made their own, the balls
being represented by their jacket-buttons and pieces of the glass of
broken bottles! Of loose powder they had, fortunately, a sufficient
quantity. The Malays set the wreck on fire. The men waited till it had
burned low, and then drove them off, and went and secured such of the
stores as could be now reached, or which had floated off. The natives were
gathering thick. Murray made his sailors a speech in true hearty style,
and their wild huzzas were taken by the Malays for war-whoops: the latter
soon “weakened,” as they say in America. From the highest officer to the
merest boy, all behaved like calm, resolute, and sensible Britons, and
every soul was saved. Lord Amherst, who had gone on to Batavia, sent a
vessel for them, on board which Maxwell was the last to embark. At the
time of the wreck their condition was infinitely worse than that of the
_Medusa_; but how completely different the sequel! The story is really a
pleasant one, displaying, as it does, the happy results of both good
discipline and mutual good feeling in the midst of danger. _Nil
desperandum_ was evidently the motto of that crew; and their philosophy
was rewarded. The lessons of the past and present, in regard to our great
ships, have taught us that disaster is not confined to ironclads, nor
victory to wooden walls; neither is good discipline dead, nor the race of
true-hearted tars extinct. “Men of iron” will soon be the worthy
successors of “hearts of oak.”

Having glanced at the causes which led to the ironclad movement, and noted
certain salient points in its history, let us now for a while discuss the
ironclad herself. It has been remarked, as a matter of reproach to the
administrators and builders of the British ironclad navy, that the vessels
composing it are not sufficiently uniform in design, power, and speed. Mr.
Reed, however, tells us that _la marine moderne cuirassée_ of France is
still more distinguished by the different types and forms of the vessels;
and that ours by comparison wears “quite a tiresome appearance of
sameness;” while, again, Russia has ironclads even more diversified than
those of France. The objection is, perhaps, hardly a fair one, as the
exigencies of the navy are many and varied. We might have to fight a
first-class power, or several first-class powers, where all our strength
would have to be put forth; some second-class power might require
chastising, where vessels of a secondary class might suffice; while almost
any vessel of the navy would be efficient in the case of wars with native
tribes, as, for example, the Maories of New Zealand, or the Indians of the
coasts of North-west America. In a great naval conflict, provided the
vessels of our fleet steamed pretty evenly as regards speed, there would
be an advantage in variety; for it might rather puzzle and worry the
enemy, who would not know what next would appear, or what new form turn
up. Mr. Reed puts the matter in a nutshell; although it must be seen that,
among first-class powers with first-class fleets, the argument cuts both
ways. “In the old days,” says he, “when actions had to be fought under
sail, and when ships of a class were in the main alike, the limits within
which the arts, the resources, and the audacities of the navy were
restricted were really very narrow; and yet how brilliant were its
achievements! I cannot but believe that, if the English ironclad fleet
were now to be engaged in a general action with an enemy’s fleet, the very
variety of our ships—those very improvements which have occasioned that
variety—would be at once the cause of the greatest possible embarrassment
to the enemy, and the means of the most vigorous and diversified attack
upon the hostile fleet. This is peculiarly true of all those varieties
which result from increase in handiness, in bow-fire, in height of port,
and so forth; and unless I have mis-read our naval history, and
misappreciate the character of our naval officers of the present day, the
nation will, in the day of trial, obtain the full benefit of these
advantages.”

           [Illustration: SECTION OF A FIRST-CLASS MAN-OF-WAR.]

It needs no argument to convince the reader that the aim of a naval
architect should be to combine in the best manner available, strength and
lightness. The dimensions and outside form of the ship in great part
determine her displacement; and her capacity to carry weights depends
largely on the actual weight of her own hull; while the room within partly
depends on the thinness or thickness of her walls. Now, we have seen that
in wooden ships the hull weighs more than in iron ships of equal size; and
it will be apparent that what is gained in the latter case can be applied
to _carrying_ so much the more iron armour. Hence, distinguished
authorities do not believe in the wood-built ship _carrying_ heavy armour,
nearly so much as in the ironclad, iron-_built_ ship.(62) The durability
and strength are greater. The authority of such a man as Mr. J. Scott
Russell, the eminent shipbuilder, will be conclusive. In a pamphlet,(63)
published in 1862, he noted the following ten points: 1, That iron steam
ships-of-war may be built as strong as wooden ships of greater weight, and
stronger than wooden ships of equal weight. 2, That iron ships of equal
strength can go on less draught of water than wooden ships. 3, That iron
ships can carry much heavier weights than wooden ships [hence they can
carry heavier armour]. 4, That they are more durable. 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, That
they are safer against the sea, against fire, explosive shots, red-hot
shots, molten metal; and 10, That they can be made impregnable even
against solid shot.

                      [Illustration: THE “WARRIOR.”]

The last point, alas! is one which Mr. Scott Russell himself would hardly
insist upon to-day. When he wrote his pamphlet, five or six inches of
armour, with a wood backing, withstood anything that could be fired
against it. When the armour of the _Warrior_, our first real ironclad, had
to be tested, a target, twenty feet by ten feet surface, composed of four
and a half inch iron and eighteen inches of teak backing—the exact
counterpart of a slice out of the ship’s side—was employed. The shot from
68-pounders—the same as composed her original armament—fired at 200 yards,
only made small dents in the target and rebounded. 200-pounders had no
more effect; the shot flew off in ragged splinters, the iron plates became
almost red-hot under the tremendous strokes, and rung like a huge gong;
but that was all. Now we have 6½-ton guns that would pierce her side at
500 yards; 12-ton guns that would put a hole through her armour at over a
mile, and 25-ton guns that would probably penetrate the armour of any
ironclad whatever. Why, some of the ships themselves are now carrying
30-ton guns! It is needless to go on and speak of monster 81 and 100-ton
guns after recording these facts. But their consideration explains why the
thickness of armour has kept on increasing, albeit it could not possibly
do so in an equal ratio.

Mr. Reed tells us: “This strange contest between attack and defence,
however wasteful, however melancholy, must still go on.”(64) Sir W. G.
Armstrong (inventor of the famous guns), on the other hand, says, “In my
opinion, armour should be wholly abandoned for the defence of the guns,
and, except to a very limited extent, I doubt the expediency of using it
even for the security of the ship. Where armour can be applied for
_deflecting_ projectiles, as at the bow of a ship, it would afford great
protection, without requiring to be very heavy.”(65) Sir William
recommends very swift iron vessels, divided into numerous compartments,
with boilers and machinery below the water-line, and only very partially
protected by armour; considering that victory in the contest as regards
strength is entirely on the side of the artillery. Sir Joseph Whitworth
(also an inventor of great guns) offered practically to make guns to
penetrate _any_ thickness of armour. The bewildered Parliamentary
committee says mournfully in its report: “A perfect ship of war is a
desideratum which has never yet been attained, and is now farther than
ever removed from our reach;”(66) while Mr. Reed(67) again cuts the
gordian knot by professing his belief that in the end, “guns will
themselves be superseded as a means of attack, and the ship itself, viewed
as a steam projectile—possessing all the force of the most powerful shot,
combined with the power of striking in various directions—will be deemed
the most formidable weapon of attack that man’s ingenuity has devised.”
The contest between professed ship and gun makers would be amusing but for
the serious side—the immense expense, and the important interests
involved.

        [Illustration: THE ROCK OF GIBRALTAR: FROM THE MAINLAND.]





                               CHAPTER VI.


                     ROUND THE WORLD ON A MAN-OF-WAR.


    The Mediterranean—White, blue, green, purple Waters—Gibraltar—Its
      History—Its first Inhabitants the Monkeys—The Moors—The Great
    Siege preceded by thirteen others—The Voyage of Sigurd to the Holy
      Land—The Third Siege—Starvation—The Fourth Siege—Red-hot balls
       used before ordinary Cannon-balls—The Great Plague—Gibraltar
     finally in Christian hands—A Naval Action between the Dutch and
      Spaniards—How England won the Rock—An Unrewarded Hero—Spain’s
      attempts to regain It—The Great Siege—The Rock itself and its
    Surroundings—The Straits—Ceuta, Gibraltar’s Rival—The Saltness of
               the Mediterranean—“Going aloft”—On to Malta.


In this and following chapters, we will ask the reader to accompany us in
imagination round the world, on board a ship of the Royal Navy, visiting
_en route_ the principal British naval stations and possessions, and a few
of those friendly foreign ports which, as on the Pacific station, stand in
lieu of them. We cannot do better than commence with the Mediterranean, to
which the young sailor will, in all probability, be sent for a cruise
after he has been thoroughly “broken in” to the mysteries of life on board
ship, and where he has an opportunity of visiting many ports of ancient
renown and of great historical interest.

The modern title applied to the sea “between the lands” is not that of the
ancients, nor indeed that of some peoples now. The Greeks had no special
name for it. Herodotus calls it “this sea;” and Strabo the “sea within the
columns,” that is, within Calpe and Abyla—the fabled pillars of
Hercules—to-day represented by Gibraltar and Ceuta. The Romans called it
variously _Mare Internum_ and _Mare Nostrum_, while the Arabians termed it
_Bahr Rüm_—the Roman Sea. The modern Greeks call it _Aspri Thalassa_—the
White Sea; it might as appropriately be called blue, that being its
general colour, or green, as in the Adriatic, or purple, as at its eastern
end: but they use it to distinguish it from the “Sea of Storms”—the Black
Sea. The Straits—“the Gate of the Narrow Passage,” as the Arabians
poetically describe it, or the _Gut_, as it is termed by our prosaic
sailors and pilots—is the narrow portal to a great inland sea with an area
of 800,000 miles, whose shores are as varied in character as are the
peoples who own them. The Mediterranean is salter than the ocean, in spite
of the great rivers which enter it—the Rhone, Po, Ebro, and Nile—and the
innumerable smaller streams and torrents.(68) It has other physical and
special characteristics, to be hereafter considered.

The political and social events which have been mingled with its history
are interwoven with those of almost every people on the face of the globe.
We shall see how much our own has been shaped and involved. It was with
the memory of the glorious deeds of British seamen and soldiers that
Browning wrote, when sailing through the Straits:—

  “Nobly, nobly, Cape St. Vincent to the north-west died away;
  Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;
  Bluish, ’mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;
  In the dimmest north-east distance dawned Gibraltar, grand and gray;
  ‘Here, and here, did England help me—how can I help England?’—say
  Whoso turns as I, this evening, turns to God to praise and pray,
  While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.”

And the poet is almost literally correct in his description, for within
sight, as we enter the Straits of Gibraltar, are the localities of
innumerable sea and land fights dating from earliest days. That grand old
Rock, what has it not witnessed since the first timid mariner crept out of
the Mediterranean into the Atlantic—the _Mare Tenebrosum_,—the “sea of
darkness” of the ancients? Romans of old fought Carthaginian galleys in
its bay; the conquering Moors held it uninterruptedly for six hundred
years, and in all for over seven centuries; Spain owned it close on two
and a half centuries; and England has dared the world to take it since
1704—one hundred and seventy-three years ago. Its very armorial bearings,
which we have adopted from those given by Henry of Castile and Leon, are
suggestive of its position and value: a castle on a rock with a key
pendant—the key to the Mediterranean. The King of Spain still includes
Calpe (Gibraltar) in his dominions; and natives of the place, Ford tells
us, in his “Handbook to Spain,” are entitled to the rights and privileges
of Spanish birth. It has, in days gone by, given great offence to French
writers, who spoke of _l’ombrageuse puissance_ with displeasure.
“Sometimes,” says Ford, “there is too great a _luxe de canons_ in this
fortress _ornée_; then the gardens destroy ‘wild nature;’ in short, they
abuse the red-jackets, guns, nursery-maids, and even the monkeys.” The
present colony of apes are the descendants of the aboriginal inhabitants
of the Rock. They have held it through all vicissitudes.

The Moorish writers were ever enthusiastic over it. With them it was “the
Shining Mountain,” “the Mountain of Victory.” “The Mountain of Taric”(69)
(Gibraltar), says a Granadian poet, “is like a beacon spreading its rays
over the sea, and rising far above the neighbouring mountains; one might
fancy that its face almost reaches the sky, and that its eyes are watching
the stars in the celestial track.” An Arabian writer well describes its
position:—“The waters surround Gibraltar on almost every side, so as to
make it look like a watch-tower in the midst of the sea.”

The fame of the last great siege, already briefly described in these
pages,(70) has so completely overshadowed the general history of the Rock
that it will surprise many to learn that it has undergone no less than
fourteen sieges. The Moors, after successfully invading Spain, first
fortified it in 711, and held uninterrupted possession until 1309, when
Ferdinand IV. besieged and took it. The Spaniards only held it twenty-five
years, when it reverted to the Moors, who kept it till 1462. “Thus the
Moors held it in all about seven centuries and a quarter, from the making
a castle on the Rock to the last sorrowful departure of the remnants of
the nation. It has been said that Gibraltar was the landing-place of the
vigorous Moorish race, and that it was the point of departure on which
their footsteps lingered last. In short, it was the European _tête de
pont_, of which Ceuta stands as the African fellow. By these means myriads
of Moslems passed into Spain, and with them much for which the Spaniards
are wrongfully unthankful. It is said that when the Moors left their
houses in Granada, which they did with, so to speak, everything standing,
many families took with them the great wooden keys of their mansions, so
confident were they of returning home again, when the keys should open the
locks and the houses be joyful anew. It was not to be as thus longed for;
but many families in Barbary still keep the keys of these long ago
deserted and destroyed mansions.”(71) And now we must mention an incident
of its history, recorded in the “Norwegian Chronicles of the Kings,”
concerning Sigurd the Crusader—the Pilgrim. After battling his way from
the North, with sixty “long ships,” King Sigurd proceeded on his voyage to
the Holy Land, “and came to Niörfa Sound (Gibraltar Straits), and in the
Sound he was met by a large viking force (squadron of war-ships), and the
King gave them battle; and this was his fifth engagement with heathens
since the time he came from Norway. So says Halldor Skualldre:—

  “‘He moistened your dry swords with blood,
  As through Niörfa Sound ye stood;
  The screaming raven got a feast,
  As ye sailed onwards to the East.’

Hence he went along Sarkland, or Saracen’s Land, Mauritania, where he
attacked a strong party, who had their fortress in a cave, with a wall
before it, in the face of a precipice: a place which was difficult to come
at, and where the holders, who are said to have been freebooters, defied
and ridiculed the Northmen, spreading their valuables on the top of the
wall in their sight. Sigurd was equal to the occasion in craft as in
force, for he had his ships’ boats drawn up the hill, filled them with
archers and slingers, and lowered them before the mouth of the cavern, so
that they were able to keep back the defenders long enough to allow the
main body of the Northmen to ascend from the foot of the cliff and break
down the wall. This done, Sigurd caused large trees to be brought to the
mouth of the cave, and roasted the miserable wretches within.” Further
fights, and he at last reached Jerusalem, where he was honourably received
by Baldwin, whom he assisted with his ships at the siege of Sidon. Sigurd
also visited Constantinople, where the Emperor Alexius offered him his
choice: either to receive six skif-pound (or about a _ton_ of gold), or
see the great games of the hippodrome. The Northman wisely chose the
latter, the cost of which was said to be equal to the value of the gold
offered. Sigurd presented his ships to the Emperor, and their splendid
prows were hung up in the church of St. Peter, at Constantinople.

              [Illustration: GIBRALTAR: THE NEUTRAL GROUND.]

In the year 1319, Pedro, Infante of Castile, fought the Moors at Granada.
The latter were the victors, and their spoils were enormous, consisting in
part of forty-three hundredweights of gold, one hundred and forty
hundredweights of silver, with armour, arms, and horses in abundance.
Fifty thousand Castilians were slain, and among the captives were the wife
and children of the Infante. Gibraltar, then in the hands of Spain, with
Tarifa and eighteen castles of the district, were offered, and refused for
her ransom. The body of the Infante himself was stripped of its skin, and
stuffed and hung over the gate of Granada.

The third siege occurred in the reign of Mohammed IV., when the Spanish
held the Rock. The governor at that time, Vasco Perez de Meira, was an
avaricious and dishonest man, who embezzled the dues and other resources
of the place and neglected his charge. During the siege, a grain-ship fell
on shore,(72) and its cargo would have enabled him to hold out a long
time. Instead of feeding his soldiers, who were reduced to eating leather,
he gave and sold it to his prisoners, with the expectation of either
getting heavy ransoms for them, or, if he should have to surrender, of
making better terms for himself. It availed him nothing, for he had to
capitulate; and then, not daring to face his sovereign, Alfonso XI., he
had to flee to Africa, where he ended his days.

Alfonso besieged it twice. The first time the Granadians induced him to
abandon it, promising a heavy ransom; the next time he commenced by
reducing the neighbouring town of Algeciras, which was defended with great
energy. When the Spaniards brought forward their wheeled towers of wood,
covered with raw hides, the Moors discharged cannon loaded with _red-hot_
balls. This is noteworthy, for cannon was not used by the English till
three years after, at the battle of Creçy, while it is the first recorded
instance of _red-hot_ shot being used at all.(73) It is further deserving
of notice, that the very means employed at Algeciras were afterwards so
successfully used at the great siege. After taking Algeciras, Alfonso
blockaded Gibraltar, when the plague broke out in his camp; he died from
it, and the Rock remained untaken. This was the epoch of one of those
great pestilences which ravaged Europe. Fifty thousand souls perished in
London in 1348 from its effects; Florence lost two-thirds of her
population; in Saragossa three hundred died daily. The sixth attack on the
part of the King of Fez was unsuccessful; as was that in 1436, when it was
besieged by a wealthy noble—one of the De Gusmans. His forces were allowed
to land in numbers on a narrow beach below the fortress, where they were
soon exposed to the rising of the tide and the missiles of the besieged.
De Gusman was drowned, and his body, picked up by the Moors, hung out for
twenty-six years from the battlements, as a warning to ambitious nobles.

At the eighth siege, in 1462, Gibraltar passed finally into Christian
hands. The garrison was weak and the Spaniards gained an easy victory.
When Henry IV. learned of its capture, he rejoiced greatly, and took
immediate care to proclaim it a fief of the throne, adding to the royal
titles that of Lord of Gibraltar. The armorial distinctions still borne by
Gibraltar were first granted by him. The ninth siege, on the part of a De
Gusman, was successful, and it for a time passed into the hands of a noble
who had vast possessions and fisheries in the neighbourhood. Strange to
say, such were the troubles of Spain at the time, that Henry the
before-named, who was known as “the Weak,” two years after confirmed the
title to the Rock to the son of the very man who had been constantly in
arms against him. But after the civil wars, and at the advent of Ferdinand
and Isabella, there was a decided change. Isabella, acting doubtless under
the advice of her astute husband, whose entire policy was opposed to such
aggrandisement on the part of a subject, tried to induce the duke to
surrender it, offering in exchange the City of Utrera. Ayala(74) tells us
that he utterly refused. His great estates were protected by it, and he
made it a kind of central depôt for his profitable tunny fisheries. He
died in 1492, and the third duke applied to Isabella for a renewal of his
grant and privileges. She promised all, but insisted that the Rock and
fortress must revert to the Crown. But it was not till nine years
afterwards that Isabella succeeded in compelling or inducing the Duke to
surrender it formally. Dying in 1504, the queen testified her wishes as
follows:—“It is my will and desire, insomuch as the city of Gibraltar has
been surrendered to the Royal Crown, and been inserted among its titles,
that it shall for ever so remain.” Two years after her death, Juan de
Gusman tried to retake it, and blockaded it for four months, at the end of
which time he abandoned the siege, and had to make reparation to those
whose property had been injured. This is the only bloodless one among the
fourteen sieges.

In 1540 a dash was made at the town, and even at a part of the fortress,
by Corsairs. They plundered the neighbourhood, burned a chapel and
hermitage, and dictated terms in the most high-handed way—that all the
Turkish prisoners should be released, and that their galleys should be
allowed to take water at the Gibraltar wells. They were afterwards
severely chastised by a Spanish fleet.

In the wars between the Dutch and Spaniards a naval action occurred, in
the year 1607, in the port of Gibraltar, which can hardly be omitted in
its history. The great Sully has described it graphically when speaking of
the efforts of the Dutch to secure the alliance of his master, Henry IV.
of France, in their wars against Philip of Spain. He says: “Alvares
d’Avila, the Spanish admiral, was ordered to cruise near the Straits of
Gibraltar, to hinder the Dutch from entering the Mediterranean, and to
deprive them of the trade of the Adriatic. The Dutch, to whom this was a
most sensible mortification, gave the command of ten or twelve vessels to
one of their ablest seamen, named Heemskerk, with the title of
vice-admiral, and ordered him to go and reconnoitre this fleet, and attack
it. D’Avila, though nearly twice as strong as his enemy, yet provided a
reinforcement of twenty-six great ships, some of which were of a thousand
tons burden, and augmented the number of his troops to three thousand five
hundred men. With this accession of strength he thought himself so secure
of victory that he brought a hundred and fifty gentlemen along with him
only to be witnesses of it. However, instead of standing out to sea, as he
ought to have done, he posted himself under the town and castle of
Gibraltar, that he might not be obliged to fight but when he thought
proper.

“Heemskerk, who had taken none of these precautions, no sooner perceived
that his enemy seemed to fear him than he advanced to attack him, and
immediately began the most furious battle that was ever fought in the
memory of man. It lasted eight whole hours. The Dutch vice-admiral, at the
beginning, attacked the vessel in which the Spanish admiral was, grappled
with, and was ready to board her. A cannon-ball, which wounded him in the
thigh soon after the fight began, left him only a hour’s life, during
which, and till within a moment of his death, he continued to give orders
as if he felt no pain. When he found himself ready to expire, he delivered
his sword to his lieutenant, obliging him and all that were with him to
bind themselves by an oath either to conquer or die. The lieutenant caused
the same oath to be taken by the people of all the other vessels, when
nothing was heard but a general cry of ‘Victory or Death!’ At length the
Dutch were victorious; they lost only two vessels, and about two hundred
and fifty men; the Spaniards lost sixteen ships, three were consumed by
fire, and the others, among which was the admiral’s ship, ran aground.
D’Avila, with thirty-five captains, fifty of his volunteers, and two
thousand eight hundred soldiers, lost their lives in the fight; a
memorable action, which was not only the source of tears and affliction to
many widows and private persons, but filled all Spain with horror.”(75)

               [Illustration: MOORISH TOWER AT GIBRALTAR.]

England won Gibraltar during the War of the Succession, when she was
allied with Austria and Holland against Spain and France. The war had
dragged on with varied results till 1704, when it was determined to attack
Spain at home with the aid of the Portuguese. The commanders of the allied
fleets and troops—_i.e._, the Landgrave George of Hesse-Darmstadt, Sir
George Rooke, Admiral Byng, Sir Cloudesley Shovel, Admiral Leake, and the
three Dutch admirals—determined to attack Gibraltar, believed to be weak
in forces and stores. On the 21st of July, 1704, the fleet, which
consisted of forty-five ships, six frigates, besides fire and bomb-ships,
came to an anchor off the Rock, and landed 5,000 men, so as to at once cut
off the supplies of the garrison. The commanders of the allied forces
sent, on the morning after their arrival, a demand for the surrender of
Gibraltar to the Archduke Charles, whose claims as rightful King of Spain
they were supporting. The little garrison(76) answered valiantly; and had
their brave governor, the Marquis Diego de Salinas, been properly backed,
the fortress might have been Spain’s to-day. The opening of the contest
was signalised by the burning of a French privateer, followed by a furious
cannonading: the new and old moles were speedily silenced, and large
numbers of marines landed. The contest was quite unequal, and the besieged
soon offered to capitulate with the honours of war, the right of retaining
their property, and six days’ provisions. The garrison had three days
allowed for its departure, and those, as well as the inhabitants of the
Rock, who chose, might remain, with full civil and religious rights. Thus,
in three days’ time the famous fortress fell into the hands of the allies,
and possession was taken in the name of Charles III. Sir George Rooke,
however, over-rode this, and pulled down the standard of Charles, setting
up in its stead that of England. A garrison of 1,800 English seamen was
landed. The English were, alone of the parties then present, competent to
hold it; and at the Peace of Utrecht, 1711, it was formally ceded
“absolutely, with all manner of right for ever, without exemption or
impediment,” to Great Britain.

The Spaniards departed from the fortress they had valiantly defended, the
majority remaining at St. Roque. “Like some of the Moors whom they had
dispossessed, their descendants are said to preserve until this day the
records and family documents which form the bases of claims upon property
on that Rock, which, for more than a century and a half, has known other
masters.”

Rooke went absolutely unrewarded. He was persistently ignored by the
Government of the day, and being a man of moderate fortune, consulted his
own dignity, and retired to his country seat. The same year, 1704, the
Spanish again attempted, with the aid of France, to take Gibraltar.
England had only three months to strengthen and repair the fortifications,
and the force brought against the Rock was by no means contemptible,
including as it did a fleet of two-and-twenty French men-of-war. Succour
arrived; Sir John Leake succeeded in driving four of the enemy’s ships
ashore. An attempt to escalade the fortress was made, under the guidance
of a native goat-herd. He, with a company of men, succeeded in reaching
the signal station, where a hard fight occurred, and our troops killed or
disabled 160 men, and took the remnant prisoners. Two sallies were made
from the Rock with great effect, while an attempt made by the enemy to
enter through a narrow breach resulted in a sacrifice of 200 lives. A
French fleet, under Pointé, arrived; the English admiral captured three
and destroyed one of them—that of Pointé himself. To make a six months’
story short, the assailants lost 10,000 men, and then had to raise the
siege. Although on several occasions our rulers have since the Peace of
Utrecht proposed to cede or exchange the fortress, the spirit of the
people would not permit it; and there can be no doubt whatever that our
right to Gibraltar is not merely that of possession—nine points of the
law—but cession wrung from a people unable to hold it. And that, in war,
is fair.

Twenty years later Spain again attempted to wring it from us. Mr.
Stanhope, then our representative at Madrid, was told by Queen Isabella:
“Either relinquish Gibraltar or your trade with the Indies.” We still hold
Gibraltar, and our trade with the Indies is generally regarded as a
tolerably good one. In December, 1726, peace or war was made the
alternative regarding the cession; another bombardment followed. An
officer(77) present said that it was so severe that “we seemed to live in
flames.” Negotiations for peace followed at no great distance of time, and
the Spaniards suddenly drew off from the attack. Various offers, never
consummated, were made for an exchange. Pitt proposed to cede it in
exchange for Minorca, Spain to assist in recovering it from the French. At
another time, Oran, a third-class port on the Mediterranean shores of
Africa, was offered in exchange; and Mr. Fitzherbert, our diplomatist, was
told that the King of Spain was “determined never to put a period to the
present war” if we did not agree to the terms; and again, that Oran “ought
to be accepted with gratitude.” The tone of Spain altered very
considerably a short time afterwards, when the news arrived of the
destruction of the floating batteries, and the failure of the grand
attack.(78) This was at the last—the great siege of history. A few
additional details may be permitted before we pass to other subjects.

The actual siege occupied three years and seven months, and for one year
and nine months the bombardment went on without cessation. The actual
losses on the part of the enemy can hardly be estimated; 1,473 were
killed, wounded, or missing on the floating batteries alone. But for brave
Curtis, who took a pinnace to the rescue of the poor wretches on the
batteries, then in flames, and the ammunition of which was exploding every
minute, more than 350 fresh victims must have gone to their last account.
His boat was engulfed amid the falling ruins; a large piece of timber fell
through its flooring, killing the coxswain and wounding others. The
sailors stuffed their jackets into the leak, and succeeded in saving the
lives of 357 of their late enemies. For many days consecutively they had
been peppering us at the rate of 6,500 shots, and over 2,000 shells each
twenty-four hours. With the destruction of the floating batteries “the
siege was virtually concluded. The contest was at an end, and the united
strength of two ambitious and powerful nations had been humbled by a
straitened garrison of 6,000 effective men.”(79) Our losses were
comparatively small, though thrice the troops were on the verge of famine.
At the period of the great siege the Rock mounted only 100 guns; now it
has 1,000, many of them of great calibre. In France, victory for the
allies was regarded as such a foregone conclusion that “a drama,
illustrative of the destruction of Gibraltar by the floating batteries,
was acted nightly to applauding thousands!”(80) The siege has, we believe,
been a favourite subject at the minor English theatres many a time since;
but it need not be stated that the views taken of the result were widely
different to those popular at that time in Paris.

Gibraltar has had an eventful history even since the great siege. In 1804
a terrible epidemic swept the Rock; 5,733 out of a population of 15,000
died in a few weeks. The climate is warm and pleasant, but it is not
considered the most healthy of localities even now. And on the 28th of
October, 1805, the _Victory_, in tow of the _Neptune_, entered the bay,
with the body of Nelson on board. The fatal shot had done its work; only
eleven days before he had written to General Fox one of his happy,
pleasant letters.

The Rock itself is a compact limestone, a form of grey dense marble varied
by beds of red sandstone. It abounds in caves and fissures, and advantage
has been taken of these facts to bore galleries, the most celebrated of
which are St. Michael’s and Martin’s, the former 1,100 feet above the sea.
Tradition makes it a barren rock; but the botanists tell us differently.
There are 456 species of indigenous flowering plants, besides many which
have been introduced. The advantages of its natural position have been
everywhere utilised. It bristles with batteries, many of which can hardly
be seen. Captain Sayer tells us that every spot where a gun could be
brought to bear on an enemy has one. “Wandering,” says he, “through the
geranium-edged paths on the hill-side, or clambering up the rugged cliffs
to the eastward, one stumbles unexpectedly upon a gun of the heaviest
metal lodged in a secluded nook, with its ammunition, round shot,
canister, and case piled around it, ready at any instant.... The shrubs
and flowers that grow on the cultivated places, and are preserved from
injury with so much solicitude, are often but the masks of guns, which lie
crouched beneath the leaves ready for the port-fire.” Everywhere, all
stands ready for defence. War and peace are strangely mingled.

Gibraltar has one of the finest colonial libraries in the world, founded
by the celebrated Colonel Drinkwater, whose account of the great siege is
still the standard authority. The town possesses some advantages; but as
15,000 souls out of a population of about double that number are crowded
into one square mile, it is not altogether a healthy place—albeit much
improved of late years. Rents are exorbitant; but ordinary living and bad
liquors are cheap. It is by no means the best place in the world for “Jack
ashore,” for, as Shakespeare tells us, “sailors” are “but men,” and there
be “land rats and water rats,” who live on their weaknesses. The town has
a very mongrel population, of all shades of colour and character. Alas!
the monkeys, who were the first inhabitants of the Rock—tailless Barbary
apes—are now becoming scarce. Many a poor Jocko has fallen from the
enemy’s shot, killed in battles which he, at least, never provoked.

The scenery of the Straits, which we are now about to enter, is fresh and
pleasant, and as we commenced with an extract from one well-known poet, we
may be allowed to finish with that of another, which, if more hackneyed,
is still expressive and beautiful. Byron’s well-known lines will recur to
many of our readers:—

  “Through Calpe’s Straits survey the steepy shore;
  Europe and Afric on each other gaze!
  Lands of the dark-eyed maid and dusky Moor
  Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate’s blaze;
  How softly on the Spanish shore she plays,
  Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown,
  Distinct though darkening with her waning phase.”

In the distance gleams Mons Abyla—the Apes’ Hill of sailors—a term which
could have been, for a very long time, as appropriately given to
Gibraltar. It is the other sentinel of the Straits; while Ceuta, the
strong fortress built on its flanks, is held by Spain on Moorish soil,
just as we hold the Rock of Rocks on theirs. Its name is probably a
corruption of _Septem_—Seven—from the number of hills on which it is
built. It is to-day a military prison, there usually being here two or
three thousand convicts, while both convicts and fortress are guarded by a
strong garrison of 3,500 soldiers. These in their turn were, only a few
years ago, guarded by the jealous Moors, who shot both guards and
prisoners if they dared to emerge in the neighbourhood. There is, besides,
a town, as at Gibraltar, with over 15,000 inhabitants, and at the present
day holiday excursions are commonly made across the Straits in strong
little steamers or other craft. The tide runs into the Straits from the
Atlantic at the rate of four or more knots per hour, and yet all this
water, with that of the innumerable streams and rivers which fall into the
Mediterranean, scarcely suffice to raise a perceptible tide! What becomes
of all this water? Is there a hole in the earth through which it runs off?
Hardly: evaporation is probably the true secret of its disappearance: and
that this is the reason is proved by the greater saltness of the
Mediterranean as compared with the Atlantic.

In sailor’s parlance, “going aloft” has a number of meanings. He climbs
the slippery shrouds to “go aloft;” and when at last, like poor Tom
Bowling, he lies a “sheer hulk,” and—

  “His body’s under hatches,
  His soul has ‘_gone aloft_.’”

“Going-aloft” in the Mediterranean has a very different meaning: it
signifies passing upwards and eastwards from the Straits of Gibraltar.(81)
We are now going aloft to Malta, a British possession hardly second to
that of the famed Rock itself.

                          [Illustration: MALTA.]





                               CHAPTER VII.


              ROUND THE WORLD ON A MAN-OF-WAR (_continued_).


                        MALTA AND THE SUEZ CANAL.


       Calypso’s Isle—A Convict Paradise—Malta, the “Flower of the
    World”—The Knights of St. John—Rise of the Order—The Crescent and
      the Cross—The Siege of Rhodes—L’Isle Adam in London—The Great
       Siege of Malta—Horrible Episodes—Malta in French and English
    Hands—St. Paul’s Cave—The Catacombs—Modern Incidents—The Shipwreck
     of St. Paul—Gales in the Mediterranean—Experiences of Nelson and
          Collingwood—Squalls in the Bay of San Francisco—A Man
    Overboard—Special Winds of the Mediterranean—The Suez Canal and M.
        de Lesseps—His Diplomatic Career—Saïd Pacha as a Boy—As a
     Viceroy—The Plan Settled—Financial Troubles—Construction of the
    Canal—The Inauguration Fête—Suez—Passage of the Children of Israel
                           through the Red Sea.


Approaching Malta, we must “not in silence pass Calypso’s Isle.” Warburton
describes it, in his delightful work on the East(82)—a classic on the
Mediterranean—as a little paradise, with all the beauties of a continent
in miniature; little mountains with craggy summits, little valleys with
cascades and rivers, lawny meadows and dark woods, trim gardens and
tangled vineyards—all within a circuit of five or six miles.

One or two uninhabited little islands, “that seem to have strayed from the
continent and lost their way,” dot the sea between the pleasant penal
settlement and Gozo, which is also a claimant for the doubtful honour of
Calypso’s Isle. Narrow straits separate it from the rock, the “inhabited
quarry,” called Malta, of which Valetta is the port. The capital is a
cross between a Spanish and an Eastern town; most of its streets are
flights of steps.

Although the climate is delightful, it is extremely warm, and there is
usually a glare of heat about the place, owing to its rocky nature and
limited amount of tree-shade. “All Malta,” writes Tallack,(83) “seems to
be light yellow—light yellow rocks, light yellow fortifications, light
yellow stone walls, light yellow flat-topped houses, light yellow palaces,
light yellow roads and streets.” Stones and stone walls are the chief and
conspicuous objects in a Maltese landscape; and for good reason, for the
very limited soil is propped up and kept in bounds by them on the hills.
With the scanty depth of earth the vegetation between the said stone walls
is wonderful. The green bushy carob and prickly cactus are to be seen; but
in the immediate neighbourhood of Malta few trees, only an occasional and
solitary palm. Over all, the bright blue sky; around, the deep blue sea.
You must not say anything to a Maltese against it; with him it is “Flor
del Mondo”—the “Flower of the World.”

The poorest natives live in capital stone houses, many of them with
façades and fronts which would be considered ornamental in an English
town. The terraced roofs make up to its cooped inhabitants the space lost
by building. There are five or six hundred promenadable roofs in the city.
Tallack says that the island generally is the abode of industry and
contentment. Expenses are high, except as regards the purchase of fruits,
including the famed “blood,” “Mandolin” (sometimes called quite as
correctly “Mandarin”) oranges, and Japan medlars, and Marsala wine from
Sicily. The natives live simply, as a rule, but the officers and foreign
residents commonly do not; and it is true here, as Ford says of the
military gentlemen at Gibraltar, that their faces often look somewhat
redder than their jackets in consequence. As in India, many unwisely adopt
the high living of their class, in a climate where a cool and temperate
diet is indispensable.

The four great characteristics of Malta are soldiers, priests, goats, and
bells—the latter not being confined to the necks of the goats, but
jangling at all hours from the many church towers. The goats pervade
everywhere; there is scarcely any cow’s milk to be obtained in Malta. They
may often be seen with sheep, as in the patriarchal days of yore,
following their owners, in accordance with the pastoral allusions of the
Bible.

What nature commenced in Valetta, art has finished. It has a land-locked
harbour—really several, running into each other—surrounded by high
fortified walls, above which rise houses, and other fortifications above
them. There are galleries in the rock following the Gibraltar precedent,
and batteries bristling with guns; barracks, magazines, large docks,
foundry, lathe-rooms, and a bakery for the use of the “United” Service.

To every visitor the gorgeous church of San Giovanni, with its vaulted
roof of gilded arabesque, its crimson hangings, and carved pulpits, is a
great object of interest. Its floor resembles one grand escutcheon—a
mosaic of knightly tombs, recalling days when Malta was a harbour of
saintly refuge and princely hospitality for crusaders and pilgrims of the
cross. An inner chapel is guarded by massive silver rails, saved from the
French by the cunning of a priest, who, on their approach, painted them
wood-colour, and their real nature was never suspected. But amid all the
splendour of the venerable pile, its proudest possession to-day is a bunch
of old rusty keys—the keys of Rhodes, the keys of the Knights of St. John.
What history is not locked up with those keys! There is hardly a country
in Europe, Asia, or Northern Africa, the history of which has not been
more or less entangled with that of these Knights of the Cross, who,
driven by the conquering Crescent from Jerusalem, took refuge successively
in Cyprus, Rhodes, Candia, Messina, and finally, Malta.

The island had an important place in history and commerce long ere that
period. The Phœnicians held it 700 years; the Greeks a century and a half.
The Romans retained it for as long a period as the Phœnicians; and after
being ravaged by Goths and Vandals, it was for three and a half centuries
an appanage of the crown of Byzantium. Next came the Arabs, who were
succeeded by the Normans, and soon after it had become a German
possession, Charles V. presented it to the homeless knights.

In the middle of the eleventh century, some merchants of the then
flourishing commercial city of Amalfi obtained permission to erect three
hostelries or hospitals in the Holy City, for the relief of poor and
invalided pilgrims. On the taking of Jerusalem by the Crusaders, the
position and prospects of the hospitals of St. John became greatly
improved. The organisation became a recognised religious order, vowing
poverty, obedience, and chastity. Its members were distinguished by a
white cross of four double points worn on a black robe, of the form
commonly to be met in the Maltese filigree jewellery of to-day, often to
be noted in our West End and other shops. Branch hospitals spread all over
Europe with the same admirable objects, and the order received constant
acquisitions of property. Under the guidance of Raymond du Puy, military
service was added to the other vows, and the monks became the White Cross
Knights.(84) Henceforth each seat of the order became a military garrison
in addition to a hospice, and each knight held himself in readiness to aid
with his arms his distressed brethren against the infidel.

Slowly but surely the Crescent overshadowed the Cross: the Holy City had
to be evacuated. The pious knights, after wandering first to Cyprus,
settled quietly in Rhodes, where for two centuries they maintained a
sturdy resistance against the Turks. At the first siege, in 1480, a
handful of the former resisted 70,000 of the latter. The bombardment was
so terrific that it is stated to have been heard a hundred miles off, and
for this extraordinary defence, Peter d’Aubusson, Grand Master, was made a
cardinal by the Pope. At the second siege, L’Isle Adam, with 600 Knights
of St. John, and 4,500 troops, resisted and long repelled a force of
200,000 infidels. But the odds were too great against him, and after a
brave but hopeless defence, which won admiration even from the enemy,
L’Isle Adam capitulated. After personal visits to the Pope, and to the
Courts of Madrid, Paris, and London, the then almost valueless Rock of
Malta was bestowed on the knights in 1530. Its noble harbours, and deep
and sheltered inlets were then as now, but there was only one little town,
called Burgo—Valetta as yet was not.

[Illustration: THE DEFENCE OF MALTA BY THE KNIGHTS OF ST. JOHN AGAINST THE
                             TURKS IN 1565.]

In London, L’Isle Adam lodged at the provincial hostelry of the order, St.
John’s Clerkenwell, still a house of entertainment, though of a very
different kind. Henry VIII. received him with apparent cordiality, and
shortly afterwards confiscated all the English possessions of the knights!
This was but a trifle among their troubles, for in 1565 they were again
besieged in Malta. Their military knowledge, and especially that of their
leader, the great La Valette, had enabled them to already strongly fortify
the place. La Valette had 500 knights and 9,000 soldiers, while the Turks
had 30,000 fighting men, conveyed thither in 200 galleys, and were
afterwards reinforced by the Algerine corsair, Drugot, and his men. A
desperate resistance was made: 2,000 Turks were killed in a single day.
The latter took the fortress of St. Elmo, with the loss of Drugot—just
before the terror of the Mediterranean—who was killed by a splinter of
rock, knocked off by a cannon-ball in its flight. The garrison was at
length reduced to sixty men, who attended their devotions in the chapel
for the last time. Many of these were fearfully wounded, but even then the
old spirit asserted itself, and they desired to be carried to the ramparts
in chairs to lay down their lives in obedience to the vows of their order.
Next day few of that devoted sixty were alive, a very small number
escaping by swimming. The attempts on the other forts, St. Michael and St.
Angelo, were foiled. Into the Eastern Harbour (now the Grand), Mustapha
ordered the dead bodies of the Christian knights and soldiers to be cast.
They were spread out on boards in the form of a cross, and floated by the
tide across to the besieged with La Valette, where they were sorrowfully
taken up and interred. In exasperated retaliation, La Valette fired the
heads of the Turkish slain back at their former companions—a horrible
episode of a fearful struggle. St. Elmo alone cost the lives of 8,000
Turks, 150 Knights of St. John, and 1,300 of their men. After many false
promises of assistance, and months of terrible suspense and suffering, an
auxiliary force arrived from Sicily, and the Turks retired. Out of the
9,500 soldiers and knights who were originally with La Valette, only 500
were alive at the termination of the great siege.

This memorable defence was the last of the special exploits of the White
Cross Knights, and they rested on their laurels, the order becoming
wealthy, luxurious, and not a little demoralised. When the French
Revolution broke out in 1789, the confiscation of their property in France
naturally followed; for they had been helping Louis XVI. with their
revenues just previously. Nine years later, Napoleon managed, by skilful
intrigues, to obtain quiet possession of Malta. But he could not keep it,
for after two years of blockade it was won by Great Britain, and she has
held it ever since. At the Congress of Vienna in 1814, our possession was
formally ratified. We hold it on as good a title as we do Gibraltar, by
rights acknowledged at the signing of the Peace Treaty.(85)

The supposed scene of St. Paul’s shipwreck is constantly visited, and
although some have doubted whether the Melita of St. Luke is not the
island of the same name in the Adriatic, tradition and probability point
to Malta.(86) At St. Paul’s Bay, there is a small chapel over the cave,
with a statue of the apostle in marble, with the viper in his hand.
Colonel Shaw tells us that the priest who shows the cave recommended him
to take a piece of the stone as a specific against shipwreck, saying,
“Take away as much as you please, you will not diminish the cave.” Some of
the priests aver that there is a miraculous renovation, and that it cannot
diminish! and when they tell you that under one of the Maltese churches
the great apostle did _penance_ in a cell for three months, it looks still
more as though they are drawing on their imagination.

            [Illustration: CATACOMBS AT CITTA VECCHIA, MALTA.]

The great catacombs at Citta Vecchia, Malta, were constructed by the
natives as places of refuge from the Turks. They consist of whole streets,
with houses and sleeping-places. They were later used for tombs. There are
other remains on the island of much greater antiquity, _Hagiar Chem_ (the
stones of veneration) date from Phœnician days. These include a temple
resembling Stonehenge, on a smaller scale, where there are seven
statuettes with a grotesque rotundity of outline, the seven Phœnician
_Cabiri_ (deities; “great and powerful ones”). There are also seven
divisions to the temple, which is mentioned by Herodotus and other ancient
writers.

To come back to our own time. In 1808, the following remarkable event
occurred at Malta. One Froberg had raised a levy of Greeks for the British
Government, by telling the individual members that they should all be
corporals, generals, or what not. It was to be all officers, like some
other regiments of which we have heard. The men soon found out the deceit,
but drilled admirably until the brutality of the adjutant caused them to
mutiny. Malta was at the time thinly garrisoned, and their particular fort
had only one small detachment of troops and thirty artillerymen. The
mutineers made the officer of artillery point his guns on the town. He,
however, managed that the shots should fall harmlessly. Another officer
escaped up a chimney, and the Greeks coming into the same house, nearly
suffocated him by lighting a large fire below. Troops arrived; the
mutineers were secured, and a court-martial condemned thirty, half of whom
were to be hanged, and the rest shot. Only five could be hanged at a time:
the first five were therefore suspended by the five who came next, and so
on. Of the men who were to be shot one ran away, and got over a parapet,
where he was afterwards shot: another is thought to have escaped.

Colonel Shaw tells the story of a soldier of the Sicilian regiment who had
frequently deserted. He was condemned to be shot. A priest who visited him
in prison left behind him—purposely, there can be little doubt—his iron
crucifix. The soldier used it to scrape away the mortar, and moved stone
after stone, until he got into an adjoining cell, where he found himself
no better off, as it was locked. The same process was repeated, until he
at last reached a cell of which the door was open, entered the passage and
climbed a wall, beneath which a sentry was posted. Fortunately for the
prisoner, a regular Maltese shower was pouring down, and the guard
remained in his box. The fugitive next reached a high gate, where it
seemed he must be foiled. Not at all! He went back, got his blanket, cut
it into strips, made a rope, and by its means climbed the gate, dropped
into a fosse, from which he reached and swam across the harbour. He lived
concealed for some time among the natives, but venturing one day into the
town, was recognised and captured. The governor considered that after all
this he deserved his life, and changed his sentence to transportation.

Before leaving Malta, which, with its docks, navy-yard, and splendid
harbours, fortifications, batteries, and magazines, is such an important
naval and military station, we may briefly mention the revenue derived,
and expenditure incurred by the Government in connection with it, as both
are considerable. The revenue derived from imposts of the usual nature,
harbour dues, &c., is about £175,000. The military expenditure is about
£366,000, which includes the expenses connected with the detachments of
artillery, and the Royal Maltese Fencibles, a native regiment of 600 to
700 men. The expenses of the Royal Navy would, of course, be incurred
somewhere, if not in Malta, and have therefore nothing to do with the
matter.

Our next points of destination are Alexandria and Suez, both intimately
identified with British interests. On our way we shall be passing through
or near the same waters as did St. Paul when in the custody of the
centurion Julius, “one of Augustus’ band.” It was in “a ship of
Alexandria” that he was a passenger on that disastrous voyage. At Fair
Havens, Crete (or Candia), we know that the Apostle admonished them to
stay, for “sailing was now dangerous,” but his advice was disregarded, and
“when the south wind blew softly” the master and owner of the vessel
feared nothing, but

  “The flattering wind that late with promis’d aid,
  From Candia’s Bay th’ unwilling ship betray’d,
  No longer fawns beneath the fair disguise,”

and “not long after, there arose against it a tempestuous wind called
Euroclydon,” before which the ship drave under bare poles. We know that
she had to be undergirded; cables being passed under her hull to keep her
from parting; and lightened, by throwing the freight overboard. For
fourteen days the ship was driven hither and thither, till at length she
was wrecked off Melita. Sudden gales, whirlwinds, and typhoons are not
uncommon in the Mediterranean; albeit soft winds and calm seas alternate
with them.

On the 22nd May, 1798, Nelson, while in the Gulf of Genoa, was assailed by
a sudden storm, which carried away all the _Vanguard’s_ topmasts, washed
one man overboard, killed an unfortunate middy and a seaman on board, and
wounded others. This ship, which acted her name at the Nile only two
months afterwards, rolled and laboured so dreadfully, and was in such
distress, that Nelson himself declared, “The meanest frigate out of France
would have been an unwelcome guest!” An officer relates that in the middle
of the Gulf of Lyons, Lord Collingwood’s vessel, the _Ocean_, a roomy
98-gun ship, was struck by a sea in the middle of a gale, that threw her
on her beam-ends, so much so that the men on the _Royal Sovereign_ called
out, “The admiral’s gone down!” She righted again, however, but was
terribly disabled. Lord Collingwood said afterwards that the heavy guns
were suspended almost _vertically_, and that “he thought the topsides were
actually parting from the lower frame of the ship.” Admiral Smyth, in his
important physical, hydrographical, and nautical work on the
Mediterranean, relates that in 1812, when on the _Rodney_, a new 74-gun
ship, she was so torn by the united violence of wind and wave, that the
admiral had to send her to England, although sadly in need of ships. He
adds, however, that noble as was her appearance on the waters, “she was
one of that hastily-built batch of men-of-war sarcastically termed the
_Forty Thieves_!”

Many are the varieties of winds accompanied by special characteristics met
in the Mediterranean, and, indeed, sudden squalls are common enough in all
usually calm waters. The writer well remembers such an incident in the
beautiful Bay of San Francisco, California. He had, with friends, started
in the morning from the gay city of “Frisco” on a deep-sea fishing
excursion. The vessel was what is technically known as a “plunger,” a
strongly-built two-masted boat, with deck and cabins, used in the bay and
coast trade of the North Pacific, or for fishing purposes. When the party,
consisting of five ladies, four gentlemen, the master and two men, started
in the morning, there was scarcely a breath of wind or a ripple on the
water, and oars as large as those used on a barge were employed to propel
the vessel.

  “The sea was bright, and the bark rode well,”

and at length the desired haven, a sheltered nook, with fine cliffs,
seaweed-covered rocks, and deep, clear water, was reached, and a dozen
strong lines, with heavy sinkers, put out. The sea was bountiful: in a
couple of hours enough fish were caught to furnish a capital lunch for
all. A camp was formed on the beach, a large fire of driftwood lighted,
and sundry hampers unpacked, from which the necks of bottles had protruded
suspiciously. It was an _al fresco_ picnic by the seaside. The sky was
blue, the weather was delightful, “and all went merry as a marriage bell.”
Later, while some wandered to a distance and bathed and swam, others
clambered over the hills, among the flowers and waving wild oats for which
the country is celebrated. Then, as evening drew on, preparations were
made for a return to the city, and “All aboard” was the signal, for the
wind was freshening. All remained on deck, for there was an abundance of
overcoats and rugs, and shortly the passing schooners and yachts could
hear the strains of minstrelsy from a not altogether incompetent choir,
several of the ladies on board being musically inclined. The sea gives
rise to thoughts of the sea. The reader may be sure that “The Bay of
Biscay,” “The Larboard Watch,” “The Minute Gun,” and “What are the Wild
Waves saying?” came among a score of others. Meantime, the wind kept
freshening, but all of the number being well accustomed to the sea, heeded
it not. Suddenly, in the midst of one of the gayest songs, a squall struck
the vessel, and as she was carrying all sail, put her nearly on her
beam-ends. So violent was the shock, that most things movable on deck,
including the passengers, were thrown or slid to the lower side, many
boxes and baskets going overboard. These would have been trifles, but
alas, there is something sadder to relate. As one of the men was helping
to take in sail, a great sea dashed over the vessel and threw him
overboard, and for a few seconds only, his stalwart form was seen
struggling in the waves. Ropes were thrown to, or rather towards him, an
empty barrel and a coop pitched overboard, but it was hopeless—

  “That cry is ‘Help!’ where no help can come,
  For the White Squall rides on the surging wave,”

and he disappeared in an “ocean grave,” amid the mingled foam and driving
spray. No more songs then; all gaiety was quenched, and many a tear-drop
clouded eyes so bright before. The vessel, under one small sail only (the
jib), drove on, and in half an hour broke out of obscurity and mist, and
was off the wharfs and lights of San Francisco in calm water. The same
distance had occupied over four hours in the morning.

In the Mediterranean every wind has its special name. There is the
searching north wind, the _Grippe_ or _Mistral_, said to be one of the
scourges of gay Provence—

  “La Cour de Parlement, le Mistral et la Durance,
  Sont les trois fléaux de la Provence.”

The north blast, a sudden wind, is called _Boras_, and hundreds of sailors
have practically prayed, with the song,

  “Cease, rude Boreas.”

The north-east biting wind is the _Gregale_, while the south-east, often a
violent wind, is the dreaded _Sirocco_, bad either on sea or shore. The
last which need be mentioned here, is the stifling south-west wind, the
_Siffante_. But now we have reached the Suez Canal.

                       [Illustration: M. LESSEPS.]

This gigantic work, so successfully completed by M. Lesseps, for ever
solved the _possibility_ of a work which up to that time had been so
emphatically declared to be an impossibility. In effect, he _is_ a
conqueror. “_Impossible_,” said the first Napoleon, “_n’est pas
Français_,” and the motto is a good one for any man or any nation,
although the author of the sentence found many things impossible,
including that of which we speak. M. de Lesseps has done more for peace
than ever the Disturber of Europe did with war.

When M. de Lesseps(87) commenced with, not the Canal, but the grand
conception thereof, he had pursued twenty-nine years of first-class
diplomatic service: it would have been an honourable career for most
people. He gave it up from punctilios of honour; lost, at least possibly,
the opportunity of great political power. He was required to endorse that
which he could not possibly endorse. Lesseps had lost his chance, said
many. Let us see. The man who has conquered the usually unconquerable
English prejudice would certainly surmount most troubles! He has _only_
carried out the ideas of Sesostris, Alexander, Cæsar, Amrou, the Arabian
conqueror, Napoleon the Great, and Mehemet Ali. These are simply matters
of history. But history, in this case, has only repeated itself in the
failures, not in the successes. Lesseps has made the success; _they_ were
the failures! Let us review history, amid which you may possibly find many
truths. The truth alone, as far as it may be reached, appears in this
work. The Peace Society ought to endorse Lesseps. As it stands, the Peace
party—well-intentioned people—ought to raise a statue to the man who has
made it almost impossible for England to be involved in war, so far as the
great East is concerned, for many a century to come.

After all, who is the conqueror—he who kills, or he who saves, thousands?

To prove our points, it will not be necessary to recite the full history
of the grandest engineering work of this century—a century replete with
proud engineering works. Here it can only be given in the barest outline.

Every intelligent child on looking at the map would ask why the natural
route to India was not by the Isthmus of Suez, and why a canal was not
made. His schoolmaster answered, in days gone by, that there was a
difference in the levels of the Mediterranean and the Red Sea. That
question has been answered successfully, and the difference has not ruined
the Canal. Others said that it was impossible to dig a canal through the
desert. It has been done! Lord Palmerston, the most serious opponent in
England that Lesseps had,(88) thought that France, our best ally to-day,
would have too much influence in Egypt. Events, thanks to Lord
Beaconsfield’s astute policy, by purchasing the Khedive’s interest, have
given England the largest share among the shareholders of all nations.

It would not be interesting to follow all the troubles that Lesseps
successfully combated. The idea had more than once occurred to him, when
in 1852 he applied to Constantinople. The answer was that it in no way
concerned the Porte. Lesseps returned to his farm at Berry, and not
unlikely constructed miniature Suez Canals for irrigation, thought of
camels while he improved the breed of cattle, and built houses, but not on
the sand of the desert. Indeed, it was while on the roof of one of his
houses, then in course of construction, that the news came to him of the
then Pacha of Egypt’s death (Mehemet Ali). They had once been on familiar
terms. Mehemet Ali was a terribly severe man, and seeing that his son Saïd
Pacha, a son he loved, was growing fat, he had sent him to climb the masts
of ships for two hours a day, to row, and walk round the walls of the
city. Poor little fat boy! he used to steal round to Lesseps’ rooms, and
surreptitiously obtain meals from the servants. Those surreptitious
dinners did not greatly hurt the interests of the Canal, as we shall see.

Mehemet Ali had been a moderate tyrant—to speak advisedly. His son-in-law,
Defderdar, known popularly as the “Scourge of God,” was his acting
vicegerent. The brute once had his groom shod like a horse for having
badly shod his charger. A woman of the country one day came before him,
complaining of a soldier who had bought milk of her, and had refused to
pay for it. “Art thou sure of it?” asked the tyrant. “Take care! they
shall tear open thy stomach if no milk is found in that of the soldier.”
They opened the stomach of the soldier. Milk was found in it. The poor
woman was saved. But, although his successor was not everything that could
be wished, he had a good heart, and was not “the terrible Turk.”

In 1854, Lesseps met Saïd Pacha in his tent on a plain between Alexandria
and Lake Mareotis, a swamp in the desert. His Highness was in good humour,
and understood Lesseps perfectly. A fine Arabian horse had been presented
to him by Saïd Pacha a few days previously. After examining the plans and
investigating the subject, the ruler of Egypt said, “I accept your plan.
We will talk about the means of its execution during the rest of the
journey. Consider the matter settled. You may rely on me.” He sent
immediately for his generals, and made them sit down, repeating the
previous conversation, and inviting them to give their opinion of the
proposals of his _friend_. The impromptu counsellors were better able to
pronounce on equestrian evolutions than on a vast enterprise. But Lesseps,
a good horseman, had just before cleared a wall with his charger, and
they, seeing how he stood with the Viceroy, gave their assent by raising
their hands to their foreheads. The dinner-tray then appeared, and with
one accord all plunged their spoons into the same bowl, which contained
some first-class soup. Lesseps considered it, very naturally, as the most
important negotiation he had ever made.

              [Illustration: BIRD’S-EYE VIEW OF SUEZ CANAL.]

Results speak for themselves. In 1854, there _was not a fly in that
hideous desert_. Water, sheep, fowls, and provisions of all kinds had to
be carried by the explorers. When at night they opened the coops of fowls,
and let the sheep run loose, they did it with confidence. They were sure
that next morning, in that desolate place, the animals dare not desert the
party. “When,” says Lesseps, “we struck our camp of a morning, if at the
moment of departure a hen had lurked behind, pecking at the foot of a
tamarisk shrub, quickly she would jump up on the back of a camel, to
regain her cage.” That desert is now peopled. There are three important
towns. Port Saïd had not existed before: there is now what would be called
a “city,” in America, on a much smaller basis of truth: it has 12,000
people. Suez, with 15,000 people, was not much more than a village
previously. Ismaïlia, half-way on the route, has 5,000 or 6,000 of
population. There are other towns or villages.

A canal actually effecting a junction between the two seas _viâ_ the Nile
was made in the period of the Egyptian dynasties. It doubtless fulfilled
its purpose for the passage of galleys and smaller vessels; history hardly
tells us when it was rendered useless. Napoleon the First knew the
importance of the undertaking, and appointed a commission of engineers to
report on it. M. Lepère presented him a report on its feasibility, and
Napoleon observed on it, “It is a grand work; and though I cannot execute
it now, the day may come when the Turkish Government will glory in
accomplishing it.” Other schemes, including those of eminent Turkish
engineers, had been proposed. It remained to be accomplished in this
century. The advantages gained by its construction can hardly be
enumerated here. Suffice it to say that a vessel going by the Cape of Good
Hope from London to Bombay travels nearly 6,000 miles over the ocean; by
the Suez Canal the distance is 3,100, barely more than half the distance.

To tell the history of the financial troubles which obstructed the scheme
would be tedious to the reader. At last there was an International
Commission appointed, which cost the Viceroy of Egypt £12,000, and yet no
single member took a farthing for his services. The names are sufficient
to prove with what care it had been selected. On the part of England,
Messrs. Rendel and MacClean, both eminent engineers, with, for a
sufficiently good reason, Commander Hewet of the East India Company’s
service, who for twenty-seven years had been making surveys in the Red Sea
and Indian Ocean. France gave two of her greatest engineers, Messrs.
Renaud and Liessou: Austria, one of _the_ greatest practical engineers in
the world, M. de Negrelli; Italy, M. Paléocapa; Germany, the distinguished
Privy Councillor Lentzé; Holland, the Chevalier Conrad; Spain, M. de
Montesino. They reported entirely in favour of the route. A second
International Congress followed. The Viceroy behaved so magnificently to
the scientific gentlemen of all nations who composed the commission, that
M. de Lesseps thanked him publicly for having received them almost as
crowned heads. The Viceroy answered gracefully, “Are they not the crowned
heads of science?”

                  [Illustration: MAP OF THE SUEZ CANAL.]

At last the financial and political difficulties were overcome. In 1858,
an office was opened in Paris, into which money flowed freely. Lesseps
tells good-naturedly some little episodes which occurred. An old
bald-headed priest entered, doubtless a man who had been formerly a
soldier. “Oh! those English,” said he, “I am glad to be able to be
revenged on them by taking shares in the Suez Canal.” Another said, “I
wish to subscribe for ‘Le Chemin de Fer de l’Ile de Suède’” (The Island of
Sweden Railway!) It was remarked to him that the scheme did not include a
railway, and that Sweden is not an island. “That’s all the same to me,” he
replied, “provided it be against the English, I subscribe.” Lord
Palmerston, whose shade must feel uneasy in the neighbourhood of the
Canal, could not have been more prejudiced. At Grenoble, a whole regiment
of engineers—naturally men of intelligence and technical knowledge,
clubbed together for shares. The matter was not settled by even the free
inflow of money. The Viceroy had been so much annoyed by the opposition
shown to the scheme, that it took a good deal of tact on the part of its
promoter to make things run smoothly. For the first four years, Lesseps,
in making the necessary international and financial arrangements,
travelled 30,000 miles per annum.

At length the scheme emerged from fog to fact. The Viceroy had promised
20,000 Egyptian labourers, but in 1861 he begged to be let out of his
engagement. He had to pay handsomely for the privilege. Although the men
were paid higher than they had ever been before, their labour was cheap:
it cost double or treble the amount to employ foreigners.

The Canal, in its course of a shade over 100 miles, passes through several
salt marshes, “Les Petits Bassins des Lacs Amers,” in one of which a
deposit of salt was found, seven miles long by five miles wide. It also
passes through an extensive piece of water, Lake Menzaleh.

At Lake Menzaleh the banks are very slightly above the level of the Canal,
and from the deck of a big steamer there is an unbounded view over a wide
expanse of lake and morass studded with islets, and at times gay and
brilliant with innumerable flocks of rosy pelicans, scarlet flamingoes,
and snow-white spoonbills, geese, ducks, and other birds. The pelicans may
be caught bodily from a boat, so clumsy are they in the water, without the
expenditure of powder and shot. Indeed, the sportsman might do worse than
visit the Canal, where, it is almost needless to state, the shooting is
open to all. A traveller, who has recently passed through the Canal _en
route_ to India, writes that there are alligators also to be seen. The
whole of the channel through Lake Menzaleh was almost entirely excavated
with dredges. When it was necessary to remove some surface soil before
there was water enough for the dredges to float, it was done by the
natives of Lake Menzaleh, a hardy and peculiar race, quite at home in
digging canals or building embankments. The following account shows their
mode of proceeding:—“They place themselves in files across the channel.
The men in the middle of the file have their feet and the lower part of
their legs in the water. These men lean forward and take in their arms
large clods of earth, which they have previously dug up below the water
with a species of pickaxe called a fass, somewhat resembling a short, big
hoe. The clods are passed from man to man to the bank, where other men
stand with their backs turned, and their arms crossed behind them, so as
to make a sort of primitive hod. As soon as each of these has had enough
clods piled on his back, he walks off, bent almost double, to the further
side of the bank, and there opening his arms, lets his load fall through
to the ground. It is unnecessary to add that this original _métier_
requires the absence of all clothing.”(89)

Into the channel thus dug the dredges were floated. One of the machines
employed deserves special mention. The _long couloir_ (duct) was an iron
spout 230 feet long, five and a half wide, and two deep, by means of which
a dredger working in the centre of the channel could discharge its
contents beyond the bank, assisted by the water which was pumped into it.
The work done by these long-spouted dredges has amounted to as much as
120,000 cubic yards a-piece of soil in a month. By all kinds of ingenious
appliances invented for the special needs of the occasion, as much as
2,763,000 cubic yards of excavation were accomplished in a month. M. de
Lesseps tells us that “were it placed in the Place Vendôme, it would fill
the whole square, and rise five times higher than the surrounding houses.”
It would cover the entire length and breadth of the Champs Elysées, and
reach to the top of the trees on either side.

             [Illustration: THE SUEZ CANAL: DREDGES AT WORK.]

Port Saïd, which owes its very existence to the Canal, is to-day a port of
considerable importance, where some of the finest steamships in the world
stop. All the through steamers between Europe and the East—our own grand
“P. & O.” (Peninsular and Oriental) line, the splendid French
“Messageries,” the Austrian Lloyd’s, and dozens of excellent lines, all
make a stay here of eight or ten hours. This is long enough for most
travellers, as, sooth to say, the very land on which it is built had to be
“made,” in other words, it was a tract of swampy desert. It has
respectable streets and squares, docks, quays, churches, mosques, and
hotels. The outer port is formed by two enormous breakwaters, one of which
runs straight out to sea for a distance of 2,726 yards. They have
lighthouses upon them, using electricity as a means of illumination.
Messrs. Borel and Lavalley were the principal contractors for the work.
The ingenious machinery used cost nearly _two and a half million pounds_
(actually £2,400,000), and the _monthly_ consumption of coal cost the
Company £40,000.

The distance from Port Saïd to Suez is 100 miles. The width of the Canal,
where the banks are low, is about 328 feet, and in deep cuttings 190 feet.
The deep channel is marked with buoys. The mole at the Port Saïd
(Mediterranean) end of the Canal stretches out into the sea for over half
a mile, near the Damietta branch of the Nile. This helps to form an
artificial harbour, and checks the mud deposits which might otherwise
choke the entrance. It cost as much as half a million. In the Canal there
are recesses—shall we call them sidings, as on a railway?—where vessels
can enter and allow others to pass.

The scenery, we must confess, is generally monotonous. At Ismaïlia,
however, a town has arisen where there are charming gardens. We are told
that “it seems only necessary to pour the waters of the Nile on the desert
to produce a soil which will grow anything to perfection.” Here the
Viceroy built a temporary palace, and M. de Lesseps himself has a
_châlet_. At Suez itself the scenery is charming. From the height, on
which is placed another of the Khedive’s residences, there is a
magnificent panorama in view. In the foreground is the town, harbour,
roadstead, and mouth of the Canal. To the right are the mountain
heights—Gebel Attákah—which hem in the Red Sea. To the left are the rosy
peaks of Mount Sinai, so familiar to all Biblical students as the spot
where the great Jewish Law was given by God to Moses; and between the two,
the deep, deep blue of the Gulf. Near Suez are the so-called “Wells of
Moses,” natural springs of rather brackish water, surrounded by tamarisks
and date-palms, which help to form an oasis—a pic-nic ground—in the
desert. Dean Stanley has termed the spot “the Richmond of Suez.”

Before leaving the Canal on our outward voyage, it will not be out of
place to note the inauguration _fête_, which must have been to M. de
Lesseps the proudest day of a useful life. Two weeks before that event,
the engineers were for the moment baffled by a temporary obstruction—a
mass of solid rock in the channel. “Go,” said the unconquerable projector,
“and get powder at Cairo—powder in quantities; and then, if we can’t blow
up the rock, we’ll blow up ourselves.” That rock was very soon in
fragments! The spirit and _bonhomie_ of Lesseps made everything easy, and
the greatest difficulties surmountable. “From the beginning of the work,”
says he, “there was not a tent-keeper who did not consider himself an
agent of civilisation.” This, no doubt, was the great secret of his grand
success.

      [Illustration: OPENING OF THE SUEZ CANAL—PROCESSION OF SHIPS.]

The great day arrived. On the 16th of November, 1868, there were 160
vessels ready to pass the Canal. At the last moment that evening it was
announced that an Egyptian frigate had run on one of the banks of the
Canal, and was hopelessly stuck there, obstructing the passage. She could
not be towed off, and the united efforts of several hundred men on the
bank could not at first move her. The Viceroy even proposed to blow her
up. It was only five minutes before arriving at the site of the accident
that an Egyptian admiral signalled to Lesseps from a little steam-launch
that the Canal was free. A procession of 130 vessels was formed, the steam
yacht _L’Aigle_, _en avant_, carrying on board the Empress of the French,
the Emperor of Austria, and the Viceroy. This noble-hearted Empress, who
has been so long exiled in a country she has learned to love, told Lesseps
at Ismaïlia that during the whole journey she had felt “as though a circle
of fire were round her head,” fearing that some disaster might mar the
day’s proceedings. Her pent-up feelings gave way at last; and when success
was assured, she retired to her cabin, where sobs were heard by her
devoted friends—sobs which did great honour to her true and patriotic
heart.

The Viceroy on that occasion entertained 6,000 foreigners, a large
proportion of whom were of the most distinguished kind. Men of all
nationalities came to honour an enlightened ruler, and witness the opening
of a grand engineering work, which had been carried through so many
opposing difficulties; to applaud the man of cool head and active brain,
who had a few years before been by many jeered at, snubbed, and thwarted.
To suitably entertain the vast assemblage, the Viceroy had engaged 500
cooks and 1,000 servants, bringing many of them from Marseilles, Trieste,
Genoa, and Leghorn.

Although the waters of the Canal are usually placid—almost sleepily
calm—they are occasionally lashed up into waves by sudden storms. One
such, which did some damage, occurred on December 9th, 1877.

And now, before leaving the subject, it will be right to mention a few
facts of importance. The tonnage of vessels passing the Canal quadrupled
in five years. As many as thirty-three vessels have been passing in one
day at the same time, although this was exceptional. In 1874, the relative
proportions, as regards the nationalities of tonnage, if the expression
may be permitted, were as follows:—

English    222,000   tons.
French     103,000   „
Dutch       84,000   „
Austrian    63,000   „
Italian     50,000   „
Spanish     39,000   „
German      28,000   „
Various     65,000   „

The present tonnage passing the Canal is much greater. All the world knows
how and why England acquired her present interest in the Canal, but all
the world does not appreciate its value to the full extent.

Suez has special claims to the attention of the Biblical student, for near
it—according to some, eighteen miles south of it—the children of Israel
passed through the Red Sea; 2,000,000 men, women, and children, with
flocks of cattle went dryshod through the dividing walls of water. Holy
Writ informs us that “the Lord caused the sea to go back by a strong east
wind all that night, and made the sea dry land, and the waters were
divided.”(90) The effect of wind, in both raising large masses of water
and in driving them back, is well known, while there are narrow parts of
the Red Sea which have been forded. In the morning “the Egyptians pursued,
and went in after them to the midst of the sea, even all Pharaoh’s horses,
his chariots, and his horsemen.” We know the sequel. The waters returned,
and covered the Egyptian hosts; “there remained not so much as one of
them.” “Then sang Moses and the children of Israel this song unto the
Lord, and spake, saying, I will sing unto the Lord, for he hath triumphed
gloriously: the horse and his rider hath he thrown in the sea. * * *

“Pharaoh’s chariots and his host hath he cast into the sea: his chosen
captains also are drowned in the Red Sea.

“The depths have covered them: they sank into the bottom as a stone.”

           [Illustration: CATCHING PELICANS ON LAKE MENZALEH.]





                              CHAPTER VIII.


              ROUND THE WORLD ON A MAN-OF-WAR (_continued_).


                      THE INDIA AND CHINA STATIONS.


    The Red Sea and its Name—Its Ports—On to the India Station—Bombay:
      Island, City, Presidency—Calcutta—Ceylon, a Paradise—The China
    Station—Hong Kong—Macao—Canton—Capture of Commissioner Yeh—The Sea
    of Soup—Shanghai—“Jack” Ashore there—Luxuries in Market—Drawbacks:
          Earthquakes, and Sand Showers—Chinese Explanations of
          Earthquakes—The Roving Life of the Sailor—Compensating
          Advantages—Japan and its People—The Englishmen of the
     Pacific—Yokohama—Peculiarities of the Japanese—Off to the North.


The Red Sea separates Arabia from Egypt, Nubia, and Abyssinia. Its name is
either derived from the animalculæ which sometimes cover parts of its
surface, or, more probably, from the red and purple coral which abound in
its waters. The Hebrew name signifies “the Weedy Sea,” because the corals
have often plant-like forms. There are reefs of coral in the Red Sea which
utterly prevent approach to certain parts of the coasts. Many of the
islands which border it are of volcanic origin. On the Zeigar Islands
there was an alarming eruption in 1846. England owns one of the most
important of the islands, that of Perim, in the Straits of Bab-el-Mandeb.
It is a barren, black rock, but possesses a fine harbour, and commands one
entrance of the Red Sea. It was occupied by Great Britain in 1799,
abandoned in 1801, and re-occupied on the 11th of February, 1857. Its
fortifications possess guns of sufficient calibre and power to command the
Straits.

                  [Illustration: JIDDAH, FROM THE SEA.]

The entire circuit of the Red Sea is walled by grand mountain ranges. Some
of its ports and harbours are most important places. There is Mocha, so
dear to the coffee-drinker; Jiddah, the port for the holy city of Mecca,
whither innumerable pilgrims repair; Hodeida, and Locheia. It was in
Jiddah that, in 1858, the Moslem population rose against the Christians,
and killed forty-five, including the English and French consuls. On the
African side, besides Suez, there are the ports of Cosseir, Suakim, and
Massuah. The Red Sea is deep for a partially inland sea; there is a
recorded instance of soundings to 1,000 fathoms—considerably over a
mile—and no bottom found.

After leaving the Red Sea, where shall we proceed? We have the choice of
the India, China, or Australia Stations. Actually, to do the voyage
systematically, Bombay would be the next point.

Bombay, in general terms, is three things: a city of three-quarters of a
million souls; a presidency of 12,000,000 inhabitants; or an island—the
island of Mambai, according to the natives, or Buon Bahia, the “good
haven,” if we take the Portuguese version. The city is built on the
island, which is not less than eight miles long by three broad, but the
presidency extends to the mainland.

In 1509, the Portuguese visited it, and in 1530 it became theirs. In 1661,
it was blindly ceded to our Charles II., as simply a part of the dowry of
his bride, the Infanta Catherine. Seven years after Charles the Dissolute
had obtained what is now the most valuable colonial possession of Great
Britain, he ceded it to the Honourable East India Company—though, of
course, for a handsome consideration.

Bombay has many advantages for the sailor. It is always accessible during
the terrible south-west monsoons, and possesses an anchoring ground of
fifty miles, sheltered by islands and a magnificent series of breakwaters,
at the south end of which is a grand lighthouse. Its docks and dockyards
cover fifty acres; ship-building is carried on extensively; and there is
an immense trade in cotton, coffee, opium, spices, gums, ivory, and
shawls. Of its 700,000 inhabitants, 50,000 are
Parsees—Persians—descendants of the original Fire-worshippers. A large
proportion of them are merchants. It may not be generally known to our
readers that the late Sir Jamsetjee Jeejeebhoy—who left wealth untold,
although all his days he had been a humane and charitable man, and who
established in Bombay alone two fine hospitals—was a Parsee.

Calcutta, in 1700, was but a collection of petty villages, surrounding the
factories or posts of the East India Company, and which were presented to
that corporation by the Emperor of Delhi. They were fortified, and
received the name of Fort William, in honour of the reigning king. It
subsequently received the title of Calcutta, that being the name of one of
the aforesaid villages. Seven years after that date, Calcutta was attacked
suddenly by Surajah Dowlah, Nawab of Bengal. Abandoned by many who should
have defended it, 146 English fell into the enemy’s hands, who put them
into that confined and loathsome cell of which we have all read, the
“Black Hole of Calcutta.” Next morning but twenty-three of the number were
found alive. Lord Clive, eight months later, succeeded in recapturing
Calcutta, and after the subsequently famous battle of Plassey, the
possessions of the East India Company greatly extended. To-day Calcutta
has a “Strand” longer than that of London, and the batteries of Fort
William, which, with their outworks, cover an area half a mile in
diameter, and have cost £2,000,000, form the strongest fortress in India.

Across the continent by railway, and we land easily in Calcutta. It has,
with its suburbs, a larger population than Bombay, but can never rival it
as a port, because it is a hundred miles up the Hooghly River, and
navigation is risky, although ships of 2,000 tons can reach it. It derives
its name from Kali Ghatta, the ghaut or landing-place of the goddess Kali.
Terrible cyclones have often devastated it; that in 1867 destroyed 30,000
native houses, and a very large amount of human life.

                   [Illustration: CYCLONE AT CALCUTTA.]

The sailor’s route would, however, take him, if bound to China or
Australia, round the island of Ceylon, in which there are two harbours,
Point de Galle, used as a stopping-place, a kind of “junction” for the
great steamship lines, of which the splendid Peninsular and Oriental (the
“P. & O.”) Company, is the principal. Point de Galle is the most
convenient point, but it does not possess a first-class harbour. At
Trincomalee, however, there is a magnificent harbour.

Ceylon is one of the most interesting islands in the world. It is the
Serendib of the “Arabian Nights,” rich in glorious scenery, equable
climate, tropical vegetation, unknown quantities of gems and pearls, and
many minerals. The sapphire, ruby, topaz, garnet, and amethyst abound. A
sapphire was found in 1853 worth £4,000. Its coffee plantations are a
source of great wealth. Palms, flowering shrubs, tree ferns,
rhododendrons, as big as timber trees, clothe the island in perennial
verdure. The elephant, wild boar, leopard, bear, buffalo, humped ox, deer,
palm-cat and civet are common, but there are few dangerous or venomous
animals. The Singhalese population, really Hindoo colonists, are
effeminate and cowardly. The Kandyans, Ceylonese Highlanders, who dwell in
the mountains, are a more creditable race, sturdy and manly. Then there
are the Malabars, early Portuguese and Dutch settlers, with a sprinkling
of all nationalities.

There, too, are the outcast Veddahs, the real wild men of the woods. With
them there is no God—no worship. The Rock Veddahs live in the jungle,
follow the chase, sleep in caves or in the woods, eat lizards, and
consider roast monkey a prime dish. The Village Veddahs are a shade more
civilised.

One reads constantly in the daily journals of the India, China, or
Australian Stations, and the reader may think that they are very
intelligible titles. He may be surprised to learn that the East India
Station not merely includes the ports of India and Ceylon, but the whole
Indian Ocean, as far south as Madagascar, and the east coast of Africa,
including Zanzibar and Mozambique, where there are dockyards. The China
Station includes Japan, Borneo, Sumatra, the Philippine Islands, and the
coast of Kamchatka and Eastern Siberia to Bering Sea. The Australian
Station includes New Zealand and New Guinea. The leading stations in China
are Hong Kong, Canton, and Shanghai. Vessels bound to the port of Canton
have to enter the delta of the Pearl River, the area of which is largely
occupied with isles and sandbanks. There are some thirty forts on the
banks. When the ship has passed the mouth of this embouchure, which forms,
in general terms, a kind of triangle, the sides of which are 100 miles
each in length, you can proceed either to the island of Hong Kong, an
English colony, or to the old Portuguese settlement of Macao.

The name Hong Kong is a corruption of Hiang Kiang,(91) which is by
interpretation “Scented Stream.” Properly, the designation belongs to a
small stream on the southern side of the island, where ships’ boats have
long been in the habit of obtaining fine pure water; but now the name is
given by foreigners to the whole island. The island is about nine miles in
length, and has a very rugged and barren surface, consisting of rocky
ranges of hills and mountains, intersected by ravines, through which
streams of the purest water flow unceasingly. Victoria, Hong Kong, is the
capital of the colony, and the seat of government. It extends for more
than three miles east and west, part of the central grounds being occupied
by military barracks and hospitals, commissariat buildings, colonial
churches, post-office, and harbour-master’s depôt, all of which are
overlooked by the Government-house itself, high up on the hill. Close to
the sea-beach are the commercial houses, clubs, exchange, and
market-places.

It was the shelter, security, and convenience offered by the harbour that
induced our Government to select it for a British settlement; it has one
of the noblest roadsteads in the world. Before the cession to England in
1841, the native population on the island did not exceed 2,000; now there
are 70,000 or 80,000.

Macao (pronounced _Macow_) is forty miles to the westward of Hong Kong,
and an agreeable place as regards its scenery and surroundings, but
deficient as regards its harbour accommodation. Dr. Milne, himself a
missionary resident for fourteen years in China, says, writing in 1859:
“To some of the present generation of English residents in China, there
can be anything but associations of a comfortable kind connected with
Macao, recollecting as they must the unfriendly policy which the
Portuguese on the spot pursued some sixteen or seventeen years since, and
the bitterly hostile bearing which the Chinese of the settlement were
encouraged to assume towards the ‘red-haired English.’”

Macao is a peninsula, eight miles in circuit, stretching out from a large
island. The connecting piece of land is a narrow isthmus, which in native
topography is called “the stalk of a water-lily.” In 1840 a low wall
stretched across this isthmus, the foundation stones of which had been
laid about three hundred years ago, with the acknowledged object of
limiting the movements of foreigners. This was the notorious “barrier,”
which, during the Chinese war of 1840-1, was used to annoy the English. As
large numbers of the peasantry had to pass the “barrier gates” with
provisions for the mixed population at Macao, it was a frequent manœuvre
with the Chinese authorities to stop the market supplies by closing the
gate, and setting over it a guard of half-starved and ravenous soldiery.

                          [Illustration: MACAO.]

Leaving Macao for Canton, the ship passes the celebrated “Bogue Forts,”
threads her course through a network of islets and mud-banks, and at last
drops anchor twelve miles from the city off the island of Whampoa, where
the numerous and grotesque junks, “egg boats,” “sampans,” &c., indicate a
near approach to an important place. The name Canton is a European
corruption of Kwang-tung, the “Broad East.” Among the Chinese it is
sometimes described poetically as “the city of the genii,” “the city of
grain,” and the “city of rams.” The origin of these terms is thus shown in
a native legend. After the foundation of the city, which dates back 2,000
years, five genii, clothed in garments of five different colours, and
riding on five rams of different colours, met on the site of Canton. Each
of the rams bore in its mouth a stalk of grain having five ears, and
presented them to the tenants of the soil, to whom they spake in these
words:—

  “May famine and death never visit you!”

Upon this the rams were immediately petrified into stone images. There is
a “Temple of the Five Rams” close to one of the gates of Canton.

The river scene at Canton is most interesting. It is a floating town of
huts built on rafts and on piles, with boats of every conceivable size,
shape and use, lashed together. “It is,” says Dr. Milne, “an _aquarium_ of
human occupants.” Canton has probably a population of over a million. The
entire circuit of city and suburbs cannot be far from ten miles.

Canton was bombarded in 1857-8 by an allied English and French force. Ten
days were given to the stubborn Chinese minister, Yeh, to accede to the
terms dictated by the Allies, and every means was taken to inform the
native population of the real _casus belli_, and to advise them to remove
from the scene of danger. Consul Parkes and Captain Hall were engaged
among other colporteurs in the rather dangerous labour of distributing
tracts and bills. In one of their rapid descents, Captain Hall caught a
mandarin in his chair, not far from the city gate, and pasted him up in it
with bills, then starting off the bearers to carry this new advertising
van into the city! The Chinese crowd, always alive to a practical joke,
roared with laughter. When the truce expired, more than 400 guns and
mortars opened fire upon the city, great pains being taken only to injure
the city walls, official Chinese residences, and hill forts. Then a force
of 3,000 men was landed, and the city was between two fires. The
hill-forts were soon taken, and an expedition planned and executed,
chiefly to capture the native officials of high rank. Mr. Consul Parkes,
with a party, burst into a _yamun_, an official residence, and in a few
seconds Commissioner Yeh was in the hands of the English. An ambitious
_aide-de-camp_ of Yeh’s staff protested strongly that the captive was the
wrong man, loudly stammering out, “_Me_ Yeh! _Me_ Yeh!” But this attempted
deceit was of no avail; the prize was safely bagged, and shortly
afterwards the terms of peace were arranged. The loss of life in the
assault was not over 140 British and 30 French.

Shanghai is a port which has grown up almost entirely since 1844, the date
of its first occupation by foreigners for purposes of commerce. Then there
were only forty-four foreign merchant ships, twenty-three foreign
residents and families, one consular flag, and two Protestant
missionaries. Twelve years later, there were, for six months’ returns, 249
British ships, fifty-seven American, eleven Hamburg, eleven Dutch, nine
Swedish, seven Danish, six Spanish, and seven Portuguese, besides those of
other nationalities. The returns for the whole year embraced 434 ships of
all countries; tea exports, 76,711,659 pounds; silk, 55,537 bales.

Shanghai (“the Upper Sea”) has been written variously Canhay, Changhay,
Xanghay, Zonghae, Shanhae, Shanghay, and so forth. Its proper
pronunciation is as if the final syllable were “high,” not “hay.”

“Sailing towards the north of China,” says Milne, “keeping perhaps fifty
or sixty miles off the coast, as the ship enters the thirtieth parallel, a
stranger is startled some fine morning by coming on what looks like a
shoal—perhaps a sand-bank, a reef—he knows not what. It is an expanse of
coloured water, stretching out as far as the eye can reach, east, north,
and west, and entirely distinct from the deep-blue sea which hitherto the
vessel had been ploughing. Of course, he finds that it is the ‘Yellow
Sea;’ a sea so yellow, turbid, and thick, certainly, that you might think
all the pease-soup in creation, and a great deal more, had been emptied
into one monster cistern.” The name is therefore appropriate, as are the
designations of several others:

  “The Yellow Sea, the Sea that’s Red,
  The White, the Black, the one that’s Dead.”

Between the thirtieth degree of north latitude, where the group of the
Choosan Islands commences, and the thirty-seventh degree, this sea of
soup, this reservoir of tawny liquid, ranges, fed by three great rivers,
the Tseen-Tang, the Yangtsze-Kiang, and the Hwang-Ho, the greatest of
which is the second, and which contributes the larger part of the muddy
solution held in its waters. Forty-five miles from the _embouchure_ of the
Yangtsze-Kiang, you reach the Woosung anchorage, and a few miles further
the city of Shanghai, where the tributary you have been following divides
into the Woosung and Whampoa branches, at the fork of which the land ceded
to the British is situated. Here there is a splendid British consulate,
churches, mansions, and foreign mercantile houses.

The old city was built over three centuries ago, and is encircled, as
indeed are nearly all large Chinese cities and towns, by a wall
twenty-four feet high and fifteen broad; it is nearly four miles in
circumference. Shanghai was at one time greatly exposed to the
depredations of freebooters and pirates, and partly in consequence of this
the wall is plentifully provided with loop-holes, arrow-towers, and
military observatories. The six great gates of the city of Shanghai have
grandiloquent titles, _à la Chinoise_. The north gate is the “calm-sea
gate;” the great east gate is that for “paying obeisance to the honourable
ones;” the little east one is “the precious girdle gate;” the great south
is the gate for “riding the dragon,” while another is termed “the pattern
Phœnix.”

Its oldest name is Hoo. In early days the following curious mode of
catching fish was adopted. Rows of bamboo stakes, joined by cords, were
driven into the mud of the stream, among which, at ebb tide, the fish
became entangled, and were easily caught. This mode of fishing was called
_hoo_, and as at one time Shanghai was famous for its fishing stakes, it
gained the name of the “Hoo city.” The tides rise very rapidly in the
river, and sometimes give rise to alarming inundations. Lady Wortley’s
description of the waters of the Mississippi apply to the river-water of
Shanghai; “it looks marvellously like an enormous running stream of
apothecary’s stuff, a very strong decoction of mahogany-coloured bark,
with a slight dash of port wine to deepen its hue; it is a
mulatto-complexioned river, there is no doubt of that, and wears the
deep-tanned livery of the burnished sun.” Within and without the walls,
the city is cut up by ditches and moats, which, some years ago, instead of
being sources of benefit and health to the inhabitants, as they were
originally intended to be, were really open sewers, breathing out effluvia
and pestilence. In some respects, however, Shanghai is now better ordered
as regards municipal arrangements.

The fruits of the earth are abundant at Shanghai, and “Jack ashore” may
revel in delicious peaches, figs, persimmons, cherries, plums, oranges,
citrons, and pomegranates, while there is a plentiful supply of fish,
flesh, and fowl. Grains of all kinds, rice, and cotton are cultivated
extensively; the latter gives employment at the loom for thousands. On the
other hand there are drawbacks in the shape of clouds of musquitoes,
flying-beetles, heavy rains, monsoons, and earthquakes. The prognostics of
the latter are a highly electric state of the atmosphere, long drought,
excessive heat, and what can only be described as a stagnation of all
nature. Dr. Milne, reciting his experiences, says: “At the critical moment
of the commotion, the earth began to rock, the beams and walls cracked
like the timbers of a ship under sail, and a nausea came over one, a
sea-sickness really horrible. At times, for a second or two previous to
the vibration, there was heard a subterraneous growl, a noise as of a
mighty rushing wind whirling about under ground.” The natives were
terror-struck, more especially if the quake happened at night, and there
would burst a mass of confused sounds, “Kew ming! Kew ming!” (“Save your
lives! save your lives!”) Dogs added their yells to the medley, amid the
striking of gongs and tomtoms. Next day there would be exhaustless gossip
concerning upheaval and sinking of land, flames issuing from the
hill-sides, and ashes cast about the country. The Chinese ideas on the
subject are various. Some thought the earth had become too hot, and that
it had to relieve itself by a shake, or that it was changing its place for
another part of the universe. Others said that the Supreme One, to bring
transgressors to their senses, thought to alarm them by a quivering of the
earth. The notion most common among the lower classes is, that there are
six huge sea-monsters, great fish, which support the earth, and that if
any one of these move, the earth must be agitated. Superstition is rife in
ascribing these earth-shakings chiefly to the remissness of the
priesthood. In almost every temple there is a _muh-yu_—an image of a scaly
wooden fish, suspended near the altar, and among the duties of the
priests, it is rigidly prescribed that they keep up an everlasting tapping
on it. If they become lax in their duties, the fish wriggle and shake the
earth to bring the drowsy priests to a sense of their duty.

A singular meteorological phenomenon often occurs at Shanghai—_a fall of
dust_, fine, light and impalpable, sometimes black, ordinarily yellow. The
sun or moon will scarcely be visible through this sand shower. The deposit
of this exquisite powder is sometimes to the extent of a quarter of an
inch, after a fall of a day or two; it will penetrate the closest venetian
blinds; it overspreads every article of furniture in the house; finds its
way into the innermost chambers and recesses. In walking about, one’s
clothes are covered with dust—the face gets grimy, the mouth and throat
parched; the teeth grate; the eyes, ears, and nostrils become itchy and
irritable. The fall sometimes extends as far as Ningpo in the
interior—also some 200 miles out at sea. Some think that it is blown all
the way from the steppes of Mongolia, after having been wafted by typhoons
into the upper regions of the air: others think that it comes across the
seas from the Japanese volcanoes, which are constantly subject to
eruptions.

             [Illustration: VESSELS IN THE PORT OF SHANGHAI.]

The population of Shanghai, rapidly increasing, is probably about 400,000
to 450,000 souls. It swarms with professional beggars. Among the many
creditable things cited by Milne regarding the Chinese, is the number of
native charitable institutions in Canton, Ningpo, and Shanghai, including
Foundling Hospitals, the (Shanghai) “Asylum for Outcast Children, retreats
for poor and destitute widows, shelters for the maimed and blind, medical
dispensaries, leper hospitals, vaccine establishments, almshouses, free
burial societies,” and so forth. So much for the heartless Chinese.

The sailor certainly has this compensation for his hard life, that he sees
the world, and visits strange countries and peoples by the dozen,
privileges for which many a man tied at home by the inevitable force of
circumstances would give up a great deal. What an oracle is he on his
return, amid his own family circle or friends! How the youngsters in
particular hang on his every word, look up at his bronzed and honest face,
and wish that they could be sailors,—

  “Strange countries for to see.”

How many curiosities has he not to show—from the inevitable parrot,
chattering in a foreign tongue, or swearing roundly in English vernacular,
to the little ugly idol brought from India, but possibly manufactured in
Birmingham!(92) If from China, he will probably have brought home some
curious caddy, fearfully and wonderfully inlaid with dragons and
impossible landscapes; an ivory pagoda, or, perhaps, one of those
wonderfully-carved balls, with twenty or so more inside it, all separate
and distinct, each succeeding one getting smaller and smaller. He may have
with him a native oil-painting; if a portrait, stolid and hard; but if of
a ship, true to the last rope, and exact in every particular. In San
Francisco, where there are 14,000 or more Chinese, may be seen native
paintings of vessels which could hardly be excelled by a European artist,
and the cost of which for large sizes, say 3½ by 2½ feet, was only about
fifteen dollars (£3). What with fans, handkerchiefs, Chinese ladies’ shoes
for feet about three inches in length, lanterns, chopsticks, pipes,
rice-paper drawings, books, neat and quaint little porcelain articles for
presents at home, it will be odd if Jack, who has been mindful of the “old
folks at home,” and the young folks too, and the “girl he left behind
him,” does not become a very popular man.

And then his yarns of Chinese life! How on his first landing at a port,
the natives in proffering their services hastened to assure him in “pigeon
English” (“pigeon” is a native corruption of “business,” as a mixed jargon
had and has to be used in trading with the lower classes) that “Me all
same Englische man; me belly good man;” or “You wantee washy? me washy
you?” which is simply an offer to do your laundry work;(93) or “You wantee
glub (grub); me sabee (know) one shop all same Englische belly good.” Or,
perhaps, he has met a Chinaman accompanying a coffin home, and yet looking
quite happy and jovial. Not knowing that it is a common custom to present
coffins to relatives during lifetime, he inquires, “Who’s dead, John?” “No
man hab die,” replies the Celestial, “no man hab die. Me makee my olo
fader cumsha. Him likee too muchee, countoo my number one popa, s’pose he
die, can catchee,” which freely translated is—“No one is dead. It is a
present from me to my aged father, with which he will be much pleased. I
esteem my father greatly, and it will be at his service when he dies.” How
one of the common names for a foreigner, especially an Englishman, is “I
say,” which derived its use simply from the Chinese hearing our sailors
and soldiers frequently ejaculate the words when conversing, as for
example, “I say, Bill, there’s a queer-looking pigtail!” The Chinese took
it for a generic name, and would use it among themselves in the most
curious way, as for example, “A red-coated _I say_ sent me to buy a fowl;”
or “Did you see a tall _I say_ here a while ago?” The application is,
however, not more curious than the title of “John” bestowed on the
Chinaman by most foreigners as a generic distinction. Less flattering
epithets used to be freely bestowed on us, especially in the interior,
such as “foreign devil,” “red-haired devil,” &c. The phrase Hungmaou,
“red-haired,” is applied to foreigners of all classes, and arose when the
Dutch first opened up trade with China. A Chinese work, alluding to their
arrival, says, “Their raiment was red, and their hair too. They had bluish
eyes, deeply sunken in their head, and our people were quite frightened by
their strange aspect.”

Jack will have to tell how many strange anomalies met his gaze. For
example, in launching their junks and vessels, they are sent into the
water _sideways_. The horseman mounts on the _right_ side. The scholar,
reciting his lesson, _turns his back_ on his master. And if Jack, or, at
all events one of his superior officers, goes to a party, he should not
wear light pumps, but as thick solid shoes as he can get; _white lead_ is
used for _blacking_. On visits of ceremony, you should keep your hat _on_;
and when you advance to your host, you should close your fists and _shake
hands with yourself_. Dinners commence with sweets and fruits, and _end_
with fish and soup. White is the funereal colour. You may see adults
gravely flying kites, while the youngsters look on; shuttlecocks are
battledored by the _heel_. Books begin at the end; the paging is at the
bottom, and in reading, you proceed from right to left. The surname
precedes the Christian name. The fond mother holds her babe to her nose to
smell it—as she would a rose—instead of kissing it.

What yarns he will have to tell of pigtails! How the Chinese sailor lashes
it round his cap at sea; how the crusty pedagogue, with no other rod of
correction, will, on the spur of the moment, lash the refractory scholar
with it; and how, for fun, a wag will tie two or three of his companions’
tails together, and start them off in different directions! But he will
also know from his own or others’ experiences that the foreigner must not
attempt practical jokes upon John Chinaman’s tail. “_Noli me tangere_,”
says Dr. Milne, “is the order of the tail, as well as of the thistle.”

Now that most of the restrictions surrounding foreigners in Japan have
been removed, and that enlightened people—the Englishmen of the Pacific in
enterprise and progress—have taken their proper place among the nations of
the earth, visits to Japan are commonly made by even ordinary tourists
making the circuit of the globe, and we shall have to touch there again in
another “voyage round the world” shortly to follow. The English sailors of
the Royal Navy often have an opportunity of visiting the charming islands
which constitute Japan. Its English name is a corruption of
_Tih-punquo_—Chinese for “Kingdom of the Source of the Sun.” Marco Polo
was the first to bring to Europe intelligence of the bright isles, whose
Japanese name, Nipon or Niphon, means literally “Sun-source.”

On the way to Yokohama, the great port of Japan, the voyager will
encounter the monsoons, the north-east version of which brings deliciously
cool air from October to March, while the south-west monsoon brings hot
and weary weather. On the way Nagasaki, on the island of Kiusiu, will
almost certainly be visited, which has a harbour with a very narrow
entrance, with hills running down to the water’s edge, beautifully covered
with luxuriant grass and low trees. The Japanese have planted batteries on
either side, which would probably prevent any vessel short of a strong
ironclad from getting in or out of the harbour. The city has a population
at least of 150,000. There are a number of Chinese restricted to one
quarter, surrounded by a high wall, in which is a heavy gate, that is
securely locked every night. Their dwellings are usually mean and filthy,
and compare very unfavourably with the neat, clean, matted dwellings of
the Japanese. The latter despise the former; indeed, you can scarcely
insult a native more than to compare him with his brother of Nankin. The
Japanese term them the Nankin Sans.

The island of Niphon, on which Yokohama is situated, is about one hundred
and seventy miles long by seventy broad, while Yesso is somewhat longer
and narrower. Japan really became known to Europe through Fernando Mendez
Pinto, a Portuguese who was shipwrecked there in 1549. Seven years later
the famous Jesuit, Francis Xavier, introduced the Catholic faith, which
for a long time made great progress. But a fatal mistake was made in 1580,
when an embassy was sent to the Pope with presents and vows of allegiance.
The reigning Tycoon(94) had his eyes opened by this act, and saw that to
profess obedience to any spiritual lord was to weaken his own power
immeasurably. The priests of the old religions, too, complained bitterly
of the loss of their flocks, and the Tycoon determined to crush out the
Christian faith. Thousands upon thousands of converts were put to death,
and the very last of them are said to have been hurled from the rock of
Papenberg, at Nagasaki, into the sea. In 1600, William Adams, an English
sailor on a Dutch ship, arrived in the harbour of Bungo, and speedily
became a favourite with the Tycoon, who, through him, gave the English
permission to establish a trading “factory” on the island of Firando. This
was later on abandoned, but the Dutch East India Company continued the
trade on the same island, under very severe restrictions. The fire-arms
and powder on their ships were taken from them immediately on arrival, and
only returned when the ships were ready for sea again.

                        [Illustration: YOKOHAMA.]

Yokohama, the principal port, stands on a flat piece of ground, at the
wide end of a valley, which runs narrowing up for several miles in the
country. The site was reclaimed from a mere swamp by the energy of the
Government; and there is now a fine sea-wall facing the sea, with two
piers running out into it, on each of which there is a custom-house. The
average Japanese in the streets is clothed in a long thin cotton robe,
open in front and gathered at the waist by a cloth girdle. This
constitutes the whole of his dress, save a scanty cloth tied tightly round
the loins, cotton socks and wooden clogs. The elder women look hideous,
but some of their ugliness is self-inflicted, as it is the fashion, when a
woman becomes a wife, to draw out the hair of her eyebrows and varnish her
teeth black! Their teeth are white, and they still have their eyebrows,
but are too much prone to the use of chalk and vermilion on their cheeks.
Every one is familiar with the Japanese stature—under the general
average—for there are now a large number of the natives resident in
London.

Jack will soon find out that the Japanese _cuisine_ is most varied. Tea
and sacki, or rice beer, are the only liquors used, except, of course, by
travelled, Europeanised, or Americanised Japanese. They sit on the floor,
squatting on their heels in a manner which tires Europeans very rapidly,
although they look as comfortable as possible. The floor serves them for
chair, table, bed, and writing-desk. At meals there is a small stand,
about nine inches high, by seven inches square, placed before each
individual, and on this is deposited a small bowl, and a variety of little
dishes. Chopsticks are used to convey the food to their mouths. Their most
common dishes are fish boiled with onions, and a kind of small bean,
dressed with oil; fowls stewed and cooked in all ways; boiled rice. Oil,
mushrooms, carrots, and various bulbous roots, are greatly used in making
up their dishes. In the way of a bed in summer, they merely lie down on
the mats, and put a _wooden_ pillow under their heads; but in winter
indulge in warm quilts, and have brass pans of charcoal at the feet. They
are very cleanly, baths being used constantly, and the public bath-houses
being open to the street. Strangely enough, however, although so
particular in bodily cleanliness, they never wash their clothes, but wear
them till they almost drop to pieces. A gentleman who arrived there in
1859, had to send his clothes to Shanghai to be washed—a journey of 1,600
miles! Since the great influx of foreigners, however, plenty of Niphons
have turned laundrymen.

Their tea-gardens, like those of the Chinese, are often large and
extremely ornamental, and at them one obtains a cup of genuine tea made
before your eyes for one-third of a halfpenny.(95)

                  [Illustration: THE FUSIYAMA MOUNTAIN.]

The great attraction, in a landscape point of view, outside Yokohama, is
the grand Fusiyama Mountain, an extinct volcano, the great object of
reverence and pride in the Japanese heart, and which in native drawings
and carvings is incessantly represented. A giant, 14,000 feet high, it
towers grandly to the clouds, snow-capped and streaked. It is deemed a
holy and worthy deed to climb to its summit, and to pray in the numerous
temples that adorn its sides. Thousands of pilgrims visit it annually. And
now let us make a northward voyage.

                   [Illustration: A TEA MART IN JAPAN.]





                               CHAPTER IX.


              ROUND THE WORLD ON A MAN-OF-WAR (_continued_).


             NORTHWARD AND SOUTHWARD—THE AUSTRALIAN STATION.


       The Port of Peter and Paul—Wonderful Colouring of Kamchatka
     Hills—Grand Volcanoes—The Fight at Petropaulovski—A Contrast—An
    International Pic-nic—A Double Wedding—Bering’s Voyages—Kamchatka
            worthy of Further Exploration—Plover Bay—Tchuktchi
     Natives—Whaling—A Terrible Gale—A Novel “Smoke-stack”—Southward
        again—The Liverpool of the East—Singapore, a Paradise—New
     Harbour—Wharves and Shipping—Cruelties of the Coolie Trade—Junks
          and Prahus—The Kling-gharry Drivers—The Durian and its
     Devotees—Australia—Its Discovery—Botany Bay and the Convicts—The
         First Gold—Port Jackson—Beauty of Sydney—Port Philip and
                                Melbourne.


Many English men-of-war have visited the interesting peninsula of
Kamchatka, all included in the China station. How well the writer
remembers the first time he visited Petropaulovski, the port of Peter and
Paul! Entering first one of the noblest bays in the whole world—glorious
Avatcha Bay—and steaming a short distance, the entrance to a capital
harbour disclosed itself. In half an hour the vessel was inside a
landlocked harbour, with a sand-spit protecting it from all fear of gales
or sudden squalls. Behind was a highly-coloured little town, red roofs,
yellow walls, and a church with burnished turrets. The hills around were
autumnly frost-coloured; but not all the ideas the expression will convey
to an artist could conjure up the reality. Indian yellow merging through
tints of gamboge, yellow, and brown ochre to sombre brown; madder lake,
brown madder, Indian red to Roman sepia; greys, bright and dull greens
indefinable, and utterly indescribable, formed a _mélange_ of colour which
defied description whether by brush or pen. It was delightful; but it was
puzzling. King Frost had completed at night that which autumn had done by
day. Then behind rose the grand mountain of Koriatski, one of a series of
great volcanoes. It seemed a few miles off; it was, although the wonderful
clearness of the atmosphere belied the fact, some thirty miles distant. An
impregnable fortress of rock, streaked and capped with snow, it defies
time and man. Its smoke was constantly observed; its pure snows only hid
the boiling, bubbling lava beneath.

With the exception of a few decent houses, the residences of the civil
governor, captain of the port, and other officials, and a few foreign
merchants, the town makes no great show. The poorer dwellings are very
rough, and, indeed, are almost exclusively log cabins. A very picturesque
and noticeable building is the old Greek church, which has painted red and
green roofs, and a belfry full of bells, large and small, detached from
the building, and only a foot or two raised above the ground. It is to be
noted that the town, as it existed in Captain Clerke’s time, was built on
the sand-spit. It was once a military post, but the Cossack soldiers have
been removed to the Amoor.

There are two monuments of interest in Petropaulovski; one in honour of
Bering, the second to the memory of La Perouse. The former is a plain
cast-iron column, railed in, while the latter is a most nondescript
construction of sheet iron, and is of octagonal form. Neither of these
navigators is buried in the town. Poor Bering’s remains lie on the island
where he miserably perished, and which now bears his name; while of the
fate of La Perouse, and his unfortunate companions, little is known.

In 1855, Petropaulovski was visited by the allied fleets, during the
period of our war with Russia. They found an empty town, for the Russian
Government had given up all idea of defending it. The combined fleet
captured one miserable whaler, razed the batteries, and destroyed some of
the government buildings. There were good and sufficient reasons why they
should have done nothing. The poor little town of Saints Peter and Paul
was beneath notice, as victory there could never be glorious. But a
stronger reason existed in the fact, recorded in a dozen voyages, that
from the days of Cook and Clerke to our own, it had always been famous for
the unlimited hospitality and assistance shown to explorers and voyagers,
without regard to nationality. All is _not_ fair in war. Possibly,
however, reason might be found for the havoc done, in the events of the
previous year.

In August, 1854, the inhabitants of Petropaulovski had covered themselves
with glory, much to their own surprise. On the 28th of the month, six
English and French vessels—the _President_, _Virago_, _Pique_, _La Fort_,
_l’Eurydice_, and _l’Obligado_—entered Avatcha Bay. Admiral Price
reconnoitred the harbour and town, and placed the _Virago_ in position at
2,000 yards. The Russians had two vessels, the _Aurora_ and _Dwina_, to
defend the harbour, and a strong chain was placed across its narrow
entrance. The town was defended by seven batteries and earthworks,
mounting fifty guns.

It was not difficult to silence the batteries, and they were accordingly
silenced. The townspeople, with their limited knowledge of the
English—those English they had always so hospitably received, and who were
now doing their best to kill them—thought their hour was come, and that,
if not immediately executed, they would have to languish exiles in a
foreign land, far from their beautiful Kamchatka. The town was, and is,
defended almost as much by nature as by art. High hills shut it in so
completely, and the harbour entrance can be so easily defended, that there
is really only one vulnerable point, in its rear, where a small valley
opens out into a plot of land bordering the bay. Here it was thought
desirable to land a body of men.

Accordingly, 700 marines and sailors were put ashore. The men looked
forward to an easy victory, and hurriedly, in detached and straggling
style, pressed forward to secure it. Alas! they had reckoned without their
host—they were rushing heedlessly into the jaws of death. A number of
bushes and small trees existed, and still exist, on the hill-sides
surrounding this spot, and behind them were posted Cossack sharp-shooters,
who fired into our men, and, either from skill or accident, picked off
nearly every officer. The men, not seeing their enemy, and having lost
their leaders, became panic-struck, and fell back in disorder. A retreat
was sounded, but the men struggling in the bushes and underbrush (and, in
truth, most of them being sailors, were out of their element on land)
became much scattered, and it was generally believed that many were killed
by the random shots of their companions. A number fled up a hill at the
rear of the town; their foes pursued and pressed upon them, and many were
killed by falling over the steep cliff in which the hill terminates.

The inhabitants, astonished at their own prowess, and knowing that they
could not hold the town against a more vigorous attack, were preparing to
vacate it, when the fleet weighed anchor and set sail, and no more was
seen of them that year! The sudden death of our admiral is always
attributed to the events of that attack, as he was known not to have been
killed by a ball from the enemy.(96)

The writer has walked over the main battle-field, and saw cannon-balls
unearthed when some men were digging gravel, which had laid there since
the events of 1854. The last time he passed over it, in 1866, was when
proceeding with some Russian and American friends to what might be termed
an “international” pic-nic, for there were present European and Asiatic
Russians, full and half-breed natives, Americans, including genuine
“Yankee” New Englanders, New Yorkers, Southerners, and Californians,
Englishmen, Frenchmen, Germans, and one Italian. Chatting in a babel of
tongues, the party climbed a path on the hill-side, leading to a beautiful
grassy opening, overlooking the glorious bay below, which extended in all
directions a dozen or fifteen miles, and on one side farther than the eye
could reach. Several grand snow-covered volcanoes towered above, thirty to
fifty miles off; one, of most beautiful outline, that of Vilutchinski, was
on the opposite shore of Avatcha Bay.

The sky was bright and blue, and the water without a ripple; wild flowers
were abundant, the air was fragrant with them, and, but for the mosquitoes
(which are _not_ confined to hot countries, but flourish in the short
summer of semi-Arctic climes), it might have been considered an earthly
edition of paradise! But even these pests could not worry the company
much, for not merely were nearly all the men smokers, but most of the
ladies also! Here the writer may remark, parenthetically, that many of the
Russian ladies smoke cigarettes, and none object to gentlemen smoking at
table or elsewhere. At the many dinners and suppers offered by the
hospitable residents, it was customary to draw a few whiffs between the
courses; and when the cloth was removed, the ladies, instead of retiring
to another room, sat in company with the gentlemen, the larger proportion
joining in the social weed. After the enjoyment of a liberal _al fresco_
dinner, songs were in order, and it would be easier to say what were not
sung than to give the list of those, in all languages, which were. Then
after the songs came some games, one of them a Russian version of “hunt
the slipper,” and another _very_ like “kiss in the ring.” The writer
particularly remembers the latter, for he had on that occasion the honour
of kissing the Pope’s wife! This needs explanation, although the Pope was
his friend. In the Greek Church the priest is “allowed to marry,” and his
title, in the Russian language, is “Pope.”

And the recollection of that particular “Pope” recalls a well-remembered
ceremony—that of a _double_ wedding in the old church. During the ceremony
it is customary to crown the bride and bridegroom. In this case two
considerate male friends held the crowns for three-quarters of an hour
over the brides’ heads, so as not to spoil the artistic arrangement of
their hair and head-gear. It seems also to be the custom, when, as in the
present case, the couples were in the humbler walks of life, to ask some
wealthy individual to act as master of the ceremonies, who, if he accepts,
has to stand all the expenses. In this case M. Phillipeus, a merchant who
has many times crossed the frozen steppes of Siberia in search of valuable
furs, was the victim, and he accepted the responsibility of entertaining
all Petropaulovski, the officers of the splendid Russian corvette, the
_Variag_, and those of the Telegraph Expedition, with cheerfulness and
alacrity.

The coast-line of Kamchatka is extremely grand, and far behind it are
magnificent volcanic peaks. The promontory which terminates in the two
capes, Kamchatka and Stolbevoy, has the appearance of two islands detached
from the mainland, the intervening country being low. This, a circumstance
to be constantly observed on all coasts, was, perhaps, specially
noticeable on this. The island of St. Lawrence, in Bering Sea, was a very
prominent example. It is undeniable that the apparent gradual rise of a
coast, seen from the sea as you approach it, affords a far better proof of
the rotundity of the earth than the illustrations usually employed, that
of a ship, which you are supposed to see by instalments, from the
main-royal sail (if not from the “sky-scraper” or “moon-raker”) to the
hull. The fact is, that the royal and top-gallant sails of a vessel on the
utmost verge of the horizon may be, in certain lights, barely
distinguishable, while the dark outline of an irregular and rock-bound
coast can be seen by any one. First, maybe, appears a mountain peak
towering in solitary grandeur above the coast-line, and often far behind
it, then the high lands and hills, then the cliffs and low lands, and,
lastly, the flats and beaches.

It was from the Kamchatka River, which enters Bering Sea near the cape of
the same name, that Vitus Bering sailed on his first voyage. That
navigator was a persevering and plucky Dane, who had been drawn into the
service of Russia through the fame of Peter the Great, and his first
expedition was directly planned by that sagacious monarch, although he did
not live to carry it out. Müller, the historian of Bering’s career, says:
“The Empress Catherine, as she endeavoured in all points to execute most
precisely the plans of her deceased husband, in a manner began her reign
with an order for the expedition to Kamchatka.” Bering had associated with
him two active subordinates, Spanberg and Tschirikoff. They left St.
Petersburg on February 5th, 1725, proceeding to the Ochotsk Sea, _viâ_
Siberia. It is a tolerable proof of the difficulties of travel in those
days, that it took them _two years_ to transport their outfit thither.
They crossed to Kamchatka, where, on the 4th of April, 1728, Müller tells
us, “a boat was put upon the stocks, like the packet-boats used in the
Baltic, and on the 10th of July was launched, and named the boat
_Gabriel_.” A few days later, and she was creeping along the coast of
Kamchatka and Eastern Siberia. Bering on this first voyage discovered St.
Lawrence Island, and reached as far north as 67° 18’, where, finding the
land trend to the westward, he came to the conclusion that he had reached
the eastern extremity of Asia, and that Asia and America were distinct
continents. On the first point he was not, as a matter of detail, quite
correct; but the second, the important object of his mission, settled for
ever the vexed question.

A second voyage was rather unsuccessful. His third expedition left
Petropaulovski on the 4th of July, 1741. His little fleet became dispersed
in a storm, and Bering pursued his discoveries alone. These were not
unimportant, for he reached the grand chain of the rock-girt Aleutian
Islands, and others nearer the mainland of America. At length the scurvy
broke out in virulent form among his crew, and he attempted to return to
Kamchatka. The sickness increased so much that the “two sailors who used
to be at the rudder were obliged to be led in by two others who could
hardly walk, and when one could sit and steer no longer, one in little
better condition supplied his place. Many sails they durst not hoist,
because there was nobody to lower them in case of need.” At length land
appeared, and they cast anchor. A storm arose, and the ship was driven on
the rocks; they cast their second anchor, and the cable snapped before it
took ground. A great sea pitched the vessel bodily over the rocks, behind
which they happily found quieter water. The island was barren, devoid of
trees, and with little driftwood. They had to roof over gulches or
ravines, to form places of refuge. On the “8th of November a beginning was
made to land the sick; but some died as soon as they were brought from
between decks in the open air, others during the time they were on the
deck, some in the boat, and many more as soon as they were brought on
shore.” On the following day the commander, Bering, himself prostrated
with disease, was brought ashore, and moved about on a hand-barrow. He
died a month after, in one of the little ravines, or ditches, which had
been covered with a roof, and when he expired was almost covered with the
sand which fell from its sides, and which he desired his men not to
remove, as it gave him some little warmth. Before his remains could be
finally interred they had literally to be disinterred.

The vessel, unguarded, was utterly wrecked, and their provisions lost.
They subsisted mainly that fearful winter on the carcases of dead whales,
which were driven ashore. In the spring the pitiful remnant of a once
hardy crew managed to construct a small vessel from the wreck of their old
ship, and at length succeeded in reaching Kamchatka. They then learned
that Tschirikoff, Bering’s associate, had preceded them, but with the loss
of thirty-one of his crew from the same fell disease which had so reduced
their numbers. Bering’s name has ever since been attached to the island
where he died.

There is no doubt that Kamchatka would repay a detailed exploration, which
it has never yet received. It is a partially settled country. The
Kamchatdales are a good-humoured, harmless, and semi-civilised race, and
the Russian officials and settlers at the few little towns would gladly
welcome the traveller. The dogs used for sledging in winter are noble
animals, infinitely stronger than those of Alaska or even Greenland. The
attractions for the Alpine climber cannot be overstated. The peninsula
contains a chain of volcanic peaks, attaining, it is stated, in the
Klutchevskoi Mountain a height of 16,000 feet. In the country immediately
behind Petropaulovski are the three peaks, Koriatski, Avatcha, and
Koseldskai; the first is about 12,000 feet in height, and is a conspicuous
landmark for the port. A comparatively level country, covered with rank
grass and underbrush, and intersected by streams, stretches very nearly to
their base.

         [Illustration: PETROPAULOVSKI AND THE AVATCHA MOUNTAIN.]

And now, before leaving the Asiatic coast, let us, as many English naval
vessels have done, pay a flying visit to a still more northern harbour,
that of Plover Bay, which forms the very apex of the China Station.
Sailing, or steaming, through Bering Sea, it is satisfactory to know that
so shallow is it that a vessel can anchor in almost any part of it, though
hundreds of miles from land.(97) Plover Bay does _not_ derive its name
from the whaling which is often pursued in its waters, although an
ingenious Dutchman, of the service in which the writer was engaged at the
periods of his visits, persisted in calling it “Blubber” Bay; its name is
due to the visit of H.M.S. _Plover_ in 1848-9, when engaged in the search
for Sir John Franklin. The bay is a most secure haven, sheltered at the
ocean end by a long spit, and walled in on three sides by rugged mountains
and bare cliffs, the former composed of an infinite number of fragments of
rock, split up by the action of frost. Besides many coloured lichens and
mosses, there is hardly a sign of vegetation, except at one patch of
country near a small inner harbour, where domesticated reindeer graze. On
the spit before mentioned is a village of Tchuktchi natives; their tents
are composed of hide, walrus, seal, or reindeer, with here and there a
piece of old sail-cloth, obtained from the whalers, the whole patchwork
covering a framework formed of the large bones of whales and walrus. The
remains of underground houses are seen, but the people who used them have
passed away. The present race makes no use of such houses. Their canoes
are of skin, covering sometimes a wooden and sometimes a bone frame. On
either side of one of these craft, which is identical with the Greenland
“oomiak,” or women’s boat, it is usual to have a sealskin blown out tight,
and the ends fastened to the gunwale; these serve as floats to steady the
canoe. They often carry sail, and proceed safely far out to sea, even
crossing Bering Straits to the American side. The natives are a hardy
race; the writer has seen one of them carry the awkward burden of a
carpenter’s chest, weighing two hundred pounds, without apparent exertion.
One of their principal men was of considerable service to the expedition
and to a party of telegraph constructors, who were left there in a wooden
house made in San Francisco, and erected in a few days in this barren
spot. This native, by name Naukum, was taken down into the engine-room of
the telegraph steamer—_G. S. Wright_. He looked round carefully and
thoughtfully, and then, shaking his head, said, solemnly, “Too muchee
wheel; makee man too muchee think!” His curiosity on board was
unappeasable. “What’s that fellow?” was his query with regard to anything,
from the donkey-engine to the hencoops. Colonel Bulkley gave him a suit of
mock uniform, gorgeous with buttons. One of the men remarked to him, “Why,
Naukum, you’ll be a king soon!” But this magnificent prospect did not
seem, judging from the way he received it, to be much to his taste. This
man had been sometimes entrusted with as much as five barrels of
villainous whisky for trading purposes, and he had always accounted
satisfactorily to the trader for its use. The whisky sold to the natives
is of the most horrible kind, scarcely superior to “coal oil” or
paraffine. They appeared to understand the telegraph scheme in a general
way. One explaining it, said, “S’pose lope fixy, well; one Melican man
Plower Bay, make talky all same San Flancisco Melican.” Perhaps quite as
lucid an explanation as you could get from an agricultural labourer or a
street arab at home.

Colonel Bulkley, at his second visit to Plover Bay, caused a small house
of planks to be constructed for Naukum, and made him many presents. A
draughtsman attached to the party made a sketch, “A Dream of the Future,”
which was a lively representation of the future prospects of Naukum and
his family. The room was picturesque with paddles, skins, brand-new Henry
rifles, preserved meat tins, &c.; and civilisation was triumphant.

Although Plover Bay is almost in sight of the Arctic Ocean, very little
snow remained on the barren country round it, except on the distant
mountains, or in deep ravines, where it has lain for ages. “That there
snow,” said one of the sailors, pointing to such a spot, “is three hundred
years old if it’s a day. Why, don’t you see the wrinkles all over the face
of it?” Wrinkles and ridges are common enough in snow; but the idea of
associating age with them was original.

The whalers are often very successful in and outside Plover Bay in
securing their prey. Each boat is known by its own private mark—a cross,
red stripes, or what not—on its sail, so that at a distance they can be
distinguished from their respective vessels. When the whale is harpooned,
often a long and dangerous job, and is floating dead in the water, a small
flag is planted in it. After the monster is towed alongside the vessel, it
is cut up into large rectangular chunks, and it is a curious and not
altogether pleasant sight to witness the deck of a whaling ship covered
with blubber. This can be either barreled, or the oil “tryed out” on the
spot. If the latter, the blubber is cut into “mincemeat,” and chopping
knives, and even mincing machines, are employed. The oil is boiled out on
board, and the vessel when seen at a distance looks as if on fire. On
these occasions the sailors have a feast of dough-nuts, which are cooked
in boiling whale-oil, fritters of whale brain, and other dishes. The
writer has tasted whale in various shapes, but although it is eatable, it
is by no means luxurious food.

                     [Illustration: WHALERS AT WORK.]

It was in these waters of Bering Sea and the Arctic that the _Shenandoah_
played such havoc during the American war. In 1865 she burned _thirty_
American whalers, taking off the officers and crews, and sending them down
to San Francisco. The captain of an English whaler, the _Robert Tawns_, of
Sydney, had warned and saved some American vessels, and was in consequence
threatened by the pirate captain. The writer was an eye-witness of the
results of this wanton destruction of private property. The coasts were
strewed with the remains of the burned vessels, while the natives had
boats, spars, &c., in numbers.

But Plover Bay has an interest attaching to it of far more importance than
anything to be said about whaling or Arctic expeditions. It is more than
probable that from or near that bay the wandering Tunguse, or Tchuktchi,
crossed Bering Straits, and peopled America. The latter, in canoes holding
fifteen or twenty persons, do it now; why not in the “long ago?” The
writer has, in common with many who have visited Alaska (formerly
Russian-America, before the country was purchased by the United States),
remarked the almost Chinese or Japanese cast of features possessed by the
coast natives of that country. Their Asiatic origin could not be doubted,
and, on the other hand, Aleuts—natives of the Aleutian Islands, which
stretch out in a grand chain from Alaska—who had shipped as sailors on the
Russo-American Telegraph Expedition, and a Tchuktchi boy brought down to
be educated, were constantly taken for Japanese or Chinamen in San
Francisco, where there are 40,000 of the former people. Junks have on two
occasions been driven across the Pacific Ocean, and have landed their
crews.(98) These facts occurred in 1832-3; the first on the coast near
Cape Flattery, North-west America, and the second in the harbour of Oahu,
Sandwich (Hawaiian) Islands. In the former case all the crew but two men
and a boy were killed by the natives. In the latter case, however, the
Sandwich Islanders treated the nine Japanese, forming the crew of the
junk, with kindness, and, when they saw the strangers so much resembling
them in many respects, said, “It is plain, now, we come from Asia.” How
easily, then, could we account for the peopling of any island or coast in
the Pacific. Whether, therefore, stress of weather obliged some
unfortunate Chinamen or Japanese to people America, or whether they, or,
at all events, some Northern Asiatics, took the “short sea route,” _viâ_
Bering Straits, there is a very strong probability in favour of the New
World having been peopled from not merely the Old World, but the Oldest
World—Asia.

The Pacific Ocean generally bears itself in a manner which justifies its
title. The long sweeps of its waves are far more pleasant to the sailor
than the “choppy” waves of the Atlantic. But the Pacific is by no means
always so, as the writer very well knows. He will not soon forget
November, 1865, nor will those of his companions who still survive.

Leaving Petropaulovski on November 1st, a fortnight of what sailors term
“dirty weather” culminated in a gale from the south-east. It was no
“capful of wind,” but a veritable tempest, which broke over the devoted
ship. At its outset, the wind was so powerful that it blew the main-boom
from the ropes which held it, and it swung round with great violence
against the “smoke-stack” (funnel) of the steamer, knocking it overboard.
The guys, or chains by which it had been held upright, were snapped, and
it went to the bottom. Here was a dilemma; the engines were rendered
nearly useless, and a few hours later were made absolutely powerless, for
the rudder became disabled, and the steering-wheel was utterly
unavailable. During this period a very curious circumstance happened; the
sea driving faster than the vessel—itself a log lying in the trough of the
waves, which rose in mountains on all sides—acted on the screw in such a
manner that in its turn it worked the engines at a greater rate than they
had ever attained by steam! After much trouble the couplings were
disconnected, but for several hours the jarring of the machinery revolving
at lightning speed threatened to make a breach in the stern.

No one on board will soon forget the night of that great gale. The vessel,
scarcely larger than a “penny” steamer, and having “guards,” or bulwarks,
little higher than the rail of those boats, was engulfed in the
tempestuous waters. It seemed literally to be driving under the water.
Waves broke over it every few minutes; a rope had to be stretched along
the deck for the sailors to hold on by, while the brave commander, Captain
Marston, was literally _tied_ to the aft bulwark, where, half frozen and
half drowned, he remained at his post during an entire night. The steamer
had the “house on deck,” so common in American vessels. It was divided
into state-rooms, very comfortably fitted, but had doors and windows of
the lightest character. At the commencement of the gale, these were
literally battered to pieces by the waves dashing over the vessel; it was
a matter of doubt whether the whole house might not be carried off bodily.
The officers of the expedition took refuge in the small cabin aft, which
had been previously the general ward-room of the vessel, where the meals
were served. A great sea broke over its skylight, smashing the glass to
atoms, putting out the lamps and stove, and filling momentarily the cabin
with about three feet of water. A landsman would have thought his last
hour had come. But the hull of the vessel was sound; the pumps were in
good order, and worked steadily by a “donkey” engine in the engine-room,
and the water soon disappeared. The men coiled themselves up that night
amid a pile of ropes and sails, boxes, and miscellaneous matters lying on
the “counter” of the vessel, _i.e._, that part of the stern lying
immediately over the rudder. Next morning, in place of the capital
breakfasts all had been enjoying—fish and game from Kamchatka, tinned
fruits and meats from California, hot rolls and cakes—the steward and cook
could only, with great difficulty, provide some rather shaky coffee and
the regular “hard bread” (biscuit) of the ship.

The storm increased in violence; it was unsafe to venture on deck. The
writer’s room-mate, M. Laborne, a genial and cultivated man of the world,
who spoke seven languages fluently, sat down, and wrote a last letter to
his mother, enclosing it afterwards in a bottle. “It will never reach
her,” said poor Laborne, with tears dimming his eyes; “but it is all I can
do.” Each tried to comfort the other, and prepare for the worst. “If we
are to die, let us die like men,” said Adjutant Wright. “Come down in the
engine-room,” another said, “and if we’ve got to die, let’s die decently.”
The chief engineer lighted a fire on the iron floor below the boilers, and
it was the only part of the vessel which was at all comfortable.
Noble-hearted Colonel Bulkley spent his time in cheering the men, and
reminding them that the sea has been proved to be an infinitely safer
place than the land. No single one on board really expected to survive.
Meantime, the gale was expending its rage by tearing every sail to
ribbons. Rags and streamers fluttered from the yards; there was not a
single piece of canvas intact. The cabins held a wreck of trunks,
furniture, and crockery.

In one of the cabins several boxes of soap, in bars, had been stored. When
the gale commenced to abate, some one ventured into the house on deck,
when it was discovered that it was full of soapsuds, which swashed
backwards and forwards through the series of rooms. The water had washed
and rewashed the bars of soap till they were not thicker than sticks of
sealing-wax.

                [Illustration: OUR “PATENT SMOKE-STACK.”]

At last, after a week of this horrible weather, morning broke with a sight
of the sun, and moderate wind. There were spare sails on board, and the
rudder could be repaired; but what could be done about the funnel? The
engineer’s ingenuity came out conspicuously. He had one of the usual
water-tanks brought on deck, and the two ends knocked out. Then, setting
it up over the boiler, he with pieces of sheet-iron raised this square
erection till it was about nine feet high, and it gave a sufficient
draught to the furnaces. “Covert’s Patent Smoke-Stack” created a sensation
on the safe arrival of the vessel in San Francisco, and was inspected by
hundreds of visitors. The little steamer had ploughed through 10,000 miles
of water that season. She was immediately taken to one of the wharfs, and
entirely remodelled. The sides were slightly raised, and a ward-room and
aft-cabin, handsomely fitted in yacht-fashion, took the place of the house
on deck. It was roofed or decked at top in such a manner that the heaviest
seas could wash over the vessel without doing the slightest injury, and
she afterwards made two voyages, going over a distance of 20,000 miles.
Poor old _Wright_! She went to the bottom at last, with all her crew and
passengers, some years later, off Cape Flattery, at the entrance of the
Straits of Fuca, and scarcely a vestige of her was ever found.

And now, retracing our steps _en route_ for the Australian station, let us
call at one of the most important of England’s settlements, which has been
termed the Liverpool of the East. Singapore consists of an island
twenty-five miles long and fifteen or so broad, lying off the south
extremity of Malacca, and having a city of the same name on its southern
side. The surface is very level, the highest elevation being only 520
feet. In 1818, Sir Stamford Raffles found it an island covered with virgin
forests and dense jungles, with a miserable population on its creeks and
rivers of fishermen and pirates. It has now a population of about 100,000,
of which Chinese number more than half. In 1819 the British flag was
hoisted over the new settlement; but it took five years on the part of Mr.
Crawford, the diplomatic representative of Great Britain, to negotiate
terms with its then owner, the Sultan of Johore, whereby for a heavy
yearly payment it was, with all the islands within ten miles of the coast,
given up with absolute possession to the Honourable East India Company.
Since that period, its history has been one of unexampled prosperity. It
is a free port, the revenue being raised entirely from imports on opium
and spirits. Its prosperity as a commercial port is due to the fact that
it is an entrepôt for the whole trade of the Malayan Archipelago, the
Eastern Archipelago, Cochin China, Siam, and Java. Twelve years ago it
exported over sixty-six million rupees’ worth of gambier, tin, pepper,
nutmegs, coffee, tortoise-shell, rare woods, sago, tapioca, camphor,
gutta-percha, and rattans. It is vastly greater now. Exclusive of
innumerable native craft, 1,697 square-rigged vessels entered the port in
1864-5. It has two splendid harbours, one a sheltered roadstead near the
town, with safe anchorage; the other, a land-locked harbour, three miles
from the town, capable of admitting vessels of the largest draught.
Splendid wharfs have been erected by the many steam-ship companies and
merchants, and there are fortifications which command the harbour and
roads.

“A great deal has been written about the natural beauties of Ceylon and
Java,” says Mr. Cameron,(99) “and some theologians, determined to give the
first scene in the Mosaic narrative a local habitation, have fixed the
paradise of unfallen man on one or other of those noble islands. Nor has
their enthusiasm carried them to any ridiculous extreme; for the beauty of
some parts of Java and Ceylon might well accord with the description given
us, or rather which we are accustomed to infer, of that land from which
man was driven on his first great sin.

“I have seen both Ceylon and Java, and admired in no grudging measure
their many charms; but for calm placid loveliness, I should place
Singapore high above them both. It is a loveliness, too, that at once
strikes the eye, from whatever point we view the island, which combines
all the advantages of an always beautiful and often imposing coast-line,
with an endless succession of hill and dale stretching inland. The entire
circumference of the island is one panorama, where the magnificent
tropical forest, with its undergrowth of jungle, runs down at one place to
the very water’s edge, dipping its large leaves in the glassy sea, and at
another is abruptly broken by a brown rocky cliff, or a late landslip,
over which the jungle has not yet had time to extend itself. Here and
there, too, are scattered little green islands, set like gems on the bosom
of the hushed waters, between which the excursionist, the trader, or the
pirate, is wont to steer his course. ‘Eternal summer gilds these shores;’
no sooner has the blossom of one tree passed away, than that of another
takes its place and sheds perfume all around. As for the foliage, that
never seems to die. Perfumed isles are in many people’s minds merely
fabled dreams, but they are easy of realisation here. There is scarcely a
part of the island, except those few places where the original forest and
jungle have been cleared away, from which at night-time, on the first
breathings of the land winds, may not be felt those lovely forest
perfumes, even at the distance of more than a mile from shore. These land
winds—or, more properly, land airs, for they can scarcely be said to blow,
but only to breathe—usually commence at ten o’clock at night, and continue
within an hour or two of sunrise. They are welcomed by all—by the sailor
because they speed him on either course, and by the wearied resident
because of their delicious coolness.”

Another writer(100) speaks with the same enthusiasm of the well-kept
country roads, and approaches to the houses of residents, where one may
travel for miles through unbroken avenues of fruit-trees, or beneath an
over-arching canopy of evergreen palms. The long and well-kept approaches
to the European dwellings never fail to win the praise of strangers. “In
them may be discovered the same lavish profusion of overhanging foliage
which we see around us on every side; besides that, there are often hedges
of wild heliotrope, cropped as square as if built up of stone, and forming
compact barriers of green leaves, which yet blossom with gold and purple
flowers.” Behind these, broad bananas nod their bending leaves, while a
choice flower-garden, a close-shaven lawn, and a croquet-ground, are not
uncommonly the surroundings of the residence. If it is early morning,
there is an unspeakable charm about the spot. The air is cool, even
bracing; and beneath the shade of forest trees, the rich blossom of
orchids are seen depending from the boughs, while songless birds twitter
among the foliage, or beneath shrubs which the convolvulus has decked with
a hundred variegated flowers. Here and there the slender stem of the aloe,
rising from an armoury of spiked leaves, lifts its cone of white bells on
high, or the deep orange pine-apple peeps out from a green belt of fleshy
foliage, and breathes its bright fragrance around. The house will
invariably have a spacious verandah, underneath which flowers in China
vases, and easy chairs of all kinds, are placed. If perfect peace can
steal through the senses into the soul—if it can be distilled like some
subtle ether from all that is beautiful in nature—surely in such an island
as this we shall find that supreme happiness which we all know to be
unattainable elsewhere. Alas! even in this bright spot, unalloyed bliss
cannot be expected. The temperature is very high, showing an average in
the shade, all the year round, of between 85° and 95° Fahr. Prickly heat,
and many other disorders, are caused by it on the European constitution.

             [Illustration: VIEW IN THE STRAITS OF MALACCA.]

The old Strait of Singhapura, that lies between the island of Singapore
and the mainland of Johore, is a narrow tortuous passage, for many
centuries the only thoroughfare for ships passing to the eastward of
Malacca. Not many years ago, where charming bungalows, the residences of
the merchants, are built among the ever verdant foliage, it was but the
home of hordes of piratical marauders, who carried on their depredations
with a high hand, sometimes adventuring on distant voyages in fleets of
forty or fifty prahus. Indeed, it is stated, in the old Malay annals, that
for nearly two hundred years the entire population of Singapore and the
surrounding islands and coasts of Johore subsisted on fishing and
pirating; the former only being resorted to when the prevailing monsoon
was too strong to admit of the successful prosecution of the latter.
Single cases of piracy sometimes occur now; but it has been nearly
stopped. Of the numberless vessels and boats which give life to the waters
of the old strait, nearly all have honest work to do—fishing, timber
carrying, or otherwise trading. “A very extraordinary flotilla,” says Mr.
Cameron, “of a rather nondescript character may be often seen in this part
of the strait at certain seasons of the year. These are huge rafts of
unsawn, newly-cut timber; they are generally 500 or 600 feet long, and
sixty or seventy broad, the logs being skilfully laid together, and
carefully bound by strong rattan-rope, each raft often containing 2,000
logs. They have always one or two attap-houses built upon them, and carry
crews of twenty or twenty-five men, the married men taking their wives and
children with them. The timber composing them is generally cut many miles
away, in some creek or river on the mainland.” They sometimes have sails.
They will irresistibly remind the traveller of those picturesque rafts on
the Rhine, on which there are cabins, with the smoke curling from their
stove-pipes, and women, children, and dogs, the men with long sweeps
keeping the valuable floating freight in the current. Many a German, now
in England or America, made his first trip through the Fatherland to its
coast on a Rhine raft.

The sailor generally makes his first acquaintance with the island of
Singapore by entering through New Harbour, and the scenery is said to be
almost unsurpassed by anything in the world. The steamer enters between
the large island and a cluster of islets, standing high out of the water
with rocky banks, and covered to their summits by rich green jungle, with
here and there a few forest trees towering above it high in the air. Under
the vessel’s keel, too, as she passes slowly over the shoaler patches of
the entrance, may be seen beautiful beds of coral, which, in their
variegated colours and fantastic shapes, vie with the scenery above. The
Peninsular and Oriental Steamers’ wharfs are situated at the head of a
small bay, with the island of Pulo Brani in front. They have a frontage of
1,200 feet, and coal sheds built of brick, and tile-roofed; they often
contain 20,000 tons of coal. Including some premises in Singapore itself,
some £70,000 or £80,000 have been expended on their station—a tolerable
proof of the commercial importance of the place. Two other companies have
extensive wharfs also. The passengers land here, and drive up to the city,
a distance of some three miles. Those who remain on board, and “Jack” is
likely to be of the number, for the first few days after arrival, find
entertainment in the feats of swarms of small Malay boys, who immediately
surround the vessel in toy boats just big enough to float them, and induce
the passengers to throw small coins into the water, for which they dive to
the bottom, and generally succeed in recovering. Almost all the ships
visiting Singapore have their bottoms examined, and some have had as many
as twenty or thirty sheets of copper put on by Malay divers. One man will
put on as many as two sheets in an hour, going down a dozen or more times.
There are now extensive docks at and around New Harbour.

On rounding the eastern exit of New Harbour, the shipping and harbour of
Singapore at once burst on the view, with the white walls of the houses,
and the dark verdure of the shrubbery of the town nearly hidden by the
network of spars and rigging that intervenes. The splendid boats of the
French Messageries, and our own Peninsular and Oriental lines, the opium
steamers of the great firm of Messrs. Jardine, of China, and Messrs. Cama,
of Bombay; and the beautifully-modelled American or English clippers,
which have taken the place of the box-shaped, heavy-rigged East Indiamen
of days of yore, with men-of-war of all nations, help to make a noble
sight. This is only part of the scene, for interspersed are huge Chinese
junks of all sizes, ranging up to 600 or 700 tons measurement. The
sampans, or two-oared Chinese boats, used to convey passengers ashore, are
identical in shape. All have alike the square bow and the broad flat
stern, and from the largest to the smallest, on what in a British vessel
would be called her “head-boards,” all have two eyes embossed and painted,
glaring out over the water. John Chinaman’s explanation of this custom is,
that if “no got eyes, no can see.” During the south-west monsoon they are
in Singapore by scores, and of all colours, red, green, black, or yellow;
these are said to be the badge of the particular province to which they
belong. Ornamental painting and carving is confined principally to the
high stern, which generally bears some fantastic figuring, conspicuous in
which can invariably be traced the outlines of a spread eagle, not unlike
that on an American dollar. Did “spread-eagleism” as well as population
first reach America from China?

“It is difficult,” says Mr. Cameron, “while looking at these junks, to
imagine how they can manage in a seaway; and yet at times they must
encounter the heaviest weather along the Chinese coast in the northern
latitudes. It is true that when they encounter a gale they generally run
before it; but yet in a typhoon this would be of little avail to ease a
ship. There is no doubt they must possess some good qualities, and,
probably, speed, with a fair wind in a smooth sea, is one of them. Not
many years ago a boat-builder in Singapore bought one of the common
sampans used by the coolie boatmen, which are exactly the same shape as
the junks, and rigged her like an English cutter, giving her a false keel,
and shifting weather-board, and, strange to say, won with her every race
that he tried.”

Passing the junks at night, a strange spectacle may be observed. Amid the
beating of gongs, jangling of bells, and discordant shouts, the nightly
religious ceremonies of the sailors are performed. Lanterns are swinging,
torches flaring, and gilt paper burning, while quantities of food are
scattered in the sea as an offering of their worship. Many of those junks,
could they but speak, might reveal a story, gentle reader—

  “A tale unfold, whose lightest word
  Would harrow up thy soul.”

               [Illustration: JUNKS IN A CHINESE HARBOUR.]

The chief trade of not a few has been, and still is, the traffic of human
freight; and it is, unfortunately, only too lucrative. Large numbers of
junks leave China for the islands annually packed with men, picked up,
impressed, or lured on board, and kept there till the gambier and pepper
planters purchase them, and hurry them off to the interior. It is not so
much that they usually have to complain of cruelty, or even an
unreasonably long term of servitude; their real danger is in the
overcrowding of the vessels that bring them. The men cost nothing, except
a meagre allowance of rice, and the more the shipper can crowd into his
vessel the greater must be his profit. “It would,” says the writer just
quoted, “be a better speculation for the trader whose junk could only
carry properly 300 men, to take on board 600 men, and lose 250 on the way
down, than it would be for him to start with his legitimate number, and
land them all safely; for in the first case, he would bring 350 men to
market, and in the other only 300. That this process of reasoning is
actually put in practice by the Chinese, there was not long ago ample and
very mournful evidence to prove. Two of these junks had arrived in the
harbour of Singapore, and had remained unnoticed for about a week, during
which the owners had bargained for the engagement of most of their cargo.
At this time two dead bodies were found floating in the harbour; an
inquest was held, and it then transpired that one of these two junks on
the way down from China had lost 250 men out of 600, and the other 200 out
of 400.”

            [Illustration: ISLANDS IN THE STRAITS OF MALACCA.]

The Malay prahus are the craft of the inhabitants of the straits, and are
something like the Chinese junks, though never so large as the largest of
the latter, rarely exceeding fifty or sixty tons burden. They have one
mast, a tripod made of three bamboos, two or three feet apart at the deck,
and tapering up to a point at the top. Across two of the bamboos smaller
pieces of the same wood are lashed, making the mast thus act as a shroud
or ladder also. They carry a large lug-sail of coarse grass-cloth, having
a yard both at top and bottom. The curious part of them is the top hamper
about the stem. With the deck three feet out of the water forward, the top
of the housing is fifteen or more feet high. They are steered with two
rudders, one on either quarter. In addition to the ships and native craft,
are hundreds of small boats of all descriptions constantly moving about
with fruits, provisions, birds, monkeys, shells, and corals for sale. The
sailor has a splendid chance of securing, on merely nominal terms, the
inevitable parrot, a funny little Jocko, or some lovely corals, of all
hues, green, purple, pink, mauve, blue, and in shape often resembling
flowers and shrubbery. A whole boat-load of the latter may be obtained for
a dollar and a half or a couple of dollars.

                [Illustration: CHINESE JUNK AT SINGAPORE.]

Singapore has a frontage of three miles, and has fine Government
buildings, court-house, town-hall, clubs, institutes, masonic lodge,
theatre, and the grandest English cathedral in Asia—that of St. Andrew’s.
In Commercial Square, the business centre of Singapore, all nationalities
seem to be represented. Here, too, are the Kling gharry-drivers, having
active little ponies and neat conveyances. Jack ashore will be pestered
with their applications. “These Klings,” says Mr. Thomson, “seldom, if
ever, resort to blows; but their language leaves nothing for the most
vindictive spirit to desire. Once, at one of the landing-places, I
observed a British tar come ashore for a holiday. He was forthwith beset
by a group of Kling gharry-drivers, and, finding that the strongest of
British words were as nothing when pitted against the Kling vocabulary,
and that no half-dozen of them would stand up like men against his huge
iron fists, he seized the nearest man, and hurled him into the sea. It was
the most harmless way of disposing of his enemy, who swam to a boat, and
it left Jack in undisturbed and immediate possession of the field.” The
naval officer will find excellent deer-hunting and wild-hog shooting to be
had near the city, and tiger-hunting at a distance. Tigers, indeed, were
formerly terribly destructive of native life on the island; it was said
that a man _per diem_ was sacrificed. Now, cases are more rare. For good
living, Singapore can hardly be beaten; fruit in particular is abundant
and cheap. Pine-apples, cocoa-nuts, bananas of thirty varieties, mangoes,
custard-apples, and oranges, with many commoner fruits, abound. Then there
is the mangosteen, the delicious “apple of the East,” thought by many to
surpass any fruit in the world, and the durian, a fruit as big as a boy’s
head, with seeds as big as walnuts enclosed in a pulpy, fruity custard.
The taste for this fruit is an acquired one, and is impossible to
describe, while the smell is most disgusting. So great is the longing for
it, when once the taste _is_ acquired, that the highest prices are freely
offered for it, particularly by some of the rich natives. A former King of
Ava spent enormous sums over it, and could hardly then satisfy his
rapacious appetite. A succeeding monarch kept a special steamer at
Rangoon, and when the supplies came into the city it was loaded up, and
dispatched at once to the capital—500 miles up a river. The smell of the
durian is so unpleasant that the fruit is never seen on the tables of the
merchants or planters; it is eaten slily in corners, and out of doors.

               [Illustration: SINGAPORE, LOOKING SEAWARDS.]

And Jack ashore will find many other novelties in eating. Roast monkey is
obtainable, although not eaten as much as formerly by the Malays. In the
streets of Singapore a meal of three or four courses can be obtained for
three halfpence from travelling _restaurateurs_, always Chinamen, who
carry their little charcoal stoves and soup-pots with them. The authority
principally quoted says that, contrary to received opinion, they are very
clean and particular in their culinary arrangements. One must not,
however, too closely examine the nature of the viands. And now let us
proceed to the Australian Station, which includes New Guinea, Australia
proper, and New Zealand.

                [Illustration: LOOKING DOWN ON SINGAPORE.]

This is a most important colony of Great Britain, although by no means its
most important possession, a country as English as England itself,
tempered only by a slight colonial flavour. Here Jack will find himself at
home, whether in the fine streets of Melbourne, or the older and more
pleasant city of Sydney, with its beautiful surroundings.

When the seventeenth century was in its early youth, that vast ocean which
stretches from Asia to the Antarctic was scarcely known by navigators. The
coasts of Eastern Africa, of India, and the archipelago of islands to the
eastward, were partially explored; but while there was a very strong
belief that a land existed in the southern hemisphere, it was an
inspiration only based on probabilities. The pilots and map-makers put
down, as well as they were able, the discoveries already made; _must_
there not be _some_ great island or continent to balance all that waste of
water which they were forced to place on the southern hemisphere? Terra
Australis, “the Southern Land,” was therefore in a sense discovered before
its discovery, just as the late Sir Roderick Murchison predicted gold
there before Hargreaves found it.(101)

In the year 1606, Pedro Fernando de Quiros started from Peru on a voyage
of discovery to the westward. He found some important islands, to which he
gave the name “Australia del Espiritu Santo,” and which are now believed
to have been part of the New Hebrides group. The vessel of his second in
command became separated in consequence of a storm, and by this Luis vas
Torres in consequence reached New Guinea and Australia proper, besides
what is now known as Torres Straits, which channel separates them. The
same year a Dutch vessel coasted about the Gulf of Carpentaria, and it is
to the persistent efforts of the navigators of Holland that the Australian
coasts became well explored. From 1616, at intervals, till 1644, they
instigated many voyages, the leading ones of which were the two made by
Tasman, in the second of which he circumnavigated Australia. “New Holland”
was the title long applied to the western part of Australia—sometimes,
indeed, to the whole country.

The voyages of the Dutch had not that glamour of romance which so often
attaches to those of the Spanish and English. They did not meet natives
laden with evidences of the natural wealth of their country, and adorned
by barbaric ornaments. On the contrary, the coasts of Australia did not
appear prepossessing, while the natives were wretched and squalid. Could
they have known of its after-destiny, England might not hold it to-day.
When Dampier, sent out by William III. more than fifty years afterwards,
re-discovered the west coast of Australia, he had little to record more
than the number of sharks on the coast, his astonishment at the kangaroos
jumping about on shore, and his disgust for the few natives he met, whom
he described as “the most unpleasant-looking and worst-featured of any
people” he had ever encountered.

Nearly seventy years elapsed before any other noteworthy discovery was
made in regard to Australia. In Captain Cook’s first voyage, in 1768, he
explored and partially surveyed the eastern part of its coasts, and
discovered the inlet, to which a considerable notoriety afterwards clung,
which he termed Botany Bay, on account of the luxuriant vegetation of its
shores. Rounding the western side, he proceeded northwards to Torres
Straits, near which, on a small island off the mainland, he took
possession of the whole country, in the name of his sovereign, George
III., christening it _New South Wales_. It is still called _Possession_
Island. Captain Cook gave so favourable an account of Botany Bay on his
return, that it was determined at once to form a colony, in which convict
labour should be systematically employed. Accordingly, a fleet of eleven
vessels, under Captain Phillip, left Portsmouth on the 13th of May, 1787,
and after a tedious voyage, reached Botany Bay the following January.

Captain Phillip found the bay was not a safe anchorage, and in other
respects was unsuitable. A few miles to the northward he discovered an
inlet, now named Port Jackson—from the name of the seaman who discovered
it—and which had been overlooked by Cook. The fleet was immediately
removed thither, the convicts landed, and the British flag raised on the
banks of Sydney Cove. Of the thousand individuals who formed this first
nucleus of a grand colony, more than three-fourths were convicted
offenders. For some time they were partially dependent on England for
supplies. It had been arranged that they should not, at first, be left
without sufficient provisions. The first ship sent out after the colonists
had been landed for this purpose was struck by an iceberg in the
neighbourhood of the Cape of Good Hope, and might not have been saved at
all, but for the seamanship of the “gallant, good Riou,” who afterwards
lost his life at the battle of Copenhagen. He managed to keep her afloat,
and she was at length towed into Table Bay, and a portion of her stores
saved. Meantime, the colonists were living “in the constant belief that
they should one day perish of hunger.” Governor Phillip set a noble
example by putting himself on the same rations as the meanest convict; and
when on state occasions he was obliged to invite the officers of the
colony to dine with him at the Government House, he used to intimate to
the guests that “they must bring their bread along with them.” At last, in
June, 1790, some stores arrived; and in the following year a second fleet
of vessels came out from England, one ship of the Royal Navy and ten
transports; 1,763 convicts had left England on board the latter, of whom
nearly 200 died on the voyage, and many more on arrival. The number of
free settlers was then, and long afterwards, naturally very small; they
did not like to be so intimately and inevitably associated with convicted
criminals. In 1810 the total population of Australia was about 10,000. In
1836 it had risen to 77,000, two-fifths of whom were convicts in actual
bondage, while of the remainder, a large proportion had at one time been
in the same condition. Governor King, one of the earlier officials of the
colony, complained that “he could not make farmers out of pickpockets;”
and Governor Macquarie later said that “there were only two classes of
individuals in New South Wales—those who had been convicted, and those who
ought to have been.” Under these discouraging circumstances, coupled with
all kinds of other difficulties, the colony made slow headway. Droughts
and inundations, famine or scarcity, and hostility on the part of the
natives, helped seriously to retard its progress. About the period of Sir
Thomas Brisbane’s administration, there was an influx of a better class of
colonists, owing to the inauguration of free emigration. In 1841,
transportation to New South Wales ceased. Ten years later the discovery of
gold by Mr. E. H. Hargreaves (on the 12th of February, 1851) caused the
first great “rush” to the colony, which influx has since continued, partly
for better reasons than gold-finding—the grand chances offered for
stock-raising, agricultural, horticultural, and vinicultural pursuits.

To the north and south of Sydney, the coast is a nearly unbroken range of
iron-bound cliffs. But as a vessel approaches the shore, a narrow
entrance, between the two “Heads” of Port Jackson, as they are called,
discloses itself. It is nowhere greater than a mile in width, and really
does not appear so much, on account of the height of the cliffs. On
entering the harbour a fine sea-lake appears in view, usually blue and
calm, and in one of its charming inlets is situated the city of Sydney.
“There is not,” writes Professor Hughes, “a more thoroughly English town
on the face of the globe—not even in England itself—than this southern
emporium of the commerce of nations. Sydney is entirely wanting in the
novel and exotic aspect which belongs to foreign capitals. The emigrant
lands there, and hears his own mother tongue spoken on every side; he
looks around upon the busy life of its crowded streets, and he gazes on
scenes exactly similar to those daily observable in the highways of
London, Liverpool, Birmingham, or Manchester.... ‘Were it not,’ says
Colonel Mundy, ‘for an occasional orange-tree in full bloom, or fruit in
the background of some of the older cottages, or a flock of little green
parrots whistling as they alight for a moment on a house-top, one might
fancy himself in Brighton or Plymouth.’”(102) Gay equipages crowd its
streets, which are lined with handsome shops; the city abounds in fine
public buildings. In the outskirts of the city are flour-mills of all
kinds, worked by horse, water, wind, and steam; great distilleries and
breweries, soap and candle works, tanneries, and woollen-mills, at the
latter of which they turn out an excellent tweed cloth. Ship-building is
carried on extensively around Port Jackson. Although now overshadowed by
the commercial superiority of Melbourne, it has the preeminence as a port.
In fact, Melbourne is not a sea-port at all, as we shall see. Vessels of
large burdens can lie alongside the wharves of Sydney, and “Jack,” in the
Royal Navy at least, is more likely to stop there for awhile, than ever to
see Melbourne. He will find it a cheap place in most respects, for
everywhere in New South Wales meat is excessively low-priced; they used
formerly to throw it away, after taking off the hides and boiling out the
fat, but are wiser now, and send it in tins all over the world. Such
fruits as the peach, nectarine, apricot, plum, fig, grape, cherry, and
orange are as plentiful as blackberries. The orangeries and orchards of
New South Wales are among its sights; and in the neighbourhood of Sydney
and round Port Jackson there are beautiful groves of orange-trees, which
extend in some places down to the water’s edge. Individual settlers have
groves which yield as many as thirty thousand dozen oranges per annum. One
may there literally “sit under his own vine and fig-tree.” If a
peach-stone is thrown down in almost any part of Australia where there is
a little moisture, a tree will spring up, which in a few years will yield
handsomely. A well-known botanist used formerly to carry with him, during
extensive travels, a small bag of peach-stones to plant in suitable
places, and many a wandering settler has blessed him since. Pigs were
formerly often fed on peaches, as was done in California, a country much
resembling Southern Australia; it is only of late years they have been
utilised in both places by drying or otherwise preserving. A basket-load
may be obtained in the Sydney markets during the season for a few pence.
The summer heat of Sydney is about that of Naples, while its winter
corresponds with that of Sicily.

But are there no drawbacks to all this happy state of things? Well, yes;
about the worst is a hot blast which sometimes blows from the interior,
known popularly in Sydney as a “brick-fielder” or “southerly buster.” It
is much like that already described, and neither the most closely-fastened
doors nor windows will keep out the fearful dust-storm. “Its effect,” says
Professor Hughes, “is particularly destructive of every sense of comfort;
the dried and dust-besprinkled skin acquiring for the time some
resemblance to parchment, and the hair feeling more like hay than any
softer material.”

Should Jack or his superior officers land during the heat of autumn, he
may have the opportunity of passing a novel Christmas—very completely
un-English. The gayest and brightest flowers will be in bloom, and the
musquitoes out in full force. “Sitting,” says a writer, “in a thorough
draught, clad in a holland blouse, you may see men and boys dragging from
the neighbouring bush piles of green stuff (oak-branches in full leaf and
acorn, and a handsome shrub with a pink flower and pale green leaf—the
‘Christmas’ of Australia) for the decoration of churches and dwellings,
and stopping every fifty yards to wipe their perspiring brows.”

Before leaving Sydney, the grand park, called “The Domain,” which
stretches down to the blue water in the picturesque indentations around
Port Jackson, must be mentioned. It contains several hundred acres,
tastefully laid out in drives, and with public walks cut through the
indigenous or planted shrubberies, and amidst the richest woodland
scenery, or winding at the edge of the rocky bluffs or by the margin of
the glittering waters. Adjoining this lovely spot is one of the finest
botanic gardens in the world, considered by all Sydney to be a veritable
Eden.

Port Phillip, like Port Jackson, is entered by a narrow passage, and
immediately inside is a magnificent basin, thirty miles across in almost
any direction. It is so securely sheltered that it affords an admirable
anchorage for shipping. Otherwise, Melbourne, now a grand city with a
population of about 300,000, would have had little chance of attaining its
great commercial superiority over any city of Australia. Melbourne is
situated about eight miles up the Yarra-Yarra (“flowing-flowing”) river,
which flows into the head of Port Phillip. That poetically-named, but
really lazy, muddy stream is only navigable for vessels of very small
draught. But Melbourne has a fine country to back it. Many of the old and
rich mining-districts were round Port Phillip, or on and about streams
flowing into it. Wheat, maize, potatoes, vegetables and fruits in general,
are greatly cultivated; and the colony of Victoria is pre-eminent for
sheep-farming and cattle-runs, and the industries connected with wool,
hides, tallow, and, of late, meat, which they bring forth. Melbourne
itself lies rather low, and its original site, now entirely filled in, was
swampy. Hence came occasional epidemics—dysentery, influenza, and so
forth.

             [Illustration: A TIMBER WHARF AT SAN FRANCISCO.]





                                CHAPTER X.


              ROUND THE WORLD ON A MAN-OF-WAR (_continued_).


                           THE PACIFIC STATION.


      Across the Pacific—Approach to the Golden Gate—The Bay of San
    Francisco—The City—First Dinner Ashore—Cheap Luxury—San Francisco
      by Night—The Land of Gold, Grain, and Grapes—Incidents of the
      Early Days—Expensive Papers—A Lucky Sailor—Chances for English
     Girls—The Baby at the Play—A capital Port for Seamen—Hospitality
     of Californians—Victoria, Vancouver Island—The Naval Station at
    Esquimalt—A Delightful Place—Advice to Intending Emigrants—British
    Columbian Indians—Their fine Canoes—Experiences of the Writer—The
    Island on Fire—The Chinook Jargon—Indian “Pigeon-English”—North to
           Alaska—The Purchase of Russian America by the United
       States—Results—Life at Sitka—Grand Volcanoes of the Aleutian
    Islands—The Great Yukon River—American Trading Posts round Bering
                                   Sea.


A common course for a vessel crossing the Pacific would be from Australia
or New Zealand to San Francisco, California. The mail-steamers follow this
route, touching at the Fiji and Hawaiian groups of islands; and the sailor
in the Royal Navy is as likely to find this route the orders of his
commander as any other. If the writer, in describing the country he knows
better than any other, be found somewhat enthusiastic and gushing, he will
at least give reasons for his warmth. On this subject, above all others,
he writes _con amore_. He spent over twelve years on the Pacific coasts of
America, and out of that time about seven in the Golden State, California.

It has been said, “See Naples, and die!” The reader is recommended to see
the glorious Bay of San Francisco before he makes up his mind that there
is nought else worthy of note, because he has sailed on the blue waters of
the most beautiful of the Mediterranean bays. How well does the writer
remember his first sight of the Golden Gate, as the entrance to San
Francisco Bay is poetically named! The good steamer on which he had spent
some seventy-five days—which had passed over nearly the entire Atlantic,
weathered the Horn, and then, with the favouring “trade-winds,” had sailed
and steamed up the Pacific with one grand sweep to California, out of
sight of land the whole time—was sadly in want of coals when she arrived
off that coast, which a dense fog entirely hid from view. The engines were
kept going slowly by means of any stray wood on board; valuable spars were
sacrificed, and it was even proposed to strip the woodwork out of the
steerage, which contained about two hundred men, women, and children. Guns
and rockets were fired, but at first with no result, and the prospect was
not cheering. But at last the welcome little pilot-boat loomed through the
fog, and was soon alongside, and a healthy, jovial-looking pilot came
aboard. “You can all have a good dinner to-night ashore,” said that
excellent seaman to the passengers, “and the sea shan’t rob you of it.”
The fog lifted as the vessel slowly steamed onwards.

On approaching the entrance to the bay, on the right cliffs and rocks are
seen, with a splendid beach, where carriages and buggies are constantly
passing and repassing. On the top of a rocky bluff, the Seal Rock or
“Cliff” House, a popular hotel; below it, in the sea, a couple or so of
rocky islets covered with sea-lions, which are protected by a law of the
State. To the left, outside some miles, the Farralone Islands, with a
capital lighthouse perched on the top of one of them. Entering the Golden
Gate, and looking to the right again, the Fort Point Barracks and the
outskirts of the city; to the left the many-coloured headlands and cliffs,
on whose summits the wild oats are pale and golden in the bright sunlight.
Before one, several islands—Alcatraz, bristling with guns, and covered
with fortifications; Goat Island, presumably so called because on it there
are no goats. Beyond, fifty miles of green water, and a forest of
shipping; and a city, the history of which has no parallel on earth. Hills
behind, with streets as steep as those of Malta; high land, with spires,
and towers, and fine edifices innumerable; and great wharves, and slips,
and docks in front of all; with steamships and steam ferry-boats
constantly arriving and departing. And now the vessel anchors in the
stream, and if not caring to haggle over the half-dollar—a large sum in
English ears—which the boatman demands from each passenger who wishes to
go ashore, the traveller finds himself in a strange land, and amid a
people of whom he will learn to form the very highest estimate.

That first dinner, after the eternal bean-coffee, boiled tea, tinned
meats, dried vegetables, and “salt horse” of one’s ship, in a neat
_restaurant_, where it seems everything on earth can be obtained, will
surprise most visitors. An irreproachable _potage_: broiled salmon (the
fish is a drug, almost, on the Pacific coasts); turtle steaks, oyster
plant, artichokes, and green corn; a California quail “on toast;” grand
muscatel grapes, green figs, and a cooling slice of melon; Roquefort
cheese, or a very good imitation of it; black coffee, and cigars; native
wine on the table; California cognac on demand; service excellent—napkins,
hot plates, flowers on the table; price moderate for the luxuries
obtained, and _no waiter’s fees_. The visitor will mentally forgive the
boatman of the morning. Has he arrived in the Promised Land, in the
Paradise of _bon vivants_? It seems so. In the evening, he may take a
stroll up Montgomery Street, and a good seat at a creditably performed
opera may be obtained. Nobody knows better than the sailor and the
traveller the splendid luxury of such moments, after a two or three
months’ monotonous voyage. And, in good sooth, he generally abandons
himself to it. He has earned it, and who shall say him nay? The same
evening may be, he will go to a 300-roomed hotel—they have now one of 750
rooms—where, for three dollars (12s. 6d.), he can sup, sleep, breakfast,
and dine sumptuously. He will be answered twenty questions for nothing by
a civil clerk in the office of the hotel, read the papers for nothing in
the reading-room, have a bath—for nothing—and find that it is not the
thing to give fees to the waiters. It is a new revelation to many who have
stopped before in dozens of first-class English and Continental houses.

“Seen,” says Mr. W. F. Rae,(103) “as I saw it for the first time, the
appearance of San Francisco is enchanting. Built on a hill-slope, up which
many streets run to the top, and illumined as many of these streets were
with innumerable gas-lamps, the effect was that of a huge dome ablaze with
lamps arranged in lines and circles. Those who have stood in Princes
Street at night, and gazed upon the Old Town and Castle of Edinburgh, can
form a very correct notion of the fairy-like spectacle. Expecting to find
San Francisco a city of wonders, I was not disappointed when it seemed to
my eyes a city of magic—such a city as Aladdin might have ordered the
genii to create in order to astonish and dazzle the spectator. I was
warned by those whom personal experience of the city had taught to
distinguish glitter from substance, not to expect that the reality of the
morrow would fulfil the promise of the evening. Some of the parts which
now appeared the most fascinating were said to be the least attractive
when viewed by day. Still, the panorama was deprived of none of its
glories by these whispers of well-meant warning.” The present writer has
crossed the Bay in the ferry and other boats a hundred times, and on a
fine night—and they have about nine months of fine nights in California—he
never missed the opportunity of going forward towards the bows of the boat
when it approached San Francisco. As Mr. Rae writes, “The full-orbed stars
twinkling overhead are almost rivalled by the myriads of gas-lights
illuminating the land.” Less than thirty years ago this city of 300,000
souls was but a mission-village, and the few inhabitants of California
were mostly demoralised Mexicans, lazy half-breeds, and wretched Indians,
who could almost live without work, and, as a rule, did so. Wild cattle
roamed at will, and meat was to be had for the asking. The only ships
which arrived were like the brig _Pilgrim_, described by Dana in “Two
Years before the Mast,” bound to California for hides and tallow. Now, the
tonnage of the shipping of all nations which enters the port of San
Francisco is enormous. The discovery made by Marshall, in 1847, _first_
brought about the revolution. “Such is the power of gold.” _Now_,
California depends far more on her corn, and wool, and hides, her wine,
her grapes, oranges, and other fruits, and on innumerable industries.
Reader, you have eaten bread made from California wheat—it fetches a high
price in Liverpool on account of its fine quality; you may have been
clothed in California wool, and your boots made of her leather; more than
likely you have drunk California wine, of which large quantities are
shipped to Hamburgh, where they are watered and doctored for the rest of
Europe, and exported under French and German names; your head may have
been shampooed with California borax; and your watch-chain was probably,
and some of your coin assuredly, made from the gold of the Golden State.

This is not a book on “The Land,” but two or three stories of Californian
life in the early days may, however, be forgiven. The first is of a man
who had just landed from a ship, and who offered a somewhat seedy-looking
customer, lounging on the wharf, a dollar to carry his portmanteau. He got
the reply, “I’ll give you an ounce of gold to see you carry it yourself.”
The new arrival thought he had come to a splendid country, and shouldered
his burden like a man, when the other, a successful gold-finder, not
merely gave him his ounce—little less than £4 sterling—but treated him to
a bottle of champagne, which cost another ounce. The writer can well
believe the story, for he paid two and a half dollars—nearly half a
guinea—for an _Illustrated London News_, and two dollars for a copy of
_Punch_, in the Cariboo mines, in 1863; while a friend—now retired on a
competency in England—started a little weekly newspaper, the size of a
sheet of foolscap, selling it for one dollar (4s. 2d.) per copy. He was
fortunately not merely a competent writer, but a practical printer. He
composed his articles on paper first, and then in type; worked the press,
delivered them to his subscribers, collected advertisements and payments,
and no doubt would have made his own paper—if rags had not been too
costly!

A sailor purchased, about the year 1849, in an auction-room, while out on
a “spree,” the lots of land on which the Plaza, one of the most important
business squares of San Francisco, now stands. He went off again, and
after several years cruising about the world, returned to find himself a
millionaire. The City Hall stands on that property; it is surrounded by
offices, shops, and hotels, and very prettily planted with shrubs,
grass-plots, and flowers.

There was a period when females were so scarce in California that the
miners and farm-hands, ay, and farmers and proprietors too—a large number
of these were old sailors—would travel any distance merely to see
one.(104) At this present time any decent English housemaid receives
twenty dollars (£4) per month, and is “found,” while a superior servant, a
first-class cook, or competent housekeeper, gets anything from thirty
dollars upwards.

Theatres at San Francisco were once rude buildings of boards and canvas,
and the stalls were benches. A story is told that at a performance at such
a house quite a commotion was caused by the piercing squall of a healthy
baby—brought in by a mother who, perhaps, had not had any amusement for a
year or two, and most assuredly had no servant with whom to leave it at
home—which was heard above the music. “Here, you fiddlers,” roared out a
stalwart man in a red shirt and “gum” boots, just down from the mines,
“stop that tune; I haven’t heard a baby cry for several years; it does me
good to hear it.” The “one touch of nature” made that rough audience akin,
and all rose to their feet, cheering the baby, and insisting that the
orchestra must stop, and stop it did until the child was quieted. Then a
collection was made—not of coppers and small silver, but of ounces and
dollars—to present the child with something handsome as a souvenir of its
success.

                [Illustration: THE BAY OF SAN FRANCISCO.]

San Francisco, as the most important commercial emporium and port of the
whole Pacific, has a particular interest to the “man of the sea.” It has
societies, “homes,” and bethels for his benefit, and a fine marine
hospital. At the Merchants’ Exchange he will find the latest shipping-news
and quotations, while many public institutions are open to him, as to all
others. Above all, he will find one of the most conscientious and kind, as
well as influential, of British Consuls there—and how often the sailor
abroad may need his interference, only the sailor and merchant knows—who
is also one of the oldest in H.B.M. consular service. No matter his sect,
it is represented; San Francisco is full of churches and chapels. If he
needs instruction and literary entertainment, he will get it at the
splendid Mercantile Library, or admirably-conducted Mechanics’ Institute.
There is a capital “Art Association,” with hundreds of members. He will
find journalism of a new type: “live,” vigorous, generous, and
semi-occasionally vicious. The papers of San Francisco will, however,
compare favourably with those of any other American city, short of New
York and Boston. The sailor will find the city as advanced in all matters
pertaining to modern civilisation, whether good or bad, as any he has ever
visited. The naval officer will find admirable clubs, and if of the Royal
Navy will most assuredly be put on the books of one or more of them for
the period of his stay. He will find, too, that San Francisco hospitality
is unbounded, that balls and parties are nowhere better carried out, and
that the rising generation of California girls are extremely good-looking,
and that the men are stalwart, fine-looking fellows, very unlike the
typical bony Yankee, who, by-the-by, is getting very scarce even in his
own part of the country, the New England States.

If Jack has been to China, he will recognise the truth of the fact that
parts of San Francisco are Chinese as Hong Kong itself. There are
Joss-houses, with a big, stolid-looking idol sitting in state, the temple
gay with tinsel and china, metal-work and paint, smelling faintly of
incense, and strongly of burnt paper. There are Chinese _restaurants_ by
the dozen, from the high-class dining-rooms, with balconies, flowers,
small banners and inscriptions, down to the itinerant _restaurateur_ with
his charcoal-stove and soup-pot. Then there are Chinese theatres, smelling
strongly of opium and tobacco, where the orchestra sits at the back of the
stage, which is curtainless and devoid of scenery. The dresses of the
performers are gorgeous in the extreme. When any new arrangement of
properties, &c., is required on the stage, the changes are made before
your eyes; as, for example, placing a table to represent a raised balcony,
or piling up some boxes to form a castle, and so forth. Their dramas are
often almost interminable, for they take the reign of an emperor, for
example, and play it through, night after night, from his birth to his
death. In details they are very literal, and hold “the mirror up to
nature” fully. If the said emperor had special vices, they are displayed
on the stage. The music is, to European ears, fearful and wonderful—a
mixture of discordant sounds, resembling those of ungreased cart-wheels
and railway-whistles, mingled with the rolling of drums and striking of
gongs. Some of the streets are lined with Chinese shops, ranging from
those of the merchants in tea, silks, porcelain, and lacquered ware—a
dignified and polite class of men, who are often highly educated, and
speak English extremely well—to those of the cigar-makers, barbers,
shoemakers, and laundry-_men_. Half the laundry-work in San Francisco is
performed by John Chinaman. There is one Chinese hotel or caravanserai,
which looks as though it might at a stretch accommodate two hundred
people, in which 1,200 men are packed.

The historian of the future will watch with interest the advancing or
receding waves of population as they move over the surface of the globe,
now surging in great waves of resistless force, now peacefully subsiding,
leaving hardly a trace behind. The Pacific Mail Steamship Company’s
steamers have brought from China to San Francisco as many as 1,200
Chinamen—and, very occasionally, of course, more than that number—on a
single trip. The lowest estimate of the number of Chinese in California is
70,000, while they are spread all over the Pacific states and territories,
and, indeed, in lesser numbers, all over the American continent. One finds
them in New England factories, New York laundries, and Southern
plantations. Their reception in San Francisco used to be with brickbats
and other missiles, and hooting and jeering, on the part of the lower
classes of the community. This is not the place to enter into a discussion
on the political side of the question. Suffice it to say that they were
and still are a necessity in California, where the expense of reaching the
country has kept out “white” labour to an extent so considerable, that it
still rules higher than in almost any part of the world. The respectable
middle classes would hardly afford servants at all were it not for the
Chinese. All the better classes support their claims to full legal and
social rights. The Chinamen who come to San Francisco are not coolies, and
a large number of them pay their own passages over. When brought over by
merchants, or one of the six great Chinese companies, their passage-money
is advanced, and they, of course, pay interest for the accommodation. On
arrival in California, if they do not immediately go to work, they proceed
to the “Company-house” of their particular province, where, in a kind of
caravanserai, rough accommodations for sleeping and cooking are afforded.
Hardly a better system of organisation could be adopted than that of the
companies, who know exactly where each man in their debt is to be found,
if he is hundreds of miles from San Francisco. Were it possible to adopt
the same system in regard to emigrants from this country, thousands would
be glad to avail themselves of the opportunity of proceeding to the Golden
State.

One little anecdote, and the Chinese must be left to their fate. It
happened in 1869. Two Chinese merchants had been invited by one of the
heads of a leading steamship company to visit the theatre, where they had
taken a box. The merchants, men of high standing among their countrymen,
accepted. Their appearance in front of it was the signal for an outburst
of ruffianism on the part of the gallery; it was the “gods” _versus_ the
celestials, and for a time the former had it all their own way. In vain
Lawrence Barrett, the actor, came forward on the stage to try and appease
them. He is supposed to have said that any well-conducted person had a
right to his seat in the house. An excited gentleman in the dress-circle
reiterated the same ideas, and was rewarded by a torrent of hisses and
caterwauling. The Chinamen, alarmed that it might result in violence to
them, would have retired, but a dozen gentlemen from the dress-circle and
orchestra seats requested them to stay, promising them protection, and the
merchants remained. They could see that all the better and more
respectable part of the house wished them to remain. After twenty or more
minutes of interruption, the gallery was nearly cleared by the police, and
the performance allowed to proceed. And yet the very class who are so
opposed to the Caucasian complain that he does not spend his money in the
country where he makes it, but hoards it up for China. The story explains
the actual position of the Chinaman in America to-day. The upper and
middle classes, ay, and the honest mechanics who require their assistance,
support their claims; the lowest scum of the population persecute, injure,
and not unfrequently murder them. Many a poor John Chinaman has, as they
say in America, been “found missing.”

The sailor ashore in San Francisco may likely enough have an opportunity
of feeling the tremor of an earthquake. As a rule, they have been
exceedingly slight, but that of the 21st October, 1868, was a serious
affair. Towers and steeples swayed to and fro: tall houses trembled,
badly-built wooden houses became disjointed; walls fell. Many buildings,
for some time afterwards, showed the effects in cracked walls and
plastering, dislocated doors and window-frames. A writer in the _Overland
Monthly_, soon after the event, put the matter forcibly when recalling the
great earthquake of Lisbon. He said, “Over the parts of the city where
ships anchored twenty years ago, they may anchor again,” for the worst
effects were confined to the “made” ground—_i.e._, land reclaimed from the
Bay. Dwellings on the rocky hills were scarcely injured at all, reminding
us of the relative fates of the man “who built his house upon a rock” and
of him who placed it on the sand. Four persons only were killed on that
occasion, all of them from the fall of badly-constructed walls, loose
parapets, &c. The alarm in the city was great; excited people rushing
wildly through the streets, and frightened horses running through the
crowds.

California possesses other ports of importance, but as regards English
naval interests in the Pacific, Esquimalt, Vancouver Island, B.C., which
has a fine land-locked harbour of deep water, dock, and naval hospital,
deserves the notice of the reader. It is often the rendezvous for seven or
eight of H.M.’s vessels, from the admiral’s flag-ship to the tiniest steam
gun-boat. Victoria, the capital, is three miles off, and has a pretty
little harbour itself, not, however, adapted for large vessels. Formerly
the colonies of Vancouver Island and British Columbia, the mainland, were
separate and distinct colonies; they are now identified under the latter
name. Their value never warranted the full paraphernalia of a double
colonial government—two governors, colonial secretaries, treasurers,
attorney-generals, &c., &c.; for these countries, charming and interesting
to the tourist and artist, will only attract population slowly. The
resources of British Columbia in gold, timber, coal, fisheries, &c., are
considerable; but the long winters on the mainland, and the small quantity
of open land, are great drawbacks. Approaching Vancouver Island from the
sea, the “inside channel” is entered through the grand opening to the
Straits of Fuca, which Cook missed and Vancouver discovered. To the
eastward are the rocks and light of Cape Flattery, while the rather low
termination of Vancouver Island, thick with timber, is seen to the
westward. The scene in the Straits is often lively with steamers and
shipping, great men-of-war, sometimes of foreign nationalities; coast
packet-boats proceeding not merely to Vancouver Island, but to the ports
of Washington Territory, on the American side; timber (called “lumber”
always on that side of the world) vessels; colliers proceeding to Nanaimo
or Bellingham Bay to the coal-mines; coasting and trading schooners; and
Indian canoes, some of them big enough to accommodate sixty or more
persons, and carrying a good amount of sail. The Straits have many
beauties; and as, approaching the entrance of Esquimalt Harbour, the
Olympian range of mountains, snow-covered and rugged, loom in the
distance, the scene is grandly beautiful; while in the channel, rocky
islets and islands, covered with pine and arbutus, abound. Outside the
Straits two lighthouses are placed, to warn the unwary voyager by night.
Often those lighthouses may be noted apparently upside down! Mirage is
common enough in the Straits of Fuca.

Victoria, in 1862, had at least 12,000 or 15,000 people, mostly drawn
thither by the fame of the Cariboo mines, on the mainland of British
Columbia. Not twenty per cent. ever reached those mines. When ships
arrived in the autumn, it was utterly useless to attempt the long journey
of about 600 miles, partly by steamer, but two-thirds of which must be
accomplished on foot or horseback, or often mule-back, over rugged
mountain-paths, through swamps and forests. Consequently, a large number
had to spend the winter in idleness; and in the spring, in many cases,
their resources were exhausted. Many became tired of the colony; “roughing
it” was not always the pleasant kind of thing they had imagined, and so
they went down to California, or left for home. Others were stuck fast in
the colony, and many suffered severe privations; although, so long as they
could manage to live on salmon alone, they could obtain plenty from the
Indians, who hawked it about the streets for a shilling or two shillings
apiece—the latter for a very large fish. The son of a baronet at one time
might be seen breaking stones for a living in Victoria; and unless men had
a very distinct calling, profession, or trade, they had to live on their
means or have a very rough time of it.

These remarks are not made to deter adventurous spirits from going abroad;
but we would advise them to “look well before they leap.” But how utterly
unfitted for mining-work were the larger part of the young men who had
travelled so far, only to be disappointed. There was no doubt of the gold
being there: two hundred ounces of the precious metal have been “washed
out” in an eight hours’ “shift” (a “shift” is the same as a “watch” on
board ship); and this was kept up for many days in succession, the miners
working day and night. But that mine had been three years in process of
development, and only one of the original proprietors was among the lucky
number of shareholders. A day or so before the first gold had been
found—“struck” is the technical expression—his credit was exhausted, and
he had begged vainly for flour, &c., to enable him to live and work. The
ordinary price of a very ordinary meal was _two dollars_; and it will be
seen that, unless employed, or simply travelling for pleasure, it was a
ruinous place to stop in. Fancy, then, the condition of perhaps as many as
4,000 unemployed men, out of a total of 7,000 men, on the various creeks,
a good half of whom were of the middle and upper classes at home. But for
one happy fact, that beef—which, as the miners said, _packed itself_ into
the mines (in other words, the cattle were driven in from a distance of
hundreds of miles)—was reasonably cheap, hundreds of them must have
starved. Everything—from flour, tea, sugar, bacon, and beans, to metal
implements and machinery—had to be packed there on the backs of mules, and
cost from fifty cents and upwards per pound for the mere cost of
transportation. Tea was ten shillings a pound, flour and sugar a dollar a
pound, and so on. Those who fancy that gold-mining, and especially deep
gravel-mining, as in Cariboo, is play-work, may be told that it is perhaps
the hardest, as it is certainly the most risky and uncertain, work in the
world; and that it requires machinery, expensive tools, &c., which, in
places like Cariboo, cost enormous sums to supply. If labour was to be
employed—good practical miners, carpenters, &c. (much of the machinery was
of wood)—received, at that period, ten to sixteen dollars per day. This
digression may be pardoned, as the sea is so intimately bound up with
questions of emigration. Apart from this, from personal observation, the
writer knows that quite a proportion of miners have been sailors, and, in
many cases, deserted their ships. In the “early days” of Australia,
California, and British Columbia, this was eminently the case.

A large proportion of the sailors in the Royal Navy have, or will at some
period, pass some time on the Pacific station, in which case, they will
inevitably go to Vancouver Island, where there is much to interest
them.(105) They will find Victoria a very pretty little town, with
Government house, cathedral, churches and chapels, a mechanics’ institute,
a theatre, good hotels and restaurants—the latter generally in French
hands. He will find a curious mixture of English and American manners and
customs, and a very curious mixture of coinage—shillings being the same as
quarter-dollars, while crowns are only the value of dollars (5s., against
4s. 2d.). Some years ago the island system was different from that of the
mainland; on the latter, florins were equal to half-dollars (which they
are, nearly), while on the island they were 37½ cents only (1s. 7½d.). The
Hudson’s Bay Company, which has trading-posts throughout British Columbia,
took advantage of the fact to give change for American money, on their
steamers, in English florins, obtaining them on the island. They thus made
nearly twenty-five per cent. in their transaction, besides getting paid
the passenger’s fare. Yet the traveller, strange to say, did not lose by
this, for, on landing at New Westminster, he found that what was rated at
a little over eighteenpence on Vancouver Island, had suddenly, after
travelling only seventy miles or so, increased in value to upwards of two
shillings!

               [Illustration: THE BRITISH CAMP: SAN JUAN.]

Outside Victoria there are many pleasant drives and walks: to “The Arm,”
where, amid a charming landscape, interspersed with pines and natural fir
woods, wild flowers, and mossy rocks, there is a pretty little rapid, or
fall; to Saanich, where the settlers’ homesteads have a semi-civilised
appearance, half of the houses being of squared logs, but comfortable
withal inside, and where a rude plenty reigns; or to Beacon Hill, where
there is an excellent race-course and drive, which commands fine views up
and down the Straits. In sight is San Juan Island, over which England and
America once squabbled, while the two garrisons which occupied it
fraternised cordially, and outvied with each other in hospitality. The
island—rocky, and covered with forest and underbrush, with a farm or two,
made by clearing away the big trees, with not a little difficulty, and
burning and partially uprooting the stumps—does not look a worthy subject
for international differences. But the fact is, that it commands the
Straits to some extent. However, all that is over now, and it is England’s
property by diplomatic arrangement. There are other islands, nearly as
large, in the archipelago which stretches northward up the Gulf of
Georgia, which have not a single human inhabitant, and have never been
visited, except by some stray Indians, miners, or traders who have gone
ashore to cook a meal or camp for the night.

Any one who has travelled by small canoes on the sea must remember those
happy camping-times, when, often wet, and always hungry and tired, the
little party cautiously selected some sheltered nook or specially good
beach, and then paddled with a will ashore. No lack of drift-wood or small
trees on that coast, and no lord of the manor to interfere with one taking
it. A glorious fire is soon raised, and the cooking preparations
commenced. Sometimes it is only the stereotyped tea—frying-pan bread
(something like the Australian “damper,” only baked before the fire), or
“slapjacks” (_i.e._, flour-and-water pancakes), fried bacon, and boiled
Chili beans; but ofttimes it can be varied by excellent fish, game,
bear-meat, venison, or moose-meat, purchased from some passing Indians, or
killed by themselves. It is absurd to suppose that “roughing it” need mean
hardship and semi-starvation all the time. Not a bit of it! On the
northern coasts now being described, one may often live magnificently, and
most travellers learn instinctively to cook, and make the most of things.
Nothing is finer in camp than a _roast_ fish—say a salmon—split and
gutted, and stuck on a stick before the fire, not over it. A few dozen
turns, and you have a dish worthy of a prince. Or a composition stew—say
of deer and bear-meat and beaver’s tail, well seasoned, and with such
vegetables as you may obtain there; potatoes from some seaside farm—and
there are such on that coast, where the settler is as brown as his Indian
wife—or compressed vegetables, often taken on exploring expeditions. Or,
again, venison dipped in a thick batter and thrown into a pan of
boiling-hot fat, making a kind of meat fritter, with not a drop of its
juices wasted. Some of these explorers and miners are veritable _chefs_.
They can make good light bread in the woods from plain flour, water, and
salt, and ask no oven but a frying-pan. They will make beans, of a kind
only given to horses at home, into a delicious dish, by boiling them
soft—a long job, generally done at the night camp—and then frying them
with bread-crumbs and pieces of bacon in the morning, till they are brown
and crisp.

It was at one of these camps, on an island in the Gulf of Georgia, that a
camp fire spread to some grass and underbrush, mounted with lightning
rapidity a steep slope, and in a few minutes the forest at the top was
ablaze. The whole island was soon in flames! For hours afterwards the
flames and smoke could be seen. No harm was done; for it is extremely
unlikely that island will be inhabited for the next five hundred years.
But forest fires in partially inhabited districts are more serious, or
when near trails or roads. In the long summer of Vancouver Island, where
rain, as in California, is almost unknown, these fires, once started, may
burn for weeks—ay, months.

The Indians of this part of the coast, of dozens of petty tribes, all
speaking different languages, or, at all events, varied dialects, are not
usually prepossessing in appearance, but the male half-breeds are often
fine-looking fellows, and the girls pretty. The sailor will be interested
in their cedar canoes, which on Vancouver Island are beautifully modelled.
A first-class clipper has not more graceful lines. They are always cut
from one log, and are finely and smoothly finished, being usually painted
black outside, and finished with red ornamental work within. They are very
light and buoyant, and will carry great weights; but one must be careful
to avoid rocks on the coast, or “snags” in the rivers, for any sudden
concussion will split them all to pieces. When on the Vancouver Island
Exploring Expedition, a party of men found themselves suddenly deposited
in a swift-running stream, from the canoe having almost parted in half,
after touching on a sunken rock or log. All got to shore safely, and it
took about half a day of patching and caulking to make her sufficiently
river-worthy (why not say “river-worthy” as well as “sea-worthy?”) to
enable them to reach camp. The writer, in 1864, came down from the extreme
end of Bute Inlet—an arm of the sea on the mainland of British
Columbia—across the Gulf of Georgia (twenty miles of open sea), coasting
southwards to Victoria, V.I., the total voyage being 180 miles, in an open
cedar canoe, only large enough for four or five people. The trip occupied
five days. But while there is some risk in such an undertaking, there is
little in a voyage in the great Haidah canoes of Queen Charlotte’s Island
(north of Vancouver Island). These canoes are often eighty feet long, but
are still always made from a single log, the splendid pines of that
coast(106) affording ample opportunity. They have masts, and carry as much
sail as a schooner, while they can be propelled by, say, forty or fifty
paddles, half on either side, wielded by as many pairs of brawny arms. The
savage Haidahs are a powerful race, of whom not much is known. They,
however, often come to Victoria, or the American ports on Puget Sound, for
purposes of trading.

“How,” it might be asked, “does the trade communicate with so many
varieties of natives, all speaking different tongues?” The answer is that
there is a jargon, a kind of “pigeon-English,” which is acquired, more or
less, by almost all residents on the coast for purposes of intercourse
with their Indian servants or others. This is the Chinook jargon, a
mixture of Indian, English, and French—the latter coming from the French
Canadian _voyageurs_, often to be found in the employ of the Hudson’s Bay
Company, as they were formerly in the defunct North-West Company. Some of
the words used have curious origins. Thus, an Englishman is a
“King-George-man,” because the first explorers, Cook, Vancouver, and
others, arrived there during the Georgian era. An American is a
“Boston-man,” because the first ships from the United States which visited
that coast hailed from Boston. This lingo has no grammar, and a very few
hundred words satisfies all its requirements. Young ladies, daughters of
Hudson’s Bay Company’s employés in Victoria, rattle it off as though it
were their mother-tongue. “Ikte mika tikkee?” (“What do you want?”) is
probably the first query to an Indian who arrives, and has something to
sell. “Nika tikkee tabac et la biscuit” (“I want some tobacco and
biscuit”). “Cleush; mika potlatch salmon?” (“Good; will you give me a
salmon?”). “Naāāāwitka, Se-ām” (“Yes, sir”); and for a small piece of
black cake-tobacco and two or three biscuits (sailors’ “hard bread” or
“hard tack”) he will exchange a thirty-pound or so salmon.

The Chinook jargon, in skilful hands, is susceptible of much. But it is
not adapted for sentiment or poetry, although a naval officer, once
stationed on the Pacific side, did evolve an effusion, which the sailor is
almost sure to hear there. It needed, however, a fair amount of English to
make it read pleasantly. Old residents and visitors will recognise some of
its stanzas:—

  “Oh! be not quass of nika;
  Thy seahoose turn on me;
  For thou must but hyas cumtux,
  That I hyas tikkee thee!
  Nika potlatch hyu ictas;
  Nika makook sappalell
  Of persicees and la biscuit,
  I will give thee all thy fill!”

which, addressed to a “sweet Klootchman,” a “forest maiden,” means, that
loving her so much, all that he had was hers. Much greater absurdities
have been put in plain English.

A bishop of British Columbia was, however, hardly so successful; not being
himself a student of Chinook, the entire vocabulary of which would have
taken him rather less time to learn than the barest elements of Latin, he
engaged an interpreter, through whom to address the Indians. The latter
was perfectly competent to say all that _can_ be said in Chinook, but was
rather nonplussed when his lordship commenced his address by “Children of
the forest!” He scratched his head and looked at the bishop, who, however,
was determined, and commenced once more, “Children of the forest!” The
interpreter knew that it must make nonsense, but he was cornered, and had
to do it. And this is what he said: “Tenass man copa stick!”—literally,
“Little men among the stumps” (or trunks of trees). The writer will not
comment upon the subject here, more than to say that Chinook is _not_
adapted for the translation of Milton or Shakespeare; while the simplest
story or parable of the Scriptures must be unintelligible, or worse, when
attempted in that jargon.

The only other settlement on Vancouver Island which has any direct
interest to the Royal Navy, is Nanaimo, the coal-mines of which yield a
large amount of the fuel used by the steamships when in that neighbourhood
and about all that is used on the island; a quantity is also shipped to
San Francisco. The mines are worked by English companies, and are so near
the coast that, by means of a few tramways and locomotives, the coal is
conveyed to the wharves, where it can be at once put on board. It is a
pleasant little place, and many an English miner would be glad to be as
well off as the men settled there, who earn more money than at home, own
their cottages and plots of land, obtain most of their supplies cheaper
than in England, and have a beautiful gulf before them, in summer, at
least, as calm as a lake, on which boating and canoeing is all the rage in
the evenings or on holidays.

The Pacific Station is an extensive one, for it commences at the most
northernmost parts of Bering Sea, and extends below Cape Horn. It embraces
the Alaskan coast. Many English men-of-war have visited these latitudes,
principally, however, in the cause of science and discovery.

In the old days, when the colony of Russian America was little better than
are many parts of Siberia—convict settlements—the few Government officials
and officers of the Russian Fur Company were, it may well be believed,
only too ready to welcome any change in the monotony of their existence,
and a new arrival, in the shape of a ship from some foreign port, was a
day to be remembered, and of which to make much. The true Russians are
naturally hospitably and sociably inclined, and such times were the
occasion for balls, dinners, and parties to any extent. The writer well
remembers his first visit to Sitka, which, although the capital of Alaska,
is situated on an island off the mainland. On approaching the small and
partially land-locked harbour, a mountain of no inconsiderable height,
wooded to the top, appeared in view, and below it a little town of
highly-coloured roofs, in the middle of which rose a picturesque rock,
surmounted by a semi-fortified castle, which, in the distance at least,
looked most imposing. Near this, but separated by a stockade, was the
village of the Kalosh Indians, a powerful tribe, who had at times, as the
members of the expedition learned, given a considerable amount of trouble
to the Russians—in 1804 they murdered nearly the whole of the Russian
garrison—while beyond on every side were rocky shores and wooded heights.
An old hulk or two, lying on the beach below the old castle, itself
principally built of wood, the residence of the Governor of Russian
America, then Prince Maksutoff, which had been roofed in and were used for
magazines of stores, and some rather shaky pile-wharfs, made up the town.

Soon was experienced the warmth of a Russian welcome, and for a week
afterwards a succession of gaieties followed, which were so very gay that
they would have killed most men, unless they had been fortified with a
long sea-trip just before. Every Russian seemed to wish the party to
consider all that he had at their service; the _samovar_ boiled up
everywhere as they approached; the little lunch-table of anchovies, and
pickles, rye-bread, butter, cheese, and so forth, with the everlasting
_vodka_, was everywhere ready, and except duty called, no one was obliged
to go off at night to the three vessels comprising the expedition to which
the writer was attached, for the best bed in the house was always at his
service. There was only one bar-room in the whole town, and there only a
kind of _lager-bier_ and _vodka_ were to be obtained. When the country
was, for a consideration of 7,250,000 dollars, transferred to the United
States, there was a “rush” from Victoria and San Francisco. Keen Hebrew
traders, knowing that furs up country bore a merely nominal price, and
that Sitka was the great _entrepôt_ for their collection—a million
dollars’ worth being frequently gathered there at a time—thought they
would be able to buy them for next to nothing still. Parcels of land in
the town, which had not at the utmost a greater value than a few hundred
dollars, now ran up to fabulous prices; 10,000 dollars was asked for a log
house! Hotels, “saloons”—_i.e._, bar-rooms _à l’Américaine_—German
lager-bier cellars, and barbers’ shops sprang up like mushrooms; a
newspaper-office was opened, and everything reminded one of the sudden
growth of mining-towns in the early days of California. Alas! everything
else went up in proportion, excepting salmon, which must be a drug on that
coast for many centuries to come;(107) provisions greatly rose in price,
and the competition for furs was so great that they became nearly as dear
as in San Francisco. The consequence may be imagined; there was an exodus,
and the following January the whole city could have been bought for a
song. The Russian officials, of course, left it shortly after the
transfer, and most of the others as speedily as they could. The “capital”
has never recovered from the shock; for, although organised fur-companies
are scattered over the country, in one instance the United States
Government leasing the sole right—that of fur-sealing, on the Aleutian
Islands—to a firm which has a Russian prince as a partner, Sitka is not
the _entrepôt_ it was; everything in furs is brought to San Francisco
before being consigned to all quarters of the globe. The value of Alaska
to the United States is at present very small, but so little is known
about it that one can hardly form an estimate concerning its future. It
possesses minerals, but these will always be worked with difficulty, on
account of the climate. Its grand salmon-fisheries are, however, a
tangible property; the cod in Bering Sea is as plentiful as it ever was on
the Newfoundland banks; and there are innumerable forests of trees, easily
accessible, reaching down to the coast—of pines, firs, and cedars, of size
sufficient for the tallest masts and largest spars, so that Alaska has a
direct interest for the ship-builder.

By its acquisition, the United States not merely extended its seaboard
for, say, 1,500 miles north, but it obtained Mount St. Elias, by far the
largest peak of the North American continent, and one of the loftiest
mountains of the globe. “Upon Mont Blanc,” says an American writer,(108)
“pile the loftiest summit in the British Islands, and they would not reach
the altitude of Mount St. Elias. If a man could reach its summit, he would
be two miles nearer the stars than any other American could be, east of
the Mississippi.... As a single peak it ranks among the half-dozen
loftiest on the globe. Some of the Himalaya summits reach, indeed, a
couple of miles nearer Orion and the Pleiades, but they rise from an
elevated plateau sloping gradually upwards for hundreds of miles. As an
isolated peak, St. Elias may look down upon Mont Blanc and Teneriffe, and
claim brotherhood with Chimborazo and Cotopaxi.” It acquired also one of
the four great rivers of the globe, of which the writer had the pleasure
of being one of the earliest explorers. The Yukon, which renders the
waters of Bering Sea fresh or semi-fresh for a dozen miles beyond its many
mouths, is a sister-river to the Amazon, Mississippi, and, perhaps, the
Plata; it has affluents to which the Rhine or Rhône are but brooks.

The Kalosh Indians of Sitka live in semi-civilised wooden barns or houses,
with invariably a round hole for a door, through which one creeps. They
are particularly ingenious in carving; and Jack has many an opportunity of
obtaining grotesque figures, cut from wood or slate-stone, for a cast-off
garment or a half-dollar. One brought home represents the Russian soldier
of the period, prior to the American annexation, and is scarcely a
burlesque of his stolid face, gigantic moustache, close fitting coat with
very tight sleeves, and loose, baggy trousers. Masks may be seen cut from
some white stone, which would not do dishonour to a European sculptor. But
now, leaving Sitka, let us make a rapid trip to the extreme northern end
of the Pacific Station.

Men-of-war proceeding north of Sitka—which, except for purposes of science
or war, is not likely to be the case, although the Pacific Station extends
to the northernmost parts of Alaska—would voyage into Bering Sea through
Ounimak Pass, one of the best passages between the rocky and rugged
Aleutian Islands. In the pass the scenery is superb, grand volcanic peaks
rising in all directions. While there, many years ago, the writer well
remembers going on deck one morning, when mists and low clouds hung over
the then placid waters, and seeing what appeared to be a magnificent
mountain peak, snowy and scarped, right overhead the vessel, and having a
wreath of white cloud surrounding it, while a lower and greyer bank of
mist hid its base. It seemed baseless, and as though rising from nothing;
while the bright sunlight above all, and which did not reach the vessel,
lit up the eternal snows in brilliant contrasts of light and shadow. This
was the grand peak of Sheshaldinski, which rises nearly 9,000 feet above
the sea level.

The Aleutian Islands are thinly inhabited, and the Aleuts—a harmless,
strong, half-Esquimaux kind of people—often leave them. They make very
good sailors. The few Russian settlements, among the principal of which
was Kodiak, were simply trading posts and fur-sealing establishments.
Since the purchase of Alaska, the United States Government has leased them
to a large mercantile firm, which makes profits from the sealing. North of
the islands, after steaming over a considerable waste of waters, the only
settlements on the coast of the whole country are Michaelovski and
Unalachleet, both trading posts; while south of the former are the many
mouths of one of the grandest rivers in the world, the Yukon, almost a
rival to the Amazon and Mississippi. That section of the country lying
round the great river is tolerably rich in fur-bearing animals, including
sable, mink, black and silver-grey fox, beaver, and bear. The moose and
deer abound; while fish, more especially salmon, is very abundant. Salmon,
thirty or more pounds in weight, caught in the Yukon, has often been
purchased for a half-ounce of tobacco or four or five common
sewing-needles. The coasts of Northern Alaska are rugged and uninviting,
and not remarkable for the grand scenery common in the southern division.

Leaving the north, and passing the leading station already described on
Vancouver Island, the sailor has the whole Pacific coasts of both
Americas, clear to Cape Horn, before him as part of the Pacific Station.
There is Mexico, with its port of Acapulco; New Granada, with the
important sea-port town of Panama; Callao, Peru; and Valparaiso, in Chili:
at any of which H.B.M. vessels are commonly to be found. Panama is,
indeed, a very important central point, as officers of the Royal Navy,
ordered to join vessels elsewhere, usually leave their own at Panama,
cross the isthmus, and take steamer to England, _viâ_ St. Thomas’s, or by
way of New York, thence crossing to Liverpool. The railroad—which, during
its construction, is said to have cost the life of a Chinaman for every
sleeper laid down, so fatal was the fever of the isthmus—has the dearest
fares of any in the world. The distance from Panama across to Aspinwall
(Colon) is about forty miles, and the fare is £5! An immense amount of
travel crosses the isthmus; and it is only matter of time for a canal to
be cut through some portion of it, or the isthmus of Darien adjoining.
Steamers of the largest kind are arriving daily at Panama from San
Francisco, Mexico, and all parts of South America; while, on the Atlantic
side, they come from Southampton, Liverpool, New York and other American
ports.

Southward, with favouring breezes and usually calm seas, one soon arrives
at Callao—a place which may yet become a great city, but which, like
everything else in Peru, has been retarded by interminable dissensions in
regard to government and politics, and by the ignorance and bigotry of the
masses. Peru had an advantage over Chili in wealth and importance at one
time; but, while the latter country is to-day one of the most satisfactory
and stable republics in the world, one never knows what is going to happen
next in Peru. Hence distrust in commerce; and hence the sailor will not
find a tithe of the shipping in Callao Roads that he will at the wharfs of
Valparaiso. Lima, the capital, is situated behind Callao, at a distance of
about six miles. When seen from the deck of a vessel in the roadstead, the
city has a most imposing appearance, with its innumerable domes and spires
rising from so elevated a situation, and wearing a strange and rather
Moorish air. On nearing the city, everything speaks eloquently of past
splendour and present wretchedness; public walks and elegant ornamental
stone seats choked with rank weeds, and all in ruins. You enter Lima
through a triumphal arch, tawdry and tumbling to pieces; you find that the
churches, which looked so imposing in the distance, are principally stucco
and tinsel. Lima has a novelty in one of its theatres. It is built in a
long oval, the stage occupying nearly the whole of one long side, all the
boxes being thus comparatively near it. The pit audience is men, and the
galleries, women; and all help to fill the house, between the acts, with
tobacco smoke from their cigarettes.

The sailor, who has been much among Spanish people or those of Spanish
origin, will find the Chilians the finest race in South America.
Valparaiso Harbour is always full of shipping, its wharfs piled with
goods; while the railroad and old road to the capital, Santiago, bears
evidence of the material prosperity of the country. The country roads are
crowded with convoys of pack-mules, while the ships are loading up with
wheat, wines, and minerals, the produce of the country. Travelling is free
everywhere. Libraries, schools, literary, scientific, and artistic
societies abound; the best newspapers published in South America are
issued there. Santiago, the city of marble palaces—where even horses are
kept in marble stalls—is one of the most delightful places in the world.
The lofty Andes tower to the skies in the distance, forming a grand
background, and a fruitful, cultivated, and peaceful country surrounds it.

Valparaiso—the “Vale of Paradise”—was probably named by the early Spanish
adventurers in this glowing style because any coast whatever is delightful
to the mariner who has been long at sea. Otherwise, the title would seem
to be of an exaggerated nature. The bay is of a semi-circular form,
surrounded by steep hills, rising to the height of near 2,000 feet,
sparingly covered with stunted shrubs and thinly-strewed grass. The town
is built along a narrow strip of land, between the cliffs and the sea;
and, as this space is limited in extent, the buildings have straggled up
the sides and bottoms of the numerous ravines which intersect the hills. A
suburb—the Almendral, or Almond Grove—much larger than the town proper,
spreads over a low sandy plain, about half a mile broad, bordering the
bay. In the summer months—_i.e._, November to March—the anchorage is safe
and pleasant; but in the wintry months, notably June and July, gales are
prevalent from the north, in which direction it is open to the sea.

                 [Illustration: THE PORT OF VALPARAISO.]

Captain Basil Hall, R.N., gave some interesting accounts of life in Chili
in his published Journal,(109) and they are substantially true at the
present day. He reached Valparaiso at Christmas, which corresponds in
climate to our midsummer. Crowds thronged the streets to enjoy the cool
air in the moonlight; groups of merry dancers were seen at every turn;
singers were bawling out old Spanish romances to the tinkle of the guitar;
wild-looking horsemen pranced about in all directions, stopping to talk
with their friends, but never dismounting; and harmless bull-fights, in
which the bulls were only teased, not killed, served to make the people
laugh. The whole town was _en carnival_. “In the course of the first
evening of these festivities,” says Captain Hall, “while I was rambling
about the streets with one of the officers of the ship, our attention was
attracted, by the sound of music, to a crowded pulperia, or
drinking-house. We accordingly entered, and the people immediately made
way and gave us seats at the upper end of the apartment. We had not sat
long before we were startled by the loud clatter of horses’ feet, and in
the next instant, a mounted peasant dashed into the company, followed by
another horseman, who, as soon as he reached the centre of the room,
adroitly wheeled his horse round, and the two strangers remained side by
side, with their horses’ heads in opposite directions. Neither the people
of the house, nor the guests, nor the musicians, appeared in the least
surprised by this visit; the lady who was playing the harp merely stopped
for a moment to remove the end of the instrument a few inches further from
the horses’ feet, and the music and conversation went on as before. The
visitors called for a glass of spirits, and having chatted with their
friends around them for two minutes, stooped their heads to avoid the
cross-piece of the doorway, and putting spurs to their horses’ sides, shot
into the streets as rapidly as they had entered; the whole being done
without discomposing the company in the smallest degree.” The same writer
speaks of the common people as generally very temperate, while their
frankness and hospitality charmed him. Brick-makers, day-labourers, and
washerwomen invited him and friends into their homes, and their first
anxiety was that the sailors might “feel themselves in their own house;”
then some offering of milk, bread, or spirits. However wretched the
cottage or poor the fare, the deficiency was never made more apparent by
apologies; with untaught politeness, the best they had was placed before
them, graced with a hearty welcome. Their houses are of adobes, _i.e._,
sun-dried bricks, thatched in with broad palm-leaves, the ends of which,
by overhanging the walls, afford shade from the scorching sun and shelter
from the rain. Their mud floors have a portion raised seven or eight
inches above the level of the rest, and covered with matting, which forms
the couch for the invariable _siesta_. In the cottages Hall saw young
women grinding baked corn in almost Scriptural mills of two stones each.
From the coarse flour obtained, the poor people make a drink called
_ulpa_. In the better class of houses he was offered Paraguay tea, or
mattee, an infusion of a South American herb. The natives drink it almost
boiling hot. It is drawn up into the mouth through a silver pipe: however
numerous the company, all use the same tube, and to decline on this
account is thought the height of rudeness. The people of Chili, generally,
are polite to a degree; and Jack ashore will have no cause to complain,
provided he is as polished as are they. He generally contrives, however,
to make himself popular, while his little escapades of wildness are looked
upon in the light of long pent-up nature bursting forth.





                               CHAPTER XI.


              ROUND THE WORLD ON A MAN-OF-WAR (_continued_).


                        FROM THE HORN TO HALIFAX.


       The dreaded Horn—The Land of Fire—Basil Hall’s Phenomenon—A
    Missing Volcano—The South American Station—Falkland Islands—A Free
    Port and Naval Station—Penguins, Peat, and Kelp—Sea Trees—The West
         India Station—Trinidad—Columbus’s First View of it—Fatal
          Gold—Charles Kingsley’s Enthusiasm—The Port of Spain—A
         Happy-go-lucky People—Negro Life—Letters from a Cottage
          Ornée—Tropical Vegetation—Animal Life—Jamaica—Kingston
         Harbour—Sugar Cultivation—The Queen of the Antilles—Its
    Paseo—Beauty of the Archipelago—A Dutch Settlement in the Heart of
          a Volcano—Among the Islands—The Souffrière—Historical
    Reminiscences—Bermuda: Colony, Fortress, and Prison—Home of Ariel
     and Caliban—The Whitest Place in the World—Bermuda Convicts—New
    York Harbour—The City—First Impressions—Its fine Position—Splendid
           Harbour—Forest of Masts—The Ferry-boats, Hotels, and
    Bars—Offenbach’s Impressions—Broadway, Fulton Market, and Central
         Park—New York in Winter—Frozen Ships—The great Brooklyn
    Bridge—Halifax and its Beauties—Importance of the Station—Bedford
        Basin—The Early Settlers—The Blue Noses—Adieu to America.


And now the exigencies of the service require us to tear ourselves away
from gay and pleasant Valparaiso, and voyage in spirit round the Horn to
the South-East American Station, which includes the whole coast, from
Terra del Fuego to Brazil and Guiana. Friendly ports, Rio and Montevideo,
are open to the Royal Navy as stations for necessary repairs or supplies;
but the only strictly British port on the whole station is that at the
dreary Falkland Islands, to be shortly described.

Every schoolboy knows that Cape Horn is even more dreaded than the other
“Cape of Storms,” otherwise known as “The Cape,” _par excellence_. In
these days, the introduction of steam has reduced much of the danger and
horrors of the passage round, though on occasions they are sufficiently
serious. In fact, now that there is a regular tug-boat service in the
Straits of Magellan, there is really no occasion to go round it at all. In
1862 the writer rounded it, in a steamer of good power, when the water was
as still as a mill-pond, and the Horn itself—a barren, black, craggy,
precipitous rock, towering above the utter desolation and bleakest
solitudes of that forsaken spot—was plainly in sight.

Captain Basil Hall, and his officers and crew, in 1820, when rounding Cape
Horn observed a remarkable phenomenon, which may account for the title of
the “Land of Fire” bestowed upon it by Magellan. A brilliant light
suddenly appeared in the north-western quarter. “At first of a bright red,
it became fainter and fainter, till it disappeared altogether. After the
lapse of four or five minutes, its brilliancy was suddenly restored, and
it seemed as if a column of burning materials had been projected into the
air. This bright appearance lasted from ten to twenty seconds, fading by
degrees as the column became lower, till at length only a dull red mass
was distinguishable for about a minute, after which it again vanished.”
The sailors thought it a revolving light, others that it must be a forest
on fire. All who examined it carefully through a telescope agreed in
considering it a volcano, like Stromboli, emitting alternately jets of
flame and red-hot stones. The light was visible till morning; and although
during the night it appeared to be not more than eight or ten miles off,
no land was to be seen. The present writer would suggest the probability
of its having been an electrical phenomenon.

                        [Illustration: CAPE HORN.]

The naval station at the Falklands is at Port Stanley, on the eastern
island, where there is a splendid land-locked harbour, with a narrow
entrance. The little port is, and has been, a haven of refuge for many a
storm-beaten mariner: not merely from the fury of the elements, but also
because supplies of fresh meat can be obtained there, and, indeed,
everything else. Wild cattle, of old Spanish stock, roam at will over many
parts of the two islands. When the writer was there, in 1862, beef was
retailed at fourpence per pound, and Port Stanley being a free port,
everything was very cheap. How many boxes of cigars, pounds of tobacco,
cases of hollands, and demijohns of rum were, in consequence, taken on
board by his 300 fellow-passengers would be a serious calculation. The
little town has not much to recommend it: It has, of course, a Government
House and a church, and barracks for the marines stationed there. It is,
moreover, the head-quarters of the Falkland Islands Company, a corporation
much like the Hudson’s Bay Company, trading in furs and hides, and stores
for ships and native trade. The three great characteristics of Port
Stanley are the penguins, which abound, and are to be seen waddling in
troops in its immediate vicinity, and stumbling over the stones if
pursued; the kelp, which is so thick and strong in the water at the edge
of the bay in places, that a strong boat’s crew can hardly get “way”
enough on to reach the shore; and the peat-bogs, which would remind an
Irishman of his beloved Erin. Peat is the principal fuel of the place; and
what glorious fires it makes! At least, so thought a good many of the
passengers who took the opportunity of living on shore during the
fortnight of the vessel’s stay. For about three shillings and sixpence a
day one could obtain a good bed, meals of beef-steaks and joints and fresh
vegetables—very welcome after the everlasting salt junk and preserved
vegetables of the ship—with the addition of hot rum and water, nearly _ad
libitum_. Then the privilege of stretching one’s legs is something, after
five or six weeks’ confinement. There is duck and loon-shooting to be had,
or an excursion to the lighthouse, a few miles from the town, where the
writer found children, of several years of age, who had never even beheld
the glories of Port Stanley, and yet were happy; and near which he saw on
the beach _sea-trees_—for “sea-weed” would be a misnomer, the trunks being
several feet in circumference—slippery, glutinous, marine vegetation,
uprooted from the depths of ocean. Some of them would create a sensation
in an aquarium.

The harbour of Port Stanley is usually safe enough, but, in the
extraordinary gales which often rage outside, does not always afford safe
anchorage. The steamship on which the writer was a passenger lay far out
in the bay, but the force of a sudden gale made her drag her anchors, and
but for the steam, which was immediately got up, she would have gone
ashore. A sailing-vessel must have been wrecked in the same position. Of
course, the power of the engines was set against the wind, and she was
saved. Passengers ashore could not get off for two days, and those on
board could not go ashore. No boat could have lived, even in the bay,
during a large part of the time.

The West Indian Station demands our attention next. Unfortunately, it must
not take the space it deserves, for it would occupy that required for ten
books of the size of this—ay, twenty—to do it the barest justice. Why?
Read Charles Kingsley’s admirable work, “At Last”—one, alas! of the last
tasks of a well-spent life—and one will see England’s interest in those
islands, and must think also of those earlier days, when Columbus, Drake,
and Raleigh sailed among the waters which divide them—days of geographical
discovery worth speaking of, of grand triumphs over foes worth fighting,
and of gain amounting to something.

           [Illustration: THE LANDING OF COLUMBUS AT TRINIDAD.]

On the 31st July, 1499, Columbus, on his third voyage, sighted the three
hills which make the south-eastern end of Trinidad. He had determined to
name the first land he should sight after the Holy Trinity, and so he did.
The triple peaks probably reminded him.

Washington Irving tells us, in his “Life of Columbus,” that he was
astonished at the verdure and fertility of the country, having expected
that it would be parched, dry, and sterile as he approached the equator;
whereas, he beheld beautiful groves of palm-trees, and luxuriant forests
sweeping down to the sea-side, with gurgling brooks and clear, deep
streams beneath the shade. The softness and purity of the climate, and the
beauty of the country, seemed, after his long sea voyage, to rival the
beautiful province of Valencia itself. Columbus found the people a race of
Indians fairer than any he had seen before, “of good stature, and of very
graceful bearing.” They carried square bucklers, and had bows and arrows,
with which they made feeble attempts to drive off the Spaniards who landed
at Punta Arenal, near Icacque, and who, finding no streams, sank holes in
the sand, and so filled their casks with fresh water—as is done by sailors
now-a-days in many parts of the world. “And there,” says Kingsley, “that
source of endless misery to these harmless creatures, a certain Cacique—so
goes the tale—took off Columbus’s cap of crimson velvet, and replaced it
with a circle of gold which he wore.”

Alas for them! that fatal present of gold brought down on them enemies far
more ruthless than the Caribs of the northern islands, who had a habit of
coming down in their canoes and carrying off the gentle Arrawaks, to eat
them at their leisure—after the fashion which Defoe, always accurate, has
immortalised in “Robinson Crusoe.” Crusoe’s island has been thought by
many to be meant for Tobago; Man Friday having been stolen in Trinidad.

No scenery can be more picturesque than that afforded by the entrance to
Port of Spain, the chief town in the colony of Trinidad, itself an island
lying outside the delta of the great Orinoco River. “On the mainland,”
wrote Anthony Trollope,(110) “that is, the land of the main island, the
coast is precipitous, but clothed to the very top with the thickest and
most magnificent foliage. With an opera-glass, one can distinctly see the
trees coming forth from the sides of the rocks, as though no soil were
necessary for them, and not even a shelf of stone needed for their
support. And these are not shrubs, but forest trees, with grand spreading
branches, huge trunks, and brilliant-coloured foliage. The small island on
the other side is almost equally wooded, but is less precipitous.” There,
and on the main island itself, are nooks and open glades where one would
not be badly off with straw hats and muslin, pigeon-pies and champagne.
One narrow shady valley, into which a creek of the sea ran, made Trollope
think that it must have been intended for “the less noisy joys of some
Paul of Trinidad with his Creole Virginia.” The same writer, after
describing the Savannah, which includes a park and race-course, speaks of
the Government House, then under repairs. The governor was living in a
cottage, hard by. “Were I that great man,” said he, “I should be tempted
to wish that my great house might always be under repair, for I never saw
a more perfect specimen of a pretty spacious cottage, opening, as a
cottage should do, on all sides and in every direction.... And then the
necessary freedom from boredom, etiquette, and governors’ grandeur, so
hated by governors themselves, which must necessarily be brought about by
such a residence! I could almost wish to be a governor myself, if I might
be allowed to live in such a cottage.” The buildings of Port of Spain are
almost invariably surrounded by handsome flowering trees. A later writer
tells us that the governors since have stuck to the cottage, and the
gardens of the older building have been given to the city as a public
pleasure-ground. Kingsley speaks of it as a paradise.

Jack ashore, who, after a long and perhaps stormy voyage, would look upon
any land as a haven of delight, will certainly think that he has at last
reached the “happy land.” It is not merely the climate, the beauty, or the
productions of the country; nor the West Indian politeness and
hospitality—both proverbial; but the fact that nobody seems to do, or
wants to do, anything, and yet lives ten times as well as the poorer
classes of England. There are 8,000 or more human beings in Port of Spain
alone, who “toil not, neither do they spin,” and have no other visible
means of subsistence except eating something or other—mostly fruit—all the
live-long day, who are happy, very happy. The truth is, that though they
will, and frequently do, eat more than a European, they can almost do
without food, and can live, like the Lazzaroni, on warmth and light. “The
best substitute for a dinner is a sleep under a south wall in the blazing
sun; and there are plenty of south walls in Port of Spain.” Has not a poor
man, under these circumstances, the same right to be idle as a rich one?
Every one there looks strong, healthy, and well-fed. The author of
“Westward Ho!” was not likely to be deceived, and says: “One meets few or
none of those figures and faces—small, scrofulous, squinny, and
haggard—which disgrace the civilisation of a British city. Nowhere in Port
of Spain will you see such human beings as in certain streets of London,
Liverpool, and Glasgow. Every one plainly can live and thrive if they
choose; and very pleasant it is to know that.” And wonderfully well does
that mixed and happy-go-lucky population assimilate. Trinidad belongs to
Great Britain; but there are more negroes, half-breeds, Hindoos, and
Chinese there than Britons by ten times ten; and the language of the
island is mainly French, not English or Spanish. Under cool porticoes and
through tall doorways are seen dark shops, built on Spanish models, and
filled with everything under the sun. On the doorsteps sit negresses, in
flashy Manchester “prints” and stiff turbans, “all aiding in the general
work of doing nothing,” or offering for sale fruits, sweetmeats, or chunks
of sugar-cane. These women, as well as the men, invariably carry
everything on their heads, whether it be a half-barrow load of yams, a few
ounces of sugar, or a beer-bottle.

                     [Illustration: VIEW IN JAMAICA.]

One of the regrets of an enthusiastic writer must ever be that he cannot
visit all the lovely and interesting spots which he may so easily
describe. The present one, enamoured with San Francisco, which he _has_
visited, and Singapore and Sydney, which as yet he hasn’t, would, if such
writers as Charles Kingsley and Anthony Trollope are to be credited, add
Trinidad to the list. Read the former’s “Letter from a West Indian Cottage
Ornée,” or the latter’s description of a ride through the cool woods and
sea-shore roads, to be convinced that Trinidad is one of the most charming
islands in the whole world. Bamboos keep the cottage gravel path up, and
as tubes, carry the trickling, cool water to the cottage bath; you hear a
rattling as of boards or stiff paper outside your window: it is the
clashing together of a fan-palm, with leaf-stalks ten feet long and fans
more feet wide. The orange, the pine-apple, and the “flower fence”
(_Poinziana_); the cocoa-palm, the tall Guinea grass, and the “groo-groos”
(a kind of palm: _Acrocomia sclerocarpa_); the silk-cotton tree, the
tamarind, and the Rosa del monte bushes—twenty feet high, and covered with
crimson roses; tea shrubs, myrtles, and clove-trees intermingle with
vegetation common elsewhere. Thus much for a mere chance view.

The seaman ashore will note many of these beauties; but his superior
officers will see more. The _cottage ornée_, to which they will be
invited, with its lawn and flowering shrubs, tiny specimens of which we
admire in hot-houses at home; the grass as green as that of England, and
winding away in the cool shade of strange evergreens; the yellow cocoa-nut
palms on the nearest spur of hill throwing back the tender blue of the
distant mountains; groups of palms, with perhaps _Erythrinas umbrosa_
(_Bois immortelles_, they call them in Trinidad), with vermilion
flowers—trees of red coral, sixty feet high—interspersed; a glimpse beyond
of the bright and sleeping sea, and the islands of the Bocas “floating in
the shining waters,” and behind a luxuriously furnished cottage, where
hospitality is not a mere name, but a very sound fact; what on earth can
man want more?

Kingsley, in presence of the rich and luscious beauty, the vastness and
repose, to be found in Trinidad, sees an understandable excuse for the
tendency to somewhat grandiose language which tempts perpetually those who
try to describe the tropics, and know well that they can only fail. He
says: “In presence of such forms and such colouring as this, one becomes
painfully sensible of the poverty of words, and the futility, therefore,
of all word-painting; of the inability, too, of the senses to discern and
define objects of such vast variety; of our æsthetic barbarism, in fact,
which has no choice of epithets, save such as ‘great,’ and ‘vast,’ and
‘gigantic;’ between such as ‘beautiful,’ and ‘lovely,’ and ‘exquisite,’
and so forth: which are, after all, intellectually only one stage higher
than the half-brute ‘Wah! wah!’ with which the savage grunts his
astonishment—call it not admiration; epithets which are not, perhaps,
intellectually as high as the ‘God is great!’ of the Mussulman, who is
wise enough not to attempt any analysis, either of Nature or of his
feelings about her, and wise enough, also ... in presence of the unknown,
to take refuge in God.”

Monkeys of many kinds, jaguars, toucans, wild cats; wonderful ant-eaters,
racoons, and lizards; and strange birds, butterflies, wasps, and spiders
abound, but none of those animals which resent the presence of man. Happy
land!

But the gun has fired. H.M.S. _Sea_ is getting all steam up. The privilege
of leave cannot last for ever: it is “All aboard!” Whither bound? In the
archipelago of the West Indies there are so many points of interest, and
so many ports which the sailor of the Royal Navy is sure to visit. There
are important docks at Antigua, Jamaica, and Bermuda; while the whole
station—known professionally as the “North American and West
Indian”—reaches from the north of South America to beyond Newfoundland,
Kingston, and Jamaica, where England maintains a flag-ship and a
commodore, a dockyard, and a naval hospital.

                [Illustration: KINGSTON HARBOUR, JAMAICA.]

Kingston Harbour is a grand lagoon, nearly shut in by a long sand-spit, or
rather bank, called “The Palisades,” at the point of which is Port Royal,
which, about ninety years ago, was nearly destroyed by an earthquake. Mr.
Trollope says that it is on record that hardy “subs” and hardier “mids”
have ridden along the Palisades, and have not died from sunstroke in the
effort. But the chances were much against them. The ordinary ingress and
egress, as to all parts of the island’s coasts, is by water. Our naval
establishment is at Port Royal.

Jamaica has picked up a good deal in these later days, but is not the
thriving country it was before the abolition of slavery. Kingston is
described as a formal city, with streets at right angles, and with
generally ugly buildings. The fact is, that hardly any Europeans or even
well-to-do Creoles live in the town, and, in consequence, there are long
streets, which might almost belong to a city of the dead, where hardly a
soul is to be seen: at all events, in the evenings. All the wealthier
people—and there are a large number—have country seats—“pens,” as they
call them, though often so charmingly situated, and so beautifully
surrounded, that the term does not seem very appropriate. The sailor’s
pocket-money will go a long way in Kingston, if he confines himself to
native productions; but woe unto him if he will insist on imported
articles! All through the island the white people are very English in
their longings, and affect to despise the native luxuries. Thus, they will
give you ox-tail soup when real turtle would be infinitely cheaper. “When
yams, avocado pears, the mountain cabbage, plantains, and twenty other
delicious vegetables may be had for the gathering, people will insist on
eating bad English potatoes; and the desire for English pickles is quite a
passion.” All the servants are negroes or mulattoes, who are greatly
averse to ridicule or patronage; while, if one orders them as is usual in
England, they leave you to wait on yourself. Mr. Trollope discovered this.
He ordered a lad in one of the hotels to fill his bath, calling him “old
fellow.” “Who you call fellor?” asked the youth; “you speak to a gen’lman
gen’lmanly, and den he fill de bath.”

The sugar-cane—and by consequence, sugar and rum—coffee, and of late
tobacco, are the staple productions of Jamaica. There is one district
where the traveller may see an unbroken plain of 4,000 acres under canes.
The road over Mount Diabolo is very fine, and the view back to Kingston
very grand. Jack ashore will find that the people all ride, but that the
horses always walk. There are respectable mountains to be ascended in
Jamaica: Blue Mountain Peak towers to the height of 8,000 feet. The
highest inhabited house on the island, the property of a coffee-planter,
is a kind of half-way house of entertainment; and although Mr.
Trollope—who provided himself with a white companion, who, in his turn,
provided five negroes, beef, bread, water, brandy, and what seemed to him
about ten gallons of rum—gives a doleful description of the clouds and
mists and fogs which surrounded the Peak, others may be more fortunate.

The most important of the West Indian Islands, Cuba—“Queen of the
Antilles”—does not, as we all know, belong to England, but is the most
splendid appanage of the Spanish crown. Havana, the capital, has a grand
harbour, large, commodious, and safe, with a fine quay, at which the
vessels of all nations lie. The sailor will note one peculiarity: instead
of laying alongside, the ships are fastened “end on”—usually the bow being
at the quay. The harbour is very picturesque, and the entrance to it is
defended by two forts, which were taken once by England—in Albemarle’s
time—and now could be knocked to pieces in a few minutes by any nation
which was ready with the requisite amount of gunpowder.

                         [Illustration: HAVANA.]

Havana is a very gay city, and has some special attractions for the
sailor—among others being its good cigars and cheap Spanish wine and
fruits. Its greatest glory is the Paseo—its Hyde Park, Bois de Boulogne,
Corso, Cascine, Alamèda—where the Cuban belles and beaux delight to
promenade and ride. There will you see them, in bright-coloured,
picturesque attire—sadly Europeanised and Americanised of late,
though—seated in the volante, a kind of hanging cabriolet, between two
large wheels, drawn by one or two horses, on one of which the negro
servant, with enormous leggings, white breeches, red jacket, and gold
lace, and broad-brimmed straw hat, rides. The volante is itself bright
with polished metal, and the whole turn-out has an air of barbaric
splendour. These carriages are never kept in a coach-house, but are
usually placed in the halls, and often even in the dining-room, as a
child’s perambulator might with us. Havana has an ugly cathedral and a
magnificent opera-house.

Slave labour is common, and many of the sugar and tobacco planters are
very wealthy. Properties of many hundred acres under cultivation are
common. Mr. Trollope found the negroes well-fed, sleek, and fat as
brewers’ horses, while no sign of ill-usage came before him. In crop times
they sometimes work sixteen hours a day, and Sunday is not then a day of
rest for them. There are many Chinese coolies, also, on the island.

Kingsley, speaking of the islands in general, says that he “was altogether
unprepared for their beauty and grandeur.” Day after day, the steamer took
him past a shifting diorama of scenery, which he likened to Vesuvius and
Naples, repeated again and again, with every possible variation of the
same type of delicate loveliness. Under a cloudless sky, and over the blue
waters, banks of light cloud turned to violet and then to green, and then
disclosed grand mountains, with the surf beating white around the base of
tall cliffs and isolated rocks, and the pretty country houses of settlers
embowered in foliage, and gay little villages, and busy towns. “It was
easy,” says that charming writer, “in presence of such scenery, to
conceive the exultation which possessed the souls of the first discoverers
of the West Indies. What wonder if they seemed to themselves to have burst
into fairy-land—to be at the gates of the earthly Paradise? With such a
climate, such a soil, such vegetation, such fruits, what luxury must not
have seemed possible to the dwellers along those shores? What riches, too,
of gold and jewels, might not be hidden among those forest-shrouded glens
and peaks? And beyond, and beyond again, ever new islands, new continents,
perhaps, and inexhaustible wealth of yet undiscovered worlds.”(111)

The resemblance to Mediterranean, or, more especially, Neapolitan, scenery
is very marked. “Like causes have produced like effects; and each island
is little but the peak of a volcano, down whose shoulders lava and ash
have slidden toward the sea.” Many carry several cones. One of them, a
little island named Saba, has a most remarkable settlement _half-way up a
volcano_. Saba rises sheer out of the sea 1,500 or more feet, and, from a
little landing-place, a stair runs up 800 feet into the very bosom of the
mountain, where in a hollow live some 1,200 honest Dutchmen and 800
negroes. The latter were, till of late years, nominally the slaves of the
former; but it is said that, in reality, it was just the other way. The
blacks went off when and whither they pleased, earned money on other
islands, and expected their masters to keep them when they were out of
work. The good Dutch live peaceably aloft in their volcano, grow garden
crops, and sell them to vessels or to surrounding islands. They build the
best boats in the West Indies up in their crater, and lower them down the
cliff to the sea! They are excellent sailors and good Christians. Long may
their volcano remain quiescent!

When the steamer stops at some little port, or even single settlement, the
negro boats come alongside with luscious fruit and vegetables—bananas and
green oranges; the sweet sop, a fruit which looks like a strawberry, and
is as big as an orange; the custard-apples—the pulp of which, those who
have read “Tom Cringle’s Log” will remember, is fancied to have an
unpleasant resemblance to brains; the avocado, or alligator-pears,
otherwise called “midshipman’s butter,” which are eaten with pepper and
salt; scarlet capsicums, green and orange cocoa-nuts, roots of yam, and
cush-cush, help to make up baskets as varied in colour as the gaudy gowns
and turbans of the women. Neither must the junks of sugar-cane be omitted,
which the “coloured” gentlemen and ladies delight to gnaw, walking,
sitting, and standing; increasing thereby the size of their lips, and
breaking out, often enough, their upper front teeth. Rude health is in
their faces; their cheeks literally shine with fatness.

But in this happy archipelago there are drawbacks: in the Guadaloupe
earthquake of 1843, 5,000 persons lost their lives in the one town of
Point-à-Pitre alone. The Souffrière volcano, 5,000 feet high, rears many a
peak to the skies, and shows an ugly and uncertain humour, smoking and
flaming. The writer so often quoted gives a wonderfully beautiful
description of this mountain and its surroundings. “As the sun rose, level
lights of golden green streamed round the peak, right and left, over the
downs; but only for a while. As the sky-clouds vanished in his blazing
rays, earth-clouds rolled up from the valleys behind, wreathed and
weltered about the great black teeth of the crater, and then sinking among
them and below them, shrouded the whole cone in purple darkness for the
day; while in the foreground blazed in the sunshine broad slopes of
cane-field; below them again the town (the port of Basse Terre), with
handsome houses, and old-fashioned churches and convents, dating possibly
from the seventeenth century, embowered in mangoes, tamarinds, and
palmistes; and along the beach, a market beneath a row of trees, with
canoes drawn up to be unladen, and gay dresses of every hue. The surf
whispered softly on the beach. The cheerful murmur of voices came off the
shore, and above it, the tinkling of some little bell, calling good folks
to early mass. A cheery, brilliant picture as man could wish to see, but
marred by two ugly elements. A mile away on the low northern cliff, marked
with many a cross, was the lonely cholera cemetery, a remembrance of the
fearful pestilence which, a few years since, swept away thousands of the
people: and above frowned that black giant, now asleep: but for how long?”

The richness of the verdure which clothes these islands to their highest
peaks seems a mere coat of green fur, and yet is often gigantic forest
trees. The eye wanders over the green abysses, and strains over the wealth
of depths and heights, compared with which fine English parks are mere
shrubberies. There is every conceivable green, or rather of hues, ranging
from pale yellow through all greens into cobalt; and “as the wind stirs
the leaves, and sweeps the lights and shadows over hill and glen, all is
ever-changing, iridescent, like a peacock’s tail; till the whole island,
from peak to shore, seems some glorious jewel—an emerald, with tints of
sapphire and topaz, hanging between blue sea and white surf below, and
blue sky and white cloud above.” And yet, over all this beauty, dark
shadows hang—the shadow of war and the shadow of slavery. These seas have
been oft reddened with the blood of gallant sailors, and every other gully
holds the skeleton of an Englishman.

Here it was that Rodney broke De Grasse’s line, took and destroyed seven
French ships of war, and scattered the rest: saving Jamaica, and, in
sooth, the whole West Indies, and bringing about the honourable peace of
1783. Yon lovely roadstead of Dominica: there Rodney caught up with the
French just before, and would have beaten them so much the earlier but for
his vessels being becalmed. In that deep bay at Martinique, now lined with
gay houses, was for many years the Cul-de-sac Royal, the rendezvous and
stronghold of the French fleet. That isolated rock hard by, much the shape
and double the size of the great Pyramids, is Sir Samuel Hood’s famous
Diamond Rock,(112) to which that brave old navigator literally tied with a
hawser or two his ship, the _Centaur_, and turned the rock into a fortress
from whence to sweep the seas. The rock was for several months rated on
the books of the Admiralty as “His Majesty’s Ship, _Diamond Rock_.” She
had at last to surrender, for want of powder, to an overwhelming force—two
seventy-fours and fourteen smaller ships of war—but did not give in till
seventy poor Frenchmen were lying killed or wounded, and three of their
gun-boats destroyed, her own loss being only two men killed and one
wounded. Brave old sloop of war! And, once more, those glens and forests
of St. Lucia remind us of Sir John Moore and Sir Ralph Abercrombie, who
fought, not merely the French, but the “Brigands”—negroes liberated by the
Revolution of 1792.

      [Illustration: THE _CENTAUR_ AT THE DIAMOND ROCK, MARTINIQUE.]

But the good ship must proceed; and as British naval interests are under
consideration, let her bows be turned to Bermuda—a colony, a fortress and
a prison, and where England owns an extensive floating dock, dock-yards,
and workshops.(113) Trollope says that its geological formation is
mysterious. “It seems to be made of soft white stone, composed mostly of
little shells—so soft, indeed, that you might cut Bermuda up with a
hand-saw. And people are cutting up Bermuda with hand-saws. One little
island, that on which the convicts are established, has been altogether so
cut up already. When I visited it, two fat convicts were working away
slowly at the last fragment.” Bermuda is the crater of an extinct volcano,
and is surrounded by little islets, of which there is one for every day of
the year in a space of twenty by three miles. These are surrounded again
by reefs and rocks, and navigation is risky.

Were the Bermudas the scene of Ariel’s tricks? They were first discovered,
in 1522, by Bermudez, a Spaniard; and Shakespeare seems to have heard of
them, for he speaks of the

  “Still vexed Bermoothes.”

Trollope says that there is more of the breed of Caliban in the islands
than of Ariel. Though Caliban did not relish working for his master more
than the Bermudian of to-day, there was an amount of energy about him
entirely wanting in the existing islanders.

There are two towns, St. George and Hamilton, on different islands. The
former is the head-quarters of the military, and the second that of the
governor. It is the summer head-quarters of the admiral of the station.
The islands are, in general, wonderfully fertile, and will, with any
ordinary cultivation, give two crops of many vegetables in the year. It
has the advantages of the tropics, _plus_ those of more temperate climes.
For tomatoes, onions, beet-root, sweet potatoes, early potatoes, as well
as all kinds of fruits, from oranges, lemons, and bananas to small
berries, it is not surpassed by any place in the world; while arrowroot is
one of its specialities. It is the early market-garden for New York.
Ship-building is carried on, as the islands abound in a stunted cedar,
good for the purpose, when it can be found large enough. The working
population are almost all negroes, and are lazy to a degree. But the
whites are not much better; and the climate is found to produce great
lassitude.

                [Illustration: BERMUDA, FROM GIBBS HILL.]

It is the sea round the Bermudas, more than the islands themselves,
perhaps, that give its beauty. Everywhere the water is wonderfully clear
and transparent, while the land is broken up into narrow inlets and
headlands, and bays and promontories, nooks and corners, running here and
there in capricious and ever-varying forms. The oleander, with their
bright blossoms, are so abundant, almost to the water’s edge, that the
Bermudas might be called the “Oleander Isles.”

The Bermuda convict, in Trollope’s time, seemed to be rather better off
than most English labourers. He had a pound of meat—good meat, too, while
the Bermudians were tugging at their teeth with tough morsels; he had a
pound and three-quarters of bread—more than he wanted; a pound of
vegetables; tea and sugar; a glass of grog per diem; tobacco-money
allowed, and eight hours’ labour. He was infinitely better off than most
sailors of the merchant service.

                 [Illustration: THE NORTH ROCK, BERMUDA.]

St. George, the military station of the colony, commands the only entrance
among the islands suitable for the passage of large vessels, the narrow
and intricate channel which leads to its land-locked haven being defended
by strong batteries. The lagoons, and passages, and sea canals between the
little islands make communication by water as necessary as in Venice.
Every one keeps a boat or cedar canoe. He will often do his business on
one island and have his residence on a second. Mark Twain has a wonderful
facility for description; and his latest articles, “Random Notes of an
Idle Excursion,” contain a picturesque account of the Bermudas, and more
particularly of Hamilton, the leading port. He says that he found it a
wonderfully white town, white as marble—snow—flour. “It was,” says he, “a
town compacted together upon the sides and tops of a cluster of small
hills. Its outlying borders fringed off and thinned away among the cedar
forests, and there was no woody distance of curving coast or leafy islet
sleeping on the dimpled, painted sea but was flecked with shining white
points—half-concealed houses peeping out of the foliage. * * * There was
an ample pier of heavy masonry; upon this, under shelter, were some
thousands of barrels, containing that product which has carried the fame
of Bermuda to many lands—the potato. With here and there an onion. That
last sentence is facetious, for they grow at least two onions in Bermuda
to one potato. The onion is the pride and the joy of Bermuda. It is her
jewel, her gem of gems. In her conversation, her pulpit, her literature,
it is her most frequent and eloquent figure. In Bermudian metaphor it
stands for perfection—perfection absolute.

“The Bermudian, weeping over the departed, exhausts praise when he says,
‘He was an onion!’ The Bermudian, extolling the living hero, bankrupts
applause when he says, ‘He is an onion!’ The Bermudian, setting his son
upon the stage of life to dare and do for himself, climaxes all counsel,
supplication, admonition, comprehends all ambition, when he says, ‘Be an
onion!’” When the steamer arrives at the pier, the first question asked is
not concerning great war or political news, but concerns only the price of
onions. All the writers agree that for tomatoes, onions, and vegetables
generally, the Bermudas are unequalled; they have been called, as noted
before, the market-gardens of New York.

Jack who is fortunate enough to be on the West India and North American
Stations must be congratulated. “The country roads,” says the clever
writer above quoted, “curve and wind hither and thither in the
delightfulest way, unfolding pretty surprises at every turn; billowy
masses of oleander that seem to float out from behind distant projections,
like the pink cloud-banks of sunset; sudden plunges among cottages and
gardens, life and activity, followed by as sudden plunges into the sombre
twilight and stillness of the woods; glittering visions of white
fortresses and beacon towers pictured against the sky on remote hill-tops;
glimpses of shining green sea caught for a moment through opening
headlands, then lost again; more woods and solitude; and by-and-by another
turn lays bare, without warning, the full sweep of the inland ocean,
enriched with its bars of soft colour, and graced with its wandering
sails.

“Take any road you please, you may depend upon it you will not stay in it
half a mile. Your road is everything that a road ought to be; it is
bordered with trees, and with strange plants and flowers; it is shady and
pleasant, or sunny and still pleasant; it carries you by the prettiest and
peacefulest and most home-like of homes, and through stretches of forest
that lie in a deep hush sometimes, and sometimes are alive with the music
of birds; it curves always, which is a continual promise, whereas straight
roads reveal everything at a glance and kill interest. * * * There is
enough of variety. Sometimes you are in the level open, with marshes,
thick grown with flag-lances that are ten feet high, on the one hand, and
potato and onion orchards on the other; next you are on a hill-top, with
the ocean and the islands spread around you; presently the road winds
through a deep cut, shut in by perpendicular walls thirty or forty feet
high, marked with the oddest and abruptest stratum lines, suggestive of
sudden and eccentric old upheavals, and garnished with, here and there, a
clinging adventurous flower, and here and there a dangling vine; and
by-and-by, your way is along the sea edge, and you may look down a fathom
or two through the transparent water and watch the diamond-like flash and
play of the light upon the rocks and sands on the bottom until you are
tired of it—if you are so constituted as to be able to get tired of it.”

But as there are spots in the sun, and the brightest lights throw the
deepest shadows everywhere; so on the Bermuda coasts there are, in its
rare storms, dangers of no small kind among its numerous reefs and rocks.
The North Rock, in particular, is the monument which marks the grave of
many a poor sailor in by-gone days. At the present time, however,
tug-boats, and the use of steam generally, have reduced the perils of
navigation among the hundreds of islands which constitute the Bermuda
group to a minimum.

The recent successful trip of Cleopatra’s Needle in a vessel of unique
construction will recall that of the Bermuda floating-dock, which it will
be remembered was towed across the Atlantic and placed in its present
position.

Bermuda being, from a naval point of view, the most important port on the
North American and West Indian Stations, it had long been felt to be an
absolute necessity that a dock capable of holding the largest vessels of
war should be built in some part of the island. After many futile attempts
to accomplish this object, owing to the porous nature of the rock of which
the island is formed, it was determined that Messrs. Campbell, Johnstone &
Co., of North Woolwich, should construct a floating-dock according to
their patented inventions: those built by them for Carthagena, Saigon, and
Callao having been completely successful. The dimensions of the dock for
Bermuda, which was afterwards named after that island, are as follows:—

Length over all               381   feet.
Length between caissons       330   „
Breadth over all              124   „
Breadth between sides          84   „
Depth inside                   53   „    5 in.

She is divided into eight longitudinal water-tight compartments, and these
again into sets of compartments, called respectively load on and balance
chambers. Several small compartments were also made for the reception of
the pumps, the machinery for moving capstans, and cranes, all of which
were worked by steam. She is powerful and large enough to lift an ironclad
having a displacement of 10,400 tons, and could almost dock the _Great
Eastern_.

The building of the _Bermuda_ was begun in August, 1866; she was launched
in September, 1868, and finally completed in May, 1869. For the purposes
of navigation two light wooden bridges were thrown across her, on the
foremost of which stood her compass, and on the after the steering
apparatus. She was also supplied with three lighthouses and several
semaphores for signalling to the men-of-war which had her in tow, either
by night or day. In shape she is something like a round-bottomed canal
boat with the ends cut off. From an interesting account of her voyage from
Sheerness to Bermuda by “One of those on Board,” we gather the following
information respecting her trip. Her crew numbered eighty-two hands, under
a Staff-Commander, R.N.; there were also on board an assistant naval
surgeon, an Admiralty commissioner, and the writer of the book from which
these particulars are taken. The first rendezvous of the _Bermuda_ was to
be at the Nore.

                [Illustration: THE BERMUDA FLOATING DOCK.]

On the afternoon of the 23rd of June, 1869, the _Bermuda_ was towed to the
Nore by four ordinary Thames tugs, accompanied by H.M.SS. _Terrible_,
_Medusa_, _Buzzard_, and _Wildfire_. On arriving at the Nore off the
lightship she found the _Northumberland_ waiting for her. The tugs cast
off, and a hawser was passed to the _Northumberland_, which took her in
tow as far as Knob Channel, the _Terrible_ bringing up astern. The
_Agincourt_ was now picked up, and passing a hawser on board the
_Northumberland_, took the lead in the maritime tandem. A hawser was now
passed to the _Terrible_ from the stern of the _Bermuda_, so that by
towing that vessel she might be kept from swaying from side to side. The
_Medusa_ steamed on the quarter of the _Northumberland_, and the _Buzzard_
acted as a kind of floating outrider to clear the way. The North Foreland
was passed the same evening, at a speed of four knots an hour. Everything
went well until the 25th, when she lost sight of land off the Start Point
late in the afternoon of that day. On the 28th she was half-way across the
Bay of Biscay, when, encountering a slight sea and a freshening wind, she
showed her first tendency to roll, an accomplishment in which she was
afterwards beaten by all her companions, although the prognostications
about her talents in this direction had been of the most lugubrious
description. It must be understood that the bottom of her hold, so to
speak, was only some ten feet under the surface of the water, and that her
hollow sides towered some sixty feet above it. On the top of each gunwale
were wooden houses for the officers, with gardens in front and behind, in
which mignonette, sweet peas, and other English garden flowers, grew and
flourished, until they encountered the parching heat of the tropics. The
crew was quartered in the sides of the vessel; and the top of the
gunwales, or quarter-decks, as they might be called, communicated with the
lower decks by means of a ladder fifty-three feet long.

                 [Illustration: VOYAGE OF THE “BERMUDA.”]

To return, however, to the voyage. Her next rendezvous was at Porto Santo,
a small island on the east coast of the island of Madeira. On July 4th,
about six o’clock in the morning, land was signalled. This proved to be
the island of Porto Santo; and she brought up about two miles off the
principal town early in the afternoon, having made the voyage from
Sheerness in exactly eleven days. Here the squadron was joined by the
_Warrior_, _Black Prince_, and _Lapwing_ (gunboat), the _Helicon_ leaving
them for Lisbon. Towards nightfall they started once more in the following
order, passing to the south of Bermuda. The _Black Prince_ and _Warrior_
led the team, towing the _Bermuda_, the _Terrible_ being towed by her in
turn, to prevent yawing, and the _Lapwing_ following close on the heels of
the _Terrible_. All went well until the 8th, when the breeze freshened,
the dock rolling as much as ten degrees. Towards eight o’clock in the
evening a mighty crash was heard, and the whole squadron was brought up by
signal from the lighthouses. On examination it was found that the
_Bermuda_ had carried away one of the chains of her immense rudder, which
was swaying to and fro in a most dangerous manner. The officers and men,
however, went to work with a will, and by one o’clock the next morning all
was made snug again, and the squadron proceeded on its voyage. During this
portion of the trip, a line of communication was established between the
_Bermuda_ and the _Warrior_, and almost daily presents of fresh meat and
vegetables were sent by the officers of the ironclad to their unknown
comrades on board the dock. On the 9th, the day following the disaster to
the rudder, they fell in with the north-east trade winds, which formed the
subject of great rejoicing. Signals were made to make all sail, and reduce
the quantity of coal burned in the boilers of the four steam vessels. The
next day, the _Lapwing_, being shorter of coal than the others, she was
ordered to take the place of the _Terrible_, the latter ship now taking
the lead by towing the _Black Prince_. The _Lapwing_, however, proved not
to be sufficiently powerful for this service. A heavy sea springing up,
the dock began to yaw and behave so friskily that the squadron once more
brought to, and the old order of things was resumed.

On the 25th the _Lapwing_ was sent on ahead to Bermuda to inform the
authorities of the close advent of the dock. It was now arranged that as
the _Terrible_ drew less water than any of the other ships, she should
have the honour of piloting the dock through the Narrows—a narrow,
tortuous, and shallow channel, forming the only practicable entrance for
large ships to the harbour of Bermuda. On the morning of the 28th, Bermuda
lighthouse was sighted, and the _Spitfire_ was shortly afterwards picked
up, having been sent by the Bermudan authorities to pilot the squadron as
far as the entrance of the Narrows. She also brought the intelligence that
it had been arranged that the _Viper_ and the _Vixen_ had been ordered to
pilot the dock into harbour. As they neared Bermuda, the squadron were met
by the naval officer in charge of the station, who, after having had
interviews with the captains of the squadron and of the _Bermuda_,
rescinded the order respecting the _Vixen_ and the _Viper_, and the
_Terrible_ was once more deputed to tow the _Bermuda_ through the Narrows.
Just off the mouth of this dangerous inlet, the _Bermuda_ being in tow of
the _Terrible_ only, the dock became uncontrollable, and would have done
her best to carry Her Majesty’s ship to Halifax had not the _Warrior_ come
to her aid, after the _Spitfire_ and _Lapwing_ had tried ineffectually to
be of assistance.

By this time, however, the water in the Narrows had become too low for the
_Warrior_; the _Bermuda_ had, therefore, to wait until high water next
morning in order to complete the last, and, as it proved, the most
perilous part of her journey. After the _Warrior_ and the _Terrible_ had
towed the dock through the entrance of the inlet, the first-named ship
cast off. The dock once more became unmanageable through a sudden gust of
wind striking her on the quarter. Had the gust lasted for only a few
seconds longer, the dock would have stranded—perhaps for ever. She
righted, however, and the _Terrible_ steaming hard ahead, she passed the
most dangerous point of the inlet, and at last rode securely in smooth
water, within a few cables’ length of her future berth, after a singularly
successful voyage of thirty-six days.

It says much for the naval and engineering skill of all concerned in the
transport of this unwieldy mass of iron, weighing 8,000 tons, over nearly
4,000 miles of ocean, without the loss of a single life, or, indeed, a
solitary accident that can be called serious. The conception, execution,
and success of the project are wholly unparalleled in the history of naval
engineering.

Leaving Bermuda, whither away? To the real capital of America, New York.
It is true that English men-of-war, and, for the matter of that, vessels
of the American navy, comparatively seldom visit that port, which
otherwise is crowded by the shipping of all nations. There are reasons for
this. New York has not to-day a dock worthy of the name; magnificent
steamships and palatial ferry-boats all lie alongside wharfs, or enter
“slips,” which are semi-enclosed wharfs. Brooklyn and Jersey City have,
however, docks.

Who that has visited New York will ever forget his first impressions? The
grand Hudson, or the great East River, itself a strait: the glorious bay,
or the crowded island, alike call for and deserve enthusiastic admiration.
If one arrives on a sunny day, maybe not a zephyr agitates the surface of
the noble Hudson, or even the bay itself: the latter landlocked, save
where lost in the broad Atlantic; the former skirted by the great Babylon
of America and the wooded banks of Hoboken. Round the lofty western hills,
a fleet of small craft—with rakish hulls and snowy sails—steal quietly and
softly, while steamboats, that look like floating islands, almost pass
them with lightning speed. Around is the shipping of every clime; enormous
ferry-boats radiating in all directions; forests of masts along the wharfs
bearing the flags of all nations. And where so much is strange, there is
one consoling fact: you feel yourself at home. You are among brothers,
speaking the same language, obeying the same laws, professing the same
religion.

                 [Illustration: MAP OF NEW YORK HARBOUR.]

New York city and port of entry, New York county, State of New York, lies
at the head of New York Bay, so that there is a good deal of New York
about it. It is the commercial emporium of the United States, and if it
ever has a rival, it will be on the other side of the continent, somewhere
not far from San Francisco. Its area is, practically, the bulk of
Manhattan or New York Island, say thirteen miles long by two wide. Its
separation from the mainland is caused by the Harlem River, which connects
the Hudson and East Rivers, and is itself spanned by a bridge and the
Croton aqueduct. New York really possesses every advantage required to
build a grand emporium. It extends between two rivers, each navigable for
the largest vessels, while its harbour would contain the united or
disunited navies, as the case may be, of all nations. The Hudson River, in
particular, is for some distance up a mile or more in width, while the
East River averages over two-fifths of a mile. The population of New York,
with its suburban appendages, including the cities of Brooklyn and Jersey
City, is not less than that of Paris.

The harbour is surrounded with small settlements, connected by
charmingly-situated villas and country residences. It is toward its
northern end that the masts, commencing with a few stragglers, gradually
thicken to a forest. In it are three fortified islands. By the strait
called the “Narrows,” seven miles from the lower part of the city, and
which is, for the space of a mile, about one mile wide, it communicates
with the outer harbour, or bay proper, which extends thence to Sandy Hook
Light, forty miles from the city, and opens directly into the ocean,
forming one of the best roadsteads on the whole Atlantic coasts of
America. The approach to the city, as above indicated, is very fine, the
shores of the bay being wooded down to the water’s edge, and thickly
studded with villages, farms, and country seats. The view of the city
itself is not so prepossessing; like all large cities, it is almost
impossible to find a point from which to grasp the grandeur in its
entirety, and the ground on which it is built is nowhere elevated.
Therefore there is very little to strike the eye specially. Many a petty
town makes a greater show in this respect.

Those ferry-boats! The idea in the minds of most Englishmen is associated
with boats that may pass over from one or two to a dozen or so people,
possibly a single horse, or a donkey-cart. There you find steamers a
couple of hundred or more feet long, with, on either side of the engines,
twenty or more feet space. On the true deck there is accommodation for
carriages, carts, and horses by the score; above, a spacious saloon for
passengers. They have powerful engines, and will easily beat the average
steamship. On arrival at the dock, they run into a kind of slip, or basin,
with piles around stuck in the soft bottom, which yield should she strike
them, and entirely do away with any fear of concussion. “I may here add,”
notes an intelligent writer,(114) “that during my whole travels in the
States, I found nothing more perfect in construction and arrangement than
the ferries and their boats, the charges for which are most moderate,
varying according to distances, and ranging from one halfpenny upwards.”

The sailor ashore in New York—and how many, many thousands visit it every
year!—will find much to note. The public buildings of the great city are
not remarkable; but the one great street, Broadway, which is about eight
miles long, and almost straight, is a very special feature. Unceasing
throngs of busy men and women, loungers and idlers, vehicles of all kinds,
street cars, omnibuses, and carriages—there are no cabs hardly in New
York—pass and re-pass from early morn to dewy eve, while the shops, always
called “stores,” rival those of the Boulevards or Regent Street. Some of
the older streets were, no doubt, as Washington Irving tells us, laid out
after the old cow-paths, as they are as narrow and tortuous as those of
any European city. The crowded state of Broadway at certain points rivals
Cheapside. The writer saw in 1867 a light bridge, which spanned the
street, and was intended for the use of ladies and timid pedestrians.
When, in 1869, he re-passed through the city it had disappeared, and on
inquiry he learnt the reason. Unprincipled roughs had stationed themselves
at either end, and levied black-mail toll on old ladies and
unsophisticated country-people.

So extreme is the difference between the intense heat of summer and the
equally intense cold of winter in New York, that the residents regularly
get thin in the former and stout in the latter. And what a sight are the
two rivers at that time! Huge masses of ice, crashing among themselves,
and making navigation perilous and sometimes impossible, descending the
stream at a rapid rate; docks and slips frozen in; the riggings and
shrouds of great ships covered with icicles, and the decks ready for
immediate use as skating-rinks. The writer crossed in the ferry-boat from
Jersey City to New York, in January, 1875, and acquired a sincere respect
for the pilot, who wriggled and zig-zagged his vessel through masses of
ice, against which a sharp collision would not have been a joke. When, on
the following morning, he left for Liverpool, the steamship herself was a
good model for a twelfth-night cake ornament, and had quite enough to do
to get out from the wharf. Five days after, in mid-Atlantic, he was
sitting on deck in the open air, reading a book, so much milder at such
times is it on the open ocean.

                     [Illustration: BROOKLYN BRIDGE.]

But our leave is over, and although it would be pleasant to travel in
imaginative company up the beautiful Hudson, and visit one of the wonders
of the world—Niagara, to-day a mere holiday excursion from New York—we
must away, merely briefly noting before we go another of the wonders of
the world, a triumph of engineering skill: the great Brooklyn bridge,
which connects that city with New York. Its span is about three-quarters
of a mile; large ships can pass under it, while vehicles and pedestrians
cross in mid-air over their mast tops, between two great cities, making
them one. Brooklyn is a great place for the residences of well-to-do New
Yorkers, and the view from its “Heights”—an elevation covered with villas
and mansions—is grand and extensive. Apart from this, Brooklyn is a
considerable city, with numerous churches and chapels, public buildings,
and places of amusement.

              [Illustration: FERRY-BOAT, NEW YORK HARBOUR.]

Halifax is the northernmost depôt of the whole West India and North
American Station, and is often a great rendezvous of the Royal Navy. It is
situated on a peninsula on the south-east coast of Nova Scotia, of which
it is the capital. Its situation is very picturesque. The town stands on
the declivity of a hill about 250 feet high, rising from one of the finest
harbours in the world. The city front is lined with handsome wharfs, while
merchants’ houses, dwellings, and public edifices arrange themselves on
tiers, stretching along and up the sides of the hill. It has fine wide
streets; the principal one, which runs round the edge of the harbour, is
capitally paved. The harbour opposite the town, where ships usually
anchor, is rather more than a mile wide, and after narrowing to a quarter
of a mile above the upper end of the town, expands into Bedford Basin, a
completely land-locked sheet of water. This grand sea-lake has an area of
ten square miles, and is capable of containing any number of navies.
Halifax possesses another advantage not common to every harbour of North
America: it is accessible at all seasons, and navigation is rarely impeded
by ice. There are two fine lighthouses at Halifax; that on an island off
Sambro Head is 210 feet high. The port possesses many large ships of its
own, generally employed in the South Sea whale and seal fishery. It is a
very prosperous fishing town in other respects.

The town of Halifax was founded in 1749. The settlers, to the number of
3,500, largely composed of naval and military men, whose expenses out had
been paid by the British Government to assist in the formation of the
station, soon cleared the ground from stumps, &c., and having erected a
wooden government house and suitable warehouses for stores and provisions,
the town was laid out so as to form a number of straight and handsome
streets. Planks, doors, window-frames, and other portions of houses, were
imported from the New England settlements, and the more laborious portion
of the work, which the settlers executed themselves, was performed with
great dispatch. At the approach of winter they found themselves
comfortably settled, having completed a number of houses and huts, and
covered others in a manner which served to protect them from the rigour of
the weather, there very severe. There were now assembled at Halifax about
5,000 people, whose labours were suddenly suspended by the intensity of
the frost, and there was in consequence considerable enforced idleness.
Haliburton(115) mentions the difficulty that the governor had to employ
the settlers by sending them out on various expeditions, in palisading the
town, and in other public works.

In addition to £40,000 granted by the British Government for the
embarkation and other expenses of the first settlers, Parliament continued
to make annual grants for the same purpose, which, in 1755, amounted to
the considerable sum of £416,000.

The town of Halifax was no sooner built than the French colonists began to
be alarmed, and although they did not think proper to make an open avowal
of their jealousy and disgust, they employed their emissaries
clandestinely in exciting the Indians to harass the inhabitants with
hostilities, in such a manner as should effectually hinder them from
extending their plantations, or perhaps, indeed, induce them to abandon
the settlement. The Indian chiefs, however, for some time took a different
view of the matter, waited upon the governor, and acknowledged themselves
subjects of the crown of England. The French court thereupon renewed its
intrigues with the Indians, and so far succeeded that for several years
the town was frequently attacked in the night, and the English could not
stir into the adjoining woods without the danger of being shot, scalped,
or taken prisoners.

Among the early laws of Nova Scotia was one by which it was enacted that
no debts contracted in England, or in any of the colonies prior to the
settlement of Halifax, or to the arrival of the debtor, should be
recoverable by law in any court in the province. As an asylum for
insolvent debtors, it is natural to suppose that Halifax attracted thither
the guilty as well as the unfortunate; and we may form some idea of the
state of public morals at that period from an order of Governor
Cornwallis, which, after reciting that the dead were usually attended to
the grave by neither relatives or friends, twelve citizens should in
future be summoned to attend the funeral of each deceased person.

The Nova Scotians are popularly known by Canadians and Americans as “Blue
Noses,” doubtless from the colour of their nasal appendages in bitter cold
weather. It has been already mentioned that Halifax is now a thriving
city; but there must have been a period when the people were not
particularly enterprising, or else that most veracious individual, “Sam
Slick,” greatly belied them. Judge Haliburton, in his immortal
“Clockmaker,” introduces the following conversation with Mr. Slick:—

“‘You appear,’ said I to Mr. Slick, ‘to have travelled over the whole of
this province, and to have observed the country and the people with much
attention; pray, what is your opinion of the present state and future
prospects of Halifax?’ ‘If you will tell me,’ said he, ‘when the folks
there will wake up, then I can answer you; but they are fast asleep. As to
the province, it’s a splendid province, and calculated to go ahead; it
will grow as fast as a Virginny gall—and they grow so amazing fast, if you
put one of your arms round one of their necks to kiss them, by the time
you’ve done they’ve growed up into women. It’s a pretty province, I tell
you, good above and better below: surface covered with pastures, meadows,
woods, and a nation sight of water privileges; and under the ground full
of mines. It puts me in mind of the soup at _Tree_mont house—good enough
at top, but dip down and you have the riches—the coal, the iron ore, the
gypsum, and what not. As for Halifax, it’s well enough in itself, though
no great shakes neither; a few sizeable houses, with a proper sight of
small ones, like half-a-dozen old hens with their broods of young
chickens: but the people, the strange critters, they are all asleep. They
walk in their sleep, and talk in their sleep, and what they say one day
they forget the next; they say they were dreaming.’” This was first
published in England in 1838; all accounts now speak of Halifax as a
well-built, paved, and cleanly city, and of its inhabitants as
enterprising.

                 [Illustration: THE ISLAND OF ASCENSION.]

                    [Illustration: TRISTAN D’ACUNHA.]





                               CHAPTER XII.


              ROUND THE WORLD ON A MAN-OF-WAR (_continued_).


                           THE AFRICAN STATION.


        Its Extent—Ascension—Turtle at a Discount—Sierra Leone—An
      Unhealthy Station—The Cape of Good Hope—Cape Town—Visit of the
     Sailor Prince—Grand Festivities—Enthusiasm of the Natives—Loyal
    Demonstrations—An African “Derby”—Grand Dock Inaugurated—Elephant
      Hunting—The Parting Ball—The Life of a Boer—Circular Farms—The
    Diamond Discoveries—A £12,000 Gem—A Sailor First President of the
    Fields—Precarious Nature of the Search—Natal—Inducements held out
     to Settlers—St. Helena and Napoleon—Discourteous Treatment of a
                  Fallen Foe—The Home of the Caged Lion.


And now we are off to the last of the British naval stations under
consideration—that of the African coast. It is called, in naval
phraseology, “The West Coast of Africa and Cape of Good Hope Station,” and
embraces not merely all that the words imply, but a part of the east
coast, including the important colony of Natal. Commencing at latitude 20°
N. above the Cape Verd Islands, it includes the islands of Ascension, St.
Helena, Tristan d’Acunha, and others already described.

Ascension, which is a British station, with dockyard, and fort garrisoned
by artillery and marines, is a barren island, about eight miles long by
six broad. Its fort is in lat. 70° 26’ N.: long., 140° 24’ W. It is of
volcanic formation, and one of its hills rises to the considerable
elevation of 2,870 feet. Until the imprisonment of Napoleon at St. Helena,
it was utterly uninhabited. At that period it was garrisoned with a small
British force; and so good use was made of their time that it has been
partly cultivated and very greatly improved. Irrigation was found, as
elsewhere, to work wonders, and as there are magnificent springs, this was
rendered easy. Vast numbers of turtle are taken on its shores; and, in
consequence, the soldiers prefer the soup of pea, and affect to despise
turtle steaks worth half a guinea apiece in London, and fit to rejoice the
heart of an alderman! The writer saw the same thing in Vancouver Island,
where at the boarding-house of a very large steam saw-mill, the hands
struck against the salmon, so abundant on those coasts. They insisted upon
not having it more than twice a week for dinner, and that it should be
replaced by salt pork. The climate of Ascension is remarkably healthy. The
object in occupying it is very similar to the reason for holding the
Falkland Islands—to serve as a depôt for stores, coal, and for watering
ships cruising in the South Atlantic.

Sierra Leone is, perhaps, of all places in the world, the last to which
the sailor would wish to go, albeit its unhealthiness has been, as is the
case with Panama, grossly exaggerated. Thus we were told that when a
clergyman with some little influence was pestering the Prime Minister for
the time being for promotion, the latter would appoint him to the
Bishopric of Sierra Leone, knowing well that in a year or so the said
bishopric would be vacant and ready for another gentleman!

                      [Illustration: SIERRA LEONE.]

Sierra Leone is a British colony, and the capital is Free Town, situated
on a peninsula lying between the broad estuary of the Sherboro and the
Sierra Leone rivers, connected with the mainland by an isthmus not more
than one mile and a half broad. The colony also includes a number of
islands, among which are many good harbours. Its history has one
interesting point. When, in 1787, it became a British colony, a company
was formed, which included a scheme for making it a home for free negroes,
and to prove that colonial produce could be raised profitably without
resorting to slave labour. Its prosperity was seriously affected during
the French Revolution by the depredations of French cruisers, and in 1808
the company ceded all its rights to the Crown. Its population includes
negroes from 200 different African tribes, many of them liberated from
slavery and slave-ships, a subject which will be treated hereafter in this
work.

One of the great industries of Sierra Leone is the manufacture of
cocoa-nut oil. The factories are extensive affairs. It is a very beautiful
country, on the whole, and when acclimatised, Europeans find that they can
live splendidly on the products of the country. The fisheries, both sea
and river, are wonderfully productive, and employ about 1,500 natives.
Boat-building is carried on to some extent, the splendid forests yielding
timber so large that canoes capable of holding a hundred men have been
made from a single log, like those already mentioned in connection with
the north-west coast of America. Many of the West Indian products have
been introduced; sugar, coffee, indigo, ginger, cotton, and rice thrive
well, as do Indian corn, the yam, plantain, pumpkins, banana, cocoa,
baobab, pine-apple, orange, lime, guava, papaw, pomegranate, orange, and
lime. Poultry is particularly abundant. It therefore might claim attention
as a fruitful and productive country but for the malaria of its swampy
rivers and low lands.

And now, leaving Sierra Leone, our good ship makes for the Cape of Good
Hope, passing, mostly far out at sea, down that coast along which the
Portuguese mariners crept so cautiously yet so surely till Diaz and Da
Gama reached South Africa, while the latter showed them the way to the
fabled Cathaia, the Orient—India, China, and the Spice Islands.

In the year 1486 “The Cape” of capes _par excellence_, which rarely
nowadays bears its full title, was discovered by Bartholomew de Diaz, a
commander in the service of John II. of Portugal. He did not proceed to
the eastward of it, and it was reserved for the great Vasco da
Gama—afterwards the first Viceroy of India—an incident in whose career
forms, by-the-by, the plot of _L’Africaine_, Meyerbeer’s grand opera, to
double it. It was called at first Cabo Tormentoso—“the Cape of Storms”—but
by royal desire was changed to that of “Buon Esperanza”—“Good Hope”—the
title it still bears. Cape Colony was acquired by Great Britain in 1620,
although for a long time it was practically in the hands of the Dutch, a
colony having been planted by their East India Company. The Dutch held it
in this way till 1795, when the territory was once more taken by our
country. It was returned to the Dutch at the Peace of Amiens, only to be
snatched from them again in 1806, and finally confirmed to Britain at the
general peace of 1815.

The population, including the Boers, or farmers of Dutch descent,
Hottentots, Kaffirs, and Malays, is not probably over 600,000, while the
original territory is about 700 miles long by 400 wide, having an area of
not far from 200,000 square miles. The capital of the colony is Cape Town,
lying at the foot, as every schoolboy knows, of the celebrated Table
Mountain.

A recent writer, Mr. Boyle,(116) speaks cautiously of Cape Town and its
people. There are respectable, but not very noticeable, public buildings.
“Some old Dutch houses there are, distinguishable chiefly by a superlative
flatness and an extra allowance of windows. The population is about 30,000
souls, white, black, and mixed. I should incline to think more than half
fall into the third category. They seem to be hospitable and good-natured
in all classes.... There is complaint of slowness, indecision, and general
‘want of go’ about the place. Dutch blood is said to be still too apparent
in business, in local government, and in society. I suppose there is sound
basis for these accusations, since trade is migrating so rapidly towards
the rival mart of Port Elizabeth.... But ten years ago the entire export
of wool passed through Cape Town. Last year, as I find in the official
returns, 28,000,000 lbs. were shipped at the eastern port out of the whole
37,000,000 lbs. produced in the colony. The gas-lamps, put up by a sort of
_coup d’état_ in the municipality, were not lighted until last year, owing
to the opposition of the Dutch town councillors. They urged that decent
people didn’t want to be out at night, and the ill-disposed didn’t deserve
illumination. Such facts seem to show that the city is not quite up to the
mark in all respects.”

Simon’s Bay, near Table Bay, where Cape Town is situated, is a great
rendezvous for the navy; there are docks and soldiers there, and a small
town. The bay abounds in fish. The Rev. John Milner, chaplain of the
_Galatea_, says that during the visit of Prince Alfred, “large shoals of
fish (a sort of coarse mackerel) were seen all over the bay; numbers came
alongside, and several of them were harpooned with grains by some of the
youngsters from the accommodation-ladder. Later in the day a seal rose,
and continued fishing and rising in the most leisurely manner. At one time
it was within easy rifle distance, and might have been shot from the
ship.”(117) Fish and meat are so plentiful in the colony that living is
excessively cheap.

                        [Illustration: CAPE TOWN.]

The visit of his Royal Highness the Sailor Prince, in 1867, will long be
remembered in the colony. That, and the recent diamond discoveries, prove
that the people cannot be accused of sloth and want of enterprise. On
arrival at Simon’s Bay, the first vessels made out were the _Racoon_, on
which Prince Alfred had served his time as lieutenant, the _Petrel_, just
returned from landing poor Livingstone at the Zambesi, and the
receiving-ship _Seringapatam_. Soon followed official visits, dinner,
ball, and fireworks from the ships. When the Prince was to proceed to Cape
Town, all the ships fired a royal salute, and the fort also, as he landed
at the jetty, where he was received by a guard of honour of the 99th
Regiment. A short distance from the landing-place, at the entrance to the
main street, was a pretty arch, decorated with flowering shrubs, and the
leaves of the silver-tree. On his way to this his Royal Highness was met
by a deputation from the inhabitants of Simon’s Town and of the Malay
population. “This was a very interesting sight; the chief men, dressed in
Oriental costumes, with bright-coloured robes and turbans, stood in front,
and two of them held short wands decorated with paper flowers of various
colours. The Duke shook hands with them, and then they touched him with
their wands. They seemed very much pleased, and looked at him in an
earnest and affectionate manner. Several of the Malays stood round with
drawn swords, apparently acting as a guard of honour. The crowd round
formed a very motley group of people of all colours—negroes, brown
Asiatics, Hottentots, and men, women, and children of every hue. The
policemen had enough to do to keep them back as they pressed up close
round the Duke.” After loyal addresses had been received, and responded
to, the Prince and suite drove off for Cape Town, the ride to which is
graphically described by the chaplain and artist of the expedition. “The
morning was very lovely. Looking to seaward was the Cape of Good Hope,
Cape Hanglip, and the high, broken shores of Hottentot Holland, seen over
the clear blue water of the bay. The horses, carriages, escort with their
drawn swords, all dashing at a rattling pace along the sands in the bright
sunshine, and the long lines of small breakers on the beach, was one of
the most exhilarating sights imaginable. In places the cavalcade emerged
from the sands up on to where the road skirts a rocky shore, and where at
this season of the year beautiful arum lilies and other bright flowers
were growing in the greatest profusion. About four miles from Simon’s Bay,
we passed a small cove, called Fish-hook Bay, where a few families of
Malay fishermen reside. A whale they had killed in the bay the evening
before lay anchored ready for ‘cutting in.’ A small flag, called by
whalers a ‘whiff,’ was sticking up in it. We could see from the road that
it was one of the usual southern ‘right’ whales which occasionally come
into Simon’s Bay, and are captured there. After crossing the last of the
sands, we reached Kalk Bay, a collection of small houses where the people
from Cape Town come to stay in the summer. As we proceeded, fresh
carriages of private individuals and horsemen continued to join on behind,
and it was necessary to keep a bright look-out to prevent them rushing in
between the two carriages containing the Duke and Governor, with their
suites. Various small unpretending arches (every poor man having put up
one on his own account), with flags and flowers, spanned the road in
different places between Simon’s Town and Farmer Peck’s, a small inn about
nine miles from the anchorage, which used formerly to have the following
eccentric sign-board:—

    ‘THE GENTLE SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN.

      ‘FARMER PECKS.

  ‘Multum in Parvo! Pro bono publico!
  Entertainment for man or beast, all of a row,
  Lekher kost, as much as you please;
  Excellent beds, without any fleas.
  Nos patriam fugimus! now we are here,
  Vivamus! let us live by selling beer.
  On donne à boire et à manger ici;
  Come in and try it, whoever you be.’

This house was decorated with evergreens, and over the door was a stuffed
South African leopard springing on an antelope. A little further on, after
discussing lunch at a half-way house, a goodly number of volunteer
cavalry, in blue-and-white uniforms, appeared to escort the Sailor Prince
into Cape Town. The road passes through pleasant country; but the thick
red dust which rose as the cavalcade proceeded was overwhelming. It was a
South African version of the ‘Derby’ on a hot summer’s day. At various
places parties of school-children, arrayed along the road-side, sung the
National Anthem in little piping voices, the singing being generally
conducted by mild-looking men in black gloves and spectacles. At one place
stood an old Malay, playing ‘God Save the Queen’ on a cracked clarionet,
who, quite absorbed as he was in his music, and apparently unconscious of
all around him, looked exceedingly comic. There was everywhere a great
scrambling crowd of Malays and black boys, running and tumbling over each
other, shouting and laughing; women with children tied on their backs, old
men, and girls dressed in every conceivable kind of ragged rig and
picturesque colour, with head-gear of a wonderful nature, huge Malay hats,
almost parasols in size, and resembling the thatch of an English
corn-rick; crowns of old black hats; turbans of all proportions and
colours, swelled the procession as it swept along. When the
cavalry-trumpet sounded ‘trot,’ the cloud of dust increased tenfold.
Everybody, apparently, who could muster a horse was mounted, so that ahead
and on every side the carriage in which we were following the Duke was
hemmed in and surrounded, and everything became mixed up in one thick
cloud of red dust, in which helmets, swords, hats, puggeries, turbans, and
horses almost disappeared. The crowd hurraed louder than ever, pigs
squealed, dogs howled, riders tumbled off; the excitement was
irresistible. ‘Oh! this is fun; stand up—never mind dignity. Whoo-whoop!’
and we were rushed into the cloud of dust, to escape being utterly swamped
and left astern of the Duke, standing up in the carriage, and holding on
in front, to catch what glimpses we could of what was going on.... Some of
the arches were very beautiful; they were all decorated with flowering
shrubs, flowers (particularly the arum lily) and leaves of the
silver-tree. In one the words WELCOME BACK(118) were formed with oranges.
One of the most curious had on its top a large steamship, with _Galatea_
inscribed upon it, and a funnel out of which real smoke was made to issue
as the Duke passed under. Six little boys dressed as sailors formed the
crew, and stood up singing ‘Rule Britannia.’” And so they arrived in Cape
Town, to have _levées_, receptions, entertainments, and balls by the
dozen.

While at the Cape the Duke of Edinburgh laid the foundation of a grand
graving-dock, an adjunct to the Table Bay Harbour Works, a most valuable
and important addition to the resources of the Royal Navy, enabling the
largest ironclad to be repaired at that distant point. The dock is four
hundred feet long, and ninety feet wide. For more than forty years
previously frequent but unsuccessful efforts had been made to provide a
harbour of refuge in Table Bay; now, in addition to this splendid dock, it
has a fine breakwater.

Officers of the Royal Navy may occasionally get the opportunity afforded
the Prince, of attending an elephant hunt. From the neighbourhood of the
Cape itself the biggest of beasts has long retired; but three hundred
miles up the coast, at Featherbed Bay, where there is a settlement, it is
still possible to enjoy some sport.

To leave the port or town of Knysna—where, by-the-by, the Duke was
entertained at a great feed of South African oysters—was found to be
difficult and perilous. The entrance to the harbour is very fine; a high
cliff comes down sheer to the sea on one side, while on the other there is
an angular bluff, with a cave through it. As the _Petrel_ steamed out, a
large group of the ladies of the district waved their handkerchiefs, and
the elephant-hunters cheered. It was now evident, from the appearance of
the bar, that the _Petrel_ had not come out a moment too soon. A heavy sea
of rollers extended nearly the whole way across the mouth of the harbour,
and broke into a long thundering crest of foam, leaving only one small
space on the western side clear of actual surf. For this opening the
_Petrel_ steered; but even there the swell was so great that the vessel
reared and pitched fearfully, and touched the bottom as she dipped astern
into the deep trough of the sea. The slightest accident to the rudder, and
nothing short of a miracle could have saved them from going on to the
rocks, where a tremendous surf was breaking. Providentially, she got out
safely, and soon the party was transferred to the _Racoon_, which returned
to Simon’s Bay.

           [Illustration: THE “GALATEA” PASSING KNYSNA HEADS.]

On his return from the elephant hunt, the Prince gave a parting ball. A
capital ballroom, 135 feet long by 44 wide, was improvised out of an open
boat-house by a party of blue-jackets, who, by means of ships’ lanterns,
flags, arms arranged as ornaments, and beautiful ferns and flowers,
effected a transformation as wonderful as anything recorded in the
“Arabian Nights,” the crowning feature of the decorations being the head
of one of the elephants from the Knysna, surmounting an arch of
evergreens. Most of the visitors had to come all the way from Cape Town,
and during the afternoon were to be seen flocking along the sands in
vehicles of every description, many being conveyed to Simon’s Town a part
of the distance in a navy steam-tender or the _Galatea’s_ steam-launch.
The ball was, of course, a grand success.

This not being a history of Cape Colony, but rather of what the sailor
will find at or near its ports and harbours, the writer is relieved from
any necessity of treating on past or present troubles with the Boers or
the natives. Of course, everything was tinted _couleur de rose_ at the
Prince’s visit, albeit at that very time the colony was in a bad way, with
over speculation among the commercial classes, a cattle plague, disease
among sheep, and a grape-disease. Mr. Frederick Boyle, whose recent work
on the Diamond-fields has been already quoted, and who had to leave a
steamer short of coal at Saldanha Bay, seventy or eighty miles from Cape
Town, and proceed by a rather expensive route, presents a picture far from
gratifying of some of the districts through which he passed. At Saldanha
Bay agriculture gave such poor returns that it did not even pay to export
produce to the Cape. The settlers _exist_, but can hardly be said to live.
They have plenty of cattle and sheep, sufficient maize and corn, but
little money. Mr. Boyle describes the homestead of a Boer substantially as
follows:—

Reaching the home of a farmer named Vasson, he found himself in the midst
of a scene quite patriarchal. All the plain before the house was white
with sheep and lambs, drinking at the “dam” or in long troughs. The dam is
an indispensable institution in a country where springs are scarce, and
where a river is a prodigy. It is the new settler’s first work, even
before erecting his house, to find a hollow space, and dam it up, so as to
make a reservoir. He then proceeds to make the best sun-dried bricks he
can, and to erect his cottage, usually of two, and rarely more than three,
rooms. Not unfrequently, there is a garden, hardly worthy of the name,
where a few potatoes and onions are raised. The farmers, more especially
the Dutch, are “the heaviest and largest in the world.” At an early age
their drowsy habits and copious feeding run them into flesh. “Three times
a day the family gorges itself upon lumps of mutton, fried in the tallowy
fat of the sheep’s tail, or else—their only change of diet—upon the
tasteless _fricadel_—kneaded balls of meat and onions, likewise swimming
in grease. Very few vegetables they have, and those are rarely used. Brown
bread they make, but scarcely touch it. Fancy existing from birth to death
upon mutton scraps, half boiled, half fried, in tallow! So doth the Boer.
It is not eating, but devouring, with him. And fancy the existence! always
alone with one’s father, mother, brothers, and sisters; of whom not one
can do more than write his name, scarce one can read, not one has heard of
any event in history, nor dreamed of such existing things as art or
science, or poetry, or aught that pertains to civilisation.” An unpleasant
picture, truly, and one to which there are many exceptions. It was
doubtful whether Mr. Vasson could read. His farm was several thousand
acres. The ancient law of Cape Colony gave the settler 3,000
_morgen_—something more than 6,000 acres. He was not obliged to take so
much, but, whatever the size of his farm might be, it must be _circular_
in shape; and as the circumference of a property could only touch the
adjoining grants it follows that there were immense corners or tracts of
land left waste between. Clever and ambitious farmers, in these later
days, have been silently absorbing said corners into their estates,
greatly increasing their size.

The Cape cannot be recommended to the notice of poor emigrants, but to
capitalists it offers splendid inducements. Mr. Irons, in his work on the
Cape and Natal settlements,(119) cites several actual cases, showing the
profits on capital invested in sheep-farming. In one case £1,250 realised,
in about three years, £2,860, which includes the sale of the wool. A
second statement gives the profits on an outlay of £2,225, after seven
years. It amounts to over £8,000. Rents in the towns are low; beef and
mutton do not exceed fourpence per pound, while bread, made largely from
imported flour, is a shilling and upwards per four-pound loaf.

So many sailors have made for the Diamond-fields, since their discovery,
from the Cape, Port Elizabeth, or Natal, and so many more will do the
same, as any new deposit is found, that it will not be out of place here
to give the facts concerning them. In 1871, when Mr. Boyle visited them,
the ride up cost from £12 to £16, with additional expenses for meals, &c.
Of course, a majority of the 50,000 men who have been congregated at times
at the various fields could not and did not afford this; but it is a tramp
of 750 miles from Cape Town, or 450 from Port Elizabeth or Natal. From the
Cape, a railway, for about sixty miles, eases some of the distance. On the
journey up, which reads very like Western experiences in America, two of
three mules were twenty-six hours and a half in harness, and covered 110
miles! South Africa requires a society for the prevention of cruelty to
animals, one would think. Mr. Boyle also saw another way by which the
colonist may become rapidly wealthy—in ostrich-farming. Broods, purchased
for £5 to £9, in three years gain their full plumages, and yield in
feathers £4 to £6 per annum. They become quite tame, are not delicate to
rear, and are easily managed. And they also met the down coaches from the
fields, on one of which a young fellow—almost a boy—had no less than 235
carats with him. At last they reached Pniel (“a camp”), a place which once
held 5,000 workers and delvers, and in November, 1872, was reduced to a
few hundred, like the deserted diggings in California and Australia. It
had, however, yielded largely for a time.

The words, “Here be diamonds,” are to be found inscribed on an old
mission-map of a part of the Colony, of the date of 1750, or thereabouts.
In 1867, a trader up country, near Hope Town, saw the children of a Boer
playing with some pebbles, picked up along the banks of the Orange River.
An ostrich-hunter named O’Reilly was present, and the pair of them were
struck with the appearance of one of the stones, and they tried it on
glass, scratching the sash all over. A bargain was soon struck: O’Reilly
was to take it to Cape Town; and there Sir P. E. Wodehouse soon gave him
£500 for it. Then came an excitement, of course. In 1869, a Hottentot
shepherd, named Swartzboy, brought to a country store a gem of 83½ carats.
The shopman, in his master’s absence, did not like to risk the £200 worth
of goods demanded. Swartzboy passed on to the farm of one Niekirk, where
he asked, and eventually got, £400. Niekirk sold it for £12,000 the same
day! Now, of course, the excitement became a fevered frenzy.

Supreme among the camps around Pniel reigned Mr. President Parker, a
sailor who, leaving the sea, had turned trader. Mr. Parker, with his
counsellors, were absolute in power, and, all in all, administered justice
very fairly. Ducking in the river was the mildest punishment; the naval
“cat” came next; while dragging through the river was the third grade;
last of all came the “spread eagle,” in which the culprit was extended
flat, hands and feet staked down, and so exposed to the angry sun.

In a short time, the yield from the various fields was not under £300,000
per month, and claims were sold at hundreds and thousands of pounds
apiece. Then came a time of depression, when the dealers would not buy, or
only at terribly low prices. Meantime, although meat was always cheap,
everything else was very high. A cabbage, for example, often fetched 10s.,
a water-melon 15s., and onions and green figs a shilling apiece. Forage
for horses was half-a-crown a bundle of four pounds. To-day they are
little higher on the Fields than in other parts of the Colony.

That a number of diggers have made snug little piles, ranging from two or
three to eight, ten, or more thousand pounds, is undeniable, but they were
very exceptional cases, after all. The dealers in diamonds, though, often
turned over immense sums very rapidly.

And now, before taking our leave of the African station, let us pay a
flying visit to Natal, which colony has been steadily rising of late
years, and which offers many advantages to the visitor and settler. The
climate, in spite of the hot sirocco which sometimes blows over it, and
the severe thunderstorms, is, all in all, superior to most of the African
climates, inasmuch as the rainfall is as nearly as possible that of
London, and it falls at the period when most wanted—at the time of
greatest warmth and most active vegetation. The productions of Natal are
even more varied than those of the Cape, while arrowroot, sugar, cotton,
and Indian corn are staple articles. _The_ great industries are cattle and
sheep-rearing, and, as in all parts of South Africa, meat is excessively
cheap, retailing at threepence or fourpence a pound.

Natal was discovered by Vasco da Gama, and received from him the name of
Terra Natalis—“Land of the Nativity”—because of his arriving on Christmas
Day. Until 1823 it was little known or visited. A settlement was then
formed by a party of Englishmen, who were joined by a number of
dissatisfied Dutchmen from the Cape. In 1838 the British Government took
possession. There was a squabble, the colonists being somewhat defiant for
a while, and some little fighting ensued. It was proposed by the settlers
to proclaim the Republic of Natalia, but on the appearance of a strong
British force, they subsided quietly, and Natal was placed under the
control of the Governor of the Cape. In 1856, it was erected into a
separate colony.

To moderate capitalists it offers many advantages. Land is granted on the
easiest terms, usually four shillings per acre; and free grants are given,
in proportion to a settler’s capital: £500 capital receives a land order
for 200 acres. An arrowroot plantation and factory can be started for £500
or £600, and a coffee plantation for something over £1,000.
Sugar-planting, &c., is much more expensive, and would require for plant,
&c., £5,000, or more.

And now, on the way home from the African station, the good ship will pass
close to, if indeed it does not touch at, the Island of St. Helena, a
common place of refreshment for vessels sailing to the northward. Vessels
coming southward rarely do so; sailing ships can hardly make the island.
It lies some 1,200 miles from the African coasts, in mid-ocean. St. Helena
has much the appearance, seen from a distance, of the summit of some great
submarine mountain, its rugged and perpendicular cliffs rising from the
shore to altitudes from 300 to 1,500 feet. In a few scattered places there
are deep, precipitous ravines, opening to the sea, whose embouchures form
difficult but still possible landing-places for the fishermen. In one of
the largest of these, towards the north-west, the capital and port of the
island, James Town, is situated. It is the residence of the authorities.
The anchorage is good and sufficiently deep, and the port is well
protected from the winds. The town is entered by an arched gateway, within
which is a spacious parade, lined with official residences, and faced by a
handsome church. The town is in no way remarkable, but has well-supplied
shops. The leading inhabitants prefer to live outside it on the higher and
cooler plateaux of the island, where many of them have very fine country
houses, foremost of which is a villa named Plantation House, belonging to
the governor, surrounded by pleasant grounds, handsome trees and shrubs.
In the garden grounds tropical and ordinary fruits and vegetables
flourish; the mango, banana, tamarind, and sugar-cane; the orange, citron,
grape, fig, and olive, equally with the common fruits of England. The yam
and all the European vegetables abound; three crops of potatoes have been
often raised from the same ground in one year. The hills are covered with
the cabbage tree, and the log-wood and gum-wood trees. Cattle and sheep
are scarce, but goats browse in immense herds on the hills. No beasts of
prey are to be met, but there are plenty of unpleasant and poisonous
insects. Game and fish are abundant, and turtles are often found. All in
all, it is not a bad place for Jack after a long voyage, although not
considered healthy. It has a military governor, and there are barracks.

The interior is a plateau, divided by low mountains, the former averaging
1,500 feet above the sea. The island is undoubtedly of volcanic origin. It
was discovered on the 22nd May (St. Helena’s Day), by Juan de Nova, a
Portuguese. The Dutch first held it, and it was wrested from them first by
England in 1673, Charles II. soon afterwards granting it to the East India
Company, who, with the exception of the period of Napoleon’s imprisonment,
held the proprietorship to 1834, when it became an appanage of the Crown.

The fame of the little island rests on its having been the prison of the
great disturber of Europe. Every reader knows the circumstances which
preceded that event. He had gone to Rochefort with the object of embarking
for America, but finding the whole coast so blockaded as to render that
scheme impracticable, surrendered himself to Captain Maitland, commander
of the English man-of-war _Bellerophon_, who immediately set sail for
Torbay. No notice whatever was taken of his letter—an uncourteous
proceeding, to say the least of it, towards a fallen foe—and on the 7th of
August he was removed to the _Northumberland_, the flag-ship of Sir George
Cockburn, which immediately set sail for St. Helena.

On arrival the imperial captive was at first lodged in a sort of inn. The
following day the ex-emperor and suite rode out to visit Longwood, the
seat selected for his residence, and when returning noted a small villa
with a pavilion attached to it, about two miles from the town, the
residence of Mr. Balcombe, an inhabitant of the island. The spot attracted
the emperor’s notice, and the admiral, who had accompanied him, thought it
would be better for him to remain there than to go back to the town, where
the sentinels at the doors and the gaping crowds in a manner confined him
to his chamber. The place pleased the emperor, for the position was quiet,
and commanded a fine view. The pavilion was a kind of summer-house on a
pointed eminence, about fifty paces from the house, where the family were
accustomed to resort in fine weather, and this was the retreat hired for
the temporary abode of the emperor. It contained only one room on the
ground-floor, without curtains or shutters, and scarcely possessed a seat;
and when Napoleon retired to rest, one of the windows had to be
barricaded, so draughty was it, in order to exclude the night air, to
which he had become particularly sensitive. What a contrast to the gay
palaces of France!

                       [Illustration: ST. HELENA.]

In December the emperor removed to Longwood, riding thither on a small
Cape horse, and in his uniform of a chasseur of the guards. The road was
lined with spectators, and he was received at the entrance to Longwood by
a guard under arms, who rendered the prescribed honour to their
illustrious captive. The place, which had been a farm of the East India
Company, is situated on one of the highest parts of the island, and the
difference between its temperature and that of the valley below is very
great. It is surrounded by a level height of some extent, and is near the
eastern coast. It is stated that continual and frequently violent winds
blow regularly from the same quarter. The sun was rarely seen, and there
were heavy rainfalls. The water, conveyed to Longwood in pipes, was found
to be so unwholesome as to require boiling before it was fit for use. The
surroundings were barren rocks, gloomy deep valleys, and desolate gullies,
the only redeeming feature being a glimpse of the ocean on one hand. All
this after La Belle France!

Longwood as a residence had not much to boast of. The building was
rambling and inconveniently arranged; it had been built up by degrees, as
the wants of its former inmates had increased. One or two of the suite
slept in lofts, reached by ladders and trap-doors. The windows and beds
were curtainless, and the furniture mean and scanty. Inhospitable and in
bad taste, ye in power at the time! In front of the place, and separated
by a tolerably deep ravine, the 53rd Regiment was encamped in detached
bodies on the neighbouring heights. Here the caged lion spent the last
five weary years of his life till called away by the God of Battles.





                              CHAPTER XIII.


                  THE SERVICE.—OFFICERS’ LIFE ON BOARD.


     Conditions of Life on Ship-board—A Model Ward-room—An Admiral’s
    Cabin—Captains and Captains—The Sailor and his Superior Officers—A
         Contrast—A Commander of the Old School—Jack Larmour—Lord
     Cochrane’s Experiences—His Chest Curtailed—The Stinking Ship—The
      First Command—Shaving under Difficulties—The _Speedy_ and her
             Prizes—The Doctor—On Board a Gun-boat—Cabin and
      Dispensary—Cockroaches and Centipedes—Other horrors—The Naval
        Chaplain—His Duties—Stories of an Amateur—The Engineer—His
    Increasing Importance—Popularity of the Navy—Nelson always a Model
    Commander—The Idol of his Colleagues, Officers, and Men—Taking the
       Men into his Confidence—The Action between the _Bellona_ and
       _Courageux_—Captain Falknor’s Speech to the Crew—An Obsolete
     Custom—Crossing the Line—Neptune’s Visit to the Quarter-deck—The
     Navy of To-day—Its Backbone—Progressive Increase in the Size of
     Vessels—Naval Volunteers—A Noble Movement—Excellent Results—The
                              Naval Reserve.


In the previous pages we have given some account of the various stations
visited by the Royal Navy of Great Britain. Let us next take a glance at
the ships themselves—the quarter-deck, the captain’s cabin, and the
ward-room. In a word, let us see how the officers of a ship live, move,
and have their being on board.

Their condition depends very much on their ship, their captain, and
themselves. The first point may be dismissed briefly, as the general
improvement in all descriptions of vessels, including their interior
arrangements, is too marked to need mentioning. The ward-room of a modern
man-of-war is often as well furnished as any other dining-room—handsomely
carpeted, the sides adorned with pictures, with comfortable chairs and
lounges, and excellent appointments at table. In the ward-room of a
Russian corvette visited by the writer, he found a saloon large enough for
a ball, with piano, and gorgeous side-board, set out as in the houses of
most of the northern nations of Europe, with sundry bottles and incitives
to emptying them, in the shape of salt anchovies and salmon, caviare and
cheese. In a British flag-ship he found the admiral’s cabin, while in port
at least, a perfect little bijou of a drawing-room, with harmonium and
piano, vases of flowers, portfolios of drawings, an elaborate stove, and
all else that could conduce to comfort and luxury. Outside of this was a
more plainly-furnished cabin, used as a dining-room. Of course much of
this disappears at sea. The china and glass are securely packed, and all
of the smaller loose articles stowed away; the piano covered up in canvas
and securely “tied up” to the side; likely enough the carpet removed, and
a rough canvas substituted. Still, all is ship-shape and neat as a new
pin. The few “old tubs” of vessels still in the service are rarely
employed beyond trifling harbour duties, or are kept for emergencies on
foreign stations. They will soon disappear, to be replaced by smart and
handy little gun-boats or other craft, where, if the accommodations are
limited, at least the very most is made of the room at command. How
different all this is to many of the vessels of the last century and
commencement of this, described by our nautical novelists as little better
than colliers, pest ships, and tubs, smelling of pitch, paint,
bilge-water, tar, and rum! Readers will remember Marryat’s captain, who,
with his wife, was so inordinately fond of pork that he turned his ship
into a floating pig-sty. At his dinner there appeared mock-turtle soup (of
pig’s head); boiled pork and pease pudding; roast spare rib; sausages and
pettitoes; and, last of all, sucking-pig. He will doubtless remember how
he was eventually frightened off the ship, then about to proceed to the
West Indies, by the doctor telling him that with his habit of living he
would not give much for his life on that station. But although Marryat’s
characters were true to the life of his time, you would go far to find a
similar example to-day. Captains still have their idiosyncrasies, but not
of such a marked nature. There may be indolent captains, like he who was
nicknamed “The Sloth;” or, less likely, prying captains, like he in “Peter
Simple,” who made himself so unpopular that he lost all the good sailors
on board, and had to put up with a “scratch crew;” or (a comparatively
harmless variety) captains who amuse their officers with the most
outrageous yarns, but who are in all else the souls of honour. Who can
help laughing over that Captain Kearney, who tells the tale of the Atta of
Roses ship? He relates how she had a puncheon of the precious essence on
board; it could be smelt three miles off at sea, and the odour was so
strong on board that the men fainted when they ventured near the hold. The
timbers of the ship became so impregnated with the smell that they could
never make any use of her afterwards, till they broke her up and sold her
to the shopkeepers of Brighton and Tunbridge-wells, who turned her into
scented boxes and fancy articles, and then into money. The absolutely
vulgar captain is a thing of the past, for the possibilities of entering
“by the hawse-hole,” the technical expression applied to the man who was
occasionally in the old times promoted from the fo’castle to the
quarter-deck, are very rare indeed nowadays. Still, there are
gentlemen—and there are gentlemen. The perfect example is a _rara avis_
everywhere.

       [Illustration: ON DECK OF A MAN-OF-WAR, EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.]

The true reason why a captain may make his officers and men constitute an
agreeable happy family, or a perfect pandemonium of discontent and misery,
consists in the abuse of his absolute power. That power is necessarily
bestowed on him; there must be a head; without good discipline, no vessel
can be properly handled, or the emergencies of seamanship and warfare met.
But as he can in minor matters have it all his own way, and even in many
more important ones can determine absolutely, without the fear of anything
or anybody short of a court-martial, he may, and often does, become a
martinet, if not a very tyrant.

The subordinate officer’s life may be rendered a burden by a cantankerous
and exacting captain. Every trifling omission may be magnified into a
grave offence. Some captains seem to go on the principle of the Irishman
who asked, “Who’ll tread on my coat tails?” or of the other, “Did you blow
your nose at me, sir?” And again, that which in the captain is no offence
is a very serious one on the part of the officer or seaman. He may exhaust
the vocabulary of abuse and bad language, but not a retort may be made. In
the Royal Navy of to-day, though by no means in the merchant service, this
is, however, nearly obsolete. However tyrannically disposed, the language
of commanders and officers is nearly sure to be free from disgraceful
epithets, blasphemies, and scurrilous abuse, cursing and swearing.
Officers should be, and generally are, gentlemen.

A commanding lieutenant of the old school—a type of officer not to be
found in the Royal Navy nowadays—is well described by Admiral
Cochrane.(120) “My kind uncle,” writes he, “the Hon. John Cochrane,
accompanied me on board the _Iliad_ for the purpose of introducing me to
my future superior officer, Lieutenant Larmour, or, as he was more
familiarly known in the service, Jack Larmour—a specimen of the old
British seaman, little calculated to inspire exalted ideas of the
gentility of the naval profession, though presenting at a glance a
personification of its efficiency. Jack was, in fact, one of a not very
numerous class, whom, for their superior seamanship, the Admiralty was
glad to promote from the forecastle to the quarter-deck, in order that
they might mould into ship-shape the questionable materials supplied by
parliamentary influence, even then paramount in the navy to a degree which
might otherwise have led to disaster. Lucky was the commander who could
secure such an officer for his quarter-deck.

“On my introduction, Jack was dressed in the garb of a seaman, with
marlinspike slung round his neck, and a lump of grease in his hand, and
was busily employed in setting up the rigging. His reception of me was
anything but gracious. Indeed, a tall fellow, over six feet high, the
nephew of his captain, and a lord to boot, were not very promising
recommendations for a midshipman. It is not impossible he might have
learned from my uncle something about a military commission of several
years’ standing; and this, coupled with my age and stature, might easily
have impressed him with the idea that he had caught a scapegrace with whom
the family did not know what to do, and that he was hence to be saddled
with a ‘hard bargain.’

“After a little constrained civility on the part of the first lieutenant,
who was evidently not very well pleased with the interruption to his
avocation, he ordered me to ‘get my traps below.’ Scarcely was the order
complied with, and myself introduced to the midshipman’s berth, than I
overheard Jack grumbling at the magnitude of my equipments. ‘This Lord
Cochrane’s chest? Does Lord Cochrane think he is going to bring a cabin
aboard? Get it up on the main-deck!’

    [Illustration: BETWEEN DECKS OF A MAN-OF-WAR, EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.]

“This order being promptly obeyed, amidst a running fire of similar
objurgations, the key of the chest was sent for, and shortly afterwards
the sound of sawing became audible. It was now high time to follow my
property, which, to my astonishment, had been turned out on the deck—Jack
superintending the sawing off one end of the chest just beyond the
keyhole, and accompanying the operation by sundry uncomplimentary
observations on midshipmen in general, and on myself in particular.

“The metamorphosis being completed to the lieutenant’s satisfaction—though
not at all to mine, for my neat chest had become an unshapely piece of
lumber—he pointed out the ‘lubberliness of shore-going people in not
making keyholes where they could most easily be got at,’ viz., at the end
of a chest instead of the middle!” Lord Cochrane took it easily, and
acknowledges warmly the service Jack Larmour rendered him in teaching him
his profession.

Later, Lord Cochrane, when promoted to a lieutenancy, was dining with
Admiral Vandepat, and being seated near him, was asked what dish was
before him. “Mentioning its nature,” says he, “I asked whether he would
permit me to help him. The uncourteous reply was—that whenever he wished
for anything he was in the habit of asking for it. Not knowing what to
make of a rebuff of this nature, it was met with an inquiry if he would
allow me the honour of taking wine with him. ‘I never take wine with any
man, my lord,’ was the unexpected reply, from which it struck me that my
lot was cast among Goths, if no worse.” Subsequently he found that this
apparently gruff old admiral assumed some of this roughness purposely, and
that he was one of the kindest commanders living.

In 1798, when with the Mediterranean fleet, ludicrous examples, both of
the not very occasional corruption of the period, and the rigid etiquette
required by one’s superior officer, occurred to Lord Cochrane, and got him
into trouble. The first officer, Lieutenant Beaver, was one who carried
the latter almost to the verge of despotism. He looked after all that was
visible to the eye of the admiral, but permitted “an honest penny to be
turned elsewhere.” At Tetuan they had purchased and killed bullocks _on
board the flagship_, for the use of the whole squadron. The reason for
this was that the hides, being valuable, could be stowed away in her hold
or empty beef-casks, as especial perquisites to certain persons on board.
The fleshy fragments on the hides soon decomposed, and rendered the hold
of the vessel so intolerable that she acquired the name of the “Stinking
Scotch ship.” Lord Cochrane, as junior lieutenant, had much to do with
these arrangements, and his unfavourable remarks on these raw-hide
speculations did not render those interested very friendly towards him.
One day, when at Tetuan, he was allowed to go wild-fowl shooting ashore,
and became covered with mud. On arriving rather late at the ship, he
thought it more respectful to don a clean uniform before reporting himself
on the quarter-deck. He had scarcely made the change, when the first
lieutenant came into the ward-room, and harshly demanded of Lord Cochrane
the reason for not having reported himself. His reply was, that as the
lieutenant had seen him come up by the side he must be aware that he was
not in a fit condition to appear on the quarter-deck. The lieutenant
replied so offensively before the ward-room officers, that he was
respectfully reminded by Cochrane of a rule he had himself laid down, that
“Matters connected with the service were not there to be spoken of.”
Another retort was followed by the sensible enough reply, “Lieutenant
Beaver, we will, if you please, talk of this in another place.” Cochrane
was immediately reported to the captain by Beaver, as having challenged
him: the lieutenant actually demanded a court-martial! And the
court-martial was held, the decision being that Cochrane should be
admonished to be “more careful in future.”

Lord Cochrane was soon after given a command. The vessel to which he was
appointed was, even eighty years ago, a mere burlesque of a ship-of-war.
She was about the size of an average coasting brig, her burden being 158
tons. She was crowded rather than manned, with a crew of eighty-four men
and six officers. Her armament consisted of fourteen _4-pounders_! a
species of gun little larger than a blunderbuss, and formerly known in the
service as “minion,” an appellation quite appropriate. The cabin had not
so much as room for a chair, the floor being entirely occupied by a small
table surrounded with lockers, answering the double purpose of
store-chests and seats. The difficulty was to get seated, the ceiling
being only five feet high, so that the object could only be accomplished
by rolling on the lockers: a movement sometimes attended with unpleasant
failure. Cochrane’s only practicable way of shaving consisted in removing
the skylight, and putting his head through to make a toilet-table of the
quarter-deck!

On this little vessel—the _Speedy_—Cochrane took a number of prizes, and
having on one occasion manned a couple of them with half his crew and sent
them away, was forced to tackle the _Gamo_, a Spanish frigate of
thirty-two heavy guns and 319 men. The exploit has hardly been excelled in
the history of heroic deeds. The commander’s orders were not to fire a
single gun till they were close to the frigate, and he ran the _Speedy_
under her lee, so that her yards were locked among the latter’s rigging.
The shots from the Spanish guns passed over the little vessel, only
injuring the rigging, while the _Speedy’s_ mere pop-guns could be
elevated, and helped to blow up the main-deck of the enemy’s ship. The
Spaniards speedily found out the disadvantage under which they were
fighting, and gave the orders to board the little English vessel; but it
was avoided twice by sheering off sufficiently, then giving them a volley
of musketry and a broadside before they could recover themselves. After
the lapse of an hour, the loss to the _Speedy_ was only four men killed
and two wounded, but her rigging was so cut up and the sails so riddled
that Cochrane told his men they must either take the frigate or be taken
themselves, in which case the Spaniards would give no quarter. The doctor,
Mr. Guthrie, bravely volunteered to take the helm, and leaving him for the
time both commander and crew of the ship, Cochrane and his men were soon
on the enemy’s deck, the _Speedy_ being put close alongside with admirable
skill. A portion of the crew had been ordered to blacken their faces and
board by the _Gamo’s_ head. The greater portion of the Spanish crew were
prepared to repel boarders in that direction, but stood for a few moments
as it were transfixed to the deck by the apparition of so many
diabolical-looking figures emerging from the white smoke of the bow guns,
while the other men rushed on them from behind before they could recover
from their surprise at the unexpected phenomenon. Observing the Spanish
colours still flying, Lord Cochrane ordered one of his men to haul them
down, and the crew, without pausing to consider by whose orders they had
been struck, and naturally believing it to be the act of their own
officers, gave in. The total English loss was three men killed, and one
officer and seventeen men wounded. The _Gamo’s_ loss was the captain,
boatswain, and thirteen seamen killed, with forty-one wounded. It became a
puzzle what to do with 263 unhurt prisoners, the _Speedy_ having only
forty-two sound men left. Promptness was necessary; so, driving the
prisoners into the hold, with their own guns pointed down the hatchway,
and leaving thirty men on the prize, Cochrane shaped the vessel’s course
to Port Mahon, which was reached safely. Some Barcelona gun-boats,
spectators of the action, did not venture to rescue the frigate.

The doctor on board a man-of-war has, perhaps, on the whole, better
opportunities and, in times of peace, more leisure than the other officers
for noting any circumstances of interest that may occur. Dr. Stables, in
his interesting little work,(121) describes his cabin on board a small
gun-boat as a miserable little box, such as at home he would have kept
rabbits or guinea-pigs in, but certainly not pigeons. He says that it
might do for a commodore—Commodore Nutt. It was ventilated by a small
scuttle, seven inches in diameter, which could only be raised in harbour,
and beneath which, when he first went to sea, he was obliged to put a
leather hat-box to catch the water; unfortunately, the bottom rotted out,
and he was at the mercy of the waves. This cabin was alive with scorpions,
cockroaches, and other “crawling ferlies,”

  “That e’en to name would be unlawfu’.”

His dispensary was off the steerage, and sister-cabin to the pantry. To it
he gained access by a species of crab-walking, squeezing himself past a
large brass pump, edging in sideways. The sick would come one by one to
the dispensary, and there he saw and treated each case as it arrived,
dressing wounds, bruises, and putrefying sores. There was no sick berth
attendant, but the lieutenant told off “a little cabin-boy” for his use.
He was not a model cabin-boy, like the youngster you see in the theatres.
He certainly managed at times to wash out the dispensary, in the intervals
of catching cockroaches and making poultices, but in doing the first he
broke half the bottles, and making the latter either let them burn or put
salt into them. Finally, he smashed so much of the doctor’s apparatus that
he was kicked out. In both dispensary and what Dr. Stables calls his
“burrow,” it was difficult to prevent anything from going to utter
destruction. The best portions of his uniform got eaten by cockroaches or
moulded by damp, while his instruments required cleaning every morning,
and even this did not keep the rust at bay.

And then, those terrible cockroaches! To find, when you awake, a couple,
each two inches in length, meandering over your face, or even in bed with
you!—to find one in a state of decay in the mustard-pot!—to have to remove
their droppings and eggs from the edge of your plate previous to eating
your soup! and so on, _ad nauseam_. But on small vessels stationed in the
tropics—as described by the doctor—there were, and doubtless sometimes are
now, other unpleasantnesses. For instance, you are looking for a book, and
put your hand on a full-grown scaly scorpion. Nice sensation! the animal
twining round your finger, or running up your sleeve! _Dénoûment_:
cracking him under foot—joy at escaping a sting!

      [Illustration: NAVAL OFFICERS AND SEAMEN, EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.]

“You are enjoying your dinner, but have been for some time sensible of a
strange, titillating feeling about the region of your ankle; you look down
at last, to find a centipede on your sock, with his fifty hind legs—you
thank God not his fore-fifty!—abutting on your shin. _Tableaux_:
green-to-red light from the eyes of the many-legged—horror of yourself as
you wait till he thinks proper to ‘move on.’

“To awake in the morning, and find a large, healthy-looking tarantula
squatting on your pillow, within ten inches of your nose, with his
basilisk eyes fixed on yours, and apparently saying: ‘You’re awake, are
you? I’ve been sitting here all the morning, watching you.’

“You think, if you move, he’ll bite you somewhere—and if he _does_ bite
you, you’ll go mad, and dance _ad libitum_—so you twist your mouth in the
opposite direction, and ejaculate—‘Steward!’ But the steward does not
come; in fact, he is forward, seeing after breakfast. Meanwhile, the
gentleman on the pillow is moving his horizontal mandibles in a most
threatening manner; and just as he moves for your nose, you tumble out of
your bed with a shriek, and, if a very nervous person, probably run on
deck in your shirt!”

The doctor’s last description of an accumulation of these horrors is
fearful to even think about. The bulkheads all around your berth are black
with cock and hen-roaches, a few of which are nipping your toe, and
running off with little bits of the skin of your leg; while a troop of
ants are carrying a dead one over your pillow; musquitoes and flies
attacking you everywhere; rats running in and rats running out; your lamp
just flickering and dying away into darkness, with the delicious certainty
that an indefinite number of earwigs and scorpions, besides two centipedes
and a tarantula, are hiding themselves somewhere in your cabin! All this
is possible; still Dr. Stables describes life on other vessels under more
favourable auspices.

The important addition of a chaplain to the establishment on board our
ships of war seems, from the following letter of George, Duke of
Buckingham, to have been first adopted in the year 1626:—






         “THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM TO THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE.

“After my hearty commendations. His Majesty having given order for
preachers to goe in every of his ships to sea, choyce hath been made of
one Mr. Daniel Ambrose, Master of Arts and Fellow of your College, to be
one. Accordingly, upon signification to me to come hither, I thought good
to intimate unto you, that His Majesty is so careful of such scholars as
are willing to put themselves forward in so good actions, as that he will
expect—and I doubt not but that you will accordingly take order—that the
said Mr. Ambrose shall suffer noe detriment in his place with you, by this
his employment; but that you will rather take care that he shall have all
immunities and emoluments with advantage, which have been formerly, or may
be, granted to any upon the like service. Wherein, not doubting of your
affectionate care, I rest,

                                                “Your very loving friend,
                                                           “G. BUCKINGHAM.
_“York House, July 29th, 1626.”_






Sailors, in spite of their outbursts of recklessness, have frequently,
from the very nature of their perilous calling, an amount of seriousness
underlying their character, which makes them particularly amenable to
religious influences. The chaplain on a large modern ironclad or frigate
has as many men in his charge, as regards spiritual matters, as the vicar
of a country town or large village, whilst he has many more opportunities
of reaching them directly. Many of our naval chaplains are noble fellows;
and to them come the sailors in any distress of mind, for the soothing
advice so readily given. He may not dare to interfere with the powers that
be when they are in danger of punishment, except in very rare cases; but
he can point them out their path of duty, and how to walk in it, making
them better sailors and happier men. He can lend them an occasional book,
or write for them an occasional letter home; induce them to refrain from
dissipation when on liberty; cheer them in the hour of greatest peril,
while on the watery deep, and give them an occasional reproof, but in
kindness, not in anger. To his brother officers he has even better
opportunities of doing good than to the men. On the smaller classes of
vessels—gun-boats and the like—the captain has to perform chaplain’s
duties, by reading prayers on the Sabbath. This is the case also on
well-regulated steamships or passenger sailing-vessels of the merchant
service. The fine steamers of such lines as the Cunard, or White Star, of
the Royal Mail Company, or of the P. and O., have, of course, frequently,
some clergyman, minister, or missionary on board, who is willing to
celebrate divine service.

A Committee of the Lower House of Convocation has recently collected an
immense amount of statistics regarding the provision made by private
ship-owners for the spiritual welfare of their men, and the result as
regards England is not at all satisfactory. In point of fact, it is rarely
made at all. The committee seeks to encourage the growth of religion among
sailors by providing suitable and comfortable church accommodation at all
ports, and urges owners to instruct their captains as to conducting divine
service on Sundays, and to furnish Bibles, prayer-books, and instructive
works of secular literature. Too much must not, however, be expected from
Jack. The hardships and perils through which he passes excuse much of his
exuberance ashore. It is his holiday-time; and, so long as he is only gay,
and not abandoned, the most rigid must admit that he has earned the right
to recreation. A distinguished French naval officer used to say that the
sailor fortunately had no memory. “Happy for him,” said he, “that he is
thus oblivious. Did he remember all the gales and tempests, the cold, the
drenching rain, the misery, the privations, the peril to life and limb
which he has endured, he would never, when he sets foot on shore, go to
sea again. But he has no memory. The clouds roll away, the sea is calm,
the sun shines, the boat bears him to land; the wine flows; the music
strikes up; pretty girls smile: he forgets all the past, and lives only in
the present.”

While the chaplain may, and no doubt generally does, earn the respect and
esteem of the men, woe to any example of the “Chadband” order who shall be
found on board. This is, in the Royal Navy, almost impossible; but it
sometimes happens that, on passenger ships, some sanctimonious and
fanatical individual or other has had a very rough time of it. He is
regarded as a kind of Jonah. In a recent number of that best of American
magazines, the _Atlantic Monthly_, the woes and trials of one poor Joseph
Primrose, a well-meaning minister who went out to America in 1742, are
amusingly recounted. There were, aboard the _Polly_, the vessel in which
he took passage, several of the crew who viewed their religious exercises
askance. “These men,” says he, “had been foremost in a general indignation
uprising that had ensued upon the stoppage of their daily allowance of
rum; which step had been taken on my earnest recommendation. For this
injurious drink we had substituted a harmless and refreshing beverage
concocted of molasses, vinegar, and water, from a choice receipt I had
come upon in a medical book aboard the vessel. The sailors, to a man,
refused to touch it, egged on by these contumacious fellows, and more
especially by one Springer, a daring villain, who reviled me with bitter
execrations. In fine, the captain was obliged, for our own safety, to
restore the cherished dram; and I had the mortification to find myself,
from that time forth, an object of dislike and suspicion to these men, who
were kept within decent bounds only by respect for their master. I became
convinced, on reflection, that I had gone the wrong way about this
unfortunate piece of business; having, in fact, made a very serious error
in the beginning, gentle argument and good example being more apt to bring
about the desired end than compulsory measures, these dulling the
understanding by rousing the temper, especially among persons of the
meaner sort. All my efforts—and they were not few—to place myself on a
friendly footing with these men were of no avail: they had conceived the
notion that I was their enemy, and met all my advances with obstinate
coldness. As Captain Hewlett exacted the daily attendance at prayers of
every soul on board, these knaves were compelled to be on hand with their
fellows; but they rarely failed to conduct themselves with such indecent
levity as made me rue their presence, playing covertly at cat’s-cradle,
jack-straws, and what not; besides grinning familiarly in my face,
whenever they could contrive to catch my eye.” This unseemly behaviour was
as nothing to what followed ashore. While addressing a large assemblage,
he noted the advent of a number of unmannerly fellows, who, with a great
deal of clatter, elbowed their way to the front. “The moment I clapped
eyes upon them,” says poor Primrose, “I knew them for the sailors who had
so persecuted me aboard the _Polly_, and my heart sank at the bare sight
of them.” They sung, or rather bawled, ribald words to the music of the
hymns; and one of them, when rebuked by some gentleman present, whipped
out his cutlass, and a general row ensued, which broke up the assembly. A
little later, Primrose induced a tavern-keeper to allow him to preach on
his premises. “A West Indian vessel coming into port about the middle of
April, and a horde of roystering sailors gathering in the common room of
the ‘Sailor’s Rest’ to drink, I announced a discourse on the subject of
‘gin-guzzling,’ choosing one that I had delivered aboard the _Polly_, and
which seemed to fit the occasion to a nicety. No sooner had the landlord
seen the notice to this effect that I had attached to his door-cheek, than
he sends for me to repair to the tavern without loss of time; and on my
appearance, in great haste, comes blustering up to me in a most offensive
manner, demanding whether I purposed the ruin of his trade, by putting
forth of such a mischievous paper; adding, with astounding audacity, that
he should certainly lose all the custom I had been the means of fetching
to his house, did I persist in my intent. Mark the cunning of the knave!
He had encouraged my labours for none other purpose than the bringing of
fresh grist to his mill; and here was I, blindly leading precious souls to
destruction, the poor dupe of a specious villain—a wretch without bowels!
My agony of mind on being thus suddenly enlightened was of such a
desperate sort, that, gnashing my teeth, I leapt upon the miscreant, and,
bearing him to the ground with an awful crash, beat him about the head and
shoulders with the stout cane I carried; and with such good will, that I
presently found myself lying in the town gaol, covered with the blood of
my enemy, and every bone in my body aching from the unaccustomed
exercise.... Truly was I as forlorn and friendless a creature as the world
ever saw. My clothing had been rent beyond repair in the shameful
struggle, and, yet worse, one of my shoes was gone—how and where I knew
not; and although I promised the gaoler’s little lad a penny in the event
of his finding it, nothing was ever heard of it from that day to this. One
thought alone cheered me in the dark abyss into which I was fallen. I had
administered wholesome and righteous correction in proper season: hip and
thigh had I hewed my enemy; and, to reflect upon that, was as a healing
balm to my sore bones.” Mr. Primrose was at length released, and returned
to England.

Another officer of the Royal Navy—the engineer—deserves particular notice,
for his position is becoming daily of more and more importance. It is not
merely the care and working of the engines which propel the vessel in
which he is concerned; the chief and his subordinates have charge of
various hydraulic arrangements often used now-a-days on large vessels, in
connection with the steering apparatus; of electrical and gas-producing
apparatus; the mechanical arrangements of turrets and gun-carriages;
pumping machinery; the management of steam-launches and torpedoes. Take
the great ironclad _Thunderer_ (that on which the terrible boiler
explosion occurred) as an example: she has _twenty-six_ engines for
various purposes, apart from the engines used to propel the vessel, which
have an actual power of 6,000 horses. The _Téméraire_ has _thirty-four_
engines distinct from those required for propulsion. A competent authority
says that, “with the exception of the paymaster’s and surgeon’s stores, he
is responsible for everything in and outside the ship (meaning the hull,
apart from the navigator’s duties), to say nothing of his duties while
under weigh.” And yet engineers of the navy do not yet either derive the
status or emoluments fairly due to them, considering the great and
increasing responsibilities thrown upon them of late years. Sir Walter
Scott makes Rob Roy express “his contempt of weavers and spinners, and
sic-like mechanical persons, and their pursuits;” and in the naval service
some such feeling still lingers.

             [Illustration: ENGINE-ROOM OF H.M.S. “WARRIOR.”]

The first serious introduction of steam-vessels into the Royal Navy
occurred about the year 1829, the Navy List of that year showing seven, of
which three only were commissioned, and these for home ports. No mention
is made of engineers; they were simply taken over from the contractor with
the vessel, and held no rank whatever. In 1837 an Admiralty Circular
conferred warrants on engineers, _who were to rank immediately below
__carpenters_; they were to be assisted by boys, trained by themselves.
Three years later, the standard was raised, and they were divided into
three classes; in 1842 a slight increase of pay was given, and they were
advanced to the magnificent rank of “after captains’ clerks,” and were
given a uniform, with buttons having a steam-engine embossed upon them. In
1847 the Government found that the increasing demands of the merchant and
passenger service took all the best men (the engineers’ pay, to-day, is
better on first-class steamship lines than in the Navy), and they were
forced to do something. The higher grades were formed into chief
engineers, and they were raised to the rank of commissioned officers,
taking their place after masters. The first great revolution in regard to
the use of steam in the Royal Navy took place in 1849, by means of the
screw-propeller. In that year Dupuy Delorme constructed the _Napoleon_, a
screw-vessel carrying 100 guns, and with engines of 600 horse-power, and
England had to follow. Then came the Russian War, the construction of
ironclad batteries, and finally, the ironclad movement, which commenced in
England in 1858, by the construction of the _Warrior_ and similar vessels.

It becomes a particularly serious question, at the present time, whether
the system, as regards the rank and pay of engineers, does not deter the
most competent men from entering the Royal Navy. Many very serious
explosions and accidents have occurred on board ironclads, which would
seem to indicate that our great commercial steamship lines are far better
engineered. The Admiralty has organised a system for training students at
the dockyard factories, followed up by a course of study at the Naval
College, Greenwich; and it is to be hoped that these efforts will lead to
greater efficiency in the service. A naval engineer of the present day
needs to be a man of liberal education, and of considerable scientific
knowledge, both theoretical and practical, and he should then receive on
board that recognition which his talents would command ashore. At present,
a chief engineer, R.N., ranks with a commander, and other engineers with
lieutenants. It is probable that, at some date in the not very distant
future, higher ranks will be thrown open to the engineer, as his
importance on board is steadily increasing.

The seamen of all nations, it has, in effect, been said, resemble each the
other more than do the nations to which they belong. “As,” says a
well-known writer, “the sea receives and amalgamates the waters of all the
rivers which pour into it, so it tends to amalgamate the men who make its
waves their home.... The seaman from the United States is said to carry to
the forecastle a large stock of ‘equality and the rights of man,’ and to
be unpleasantly distinguished by the inbred disrespect for authority which
cleaves, perhaps inseparably, to a democrat who believes that he has
whipped mankind, and that it is his mission, at due intervals, to whip
them again. But, on board, he, too, tones down to the colour of blue
water, and is more a seaman than anything else.” The French sailor is
painted, by Landelle, as the embodiment of the same frolicsome
lightheartedness, carelessness of the future, abandonment to impulse, and
devotion to his captain, comrades, and ship, with which we are familiar in
the English sailor, on the stage. But although depicted as much more
polished than, it is to be feared, the average sailor could be in truth,
he finishes by saying: “Il est toujours prêt à céder le haut du pavé _à
tout autre qu’à un soldat_.” It would seem, then, that the French sailor
revenges the treatment of society on the soldiers of his country. Is there
not a similar feeling existing, perhaps to a more limited extent, between
the sailors and soldiers of our own country? It hardly, however, extends
to the officers of the “United Service.”

Another trait of the British sailor’s character: Jack will forgive much to
the officer who is ever ready, brave, and daring, who is a true seaman in
times of peace, and a sailor _militant_ in times of war. Lord Nelson, the
most heroic seaman the world ever saw, it is pleasant to remember, was
equally the idol of his colleagues, of his subordinate officers, _and of
his men_ for these very reasons. After he had explained to his captains
his proposed plan of attack, just prior to the commencement of the battle
of Trafalgar, he took the men of the _Victory_ into his confidence. He
walked over all the decks, speaking kindly to the different classes of
seamen, and encouraging them, with his usual affability, praising the
manner in which they had barricaded certain parts of the ship. “All was
perfect, death-like silence, till just before the action began. Three
cheers were given his lordship as he ascended the quarter-deck ladder. He
had been particular in recommending cool, steady firing, in preference to
a hurrying fire, without aim or precision; and the event justified his
lordship’s advice, as the masts of his opponents came tumbling down on
their decks and over their sides.”(122) After the fatal bullet had done
its work, and Nelson was conveyed below, the surgeon came and probed the
wound. The ball was extracted; but the dying hero told the medical man how
sure he was that his wound was fatal, and begged, when he had dressed it,
that he would attend to the other poor fellows, equal sufferers with
himself. A boatswain’s mate on board the _Brilliant_ frigate, shortly
afterwards, when first acquainted of the death of Nelson, paid a tribute
of affection and honest feeling, which shows how clearly he had gained the
hearts of all. The boatswain’s mate, then doing duty as boatswain, was
ordered to pipe all hands to quarters; he did not respond, and the
lieutenant on duty went to inquire the cause. The man had been celebrated
for his promptness, as well as bravery, but he was found utterly unnerved,
and sobbing like a child. “I can’t do it,” said he—“poor dear fellow, that
I have been in many a hard day with!—and to lose him now! I wouldn’t have
cared so much for my old father, mother, brothers, or sisters; but to
think of parting with poor Nelson!” and he broke down utterly. The
officer, honouring his feelings, let him go below. Who does not remember
how, when the body of Nelson lay in state at Greenwich, a deputation of
the _Victory’s_ crew paid their last loving respects, tearful and silent,
and could scarcely be removed from the scene? or how, when the two
Union-Jacks and St. George’s ensign were being lowered into the grave at
St. Paul’s—the colours shattered as was the body of the dead hero—the
brave fellows who had borne them each tore off a part of the largest flag,
to remind them ever after of England’s greatest victory and England’s
greatest loss? Many an otherwise noble and brave officer has utterly
failed in endearing himself to his men; and there can be no doubt of the
value of being thoroughly _en rapport_ with them—the more as it in no way
need relax discipline. It is an implied compliment to a crew from their
commander, to be taken, at the proper time, into his confidence. The
following anecdote will show how much an action was decided by this, and
with how little loss of life.

The _Bellona_, of 74 guns and 558 men, with a most valuable freight on
merchants’ account, and commanded by the celebrated Captain R. Faulkner,
and the _Brilliant_, a 36-gun frigate, Captain Loggie, sailed from the
Tagus in August, 1761. When off Vigo, three sail were discovered
approaching the land, and the strangers continued their approach, till
they found out the character of the English vessels, and then crowded on
all sail, in flight. Upon this, the _Bellona_ and _Brilliant_ pursued,
coming up with them next morning, to find that they would have to engage
one ship of 74 guns, the _Courageux_, with 700 men, and two frigates of 36
guns each, the _Malicieuse_ and _Ermine_. After exchanging a few
broadsides, the French vessels shot ahead; when Captain Loggie, seeing
that he could not expect to take either of the smaller vessels, determined
to manœuvre, and lead them such a wild-goose chase, that the _Bellona_
should have to engage the _Courageux_ alone. During the whole engagement,
he withstood the united attacks of both the frigates, each of them with
equal force to his own, and at last obliged them to sheer off, greatly
damaged. Meanwhile, the _Courageux_ and _Bellona_ had approached each
other very fast. The _Courageux_, when within musket-shot, fired her first
broadside, and there was much impatience on the _Bellona_ to return it;
but they were restrained by Faulkner, who called out to them to hold hard,
and not to fire till they saw the whites of the Frenchmen’s eyes, adding,
“Take my word for it, they will never stand the singeing of their
whiskers!” His speech to the sailors just before the action is a model of
sailor-like advice. “Gentlemen, I have been bred a seaman from my youth,
and, consequently, am no orator; but I promise to carry you all near
enough, and then you may speak for yourselves. Nevertheless, I think it
necessary to acquaint you with the plan I propose to pursue, in taking
this ship, that you may be the better prepared.... I propose to lead you
close on the enemy’s larboard quarter, when we will discharge _two_
broadsides, and then back astern, and range upon the other quarter, and so
tell your guns as you pass. I recommend you at all times to point chiefly
at the quarters, with your guns slanting fore and aft; this is the
principal part of a ship. If you kill the officers, break the rudder, and
snap the braces, she is yours, of course; but, for this reason, I desire
you may only fire one round of shot and grape above, and two rounds, shot
only, below. Take care and send them home with exactness. This is a rich
ship; they will render you, in return, their weight in gold.” This
programme was very nearly carried out; almost every shot took effect. The
French still kept up a very brisk fire, and in a moment the _Bellona’s_
shrouds and rigging were almost all cut to pieces, and in nine minutes her
mizen-mast fell over the stern. Undaunted, Faulkner managed to wear his
ship round; the officers and men flew to their respective opposite guns,
and carried on, from the larboard side, a fire even more terrible than
they had hitherto kept up from the starboard guns. “It was impossible for
mortal beings to withstand a battery so incessantly repeated, and so
fatally directed, and, in about twenty minutes from the first shot, the
French colours were hauled down, and orders were immediately given in the
_Bellona_ to cease firing, the enemy having struck. The men had left their
quarters, and all the officers were on the quarter-deck, congratulating
one another on their victory, when, unexpectedly, a round of shot came
from the lower tier of the _Courageux_. It is impossible to describe the
rage that animated the _Bellona’s_ crew on this occasion. Without waiting
for orders, they flew again to their guns, and in a moment poured in what
they familiarly termed two ‘comfortable broadsides’ upon the enemy, who
now called out loudly for quarter, and firing at length ceased on both
sides.” The _Courageux_ was a mere wreck, having nothing but her foremast
and bowsprit standing, several of her ports knocked into one, and her deck
rent in a hundred places. She lost 240 killed, and 110 wounded men were
put ashore at Lisbon. On board the _Bellona_ only _six_ men were killed
outright, and about twenty-eight wounded; the loss of her mizen was her
only serious disaster.

     [Illustration: FIGHT BETWEEN THE “COURAGEUX” AND THE “BELLONA.”]

One more possibility in the officer’s existence, although now nearly
obsolete. The ceremonies formerly attendant on “crossing the line”—_i.e._,
passing over the equator—so often described, have, of late years, been
more honoured in the breach than in the observance. On merchant vessels
they had become a nuisance, as the sailors often made them an opportunity
for levying black mail on timid and nervous passengers. In the Royal Navy,
they afforded the one chance for “getting even” with unpopular officers;
and very roughly was it sometimes accomplished. They are for this reason
introduced in this chapter, as the officers had a direct interest in them.
With trifling exceptions, the programme was as follows. The men stripped
to the waist, wearing only “duck” unmentionables, prepared, immediately
after breakfast, for the saturnalia of the day—a day when the ship was _en
carnival_, and discipline relaxed. Early in the day, a man at the
masthead, peering through a telescope, would announce a boat on the
weather-bow, and soon after, a voice from the jibboom was heard hailing
the ship, announcing that Neptune wished to come on board. The ship was
accordingly hove-to, when a sailor, in fashionable coat, knee-breeches,
and powdered hair, came aft, and announced to the commander that he was
_gentleman’s gentleman_ to the god of the sea, who desired an interview.
This accorded, the procession of Neptune from the forecastle at once
commenced. The triumphal car was a gun-carriage, drawn by half-a-dozen
half-naked and grotesquely-painted sailors, their heads covered by wigs of
sea-weed. Neptune was always masked, as were many of his satellites, in
order that the officers should not know who enacted the leading _rôles_.
The god wore a crown, and held out a trident, on which a dolphin, supposed
to have been impaled that morning, was stuck. He had a flowing wig and
beard of oakum, and was, in all points, “made-up” for Neptune himself. His
suite included a secretary of state, his head stuck all over with long
quills; a surgeon, with lancet, pill-box, and medicines; his barber, with
a razor cut from an iron hoop, and with an assistant, who carried a tub
for a shaving-box. Mrs. Neptune was represented by the ugliest man on
board, who, with sea-weed hair and a huge night-cap, carried a baby—one of
the boys of the ship—in long clothes; the latter played with a
marline-spike, given it to assist in cutting its teeth. The nurse
followed, with a bucketful of _burgoo_ (thick oatmeal porridge or
pudding), and fed the baby incessantly with the cook’s iron ladle.
Sea-nymphs, selected from the clumsiest and fattest of the crew, helped to
swell the retinue. As soon as the procession halted before the captain,
behind whom the steward waited, carrying a tray with a bottle of wine and
glasses, Neptune and Amphitrite paid submission to the former, as
representative of Great Britain, and the god presented him the dolphin.
After the interview, in which Neptune not unfrequently poked fun and
thrust home-truths at the officers, the captain offered the god and
goddess a bumper of wine, and then the rougher part of the ceremony
commenced. Neptune would address his court somewhat as follows: “Hark ye,
my Tritons, you’re here to shave and duck and bleed all as needs it; but
you’ve got to be gentle, or we’ll get no more fees. The first of ye as
disobeys me, I’ll tie to a ten-ton gun, and sink him ten thousand fathoms
below, where he shall drink nothing but salt-water and feed on seaweed for
the next hundred years.” The cow-pen was usually employed for the
ducking-bath; it was lined with double canvas, and boarded up, so as to
hold several butts of water. Marryat, in the first naval novel he wrote,
says: “Many of the officers purchased exemption from shaving and physic by
a bottle of rum; but none could escape the sprinkling of salt water, which
fell about in great profusion; even the captain received his share.... It
was easy to perceive, on this occasion, who were favourites with the
ship’s company, by the degree of severity with which they were treated.
The tyro was seated on the side of the cow-pen: he was asked the place of
his nativity, and the moment he opened his mouth the shaving-brush of the
barber—which was a very large paint-brush—was crammed in, with all the
filthy lather, with which they covered his face and chin; this was roughly
scraped off with the great razor. The doctor felt his pulse, and
prescribed a pill, which was forced into his cheek; and the
smelling-bottle, the cork of which was armed with sharp points of pins,
was so forcibly applied to his nose as to bring blood. After this, he was
thrown backward into the bath, and allowed to scramble out the best way he
could.” The first-lieutenant, the reader may remember, dodged out of the
way for some time, but at last was surrounded, and plied so effectually
with buckets of salt water, that he fled down a hatchway. The buckets were
pitched after him, “and he fell, like the Roman virgin, covered with the
shields of the soldiers.” Very unpopular men or officers were made to
swallow half a pint of salt water. Those good old times!

Pleasant is it to read of life on board a modern first-class man-of-war.
Where there are, perhaps, thirty officers in the ward-room, it would be
hard indeed if one cannot find a kindred spirit, while on such a vessel
the band will discourse sweet music while you dine, and soothe you over
the walnuts and wine, after the toils of the day, with selections from the
best operas, waltzes, and quadrilles. Then comes the coffee, and the
post-prandial cigar in the smoking-room. At sea, luncheon is dispensed
with, and the regular hour is half-past two; but in port both lunch and
dinner are provided, and the officers on leave ashore can return to
either. Say that you have extended your ramble in the country, you will
have established an appetite by half-past five, the hour when the
officers’ boat puts off from shore, wharf, or pier. Perhaps the most
pleasant evening is the guests’ night, one of which is arranged for every
week, when the officer can, by notifying the mess caterer, invite a friend
or two. The mess caterer is the officer selected to superintend the
victualling department, as the wine caterer does the liquid refreshments.
It is by no means an enviable position, for it is the Englishman’s
conceded right to growl, and sailors are equal to the occasion. Dr.
Stables remarks on the unfairness of this under-the-table stabbing, when
most probably the caterer is doing his best to please. But on a
well-regulated ship, where the officers are harmonious, and either not
extravagant or with private means, the dinner-hour is the most agreeable
time in the day. After the cloth has been removed, and the president, with
a due preliminary tap on the table to attract attention, has given the
only toast of the evening—“The Queen”—the bandmaster, who has been peering
in at the door for some minutes, starts the National Anthem at the right
time, and the rest of the evening is devoted to pleasant intercourse, or
visits ashore to the places of amusement or houses of hospitable
residents.

Before leaving, for the nonce, the Royal Navy, its officers and men, a few
facts may be permitted, particularly interesting at the present time. The
navy, as now constituted, has for its main backbone fifty-four ironclads.
There are of all classes of vessels no less than 462, but more than a
fourth of these are merely hulks, doing harbour service, &c., while quite
a proportion of the remainder—varying according to the exigencies of the
times—are out of commission. There are seventy-eight steam gun-boats and
five fine Indian troop-ships. These numbers are drawn from the official
Navy List of latest date.

It is said that since the ironclad movement commenced, not less than
£300,000,000 has been disbursed (in about twenty years) by the different
countries of the world. Even Japan, Peru, Venezuela, Chili, the Argentine
Confederation, possess many of this class of vessel, of more or less
power. The British fleet, under the command of Vice-Admiral Hornby, in the
Mediterranean, &c., though numerically not counting twenty per cent. of
the fleets in the days of Nelson and Collingwood, when “a hundred sail of
the line” frequently assembled, has cost infinitely more. A cool half
million is not an exceptional cost for an ironclad, while one of the
latest of our turret-ships, the _Inflexible_, has cost the nation
three-quarters of a million sterling at the least. She is to carry four
eighty-ton guns. A recent correspondent of a daily journal states that
next to Great Britain, “the ironclad fleet of the Sultan ranks foremost
among the navies of the world.” Be that as it may, there can be little
doubt that if Russia had succeeded in acquiring it, it would, with her own
fleet, have constituted a very powerful rival.

The progressive augmentation in the size of naval vessels has been rapid
in Great Britain. When Henry VIII. constructed his _Henry Grace de Dieu_,
of 1,000 tons,(123) it was, indeed, a great giant among pigmies, for a
vessel of two or three hundred tons was then considered large. At the
death of Elizabeth she left forty-two ships, of 17,000 tons in all, and
8,346 men; fifteen of her vessels being 600 tons and upwards. From this
period the tonnages of the navy steadily increased. The first really
scientific architect, Mr. Phineas Pett, remodelled the navy to good
purpose in the reigns of James I. and Charles I. Previous to this time the
vessels with their lofty poops and forecastles had greatly resembled
Chinese junks. He launched the _Sovereign of the Seas_, a vessel 232 feet
in length, and of a number of tons exactly corresponding to the date,
1637, when she left the slips. Cromwell found a navy of fourteen
two-deckers, and left one of 150 vessels, of which one-third were
line-of-battle ships. He was the first to lay naval estimates before
Parliament, and obtained £400,000 per annum for the service. James II.
left 108 ships of the line, and sixty-five other vessels of 102,000 tons,
with 42,000 men. William III. brought it to 272 ships, of 159,020 tons.
George II. left, in 1760, 412 ships, of 321,104 tons. Twenty-two years
later the navy had reached 617 vessels, and in 1813 we had the enormous
number of 1,000 vessels, of which 256 were of the line, measuring 900,000
tons, carrying 146,000 seamen and marines, and costing £18,000,000 per
annum to maintain. But since the peace of 1815, the number of vessels has
greatly diminished, while an entirely new era of naval construction has
been inaugurated. In the seventeenth century a vessel of 1,500 tons was
considered of enormous size. At the end of the eighteenth, 2,500 was the
outside limit, whilst there are now many vessels of 4,000 tons, and the
navy possesses frigates of 6,000 and upwards. Several of our enormous
ironclads have a tonnage of over 11,000 tons, while the _Great Eastern_—of
course a _very_ exceptional case—has a tonnage of 22,500.

    [Illustration: THE “GREAT HARRY” AND “GREAT EASTERN” IN CONTRAST.]

Whilst we have efficient military volunteers enough to form a grand army,
our naval volunteers do not number more than the contingents for a couple
of large vessels. There are scarcely more than a thousand of the latter,
and only three stations. London, Liverpool, and Brighton divide the honour
between them of possessing corps. The writer believes that he will be
doing a service to many young men—who in their turn may do good service
for their country—in briefly detailing the conditions and expenses of
joining. In a very short period of time the members have become
wonderfully efficient, and the sailor-like appearance of the men is well
illustrated by the fact, that at a recent reception at the Mansion House a
number of them were taken for men-of-war’s men, and so described in
several daily journals. Their prowess is illustrated by the prizes
distributed by Lady Ashley, at the inspection of the 1st London Corps, in
the West India Docks, on February 9th last. Badges were won by the gunner
making the best practice with the heavy gun at sea, and by the marksman
making the greatest number of points with the rifle. The “Lord Ashley
challenge prize,” for the best gun’s crew at sea, was won by fourteen men
of No. 2 battery, who fired forty-two rounds at 1,300 yards in
thirty-seven minutes, scoring 411 points out of a possible 504 points. The
official report says:—“that further comment on the men or their instructor
is superfluous.” The list included rifle, battery, and boating prizes.

The Royal Navy Artillery Volunteers are raised under an Act passed in
1873, and are directly subject to the authority of the Admiralty. They may
be assembled for actual employment, their duties then consisting of coast
or harbour service. They are not required to go aloft, or to attend to the
engine fires, but in regard to berthing and messing must conform to the
arrangements usual with seamen. The force is formed into brigades, each
brigade consisting of four or more batteries, of from sixty to eighty men.
Each brigade has a lieutenant-commander, and each battery a
sub-lieutenant, chief petty officer, first and second-class petty
officers, buglers, &c., while the staff includes a lieutenant-instructor,
first-class petty officer instructor, surgeon, bugle-major, and armourer.
Those desiring to join a corps should communicate with the Secretary of
the Admiralty. The annual subscription to the 1st London Corps is one
guinea, while each member has to provide himself with two white frocks,
one blue serge frock, one pair of blue trousers, one blue cloth cap, &c.,
black handkerchief, flannel, knife, lanyard, and monkey-jacket, costing in
the neighbourhood of six pounds. When on a cruise, in gunboat, the
volunteer requires in addition serge trousers and jumpers, flannel shirt,
towels, and brush and comb, canvas bags, &c. The officers’ uniforms are
the same as those of the Royal Navy, with the exception of silver, for the
most part, taking the place of gold. It is more expensive to join the
naval than the military volunteers, and the class composing the corps are
generally well-to-do young men, a large number of them employed in
shipping offices, and mercantile pursuits connected with the sea.

The drills consist of practice with great guns, rifle, pistol, and cutlass
exercises. “Efficient” volunteers are entitled to a badge, while men
returned five times as efficient may wear one star, and those returned ten
times two stars, above said badge. Every volunteer must attend at least
two drills a month, until he has obtained the standard of an “efficient.”
When on actual service, the Royal Naval Artillery Volunteers will receive
the same pay, allowances, and victuals as those of relative rank in the
navy, and when embarked on any of Her Majesty’s ships for more than
forty-eight hours, in practice, will either be victualled or receive a
money compensation. The cruises in gun-boats, &c., usually last ten days,
and the vessel visits many of the Channel ports, &c., more especially off
points where gun practice is practicable. A volunteer wounded, either on
drill or in actual service, is entitled to the same compensation as any
seaman in the navy would be under similar circumstances, and if killed his
widow (if any) to the same gratuities out of the Greenwich Hospital Funds
as would a Royal Navy seaman’s widow. Members who are able to take
advantage of the cruise in gun-boats must have attended drill regularly
for three months previously. It must be remembered that each man costs the
Government from £8 to £10 for the first year, in the expenses incurred in
great gun and other practice; and it is therefore made a point of honour
to those joining that they will devote sufficient time to their drills to
make themselves thoroughly efficient.

The London Naval Artillery Volunteers have a fine vessel, the _President_,
now in the West India Docks, on which to exercise, while to accustom them
to living on board ship, the old _Rainbow_, off Temple Pier, is open to
them, under certain conditions, as a place of residence. A number avail
themselves of this: sleep on board in hammocks, and contribute their quota
of the mess expenses. The writer is the last to decry other manly
exercises, such as cricket, foot-ball, racing, or pedestrianism, but naval
volunteering has the advantage of not merely comprising a series of manly
exercises, but in being directly practical and specially health-giving.

And to prevent the need of impressment, the Government did well in
establishing the Royal Naval Reserve. The latest estimates provided
£140,000 for the year; the number, which at present is about 20,000 men,
is not to exceed 30,000. The service is divided into two classes: the
first class consisting of seamen of the merchant service, and the second,
fishermen on the coasts of Great Britain and Ireland. Both divisions are
practical sailors, and the value of their services in a time of war would
be inestimable. They are required to drill twenty-eight days in each year,
for which they receive about £6 per annum, and sundry allowances for
travelling, &c. The former class can be drilled at our stations abroad, so
that a merchant seaman is not necessarily tied to England, or to mere
coasting trade.





                               CHAPTER XIV.


                    THE REVERSE OF THE PICTURE—MUTINY.


    Bligh’s Bread-fruit Expedition—Voyage of the _Bounty_—Otaheite—The
     Happy Islanders—First Appearance of a Mutinous Spirit—The Cutter
       Stolen and Recovered—The _Bounty_ sails with 1,000 Trees—The
        Mutiny—Bligh Overpowered and Bound—Abandoned with Eighteen
    Others—Their Resources—Attacked by Natives—A Boat Voyage of 3,618
     miles—Violent Gales—Miserable Condition of the Boat’s Crew—Bread
      by the Ounce—Rum by the Tea-spoonful—Noddies and Boobies—“Who
    shall have this?”—Off the Barrier Reef—A Haven of Rest—Oyster and
        Palm-top Stews—Another Thousand Miles of Ocean—Arrival at
        Coupang—Hospitality of the Residents—Ghastly Looks of the
      Party—Death of Five of the Number—The _Pandora_ Dispatched to
        Catch the Mutineers—Fourteen in Irons—_Pandora’s_ Box—The
     Wreck—Great Loss of Life—Sentences of the Court Martial—The Last
       of the Mutineers—Pitcairn Island—A Model Settlement—Another
    Example: The greatest Mutiny of History—40,000 Disaffected Men at
     one point—Causes—Legitimate Action of the Men at First—Apathy of
      Government—Serious Organisation—The Spithead Fleet Ordered to
     Sea—Refusal of the Crews—Concessions Made, and the First Mutiny
     Quelled—Second Outbreak—Lord Howe’s Tact—The Great Mutiny of the
     Nore—Richard Parker—A Vile Character but Man of Talent—Wins the
       Men to his Side—Officers Flogged and Ducked—Gallant Duncan’s
     Address—Accessions to the Mutineers—Parker practically Lord High
      Admiral—His Extravagant Behaviour—Alarm in London—The Movement
    Dies out by Degrees—Parker’s Cause Lost—His Execution—Mutinies at
     Other Stations—Prompt Action of Lords St. Vincent and Macartney.


The Royal Navy has ever been the glory of our country, but there are spots
even on the bright sun. The service has been presented hitherto almost
entirely under its best aspects. Example after example of heroic bravery,
unmurmuring endurance, and splendid discipline, have been cited. Nor can
we err in painting it _couleur de rose_, for its gallant exploits have won
it undying fame. But in the service at one time—thank God those times are
hardly possible now—mutiny and desertion on a large scale were
eventualities to be considered and dreaded; they were at least remote
possibilities. In a few instances they became terrible facts. In the
merchant service we still hear of painful examples: every reader will
remember the case of the _Lennie_ mutineers, who murdered the captain and
mates in the Bay of Biscay, with the object of selling the ship in Greece,
and were defeated by the brave steward, who steered for the coast of
France, and was eventually successful in communicating with the French
authorities. The example about to be related is a matter of historical
fact, from which the naval service in particular may still draw most
important lessons.

In the year 1787, being seventeen years after Captain Cook’s memorable
first voyage, a number of merchants and planters resident in London
memorialised his Majesty George III., that the introduction of the
bread-fruit tree from the southern Pacific Islands would be of great
benefit to the West Indies, and the king complied with their request. A
small vessel, the _Bounty_, was prepared, the arrangements for disposing
the plants being made by Sir Joseph Banks, long the distinguished
President of the Royal Society, and one of the most eminent men of science
of the day. Banks had been with Cook among these very islands; indeed, it
is stated that in his zeal for acquiring knowledge, he had undergone the
process of tattooing himself. The ship was put under the command of
Lieutenant Bligh, with officers and crew numbering in all forty-four
souls, to whom were added a practical botanist and assistant.

The _Bounty_ sailed from Spithead on December 23rd, 1787 and soon
encountered very severe weather, which obliged them to refit at Teneriffe.
Terrible gales were experienced near Cape Horn, “storms of wind, with hail
and sleet, which made it necessary to keep a constant fire night and day,
and one of the watch always attended to dry the people’s wet clothes. This
stormy weather continued for nine days; the ship required pumping every
hour; the decks became so leaky that the commander was obliged to allot
the great cabin to those who had wet berths to hang their hammocks
in.”(124) It was at last determined, after vainly struggling for thirty
days to make headway, to bear away for the Cape of Good Hope. The helm was
accordingly put a-weather, to the great joy and satisfaction of all on
board.

     [Illustration: THE CREW OF H.M.S. “BOUNTY” LANDING AT OTAHEITE.]

They arrived at the Cape late in May, and stopped there for thirty-eight
days, refitting, replenishing provisions, and refreshing the worn-out
crew. On October 26th they anchored in Matavai Bay, Otaheite, and the
natives immediately came out to the ship in great numbers. Tinah, the
chief of the district, on hearing of the arrival of the _Bounty_, sent a
small pig and a young plantain tree, as a token of friendship, and the
ship was liberally supplied with provisions. Handsome presents were made
to Tinah, and he was told that they had been sent to him, on account of
the kindness of the people to Captain Cook during his visit. “Will you
not, Tinah,” said Bligh, “send something to King George in return?” “Yes,”
he replied, “I will send him anything I have,” and then enumerated the
different articles in his power, among which he mentioned the bread-fruit.
This was exactly what Bligh wished, and he was told that the bread-fruit
trees were what King George would greatly like, and the chief promised
that a large number should be placed on board.

The importance of the bread-fruit to these people cannot be over-stated.
That old navigator, Dampier, had well described it a hundred years before.
“The bread-fruit, as we call it, grows on a large tree, as big and high as
our largest apple-trees; it hath a spreading head, full of branches and
dark leaves. The fruit grows on the boughs like apples; it is as big as a
penny loaf when wheat is at five shillings the bushel; it is of a round
shape, and hath a thick, tough rind; when the fruit is ripe, it is yellow
and soft, and the taste is sweet and pleasant. The natives of Guam use it
for bread. They gather it, when full grown, while it is green and hard;
then they bake it in an oven, which scorcheth the rind and makes it black,
but they scrape off the outside black crust, and there remains a tender,
thin crust; and the inside is soft, tender, and white.” The fruit lasts in
season eight months. During Lord Anson’s two months’ stay at Tinian, no
ship’s bread was consumed, the officers and men all preferring the
bread-fruit. Byron speaks of these South Sea Islands, where labour is the
merest play work, the earth affording nearly spontaneously all that the
natives need, as

  “The happy shores without a law,
  *   *   *   *   *   *   *
  Where all partake the earth without dispute,
  And bread itself is gathered as a fruit;
  Where none contest the fields, the woods, the streams,
  The gold-less age, where gold disturbs no dreams.”

The Otaheitans of those days were a most harmless, amiable, and
unsophisticated people. One day the gudgeon of the cutter’s rudder was
missing, and was believed to have been stolen. “I thought,” says Bligh,
“it would have a good effect to punish the boat-keeper in their presence,
and accordingly I ordered him a dozen lashes. All who attended the
punishment interceded very earnestly to get it mitigated; the women showed
great sympathy.” The intercourse between the crew and natives was very
pleasant. The Otaheitans showed the most perfect ease of manner, with “a
candour and sincerity about them that is quite refreshing.” When they
offered refreshments, for instance, if they were not accepted, they did
not press them; they had not the least idea of that ceremonious kind of
refusal which expects a second invitation. “Having one day,” says Bligh,
“exposed myself too much in the sun, I was taken ill, on which all the
powerful people, both men and women, collected round me, offering their
assistance.” On an occasion when the _Bounty_ had nearly gone ashore in a
tremendous gale of wind, and on another when she did go aground, after all
was right again, these kind-hearted people came in crowds to congratulate
the captain on her escape; many of them shed tears while the danger seemed
imminent. In the evenings, the whole beach was like a parade, crowded with
several hundred men, women, and children, all good-humoured, and
affectionate to one another; their sports and games were continued till
near dark, when they peaceably returned to their homes. They were
particularly cleanly, bathing every morning, and often twice a day.

It is sad to turn from this pleasant picture to find the spirit of
desertion and mutiny appearing among the crew. There can be no doubt that
the allurements of the island, its charming climate and abundant
productions, the friendliness of the natives, and ease of living, were the
main causes. Bligh made one fatal mistake in his long stay of over five
months, during which the crew had all opportunities of leave ashore. Every
man of them had his _tayo_, or friend. From the moment he set his foot
ashore he found himself in the midst of ease and indolence, all living in
a state of luxury, without submitting to anything approaching real labour.
Such enticements were too much for a common sailor, for must he not
contrast the islander’s happy lot with his own hardships on board?

One morning the small cutter was missing, with three of the crew. They had
taken with them eight stands of arms and ammunition. The master was
dispatched with one of the chiefs in their pursuit, but before they had
got any great distance, they met the boat with five of the natives, who
were bringing her back to the ship. “For this service they were handsomely
rewarded. The chiefs promised to use every possible means to detect and
bring back the deserters, which, in a few days, some of the islanders had
so far accomplished as to seize and bind them, but let them loose again on
a promise that they would return to their ship, which they did not exactly
fulfil, but gave themselves up soon after, on a search being made for
them.” A few days after this it was found that the cable by which the ship
rode had been cut, close to the water’s edge, so that it held by only a
strand. Bligh considered this the act of one of his own people, who wished
the ship to go ashore, so that they might remain at Otaheite. It may,
however, have chafed in the natural course of affairs.

           [Illustration: THE MUTINEERS SEIZING CAPTAIN BLIGH.]

And now the _Bounty_, having taken on board over a thousand of the
bread-fruit plants, besides other shrubs and fruits, set sail, falling in
soon after with many canoes, whose owners and passengers sold them hogs,
fowls, and yams, in quantities. Some of the sailing canoes would carry
ninety persons. Bligh was congratulating himself on his ship being in good
condition, his plants in perfect order, and all his men and officers in
good health. On leaving deck on the evening of April 27th he had given
directions as to the course and watches. Just before sunrise on the 28th,
while he was yet asleep, Mr. Christian, officer of the watch, with three
of the men, came into his cabin, and seizing him, tied his hands behind
his back, threatening him with instant death if he spoke or made the least
noise. “I called, however,” says Bligh, “as loud as I could, in hopes of
assistance; but they had already secured the officers who were not of
their party, by placing sentinels at their doors. There were three men at
my cabin-door besides the four within; Christian had only a cutlass in his
hand, the others had muskets and bayonets. I was hauled out of bed, and
forced on deck in my shirt, suffering great pain from the tightness with
which they had tied my hands.” The master and master’s mate, the gunner,
and the gardener, were confined below, and the forecastle hatch was
guarded by sentinels. The boatswain was ordered to hoist the launch out,
with a threat that he had better do it instantly, and two of the
midshipmen and others were ordered into it. Bligh was simply told, “Hold
your tongue, sir, or you are dead this instant!” when he remonstrated. “I
continued,” says he, “my endeavours to turn the tide of affairs, when
Christian changed the cutlass which he had in his hand for a bayonet that
was brought to him, and holding me with a strong grip by the cord that
tied my hands, he threatened, with many oaths, to kill me immediately, if
I would not be quiet; the villains round me had their pieces cocked and
bayonets fixed.” The boatswain and seamen who were to be turned adrift
with Bligh were allowed to collect twine, canvas, lines, sails, cordage,
and an eight-and-twenty gallon cask of water; the clerk secured one
hundred and fifty pounds of bread, with a small quantity of rum and wine,
also a quadrant and compass, but he was forbidden to touch the maps,
observations, or any of the surveys or drawings. He did, however, secure
the journals and captain’s commission. The mutineers having forced those
of the seamen whom they meant to get rid of into the boat, Christian
directed a dram to be served to each of his own crew. Isaac Martin, one of
the guard over Bligh, had an inclination to serve him, and fed him with
some fruit, his lips being quite parched. This kindness was observed, and
Martin was ordered away. The same man, with three others, desired to go
with the captain, but this was refused. They begged him to remember that
they had no hand in the transaction. “I asked for arms,” says Bligh, “but
they laughed at me, and said I was well acquainted with the people among
whom I was going, and therefore did not want them; four cutlasses,
however, were thrown into the boat after we were veered astern.

                    [Illustration: BLIGH CAST ADRIFT.]

“The officers and men being in the boat, they only waited for me, of which
the master-at-arms informed Christian, who then said, ‘Come, Captain
Bligh, your officers and men are now in the boat, and you must go with
them; if you attempt to make the least resistance, you will instantly be
put to death;’ and without further ceremony, with a tribe of armed
ruffians about me, I was forced over the side, when they untied my hands.”
A few pieces of pork were thrown to them, and after undergoing a great
deal of ridicule, and having been kept for some time to make sport for
these unfeeling wretches, they were at length cast adrift in the open sea.
Bligh heard shouts of “Huzza for Otaheite!” among the mutineers for some
considerable time after they had parted from the vessel.

In the boat, well weighted down to the water’s edge, were nineteen
persons, including the commander, master, acting-surgeon, botanist,
gunner, boatswain, carpenter, and two midshipmen. On the ship were
twenty-five persons, mostly able seamen, but three midshipmen were among
the number, two of whom had no choice in the matter, being detained
against their will.

Lieutenant Bligh, although a good seaman, was a tyrannical man, and had
made himself especially odious on board by reason of his severity, and
especially in regard to the issuing of provisions. He had had many
disputes with Christian in particular, when his language was of the
coarsest order. Still, the desire to remain among the Otaheitans, or, at
all events, among these enticing islands, seems to have been the main
cause of the mutiny.

It was shown afterwards that Christian had only the night before
determined to make his escape on a kind of small raft; that he had
informed four of his companions, and that they had supplied him with part
of a roast pig, some nails, beads, and other trading articles, and that he
abandoned the idea because, when he came on deck to his watch at four
a.m., he found an opportunity which he had not expected. He saw Mr.
Hayward, the mate of his watch, fall asleep, and the other midshipmen did
not put in an appearance at all. He suddenly conceived the idea of the
plot, which he disclosed to seven of the men, three of whom had “tasted
the cat,” and were unfavourable to Bligh. They went to the armourer, and
secured the keys of his chest, under the pretence of wanting a musket to
fire at a shark, then alongside. Christian then proceeded to secure
Lieutenant Bligh, the master, gunner, and botanist. He stated that he had
been much annoyed at the frequent abusive and insulting language of his
commanding officer. Waking out of a short half-hour’s disturbed sleep, to
take the command of the deck—finding the mates of the watch asleep—the
opportunity tempting, and the ship completely in his power, with a
momentary impulse he darted down the fore-hatchway, got possession of the
arm-chest, and made the hazardous experiment of arming such of the men as
he deemed he could trust. It is said that he intended to send away his
captain in a small, wretched boat, worm-eaten and decayed, but the
remonstrances of a few of the better-hearted induced him to substitute the
cutter.

And now to follow the fortunes of Lieutenant Bligh and his companions.
Their first consideration was to examine their resources. There were
sixteen pieces of pork, weighing two pounds each, the bread and water as
before mentioned, six quarts of rum, and six bottles of wine. Being near
the island of Tofoa, they resolved to seek a supply of bread-fruit and
water, so as to preserve their other stock, and they did obtain a small
quantity of the former, but little water. The natives seeing their
defenceless condition meditated their destruction, and speedily crowded
the beach, knocking stones together, the preparatory signal for an attack.
With some difficulty the seamen succeeded in getting their things
together, and got all the men, except John Norton, one of the
quartermasters, into the boat, the surf running high. The poor man was
literally stoned to death within their sight. They pushed out to sea in
all haste, and were followed by volleys of big stones, some of the canoes
pursuing them. Their only expedient left to gain time was to throw
overboard some of their clothing, which, fortunately, induced the natives
to stop and pick them up. Night coming on, the canoes returned to the
shore.

The nearest place where they could expect relief was Timor, a distance of
full 1,200 leagues, and the men agreed to be put on an allowance, which on
calculation was found not to exceed _one ounce_ of bread per diem, and a
gill of water. Recommending them, therefore, in the most solemn manner,
not to depart from their promises, “we bore away,” says Bligh, “across a
sea where the navigation is but little known, in a small boat,
twenty-three feet long from stem to stern, deeply laden with eighteen
men.... It was about eight at night on the 2nd of May when we bore away
under a reefed lug-foresail; and having divided the people into watches,
and got the boat into a little order, we returned thanks to God for our
miraculous preservation, and in full confidence of His gracious support, I
found my mind more at ease than it had been for some time past.” Next
morning the sun rose fiery and red, a sure indication of a gale, and by
eight o’clock it blew a violent storm, the waves running so high that
their sail was _becalmed_ when between the seas. They lightened the boat
by throwing overboard all superfluous articles, and removing the tools,
put the bread, on which their very existence depended, in the chest.
Miserably wet and cold as were all, Bligh administered a _tea-spoonful_ of
rum to each at dinner time. The sea still rose, and the fatigue of baling
became very great. Next morning at daylight the men’s limbs were benumbed,
and another spoonful of spirit was administered. Whatever might be said of
Bligh’s previous conduct, there is no doubt that at this juncture he
exerted himself wonderfully and very judiciously to save the lives of all.
Their dinner this day consisted of five small cocoa-nuts. On the night of
the 4th the gale abated, and they examined the bread, much of which was
found to be damaged and rotten, but it was still preserved for use. On the
6th they hooked a fish, “but,” says the commander, “we were miserably
disappointed by its being lost in trying to get it into the boat.” They
were terribly cramped for want of room on board, although Bligh did for
the best by putting them watch and watch, so that half of them at a time
could lie at the bottom of the boat. On the 7th they passed close to some
rocky isles, from which two large sailing canoes came out and pursued
hotly, but gave over the chase in the afternoon. This day heavy rain fell,
when everybody set to work to catch some, with such success that they not
merely quenched their thirst, but increased their stock to thirty-five
gallons. As a corresponding disadvantage they got wet through. On the 8th
the allowance issued was an ounce and a half of pork, a tea-spoonful of
rum, half a pint of cocoa-nut milk, and an ounce of bread. Bligh
constructed a pair of scales of two cocoa-nut shells, using pistol-balls
for weights. The next nine days brought bad weather, and much rain, the
sea breaking over the boat so much that two men were kept constantly
baling, and it was necessary to keep the boat before the waves to prevent
her filling. When day broke it showed a miserable set of beings, full of
wants, aches, and pains, and nothing to relieve them. They found some
comfort by wringing their clothes in sea-water, by which means they found
a certain limited amount of warmth. But though all were shivering with
cold and wet, the commander was obliged to tell them that the rum
ration—one tea-spoonful—must for the present be discontinued, as it was
running low.

“During the whole of the afternoon of the 21st,” says Bligh, “we were so
covered with rain and salt water that we could scarcely see. We suffered
extreme cold, and every one dreaded the approach of night. Sleep, though
we longed for it, afforded no comfort; for my own part, I almost lived
without it. * * * The misery we suffered this night exceeded the
preceding. The sea flew over us with great force, and kept us baling with
horror and anxiety. At dawn of day I found every one in a most distressed
condition, and I began to fear that another such night would put an end to
the lives of several, who seemed no longer able to support their
sufferings. I served an allowance of two tea-spoonfuls of rum; after
drinking which, and having wrung our clothes, and taken our breakfast of
bread and water, we became a little refreshed.” On the 24th, for the first
time in fifteen days, they experienced the warmth of the sun, and dried
their now threadbare garments.

On the 25th, at mid-day, some noddies flew so near the boat that one was
caught by hand. This bird, about the size of a small pigeon, was divided
into eighteen portions, and allotted by the method known as _“__Who shall
have this?__”_ in which one person, who turns his back to the caterer, is
asked the question, as each piece is indicated. This system gives every
one the chance of securing the best share. Bligh used to speak of the
amusement it gave the poor half-starved people when the beak and claws
fell to his lot. That and the following day two boobies, which are about
as large as ducks, were also caught. The sun came out so powerfully that
several of the people were seized with faintness. But the capture of two
more boobies revived their spirits, and as from the birds, and other
signs, Mr. Bligh had no doubt they were near land, the feelings of all
became more animated. On the morning of the 28th the “barrier reef” of
what was then known as the eastern coast of New Holland, now Australia,
appeared, with the surf and breakers outside, and smooth water within. The
difficulty was to find a passage; but at last a fine opening was
discovered, and through this the boat passed rapidly with a strong stream,
and came immediately into smooth water. Their past hardships seemed all at
once forgotten. The coast appeared, and in the evening they landed on the
sandy point of an island, where they soon found that the rocks were
covered with oysters, and that plenty of fresh water was attainable. By
help of a small sun-glass a fire was made, and soon a stew of oysters,
pork, and bread was concocted, which gladdened their hearts, each
receiving a full pint. The 29th of May being the anniversary of the
restoration of Charles II., the spot was not inappropriately named
Restoration Island.

Bligh soon noted the alteration for the better in the looks of his men,
which proved the value of oysters, stewed, as they sometimes were, with
fresh green palm-tops. Strange to say, that the mutinous spirit, which had
been satisfactorily absent before, broke out in one or two of the men, and
Bligh had, in one instance, to seize a cutlass and order the man to defend
himself. The threatened outbreak ended quietly.

But although the worst of their voyage was over, their troubles in other
ways were serious. While among the islands off the coast of Australia
several of them were seriously affected with weakness, dizziness, and
violent pains in their bowels. Infinitesimal quantities of wine were
administered, to their great benefit. A party was sent out on one of the
islands to catch birds, and they returned with a dozen noddies; these and
a few clams were all they obtained. On the 3rd of June they left Cape
York, and once more launched their little boat on the open ocean. On the
5th a booby was caught by the hand, the blood of which was divided among
three of the men who were weakest, and the bird kept for next day’s
dinner. The following day the sea ran high, and kept breaking over the
boat. Mr. Ledward, the surgeon, and Lebogue, an old hardy sailor, appeared
to be breaking up fast, and no other assistance could be given them than a
tea-spoonful or two of wine. On the morning of the 10th there was a
visible alteration for the worse in many of the people. Their countenances
were ghastly and hollow, their limbs swollen, and all extremely
debilitated; some seeming to have lost their reason. But next day Bligh
was able to announce that they had passed the meridian of Timor, and the
following morning land was sighted with expressions of universal joy and
satisfaction. Forty-one days had they been on the ocean in their miserable
boat, and by the log they had run 3,618 nautical miles. On the 14th they
arrived at Coupang Bay, where they were received with all kinds of
hospitality. The party on landing presented the appearance of spectres:
their bodies skin and bones, and covered with sores; their clothing in
rags. But the strain had been too much for several of them. The botanist
died at Coupang, three of the men at Batavia, and one on the passage home.
The doctor was left behind and not afterwards heard of. Bligh arrived in
England on March 14th, and received much sympathy. He was immediately
promoted, and afterwards successfully carried the bread-fruit tree to the
West Indies. Meantime the Government naturally proposed to bring the
mutineers to trial, whatever it might cost.

The _Pandora_, a frigate of twenty-four guns, and one hundred and sixty
men, was selected for the service, and was placed under the command of
Captain Edward Edwards, with orders to proceed to Otaheite, and if
necessary the other islands. The voyage was destined to end in shipwreck
and disaster, but the captain succeeded in securing a part of the
mutineers, of whom ten were brought to England, and four drowned on the
wreck.

The _Pandora_ reached Matavia Bay on the 23rd of March, 1791. The armourer
and two of the midshipmen, Mr. Heywood and Mr. Stewart, came off
immediately, and showed their willingness to afford information. Four
others soon after appeared, and from them the captain learned that the
rest of the _Bounty’s_ people had built a schooner, and sailed the day
before for another part of the island. They were pursued, and the schooner
secured, but the mutineers had fled to the mountains. A day or two
elapsed, when they ventured down, and when within hearing were ordered to
lay down their arms, which they did, and were put in irons. Captain
Edwards put them into a round-house, built on the after part of the
quarter-deck, in order to isolate them from the crew. According to the
statement of one of the prisoners, the midshipmen were kept ironed by the
legs, separate from the men, in a kind of round-house, aptly termed
“Pandora’s Box,” which was entered by a scuttle in the roof, about
eighteen inches square. “The prisoners’ wives visited the ship daily, and
brought their children, who were permitted to be carried to their unhappy
fathers. To see the poor captives in irons,” says the only narrative
published of the _Pandora’s_ visit, “weeping over their tender offspring,
was too moving a scene for any feeling heart. Their wives brought them
ample supplies of every delicacy that the country afforded while we lay
there, and behaved with the greatest fidelity and affection to them.”(125)
Stewart, the midshipman, had espoused the daughter of an old chief, and
they had lived together in the greatest harmony; a beautiful little girl
had been the fruit of the union. When Stewart was confined in irons,
Peggy, for so her husband had named her, flew with her infant in a canoe
to the arms of her husband. The interview was so painful that Stewart
begged she might not be admitted on board again. Forbidden to see him, she
sank into the greatest dejection, and seemed to have lost all relish for
food and existence; she pined away and died two months afterwards.(126)

            [Illustration: MAP OF THE ISLANDS OF THE PACIFIC.]

All the mutineers that were left on the island having been secured, the
ship proceeded to other islands in search of those who had gone away in
the _Bounty_. It must be mentioned, however, that two of the men had
perished by violent deaths. They had made friends with a chief, and one of
them, Churchill, was his _tayo_, or sworn friend. The chief died suddenly
without issue, and Churchill, according to the custom of the country,
succeeded to his property and dignity. The other, Thomson, murdered
Churchill, probably to acquire his possessions, and was in his turn stoned
to death by the natives. Captain Edwards learned that after Bligh had been
set adrift, Christian had thrown overboard the greater part of the
bread-fruit plants, and divided the property of those they had abandoned.
They at first went to an island named Toobouai, where they intended to
form a settlement, but the opposition of the natives, and their own
quarrels, determined them to revisit Otaheite. There the leading natives
were very curious to know what had become of Bligh and the rest, and the
mutineers invented a story to the effect that they had unexpectedly fallen
in with Captain Cook at an island he had just discovered, and that
Lieutenant Bligh was stopping with him, and had appointed Mr. Christian
commander of the _Bounty_; and, further, he was now come for additional
supplies for them. This story imposed upon the simple-minded natives, and
in the course of a very few days the _Bounty_ received on board
thirty-eight goats, 312 hogs, eight dozen fowls, a bull and a cow, and
large quantities of fruit. They also took with them a number of natives,
male and female, intending to form a settlement at Toobouai. Skirmishes
with the natives, generally brought on by their own violent conduct or
robberies, and eternal bickerings among themselves, delayed the progress
of their fort, and it was subsequently abandoned, sixteen of the men
electing to stop at Otaheite, and the remaining nine leaving finally in
the _Bounty_, Christian having been heard frequently to say that his
object was to find some uninhabited island, in which there was no harbour,
that he would run the ship ashore, and make use of her materials to form a
settlement. This was all that Captain Edwards could learn, and after a
fruitless search of three months he abandoned further inquiry, and
proceeded on his homeward voyage.

Off the east coast of New Holland, the _Pandora_ ran on a reef, and was
speedily a wreck. In an hour and a half after she struck, there were eight
and a half feet of water in her hold, and in spite of continuous pumping
and baling, it became evident that she was a doomed vessel. With all the
efforts made to save the crew, thirty-one of the ship’s company and four
mutineers were lost with the vessel. Very little notice, indeed, seems to
have been taken of the latter by the captain, who was afterwards accused
of considerable inhumanity. “Before the final catastrophe,” says the
surgeon of the vessel, “three of the _Bounty’s_ people, Coleman, Norman,
and M’Intosh, were now let out of irons, and sent to work at the pumps.
The others offered their assistance, and begged to be allowed a chance of
saving their lives; instead of which, two additional sentinels were placed
over them, with orders to shoot any who should attempt to get rid of their
fetters. Seeing no prospect of escape, they betook themselves to prayer,
and prepared to meet their fate, every one expecting that the ship would
soon go to pieces, her rudder and part of the stern-post being already
beaten away.” When the ship was actually sinking, it is stated that no
notice was taken of the prisoners, although Captain Edwards was entreated
by young Heywood, the midshipman, to have mercy on them, when he passed
over their prison to make his own escape, the ship then lying on her
broadside with the larboard bow completely under water. Fortunately, the
master-at-arms, either by accident, or probably design, when slipping from
the roof of “Pandora’s Box” into the sea, let the keys unlocking the
hand-cuffs and irons fall through the scuttle, and thus enabled them to
commence their own liberation, in which they were assisted by one brave
seaman, William Moulter, who said he would set them free or go to the
bottom with them. He wrenched away, with great difficulty, the bars of the
prison. Immediately after the ship went down, leaving nothing visible but
the top-mast cross-trees.

More than half an hour elapsed before the survivors were all picked up by
the boats. Amongst the drowned were Mr. Stewart, the midshipman, and three
others of the _Bounty’s_ people, the whole of whom perished with the
manacles on their hands. Thirty-one of the ship’s company were lost. The
four boat-loads which escaped had scarcely any provisions on board, the
allowance being two wine-glasses of water to each man, and a very small
quantity of bread, calculated for sixteen days. Their voyage of 1,000
miles on the open ocean, and the sufferings endured, were similar to those
experienced by Bligh’s party, but not so severe. After staying at Coupang
for about three weeks, they left on a Dutch East Indiaman, which conveyed
them to Samarang, and subsequently Batavia, whence they proceeded to
Europe.

After an exhaustive court-martial had been held on the ten prisoners
brought home by Captain Edwards, three of the seamen were condemned and
executed; Mr. Heywood, the midshipman, the boatswain’s-mate, and the
steward were sentenced to death, but afterwards pardoned; four others were
tried and acquitted. It will be remembered that four others were drowned
at the wreck.

Twenty years had rolled away, and the mutiny of the _Bounty_ was almost
forgotten, when Captain Folger, of the American ship _Topaz_, reported to
Sir Sydney Smith, at Valparaiso, that he had discovered the last of the
survivors on Pitcairn Island. This fact was transmitted to the Admiralty,
and received on May 14th, 1809, but the troublous times prevented any
immediate investigation. In 1814, H.M.S. _Briton_, commanded by Sir Thomas
Staines, and the _Tagus_, Captain Pipon, were cruising in the Pacific,
when they fell in with the little known island of Pitcairn. He discovered
not merely that it was inhabited, but afterwards, to his great
astonishment, that every individual on the island spoke very good English.
The little village was composed of neat huts, embowered in luxuriant
plantations. “Presently they observed a few natives coming down a steep
descent with their canoes on their shoulders, and in a few minutes
perceived one of these little vessels dashing through a heavy surf, and
paddling off towards the ships; but their astonishment was extreme when,
on coming alongside, they were hailed in the English language with ‘Won’t
you heave us a rope now?’

“The first young man that sprang with extraordinary alacrity up the side
and stood before them on the deck, said, in reply to the question, ‘Who
are you?’ that his name was Thursday October Christian, son of the late
Fletcher Christian, by an Otaheitan mother; that he was the first born on
the island, and that he was so called because he was brought into the
world on a Thursday in October. Singularly strange as all this was to Sir
Thomas Staines and Captain Pipon, this youth soon satisfied them that he
was none other than the person he represented himself to be, and that he
was fully acquainted with the whole history of the _Bounty_; and, in
short, the island before them was the retreat of the mutineers of that
ship. Young Christian was, at this time, about twenty-four years of age, a
fine tall youth, full six feet high, with dark, almost black hair, and a
countenance open and extremely interesting. As he wore no clothes, except
a piece of cloth round his loins, and a straw hat, ornamented with black
cock’s feathers, his fine figure, and well-shaped muscular limbs, were
displayed to great advantage, and attracted general admiration. * * * He
told them that he was married to a woman much older than himself, one of
those that had accompanied his father from Otaheite. His companion was a
fine, handsome youth of seventeen or eighteen years of age, of the name of
George Young, the son of Young, the midshipman.” In the cabin, when
invited to refreshments, one of them astonished the captains by asking the
blessing with much appearance of devotion, “For what we are going to
receive, the Lord make us truly thankful.” The only surviving Englishman
of the crew was John Adams, and when the captains landed through the surf,
with no worse result than a good wetting, the old man came down to meet
them. Both he and his aged wife were at first considerably alarmed at
seeing the king’s uniform, but was reassured when he was told that they
had no intention of disturbing him. Adams said that he had no great share
in the mutiny, that he was sick at the time, and was afterwards compelled
to take a musket. He even expressed his willingness to go to England, but
this was strongly opposed by his daughter. “All the women burst into
tears, and the young men stood motionless and absorbed in grief; but on
their being assured that he should on no account be molested, it is
impossible,” says Pipon, “to describe the universal joy that these poor
people manifested.”

           [Illustration: H.M.S. “BRITON,” AT PITCAIRN ISLAND.]

When Christian had arrived at the island, he found no good anchorage, so
he ran the _Bounty_ into a small creek against the cliff, in order to get
out of her such articles as might be of use. Having stripped her, he set
fire to the hull, so that afterwards she should not be seen by passing
vessels, and his retreat discovered. It is pretty clear that the misguided
young man was never happy after the rash and mutinous step he had taken,
and he became sullen, morose, and tyrannical to his companions. He was at
length shot by an Otaheitan, and in a short time only two of the mutineers
were left alive.

                     [Illustration: PITCAIRN ISLAND.]

The colony at this time comprised forty-six persons, mostly grown-up young
people, all of prepossessing appearance. John Adams had made up for any
share he may have had in the revolt, by instructing them in religious and
moral principles. The girls were modest and bashful, with bright eyes,
beautifully white teeth, and every indication of health. They carried
baskets of fruit over such roads and down such precipices as were scarcely
passable by any creatures except goats, and over which we could scarcely
scramble with the help of our hands. When Captain Beechey, in his
well-known voyage of discovery on the _Blossom_, called there in 1825, he
found Adams, then in his sixty-fifth year, dressed in a sailor’s shirt and
trousers, and with all a sailor’s manners, doffing his hat and smoothing
down his bald forehead whenever he was addressed by the officers of the
_Blossom_. Many circumstances connected with the subsequent history of the
happy little colony cannot be detailed here. Suffice it to say that it
still thrives, and is one of the most model settlements of the whole
world, although descended from a stock so bad. Of the nine who landed on
Pitcairn’s Island only two died a natural death. Of the original officers
and crew of the _Bounty_ more than half perished in various untimely ways,
the whole burden of guilt resting on Christian and his
fellow-conspirators.

The mutiny just described sinks into insignificance before that which is
about to be recounted, the greatest mutiny of English history—that of the
Nore. At that one point no less than 40,000 men were concerned, while the
disaffection spread to many other stations, some of them far abroad. There
can be little doubt that prior to 1797, the year of the event, our sailors
had laboured under many grievances, while the navy was full of “pressed”
men, a portion of whom were sure to retain a thorough dislike to the
service, although so many fought and died bravely for their country. Some
of the grievances which the navy suffered were probably the result of
careless and negligent legislation, rather than of deliberate injustice,
but they were none the less galling on that account. The pay of the sailor
had remained unchanged from the reign of Charles II., although the prices
of the necessaries and common luxuries of life had greatly risen. His
pension had also remained at a stationary rate; that of the soldier had
been augmented. On the score of provisions he was worse off than an
ordinary pauper. He was in the hands of the purser, whose usual title at
that time indicates his unpopularity: he was termed “Nipcheese.” The
provisions served were of the worst quality; fourteen instead of sixteen
ounces went to the navy pound. The purser of those days was taken from an
inferior class of men, and often obtained his position by influence,
rather than merit. He generally retired on a competency after a life of
deliberate dishonesty towards the defenders of his country, who, had they
received everything to which they were entitled, would not have been too
well treated, and, as it was, were cheated and robbed, without scruple and
without limit. The reader will recall the many naval novels, in which poor
Jack’s daily allowance of grog was curtailed by the purveyor’s thumb being
put in the pannikin: this was the least of the evils he suffered. In those
war times the discipline of the service was specially rigid and severe,
and most of this was doubtless necessary. Men were not readily obtained in
sufficient numbers; consequently, when in harbour, leave ashore was very
constantly refused, for fear of desertions. These and a variety of other
grievances, real or fancied, nearly upset the equilibrium of our entire
navy. It is not too much to say that not merely England’s naval supremacy
was for a time in the greatest jeopardy through the disaffection of the
men, but that our national existence, almost—and most certainly our
existence as a first-class power—was alarmingly threatened, the cause
being nothing more nor less than a very general spirit of mutiny. To do
the sailors justice, they sought at first to obtain fair play by all
legitimate means in their power. It must be noted, also, that a large
number of our best officers knew that there was very general discontent.
Furthermore, it was well known on shore that numerous secret societies
opposed to monarchy, and incited by the example of the French Revolution,
had been established. Here, again, the Government had made a fatal
mistake. Members of these societies had been convicted in numbers, and
sent to sea as a punishment. These men almost naturally became ringleaders
and partakers in the mutiny, which would, however, have occurred sooner or
later, under any circumstances. In the case of the mutiny at Spithead,
about to be recounted, the sailors exhibited an organisation and an amount
of information which might have been expected from “sea-lawyers” rather
than ordinary Jack Tars; while in the more serious rebellion of the Nore,
the co-operation of other agents was established beyond doubt.

The first step taken by the men was perfectly legitimate, and had it been
met in a proper spirit by the authorities, this history need never have
been penned. At the end of February, 1797, the crews of four
line-of-battle ships at Spithead addressed separate petitions to Lord
Howe, Commander-in-Chief of the Channel Fleet, asking his kind
interposition with the Admiralty, to obtain from them a relief of their
grievances, so that they might at length be put on a similar footing to
the army and militia, in respect both of their pay and of the provision
they might be enabled to make for their wives and families. Lord Howe,
being then in bad health, communicated the subject of their petitions to
Lord Bridport and Sir Peter Parker, the port admiral, who, with a want of
foresight and disregard of their country’s interest which cannot be
excused, returned answer that “the petitions were the work of some
evil-disposed person or persons,” and took no trouble to investigate the
allegations contained in them. Lord Howe, therefore, did nothing; and the
seamen, finding their applications for redress not only disregarded, but
treated with contempt, determined to compel the authorities to give them
that relief which they had before submissively asked.

In about six weeks they organised their plans with such secrecy that it
was not till everything was arranged on a working basis that the first
admiral, Lord Bridport, gained any knowledge of the conspiracy going on
around him. He communicated his suspicions to the Lords of the Admiralty;
and they, thinking a little active service would prove the best cure for
what they simply regarded as a momentary agitation, sent down orders for
the Channel Fleet to put to sea. The orders arrived at Portsmouth on April
15th, and in obedience to them Lord Bridport signalled to the fleet to
make the necessary preparations. As might almost have been expected, it
was the signal, likewise, for the outbreak of the mutiny. Not a sailor
bestirred himself; not a rope was bent; but, as if by common consent, the
crews of every vessel in the squadron manned the yards and rigging, and
gave three cheers. They then proceeded to take the command of each ship
from the officers, and appointed delegates from each vessel to conduct
negotiations with the authorities of the Admiralty. No violence nor force
was used. The first-lieutenant of the _London_, ordered by Admiral
Colpoys, one of the best-hated officers of the service, shot one of the
mutineers, but his death was not avenged. They again forwarded their
petition to the Admiralty, and its closing sentences showed their
temperance, and argued strongly in favour of their cause. They desired “to
convince the nation at large that they knew where to cease to ask, as well
as where to begin; and that they asked nothing but what was moderate, and
might be granted without detriment to the nation or injury to the
service.” The Admiralty authorities, seeing that with the great power in
their hands they had acted peaceably, only abstaining from work, yielded
all the concessions asked; and a full pardon was granted in the king’s
name to the fleet in general, and to the ringleaders in particular. In a
word, the mutiny ended for the time being.

                [Illustration: THE MUTINY AT PORTSMOUTH.]

It was resumed on May 7th. As Parliament had delayed in passing the
appropriations for the increase of pay and pensions, the crews rose _en
masse_ and disarmed all their officers, although still abstaining from
actual violence. Lord Howe, always a popular officer with the men, and
their especial idol after his great victory of June 1st, 1794, was sent
down by the Cabinet with full power to ratify all the concessions which
had been made, and to do his best to convince the men that the Government
had no desire of evading them. He completely mollified the men, and even
succeeded in exacting an expression of regret and contrition for their
outbreak. He assured them that their every grievance should be considered,
and a free pardon, as before, given to all concerned. The men again
returned to duty. The fleet at Plymouth, which had followed that of
Portsmouth into the mutiny, did the same; and thus, in a month from the
first outbreak, as far as these two great fleets were concerned, all
disaffection, dissatisfaction, and discontent had passed away, through the
tact and judicious behaviour of Lord Howe. There can be no doubt that the
tyranny of many of the officers had a vast deal to do with the outbreak.
In the list of officers whom the men considered obnoxious, and that Lord
Howe agreed should be removed, there were over one hundred in one fleet of
sixteen ships.

Strange to say, the very same week in which the men of the Portsmouth
fleet returned to their duty, acknowledging all their grievances to be
removed, the fleet at the Nore arose in a violent state of mutiny,
displaying very different attributes to those shown by the former. Forty
thousand men, who had fought many a battle for king and country, and in
steadfast reliance upon whose bravery the people rested every night in
tranquillity, confident in their patriotism and loyalty, became irritated
by ungrateful neglect on the one part, and by seditious advisers on the
other, and turned the guns which they had so often fired in defence of the
English flag against their own countrymen and their own homes.

Richard Parker, the chief ringleader at the Nore, was a thoroughly bad man
in every respect, and one utterly unworthy the title of a British sailor,
of which, indeed, he had been more than once formally deprived. He was the
son of an Exeter tradesman in a fair way of business, had received a good
education, and was possessed of decided abilities. He was a remarkably
bold and resolute man, or he would never have acquired the hold he had for
a time over so many brave sailors. He was unmistakably

  “The leader of the band he had undone,
  Who, born for better things, had madly set
  His life upon a _cast_,”

and until overtaken by justice, he ruled with absolute sway.

Parker had, eleven years previously, entered the navy as a midshipman on
board the _Culloden_, from which vessel he had been discharged for gross
misconduct. A little later, he obtained, however, a similar appointment on
the _Leander_ frigate, and was again dismissed. We next find him passing
through several ships in rotation, from which he was invariably dismissed,
no captain allowing him to remain when his true character disclosed
itself. It did not usually take long. At length he became mate of the
_Resistance_, on which vessel, shortly after joining, he was brought to a
court-martial and “broke”—_i.e._, his commission taken away—and declared
incapable of serving again as an officer. After serving a short time as a
common sailor on board the _Hebe_, he was either invalided or discharged,
for we find him residing in Scotland; and as he could no more keep out of
trouble ashore than he could afloat, he was soon in Edinburgh gaol for
debt. But men were wanted for the navy, and he was eventually sent up to
the fleet as one of the quota of men required from Perth district. He
received the parochial bounty of £30 allowed to each man. He joined the
_Sandwich_, the flag-ship of Admiral Buckner, Commander-in-Chief at the
Nore. The best authorities believe him to have been employed as an
emissary of the revolutionists, as, although he had only just been
discharged from gaol, he had abundance of money. His good address and
general abilities, combined with the liberality and conviviality he
displayed, speedily obtained him an influence among his messmates, which
he used to the worst purpose. He had scarcely joined the fleet when, aided
by disaffected parties ashore, he began his machinations, and speedily
seduced the majority of the seamen from their duty. In some respects the
men followed the example of those at Portsmouth, selecting delegates and
forwarding petitions, but in other respects their conduct was
disgracefully different. When mastery of the officers had been effected,
Parker became, in effect, Lord High Admiral, and committed any number of
excesses, even firing on those ships which had not followed the movement.
Officers were flogged, and on board the flag-ship, the vessel on which
Parker remained, many were half-drowned, as the following account, derived
from an unimpeachable source,(127) will show. Their hammocks were fastened
to their backs, with an 18-pounder bar-shot as a weight; their hands were
tied together, likewise their feet. They were then made fast to a tackle
suspended from a yard-arm, and hauled up almost to the block; at the word
of command they were dropped suddenly in the sea, where they were allowed
to remain a minute. They were again hoisted up, and the process repeated,
until about every sign of life had fled. The unfortunate victims were then
hoisted up by the heels; this was considerately done to get rid of the
water from their stomachs. They were then put to bed in their wet
hammocks.

           [Illustration: ADMIRAL DUNCAN ADDRESSING HIS CREW.]

On June 6th the mutinous fleet was joined by the _Agamemnon_, _Leopard_,
_Ardent_, and _Iris_ men-of-war, and the _Ranger_ sloop, which vessels
basely deserted from a squadron under Admiral Duncan, sent to blockade the
Texel. Shortly after, a number of vessels of the line arrived at the mouth
of the Thames, and still further augmented the ranks of the mutineers. By
this means eleven vessels were added to the list. Duncan, gallant old salt
as he was, when he found himself deserted by the greater part of his
fleet, called his own ship’s crew (the _Venerable_, 74) together, and
addressed them in the following speech:—

“My lads,—I once more call you together with a sorrowful heart, from what
I have lately seen of the dissatisfaction of the fleets: I call it
dissatisfaction, for the crews have no grievances. To be deserted by my
fleet, in the face of an enemy, is a disgrace which, I believe, never
before happened to a British admiral, nor could I have supposed it
possible. My greatest comfort under God is, that I have been supported by
the officers, seamen, and marines of this ship; for which, with a heart
overflowing with gratitude, I request you to accept my sincere thanks. I
flatter myself much good may result from your example, by bringing these
deluded people to a sense of their duty, which they owe, not only to their
king and country, but to themselves.

“The British Navy has ever been the support of that liberty which has been
handed down to us by our ancestors, and which I think we shall maintain to
the latest posterity; and that can only be done by unanimity and
obedience. This ship’s company, and others who have distinguished
themselves by their loyalty and good order, deserve to be, and doubtless
will be, the favourites of a grateful country. They will also have, from
their inward feelings, a comfort which will be lasting, and not like the
bloating and false confidence of those who have swerved from their duty.

“It has often been my pride with you to look into the Texel, and see a foe
which dreaded coming out to meet us; my pride is now humbled indeed! my
feelings are not easily expressed! Our cup has overflowed and made us
wanton. The all-wise Providence has given us this check as a warning, and
I hope we shall improve by it. On Him then let us trust, where our only
security may be found. I find there are many good men amongst us; for my
own part, I have had full confidence of all in this ship, and once more
beg to express my approbation of your conduct.

“May God, who has thus far conducted you, continue so to do; and may the
British Navy, the glory and support of our country, be restored to its
wonted splendour, and be not only the bulwark of Britain, but the terror
of the world.

“But this can only be effected by a strict adherence to our duty and
obedience; and let us pray that the Almighty God may keep us in the right
way of thinking.

“God bless you all!”

At an address so unassuming and patriotic, the whole ship’s crew were
dissolved in tears, and one and all declared, with every expression of
warmth they could use, their determination to stay by the admiral in life
or death. Their example was followed by all the other ships left in the
squadron, and the brave and excellent old admiral, notwithstanding the
defection of so many of his ships, repaired to his station, off the coast
of Holland, to watch the movements of the Dutch fleet. Here he employed a
device to hide the sparseness of his fleet by employing one of his
frigates, comparatively close in shore, to make signals constantly to
himself and to the other vessels in the offing, many of them imaginary,
and give the enemy the impression that a large squadron was outside. He
had resolved, however, not to refuse battle, if the Dutch fleet should
have the courage to come out and offer it.

But to return to the mutineers. The accession of the new vessels so elated
Parker that he gave way to the wildest fits of extravagance. He talked of
taking the whole fleet to sea, and selling it to our enemies. He tried to
stop the navigation of the Thames, declaring that he would force his way
up to London, and bombard the city if the Government did not accede to his
terms. The alarm at these proceedings became general in the metropolis,
and the funds fell lower than ever known before or since in the financial
history of our country. An order was given to take up the buoys marking
the channel of the Thames, while the forts were heavily armed and
garrisoned, so that should Parker attempt his vainglorious threat, the
fleet might be destroyed. The Government now acted with more promptness
and decision than they had previously displayed. Lord Spencer, Lord Arden,
and Admiral Young hastened to Sheerness, and held a board, at which Parker
and the other delegates attended, but the conduct of the mutineers was so
audacious that these Lords of the Admiralty returned to town without the
slightest success. The principal article of conflict on the part of the
seamen’s delegates was the unequal distribution of prize-money, for the
omission of which matter in the recent demands, they greatly upbraided
their fellow-seamen at Portsmouth. Bills were immediately passed in
Parliament inflicting the heaviest penalties on those who aided or
encouraged the mutineers in any way, or even held intercourse with them,
which speedily had the effect of damping their ardour, and by the end of
the first week in June the fire which Parker had fanned into a serious
conflagration, began to die out. The fleets at Portsmouth and Plymouth
disowned all fellowship with them, and the example of one or two ships,
such as the _Clyde_, which from the first had resisted Parker’s influence,
commenced to be of effect. The ringleader himself, seeing that his
influence was waning, and knowing the perilous position in which he had
placed himself, tried to re-open negotiations with the Admiralty, but his
demands were too ridiculous to be considered; whereupon he hung Mr. Pitt
and Mr. Dundas in effigy at the yard-arm of the _Sandwich_. It is a
curious fact, showing that the crews were simply egged on by the
ringleaders, and that there was plenty of loyalty at bottom, that on June
4th, the king’s birthday, the whole fleet insisted on firing a royal
salute, displaying the colours as usual, and hauling down the red flag
during the ceremony. Mr. Parker, however, insisted that it should fly on
the flag-ship.

On June 10th two of the ships, the _Leopard_ and _Repulse_, hauled down
the flag of mutiny, and sailed into the Thames; their example was soon
followed by others. Parker and his cause were lost.

On the evening of June 14th this miserable affair was at an end. The crew
of the _Sandwich_, Parker’s own ship, brought that vessel under the guns
of the fort at Sheerness, and handed him as a prisoner to the authorities.
Sixteen days afterwards he was hanged. His wife presented a petition to
the queen in favour of her wretched husband, and is stated to have offered
a thousand guineas if his life could be spared. But he, of all men who
were ever hanged, deserved his fate, for he had placed the very kingdom
itself in peril. Other executions took place, but very few, considering
the heinousness of the crime committed. Still, the Government knew that
the men had been in the larger proportion of cases more sinned against
than sinning; and when later, Duncan’s victory over the Dutch fleet
provided an occasion, an amnesty was published, and many who had been
confined in prison, some of them under sentence of death, were released.
_En passant_, it may be remarked that three marines were shot at Plymouth
on July 6th of the same year, for endeavouring to excite a mutiny in the
corps, while another was sentenced to receive a _thousand_ lashes.

The mutinous spirit evinced at Portsmouth, Plymouth, and the Nore spread,
even to foreign stations. Had it not been for Duncan’s manly and sensible
appeal to his crew, where there were some disaffected spirits, our naval
supremacy might have been seriously compromised as regards the Dutch. On
board the Mediterranean Fleet, then lying off the coast of Portugal, the
mutineers had for a time their own way. The admiral commanding, Lord St.
Vincent, was, however, hardly the man to be daunted by any number of
evil-disposed fellows. He had only just before added to his laurels by
another victory over the enemies of his country. The ringleaders on board
the flagship _St. George_ were immediately seized, brought to trial, and
hanged the next day, although it was Sunday, a most unusual time for an
execution. Still further to increase the force of the example, he departed
from the usual custom of drawing men from different ships to assist at the
execution, and ordered that none but the crew of the _St. George_ itself
should touch a rope. The brave old admiral, by his energy and promptitude,
soon quieted every symptom of disaffection.

                    [Illustration: LORD ST. VINCENT.]

The last of the mutinies broke out at the Cape of Good Hope, on October
9th of the same year, when a band of mutineers seized the flagship of
Admiral Pringle, and appointed delegates in the same way as their
shipmates at home, showing plainly how extended was the discontent in the
service, and how complete was the organisation of the insurgents. Lord
Macartney, who commanded at the Cape, was, however, master of the
occasion. Of the admiral the less said the better, as he showed the white
feather, and was completely non-plussed. Macartney manned the batteries
with all the troops available, and ordered red-hot shot to be prepared. He
then informed the fleet that if the red flag was not at once withdrawn,
and a white one hoisted, he would open fire and blow up every ship the
crew of which held out. The admiral at the same time informed the
delegates that all the concessions they required had already been granted
to the fleets at home, and of course to them. In a quarter of an hour the
red flag was hauled down, and a free pardon extended to the bulk of the
offenders. The ringleaders were, however, hanged, and a few others
flogged. The mutinous spirit never re-asserted itself.

Since that time, thank God! no British fleet has mutinied; and as at the
present day the sailors of the Royal Navy are better fed, paid, and cared
for than they ever were before, there is no fear of any recurrence of
disaffection. One need only look at the Jack Tar of the service, and
compare him with the appearance of almost any sailor of any merchant
marine, to be convinced that his grievances to-day are of the lightest
order. The wrongs experienced by sailors in a part of the merchant service
have been recently remedied in part; but it is satisfactory to be able to
add that there is every probability of their condition being greatly
improved in the future. On this point, however, we shall have more to say
in a later chapter.





                               CHAPTER XV.


               THE HISTORY OF SHIPS AND SHIPPING INTERESTS.


     The First Attempts to Float—Hollowed Logs and Rafts—The Ark and
     its Dimensions—Skin Floats and Basket-boats—Maritime Commerce of
    Antiquity—Phœnician Enterprise—Did they Round the Cape?—The Ships
           of Tyre—Carthage—Hanno’s Voyage to the West Coast of
     Africa—Egyptian Galleys—The Great Ships of the Ptolemies—Hiero’s
         Floating Palace—The Romans—Their Repugnance to Seafaring
     Pursuits—Sea Battles with the Carthaginians—Cicero’s Opinions on
    Commerce—Constantinople and its Commerce—Venice—Britain—The First
         Invasion under Julius Cæsar—Benefits Accruing—The Danish
        Pirates—The London of the Period—The Father of the British
         Navy—Alfred and his Victories—Canute’s Fleet—The Norman
      Invasion—The Crusades—Richard Cœur de Lion’s Fleet—The Cinque
     Ports and their Privileges—Foundation of a Maritime Code—Letters
     of Marque—Opening of the Coal Trade—Chaucer’s Description of the
          Sailors of his Time—A Glorious Period—The Victories at
          Harfleur—Henry V.’s Fleet of 1,500 Vessels—The Channel
     Marauders—The King-Maker Pirate—Sir Andrew Wood’s Victory—Action
          with Scotch Pirates—The _Great Michael_ and the _Great
       Harry_—Queen Elizabeth’s Astuteness—The Nation never so well
     Provided—“The Most Fortunate and Invincible Armada”—Its Size and
            Strength—Elizabeth’s Appeal to the Country—A Noble
           Response—Effingham’s Appointment—The Armada’s First
     Disaster—Refitted, and Resails from Corunna—Chased in the Rear—A
      Series of _Contretemps_—English Volunteer Ships in Numbers—The
    Fire-ships at Calais—The Final Action—Flight of the Armada—Fate of
    Shipwrecked Spanish in Ireland—Total Loss to Spain—Rejoicings and
                        Thanksgivings in England.


It will not now be out of place to take a rapid survey of the progress of
naval architecture, from log and coracle to wooden walls and ironclads,
noting rapidly the progressive steps which led to the present epoch.

It is only from the Scriptures, and from fragmentary allusions in the
writings of profane historians and poets, that we can derive any knowledge
of the vessels employed by the ancients. Doubtless our first parents
noticed branches of trees or fragments of wood floating upon the surface
of that “river” which “went out of Eden to water the garden;” and from
this to the use of logs singly, or combined in rafts, or hollowed into
canoes, would be an easy transition. The first boat was probably a mere
toy model; and, likely enough, great was the surprise when it was
discovered that its sides, though thin, would support a considerable
weight in the water. The first specimen of naval architecture of which we
have any description is unquestionably the ark, built by Noah. If the
cubit be taken as eighteen inches, she was 450 feet long, 75 in breadth,
and 45 in depth, whilst her tonnage, according to the present system of
admeasurement, would be about 15,000 tons. It is more than probable that
this huge vessel was, after all, little more than a raft, or barge, with a
stupenduous house reared over it, for it was constructed merely for the
purpose of floating, and needed no means of propulsion. She may have been,
comparatively speaking, slightly built in her lofty upper works, her
carrying capacity being thereby largely increased. Soon after the Flood,
if not, indeed, before it, other means of flotation must have suggested
themselves, such as the inflated skins of animals; these may be seen on
the ancient monuments of Assyria, discovered by Layard, where there are
many representations of people crossing rivers by this means. Next came
wicker-work baskets of rushes or reeds, smeared with mud or pitch, similar
to the ark in which Moses was found. Mr. Layard found such boats in use on
the Tigris; they were constructed of twisted reeds made water-tight by
bitumen, and were often large enough for four or five persons. Pliny says,
in his time, “_Even now_ in British waters, vessels of vine-twigs sewn
round with leather are used.” The words in italics might be used were
Pliny writing to-day. Basket-work coracles, covered with leather or
prepared flannel, are still found in a few parts of Wales, where they are
used for fording streams, or for fishing. Wooden canoes or boats, whether
hollowed from one log or constructed of many parts, came next. The
paintings and sculptures of Upper and Lower Egypt show regularly formed
boats, made of sawn planks of timber, carrying a number of rowers, and
having sails. The Egyptians were averse to seafaring pursuits, having
extensive overland commerce with their neighbours.

The Phœnicians were, past all cavil, the most distinguished navigators of
the ancient world, their capital, Tyre, being for centuries the centre of
commerce, the “mart of nations.” Strange to say, this country, whose
inhabitants were the rulers of the sea in those times, was a mere strip of
land, whose average breadth never exceeded twelve miles, while its length
was only 225 miles from Aradus in the north to Joppa in the south. Forced
by the unproductiveness of the territory, and blessed with one or two
excellent harbours, and an abundant supply of wood from the mountains of
Lebanon, the Phœnicians soon possessed a numerous fleet, which not only
monopolised the trade of the Mediterranean, but navigated Solomon’s fleets
to the Persian Gulf and Indian Ocean, establishing colonies wherever they
went. Herodotus states that a Phœnician fleet, which was fitted out by
Necho, King of Egypt, even circumnavigated Africa, and gives details which
seem to place it within the category of the very greatest voyages.
Starting from the Red Sea, they are stated to have passed Ophir, generally
supposed to mean part of the east coast of Africa, to have rounded the
continent, and, entering the Mediterranean by the Pillars of Hercules, our
old friends the Rocks of Gibraltar and Ceuta, to have reached Egypt in the
third year of their voyage. Solomon, too, dispatched a fleet of ships from
the Red Sea to fetch gold from Ophir. Diodorus gives at great length an
account of the fleet said to be built by this people for the great Queen
Semiramis, with which she invaded India. Semiramis was long believed by
many to be a mythical personage; but Sir Henry Rawlinson’s interpretations
of the Assyrian inscriptions have placed the existence of this queen
beyond all doubt. In the Assyrian hall of the British Museum are two
statues of the god Nebo, each of which bears a cuneiform inscription
saying that they were made for Queen Semiramis by a sculptor of Nineveh.
The commerce of Phœnicia must have been at its height when Nebuchadnezzar
made his attack on Tyre. Ezekiel gives a description of her power about
the year B.C. 588, when ruin was hovering around her. “Tyre,” says the
prophet, “was a merchant of the people for many isles.” He states that her
ship-boards were made of fir-trees of Senir; her masts of cedars from
Lebanon; her oars of the oaks of Bashan; and the benches of her galleys of
ivory, brought out of the isles of Chittim.

To the Tyrians also is due the colonisation of other countries, which,
following the example of the mother-country, soon rivalled her in wealth
and enterprise. The principal of these was Carthage, which in its turn
founded colonies of her own, one of the first of which was Gades (Cadiz).
From that port Hanno made his celebrated voyage to the west coast of
Africa, starting with sixty ships or galleys, of fifty oars each. He is
said to have founded six trading-posts or colonies. About the same time
Hamilco went on a voyage of discovery to the north-western shores of
Europe, where, according to a poem of Festus Avienus,(128) he formed
settlements in Britain and Ireland, and found tin and lead, and people who
used boats of skin or leather. Aristotle tells us that the Carthaginians
were the first to increase the size of their galleys from three to four
banks of oars.

Under the dynasty of the Ptolemies the maritime commerce of Egypt rapidly
improved. The first of these kings caused the erection of the celebrated
Pharos or lighthouse at Alexandria, in the upper storey of which were
windows looking seaward, and inside which fires were lighted by night to
guide mariners to the harbour. Upon its front was inscribed, “King Ptolemy
to God the Saviour, for the benefit of sailors.” His successor, Ptolemy
Philadelphus, attempted to cut a canal a hundred cubits in width between
Arsinoe, on the Red Sea, not far from Suez, to the eastern branch of the
Nile. Enormous vessels were constructed at this time and during the
succeeding reigns. Ptolemy, the son of Lagos, is said to have owned five
hundred galleys and two thousand smaller vessels. Lucian speaks of a
vessel that he saw in Egypt that was one hundred and twenty cubits long.
Another, constructed by Ptolemy Philopator, is described by Calixenus, an
Alexandrian historian, as two hundred and eighty cubits, say 420 feet, in
length. She is said to have had four rudders, two heads, and two sterns,
and to have been manned by 4,000 sailors (meaning principally oarsmen) and
3,000 fighting-men. Calixenus also describes another built during the
dynasty of the Ptolemies, called the _Thalamegus_, or “carrier of the
bed-chamber.” This leviathan was 300 feet in length, and fitted up with
every conceivable kind of luxury and magnificence—with colonnades, marble
staircases, and gardens; from all which it is easy to infer that she was
not intended for sea-going purposes, but was probably an immense barge,
forming a kind of summer palace, moored on the Nile. Plutarch in speaking
of her says that she was a mere matter of curiosity, for she differed very
little from an immovable building, and was calculated mainly for show, as
she could not be put in motion without great difficulty and danger.

But the most prodigious vessel on the records of the ancients was built by
order of Hiero, the second Tyrant of Syracuse, under the superintendence
of Archimedes, about 230 years before Christ, the description of which
would fill a small volume. Athenæus has left a description of this vast
floating fabric. There was, he states, as much timber employed in her as
would have served for the construction of fifty galleys. It had all the
varieties of apartments and conveniences necessary to a palace—such as
banqueting-rooms, baths, a library, a temple of Venus, gardens,
fish-ponds, mills, and a spacious gymnasium. The inlaying of the floors of
the middle apartment represented in various colours the stories of Homer’s
“Iliad;” there were everywhere the most beautiful paintings, and every
embellishment and ornament that art could furnish were bestowed on the
ceilings, windows, and every part. The inside of the temple was inlaid
with cypress-wood, the statues were of ivory, and the floor was studded
with precious stones. This vessel had twenty benches of oars, and was
encompassed by an iron rampart or battery; it had also eight towers with
walls and bulwarks, which were furnished with machines of war, one of
which was capable of throwing a stone of 300 pounds weight, or a dart of
twelve cubits long, to the distance of half a mile. To launch her,
Archimedes invented a screw of great power. She had four wooden and eight
iron anchors; her mainmast, composed of a single tree, was procured after
much trouble from distant inland mountains. Hiero finding that he had no
harbours in Sicily capable of containing her, and learning that there was
famine in Egypt, sent her loaded with corn to Alexandria. She bore an
inscription of which the following is part:—“Hiero, the son of Hierocles,
the Dorian, who wields the sceptre of Sicily, sends this vessel bearing in
her the fruits of the earth. Do thou, O Neptune, preserve in safety this
ship over the blue waves.”

                 [Illustration: FLEET OF ROMAN GALLEYS.]

Among the Grecian states Corinth stood high in naval matters. Her people
were expert ship-builders, and claimed the invention of the trireme, or
galley with three tiers of oars. Athens, with its three ports, also
carried on for a long period a large trade with Egypt, Palestine, and the
countries bordering the Black Sea. The Romans had little inclination at
first for seamanship, but were forced into it by their rivals of Carthage.
It was as late as B.C. 261 before they determined to build a war-fleet,
and had not a Carthaginian galley, grounded on the coast of Italy, been
seized by them, they would not have understood the proper construction of
one. Previously they had nothing much above large boats rudely built of
planks. The noble Romans affected to despise commerce at this period, and
trusted to the Greek and other traders to supply their wants. Quintus
Claudius introduced a law, which passed, that no senator or father of one
should own a vessel of a greater capacity than just sufficient to carry
the produce of their own lands to market. Hear the enlightened Cicero on
the subject of commerce. He observes that, “_Trade is mean if it has only
a small profit for its object_; but it is otherwise if it has large
dealings, bringing many sorts of merchandise from foreign parts, and
distributing them to the public without deceit; and if after a reasonable
profit such merchants are contented with the riches they have acquired,
and purchasing land with them retire into the country, and apply
themselves to agriculture, I cannot perceive wherein is the dishonour of
that function.” Mariners were not esteemed by the Romans until after the
great battle of Actium, which threw the monopoly of the lucrative Indian
trade into their hands. Claudius, A.D. 41, deepened the Tiber, and built
the port of Ostia; and about fifty years later Trajan constructed the
ports of Civita Vecchia and Ancona, where commerce flourished. The Roman
fleets were often a source of trouble to them. Carausius, who was really a
Dutch soldier of fortune, about the year 280, seized upon the fleet he
commanded, and crossed from Gessoriacum (Boulogne) to Britain, where he
proclaimed himself emperor. He held the reins of government for seven
years, and was at length murdered by his lieutenant. He was really the
first to create a British manned fleet. In the reign of Diocletian, the
Veneti, on the coast of Gaul, threw off the Roman yoke, and claimed
tribute from all who appeared in their seas. The same emperor founded
Constantinople, erected later, under Constantine, into the seat of
government. This city seemed to be destined by nature as a great
commercial centre; caravans placed it in direct communication with the
East, and it was really the entrepôt of the world till its capture by the
Venetians, in 1204. That independent republic had been then in a
flourishing condition for over two hundred years, and for more than as
many after, its people were the greatest traders of the world. It was at
Venice in 1202 that some of the leading pilgrims assembled to negotiate
for a fleet to be used in the fourth crusade. The crusaders agreed to pay
the Venetians before sailing eighty-four thousand marks of silver, and to
share with them all the booty taken by land or sea. The republic undertook
to supply flat-bottomed vessels enough to convey four thousand five
hundred knights, and twenty thousand soldiers, provisions for nine months,
and a fleet of galleys.

“Surrounded by the silver streak,” our hardy forefathers often crossed to
Ireland and France, prior to the first invasion of Britain by Julius
Cæsar, B.C. 55, when he sailed from Boulogne with eighty vessels and 8,000
men, and with eighteen transports to carry 800 horses for the cavalry. In
the second invasion he employed a fleet of 600 boats and twenty-five
war-galleys, having with him five legions of infantry and 2,000 cavalry, a
formidable army for the poor islanders to contend against. But their
intercourse with the Romans speedily brought about commercial relations of
importance. The pearl fisheries were then most profitable, while the
“native” oyster was greatly esteemed by the Roman epicures, of whom
Juvenal speaks in his fourth satire. He says they

  “Could at one bite the oyster’s taste decide,
  And say if at Circean rocks, or in
  The Lucrine Lake, or on the coast of Richborough,
  In Britain they were bred.”

British oysters were exported to Rome, as American oysters are now-a-days
to England. Martial also mentions another trade in one of his epigrams,
that of basket-making—

  “Work of barbaric art, a basket, I
  From painted Britain came; but the Roman city
  Now calls the painted Briton’s art their own.”

The smaller description of boats, other than galleys, employed by the
Romans for transporting their troops and supplies, were the _kiulæ_,
called by the Saxons _ceol_ or _ciol_, which name has come down to us in
the form of _keel_, and is still applied to a description of barge used in
the north of England. Thus

  “Weel may the keel row,”

says the song, and on the “coaly Tyne,” a small barge carrying twenty-one
tons four hundredweight is said to carry a “keel” of coals. The Romans
must also have possessed large transport vessels, for within seventy or
eighty years after they had gained a secure footing in this country, they
received a reinforcement of 5,000 men in seventeen ships, or about 300
men, besides stores, to each vessel.

Bede places the final departure of the Romans from Britain in A.D. 409, or
just before the siege of Rome by Attila. Our ancestors were now rather
worse off than before, for they were left a prey to the Vikings—those
bold, hardy, unscrupulous Scandinavian seamen of the north, who began to
make piratical visits for the sake of plunder to the coasts of Scotland
and England. They found their way to the Mediterranean, and were known and
feared in every port from Iceland to Constantinople. Their galleys were
propelled mainly by means of oars, but they had also small square sails to
get help from a stern wind, and as they often sailed straight across the
stormy northern seas, it is probable that they had made considerable
progress in the rigging and handling of their ships. A plank-built boat
was discovered a few years since in Denmark, which the antiquaries assign
to the fifth century. It is a row-boat, measuring seventy-seven feet from
stem to stern, and proportionately broad in the middle. The construction
shows that there was an abundance of material and skilled labour. It is
alike at bow and stern, and the thirty rowlocks are reversible, so as to
permit the boat to be navigated with either end forward. The vessel is
built of heavy planks overlapping each other from the gunwale to the keel,
and cut thick at the point of juncture, so that they may be mortised into
the cross-beams and gunwale, instead of being merely nailed. Very similar
boats, light, swift, and strong, are still used in the Shetlands and
Norway.

Little is known of the state of England from the departure of the Romans
to the eighth century. The doubtful and traditionary landing of Hengist
and Horsa with 1,500 men, “in three long ships,” is hardly worth
discussing here. The Venerable Bede, who wrote about A.D. 750, speaks of
London as “the mart of many nations, resorting to it by sea and land;” and
he continues that “King Ethelbert built the church of St. Paul in the city
of London, where he and his successors should have their episcopal see.”
But the history of this period generally is in a hopeless fog. Still we
know that London was now a thriving port. Cæsar, in his “Commentaries”
distinctly states that his reason for attempting the conquest of England
was on account of the vast supplies which his Gaulish enemies received
from us, in the way of trade. The exports were principally cattle, hides,
corn, dogs, and _slaves_, the latter an important item. Strabo observes
that “our internal parts at that time were on a level with the African
slave coasts.” “Britons never shall be slaves” could not therefore have
been said in those days. London, long prior to the invasion of England by
the Romans, was an existing city, and vessels paid dues at Billingsgate
long before the establishment of any custom-house. Pennant tells us, in
his famous work on London, “As early as 979, all the reign of Ethelred, a
small vessel was to pay _ad Bilynggesgate_ one halfpenny as a toll; a
greater, bearing sails, one penny; a keel or hulk (_ceol vel hulcus_),
fourpence; a ship laden with wood, one piece for toll; and a boat with
fish, one halfpenny; or a larger, one penny. We had even now trade with
France for its wines, for mention is made of ships from Rouen, who came
here and landed them, and freed them from toll—_i.e._, paid their duties.
What they amounted to I cannot learn.”

The Danes, having once a foot-hold, were never thoroughly expelled till
the Norman conquest, and as a maritime race excelled all the nations of
the north of Europe. They had two principal classes of vessels, the
_Drakers_ and _Holkers_, the former named from carrying a dragon on the
bows, and bearing the Danish flag of the raven. The holker was at first a
small boat, hollowed out of the trunk of a tree, but the word “hulk,”
evidently derived from it, was used afterwards for vessels of larger
dimensions. They had also another vessel called a _Snekkar_ (serpent),
strangely so named, for it was rather a short, stumpy kind of boat, not
unlike the Dutch galliots of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.
Their piratical expeditions soon increased, and Wales and the island of
Anglesey were frequently pillaged by them, while in Ireland they possessed
the ports of Dublin, Waterford, and Cork, a Danish king reigning in the
two first cities. But a king was to arise who would change all this—Alfred
the Great and Good, the “Father of the British Navy.”

On the accession of Alfred the Great to the throne, he found England so
over-run by the Danes, that he had, as every school-boy knows, to conceal
himself with a few faithful followers in the forests. In his retirement he
busied himself in devising schemes for ridding his country of the pirate
marauders; and without much deliberation he saw that he must first have a
maritime force of his own, and meet the enemies of England on the sea,
which they considered their own especial element. He set himself busily to
study the models of the Danish ships, and, aided by his hardy followers,
stirred up a spirit of maritime ambition, which had not existed to any
great extent before. At the end of four years of unremitting labour in the
prosecution of his schemes, he possessed the nucleus of a fleet in six
galleys, which were double the length of any possessed by his adversaries,
and which carried sixty oars, and possessed ample space for the fighting
men on board. With this fleet he put to sea, taking the command in person,
and routed a marauding expedition of the Danes, then about to make a
descent on the coast. The force was larger than his own; but he succeeded
in capturing one and in driving off the rest. In the course of the next
year or two he captured or sunk eighteen of the enemy’s galleys, and they
found at last that they could not have it all their own way on the sea.
About this time the cares of government occupied necessarily much of his
time: his astute policy was to win over a number of the more friendly
Danes to his cause, by giving them grants of land, and obliging them in
return to assist in driving off aggressors. He was nearly the first native
of England who made any efforts to extend the study of geography.
According to the Saxon chronicler, Florence of Worcester, A.D. 897, he
consulted Ohther, a learned Norwegian, and other authorities, from whom he
obtained much information respecting the northern seas. Ohther had not
only coasted along the shores of Norway, but had rounded the North Cape—it
was a feat in those days, gentle reader, but now Cook’s tourists do it—and
had reached the bay in which Archangel is situated. The ancient geographer
gave Alfred vivid descriptions of the gigantic whales, and of the
innumerable seals he had observed, not forgetting the terrible mäelstrom,
the dangers of which he did not under-rate, and which it was generally
believed in those days was caused by a horribly vicious old sea-dragon,
who sucked the vessels under. He compared the natives to the Scythians of
old, and was rather severe on them, as they brewed no ale, the poor
drinking honey-mead in its stead, and the rich a liquor distilled from
goats’ milk. Alfred not merely sent vessels to the north on voyages of
discovery, but opened communication with the Mediterranean, his galleys
penetrating to the extreme east of the Levant, whereby he was enabled to
carry on a direct trade with India. William of Malmesbury mentions the
silks, shawls, incense, spices, and aromatic gums which Alfred received
from the Malabar coast in return for presents sent to the Nestorian
Christians. Alfred constantly and steadily encouraged the science of
navigation, and certainly earned the right of the proud title he has borne
since of “Father of the British Navy.”

              [Illustration: APPROACH OF THE DANISH FLEET.]

Time passes and we come to Canute. On his accession to the throne as the
son of a Danish conqueror, he practically put an end to the incursions and
attacks of the northern pirates. The influence of his name was so great
that he found it unnecessary to maintain more than forty ships at sea, and
the number was subsequently reduced. So far from entertaining any fear of
revolt from the English, or of any raid on his shores, he made frequent
voyages to the Continent as well as to the north. He once proceeded as far
as Rome, where he met the Emperor Conrad. II., from whom he obtained for
all his subjects, whether merchants or pilgrims, complete exemption from
the heavy tolls usually exacted on their former visits to that city.
Canute was a cosmopolitan. By his conquest of Norway, not merely did he
represent the English whom he had subjugated, and who had become attached
to him, but the Danes, their constant and inveterate foes and rivals. He
thus united under one sovereignty the principal maritime nations of the
north.

And still the writer exerts the privilege conceded to all who wield the
pen, of passing quickly over the pages of history. “The stories,” says a
writer(129) who made maritime subjects a peculiar study, “as to the number
of vessels under the order of the Conqueror on his memorable expedition
are very conflicting. Some writers have asserted that the total number
amounted to no less than 3,000, of which six or seven hundred were of a
superior order, the remainder consisting of boats temporarily built, and
of the most fragile description. Others place the whole fleet at not more
than 800 vessels of all sizes, and this number is more likely to be
nearest the truth. There are now no means of ascertaining their size, but
their form may be conjectured from the representation of these vessels on
the rolls of the famous Bayeux tapestry. It is said that when William
meditated his descent on England he ordered ‘large ships’ to be
constructed for that purpose at his seaports, collecting, wherever these
could be found, smaller vessels or boats, to accompany them. But even the
largest must have been of little value, as the whole fleet were by his
orders burned and destroyed, as soon as he landed with his army, so as to
cut off all retreat, and to save the expense of their maintenance.” This
would indicate that the sailors had to fight ashore, and may possibly have
been intended to spur on his army to victory. Freeman states, in his
“History of the Norman Conquest,” that he finds the largest number of
ships in the Conqueror’s expedition, as compiled from the most reliable
authorities, was 3,000, but some accounts put it as low as 693. Most of
the ships were presents from the prelates or great barons. William
FitzOsborn gave 60, the Count de Mortaine, 120; the Bishop of Bayeux, 100;
and the finest of all, that in which William himself embarked, was
presented to him by his own duchess, Matilda, and named the _Mora_. Norman
writers of the time state that the vessels were not much to boast of, as
they were all collected between the beginning of January and the end of
August, 1066. Lindsay, who thoroughly investigated the subject, says that
“The Norman merchant vessels or transports were in length about three
times their breadth, and were sometimes propelled by oars, but generally
by sails; their galleys appear to have been of two sorts—the larger,
occasionally called galleons, carrying in some instances sixty men, well
armed with iron armour, besides their oars. The smaller galleys, which are
not specially described, doubtless resembled ships’ launches in size, but
of a form enabling them to be propelled at a considerable rate of speed.”
Boats covered with leather were even employed on the perilous Channel
voyage.

     [Illustration: SHIPS OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR. (_From the Bayeux
                               Tapestry._)]

The Conqueror soon added to the security of the country by the
establishment of the Cinque Ports, which, as their title denotes, were at
first five, but were afterwards increased in number so as to include the
following seaports:—Dover, Sandwich, Hythe, and Romsey, in Kent; and Rye,
Winchelsea, Hastings, and Seaford, in Sussex. On their first establishment
they were to provide fifty-two ships, with twenty-four men on each, for
fifteen days each year, in case of emergency. In return they had many
privileges, a part of which are enjoyed by them to-day. Their freemen were
styled barons; each of the ports returned two members of Parliament. An
officer was appointed over them, who was “Lord Warden of the Cinque
Ports,” and also Constable of Dover Castle.

“For more than a hundred years after the Conquest,” says the writer just
quoted, “England’s ships had rarely ventured beyond the Bay of Biscay on
the one hand, and the entrance to the Baltic on the other; and there is no
special record of long voyages by English ships until the time of the
Crusades; which, whatever they might have done for the cause of the Cross,
undoubtedly gave the first impetus to the shipping of the country. The
number of rich and powerful princes and nobles who embarked their fortunes
in these extraordinary expeditions offered the chance of lucrative
employment to any nation which could supply the requisite amount of
tonnage, and English shipowners very naturally made great exertions to
reap a share of the gains.” One of the first English noblemen who fitted
out an expedition to the Holy Land was the Earl of Essex; and twelve years
afterwards, Richard Cœur de Lion, on ascending the throne, made vast
levies on the people for the same object, joining Philip II. and other
princes for the purpose of raising the Cross above the Crescent. Towards
the close of 1189 two fleets had been collected, one at Dover, to convey
Richard and his followers (among whom were the Archbishop of Canterbury,
the Bishop of Salisbury, and the Lord Chief Justice of England) across the
Channel, and a second and still larger fleet at Dartmouth, composed of
numbers of vessels from Aquitaine, Brittany, Normandy, and Poitou, for the
conveyance of the great bulk of the Crusaders, to join Richard at
Marseilles, whither he had gone overland with the French king and his
other allies. The Dartmouth fleet, under the command of Richard de
Camville and Robert de Sabloil, set sail about the end of April, 1190. It
had a disastrous voyage, but at length reached Lisbon, where the Crusaders
behaved so badly, and committed so many outrages, that 700 were locked up.
After some delay, they sailed up the Mediterranean, reaching Marseilles,
where they had to stop some time to repair their unseaworthy ships, and
then followed the king to the Straits of Messina, where the fleets
combined. It was not till seven months later that the fleet got under
weigh for the Holy Land. It numbered 100 ships of larger kind, and
fourteen smaller vessels called “busses.” Each of the former carried,
besides her crew of fifteen sailors, forty soldiers, forty horses, and
provisions for a twelvemonth. Vinisauf, who makes the fleet much larger,
mentions that it proceeded in the following order:—three large ships
formed the van; the second line consisted of thirteen vessels, the lines
expanding to the seventh, which consisted of sixty vessels, and
immediately preceded the king and his ships. On their way they fell in
with a very large ship belonging to the Saracens, manned by 1,500 men, and
after a desperate engagement took her. Richard ordered that all but 200 of
those not killed in the action should be thrown overboard, and thus 1,300
infidels were sacrificed at one blow. Off Etna, Sicily, they experienced a
terrific gale, and the crew got “sea-sick and frightened;” and off the
island of Cyprus they were assailed by another storm, in which three ships
were lost, and the Vice-Chancellor of England was drowned, his body being
washed ashore with the Great Seal of England hanging round his neck.
Richard did not return to England till after the capture of Acre, and the
truce with Saladin; he landed at Sandwich, as nearly as may be, four years
from the date of his start. As this is neither a history of England, nor
of the Crusades, excepting only as either are connected with the sea, we
must pass on to a subject of some importance, which was the direct result
of experience gained at this period.

                 [Illustration: CRUSADERS AND SARACENS.]

The foundation of a maritime code, by an ordinance of Richard Cœur de
Lion, a most important step in the history of merchant shipping, was due
to the knowledge acquired by English pilgrims, traders, and seamen at the
time of the Crusades. The first code was founded on a similar set of rules
then existing in France, known as the _Rôles d’Oleron_, and some of the
articles show how loose had been the conditions of the sailor’s life
previously. The first article gave a master power to pledge the tackle of
a ship, if in want of provisions for the crew, but forbad the sale of the
hull without the owner’s permission. The captain’s position, as lord
paramount on board, was defined; no one, not even part-owners or
super-cargoes, must interfere; he was expected to understand thoroughly
the art of navigation. The second article declared that if a vessel was
held in port through failure of wind or stress of weather, the ship’s
company should be guided as to the best course to adopt by the opinion of
the majority. Two succeeding articles related to wrecks and salvage. The
fifth article provided that no sailor in port should leave the vessel
without the master’s consent; if he did so, and any harm resulted to the
ship or cargo, he should be punished with a year’s imprisonment, on bread
and water. He might also be flogged. If he deserted altogether and was
retaken, he might be branded on the face with a red-hot iron, although
allowance was made for such as ran away from their ships through
ill-usage. Sailors could also be compensated for unjust discharge without
cause. Succeeding clauses refer to the moral conduct of the sailor,
forbidding drunkenness, fighting, &c. Article 12 provided that if any
mariner should give the lie to another at a table where there was wine and
bread, he should be fined four _deniers_; and the master himself offending
in the same way should be liable to a double fine. If any sailor should
impudently contradict the mate, he might be fined eight _deniers_; and if
the master struck him with his fist or open hand he was required to bear
the stroke, but if struck more than once he was entitled to defend
himself. If the sailor committed the first assault he was to be fined 100
_sous_, or else his hand was to be chopped off. The master was required by
another rule not to give his crew cause for mutiny, nor call them names,
nor wrong them, nor “keep anything from them that is theirs, but to use
them well, and pay them honestly what is their due.” Another clause
provided that the sailor might always have the option of going on shares
or wages, and the master was to put the matter fairly before them. The
17th clause related to food. The hardy sailors of Brittany were to have
only one meal a day from the kitchen, while the lucky ones of Normandy
were to have two. When the ship arrived at a wine country the master was
bound to provide the crew with wine. Sailors were elsewhere forbidden to
take “royal” fish, such as the sturgeon, salmon, turbot, and sea-barbel,
or to take on their own account fish which yield oil. These are a part
only of the clauses; many others referring to matters connected with
rigging, masts, anchorages, pilotage, and other technical points. In bad
pilotage the navigator who brought mishap on the ship was liable to lose
his head. The general tenor of the first code is excellent, and the rules
were laid down with an evident spirit of fairness alike to the owner and
sailor.

The subject of “Letters of Marque” might occupy an entire volume, and will
recur again in these pages; They were in reality nothing more than
privileges granted for purposes of retaliation-legalised piracy. They were
first issued by Edward I., and the very first related to an outrage
committed by Portuguese on an English subject. A merchant of Bayonne, at
the time a port belonging to England, in Gascony, had shipped a cargo of
fruit from Malaga, which, on its voyage along the coast of Portugal, was
seized and carried into Lisbon by an armed cruiser belonging to that
country, then at peace with England. The King of Portugal, who had
received one-tenth part of the cargo, declined to restore the ship or
lading, whereupon the owner and his heirs received a licence, to remain in
force five years, to seize the property of the Portuguese, and especially
that of the inhabitants of Lisbon, to the extent of the loss sustained,
the expenses of recovery being allowed. How far the merchant of Bayonne
recouped himself, history sayeth not.

A little later a most important mercantile trade came into existence—that
in coal. From archæological remains and discoveries it is certain that the
Romans excavated coal during their reign on this island; but it was not
till the reign of Edward III. that the first opening of the great
Newcastle coal-fields took place, although as early as 1253 there was a
lane at the back of Newgate called “Sea-coal Lane.” As in many other
instances, even in our own days, the value of the discovery seems to have
been more appreciated by foreigners than by the people of this country,
and for a considerable time after it had been found, the combustion of
coal was considered to be so unhealthy that a royal edict forbad its use
in the city of London, while the queen resided there, in case it might
prove “pernicious to her health.” At the same time, while England laid her
veto on the use of that very article which has since made her, or helped
to make her, the most famous commercial nation of the world, France sent
her ships laden with corn to Newcastle, carrying back coal in return, her
merchants being the first to supply this new great article of commerce to
foreign countries. In the reign of Henry V. the trade had become of such
importance that a special Act was passed providing for the admeasurement
of ships and barges employed in the coal trade.

King John stoutly claimed for England the sovereignty of the sea—he was
not always so firm and decided—and decreed that all foreign ships, the
masters of which should refuse to strike their colours to the British
flag, should be seized and deemed good and lawful prizes. This monarch is
stated to have fitted out no less than 500 ships, under the Earl of
Salisbury, in the year 1213, against a fleet of ships three times that
number, organised by Philip of France, for the invasion of England. After
a stubborn battle, the English were successful, taking 300 sail, and
driving more than 100 ashore, Philip being under the necessity of
destroying the remainder to prevent them falling into the hands of their
enemies. Some notion may be gained of the kinds of ships of which these
fleets were composed, by the account that is narrated of an action fought
in the following reign with the French, who, with eighty “stout ships,”
threatened the coast of Kent. This fleet being discovered by Hubert de
Burgh, governor of Dover Castle, he put to sea with half the number of
English vessels, and having got to the windward of the enemy, and run down
many of the smaller ships, he closed with the rest, and threw on board
them a quantity of quick-lime—a novel expedient in warfare—which so
blinded the crews that their vessels were either captured or sunk. The
dominion of the sea was bravely maintained by our Edwards and Henrys in
many glorious sea-fights. The temper of the times is strongly exemplified
by the following circumstance. In the reign of Edward I. an English sailor
was killed in a Norman port, in consequence of which war was declared by
England against France, and the two nations agreed to decide the dispute
on a certain day, with the whole of their respective naval forces. The
spot of battle was to be the middle of the Channel, marked out by
anchoring there an empty ship. This strange duel of nations actually took
place, for the two fleets met on April 14th, 1293, when the English
obtained the victory, and carried off in triumph 250 vessels from the
enemy. In an action off the harbour of Sluys with the French fleet, Edward
III. is said to have slain 30,000 of the enemy, and to have taken 200
large ships, “in one of which only, there were 400 dead bodies.” The same
monarch, at the siege of Calais, is stated to have blockaded that port
with 730 sail, having on board 14,956 mariners. The size of the vessels
employed must have been rapidly enlarging.

          [Illustration: DUEL BETWEEN FRENCH AND ENGLISH SHIPS.]

Chaucer gives us a graphic description of the British sailor of the
fourteenth century in his Prologue to the “Canterbury Tales,” It runs as
follows:—

  “A schipman was ther, wonyng fer by Weste:
  For ought I woot, he was of Dertemouthe,
  He rood upon a rouncy, as he couthe,
  In a goun of faldying to the kne.
  A dagger hangyng on a laas hadde he
  Aboute his nekke under his arm adoun.
  The hoote somer had maad his hew al broun;
  And certainly he was a good felawe.
  Ful many a draught of wyn had he drawe
  From Burdeux-ward, whil that the chapman sleep.
  Of nyce conscience took he no keep.
  If that he foughte, and hadde the heigher hand,
  By water he sent hem hoom to every land.
  But of his craft to rikne wel the tydes,
  His stremes and his dangers him bisides,
  His herbergh and his mane his lode menage,
  Ther was non such from Hulle to Cartage.
  Hardy he was, and wys to undertake;
  With many a tempest hadde his berd ben schake.
  He knew well alle the havens, as thei were,
  From Scotland to the Cape of Fynestere,
  And every cryk in Bretayne and in Spayne,
  His barge y-cleped was the _Magdelayne_.”

In the reign of Henry V., the most glorious period up to that time of the
British Navy, the French lost nearly all their navy to us at various
times; among other victories, Henry Page, Admiral of the Cinque Ports,
captured 120 merchantmen forming the Rochelle fleet, and all richly laden.
Towards the close of this reign, about the year 1416, England formally
claimed the dominion of the sea, and a Parliamentary document recorded the
fact. “It was never absolute,” says Sir Walter Raleigh, “until the time of
Henry VIII.” That great voyager and statesman adds that, “Whoever commands
the sea, commands the trade of the world; whosoever commands the trade,
commands the riches of the world, and consequently the world itself.”

A curious poem is included in the first volume of Hakluyt’s famous
collection of voyages, bearing reference to the navy of Henry. It is
entitled, “The English Policie, exhorting all England to keep the Sea,”
&c. It was written apparently about the year 1435. It is a long poem, and
the following is an extract merely:—

  “And if I should conclude all by the King,
  Henrie the Fift, what was his purposing,
  Whan at Hampton he made the great _dromons_,
  Which passed other great ships of the Commons;
  The _Trinitie_, the _Grace de Dieu_, the _Holy Ghost_,
  And other moe, which as nowe be lost.
  What hope ye was the king’s great intente
  Of thoo shippes, and what in mind be meant:
  It is not ellis, but that _he cast to bee_
  Lord round about environ of the see.
  And if he had to this time lived here,
  He had been Prince named withouten pere:
  His great ships should have been put in preefes,
  Unto the ende that he ment of in chiefes.
  For doubt it not but that he would have bee
  Lord and Master about the rand see:
  And kept it sure, to stoppe our ennemies hence,
  And wonne us good, and wisely brought it thence,
  That our passage should be without danger,
  And his license on see to move and sterre.”

When the king had determined, in 1415, to land an army in France, he hired
ships from Holland, Zeeland, and Friesland, his own naval means not being
sufficient for the transport; among his other preparations, “requisite for
so high an enterprise,” boats covered with leather, for the passage of
rivers, are mentioned. His fleet consisted of 1,000 sail, and it left
Southampton on Sunday, the 11th of August, of the above-mentioned year.
When the ships had passed the Isle of Wight, “swans were seen swimming in
the midst of the fleet, which was hailed as a happy auspice.” Henry
anchored on the following Tuesday at the mouth of the Seine, about three
miles from Harfleur. A council of the captains was summoned, and an order
issued that no one, under pain of death, should land before the king, but
that all should be in readiness to go ashore the next morning. This was
done, and the bulk of the army, stated to have comprised 24,000 archers,
and 6,000 men of arms, was landed in small vessels, boats, and skiffs,
taking up a position on the hill nearest to Harfleur. The moment Henry
landed he fell on his knees and implored the Divine aid and protection to
lead him on to victory, then conferring knighthood on many of his
followers. At the entrance of the port a chain had been stretched between
two large, well-armed towers, while it was farther protected by stakes and
trunks of trees to prevent the vessels from approaching. During the siege,
which lasted thirty-six days, the fleet blockaded the port, and at its
conclusion Henry, flushed with a victory, which is said to have cost the
English only 1,600 and the enemy 10,000 lives, determined to march his
army through France to Calais. It was on this march that he won the
glorious battle of Agincourt. On the 16th of November he embarked for
Dover, reaching that port the same day. Here a magnificent ovation awaited
him. The burgesses rushed into the sea and bore him ashore on their
shoulders; the whole population was intoxicated with delight. One
chronicler states that the passage across had been extremely boisterous,
and that the French noblemen suffered so much from sea-sickness that they
considered the trip worse than the very battles themselves in which they
had been taken prisoners! When Henry arrived near London, a great
concourse of people met him at Blackheath, and he, “as one remembering
from whom all victories are sent,” would not allow his helmet to be
carried before him, whereon the people might have seen the blows and dents
that he had received; “neither would he suffer any ditties to be made and
sung by minstrels of his glorious victory, for that he would have the
praise and thanks altogether given to God.”

             [Illustration: REVERSE OF THE SEAL OF SANDWICH.]

Next year the French attempted to retake Harfleur. Henry sent a fleet of
400 sail to the rescue, under his brother John, Duke of Bedford, the
upshot being that almost the whole French fleet, to the number of 500
ships, hulks, carracks, and small vessels were taken or sunk. The English
vessels remained becalmed in the roadstead for three weeks afterwards.
Southey, who has collated all the best authorities in his admirable naval
work,(130) says:—“The bodies which had been thrown overboard in the
action, or sunk in the enemies’ ships, rose and floated about them in
great numbers; and the English may have deemed it a relief from the
contemplation of that ghastly sight, to be kept upon the alert by some
galleys, which taking advantage of the calm, ventured as near them as they
dare by day and night, and endeavoured to burn the ships with wildfire.”
He adds that the first mention of wildfire he had found is by Hardyng, one
of the earliest of our poets, in the following passage referring to this
event:—

  “With oars many about us did they wind,
  With wildfire oft assayled us day and night,
  To brenne our ships in that they could or might.”

Next year we read of Henry preparing to again attack France. The enemy had
increased their naval force by hiring a number of Genoese and other
Italian vessels. The king sent a preliminary force against them under his
kinsman, the Earl of Huntingdon, who, near the mouth of the Seine,
succeeded in sinking three and capturing three of the great Genoese
carracks, taking the Admiral Jacques, the Bastard of Bourbon, “and as much
money as would have been half a year’s pay for the whole fleet.” These
prizes were brought to Southampton, “from whence the king shortly set
forth with a fleet of 1,500 ships, the sails of his own vessel being of
purple silk, richly embroidered with gold.” The remainder of Henry’s brief
reign—for he died the same year—is but the history of a series of
successes over his enemies.

It must never be forgotten that the navies of our early history were not
permanently organised, but drawn from all sources. A noble, a city or
port, voluntarily or otherwise, contributed according to the exigencies of
the occasion. As we shall see, it is to Henry VIII. that we owe the
establishment of a Royal Navy as a permanent institution. In 1546 King
Henry’s vessels are classified according to their “quality,” thus:
“ships,” “galleases,” “pynaces,” “roe-barges.” A list bearing date in 1612
exhibits the classes as follows:—“Shipps royal,” measuring downwards from
1,200 to 800 tons; “middling shipps,” from 800 to 600 tons; “small
shipps,” 350 tons; and pinnaces, from 200 to 80 tons. According to the old
definition, a ship was defined to be a “large hollow building, made to
pass over the seas with sails,” without reference to size or quality.
Before the days of the _Great Harry_, few, if any, English ships had more
than one mast or one sail; that ship had three masts, and the _Henri Grace
de Dieu_, which supplanted her, four. The galleas was probably a long,
low, and sharp-built vessel, propelled by oars as well as by sails; the
latter probably not fixed to the mast or any standing yard, but hoisted
from the deck when required to be used, as in the lugger or felucca of
modern days. The pinnace was a smaller description of galleas, while the
row-barge is sufficiently explained by its title.

The history of the period following the reign of Henry V. has much to do
with shipping interests of all kinds. The constant wars and turbulent
times gave great opportunity for piracy in the Channel and on the high
seas. Thus we read of Hannequin Leeuw, an outlaw from Ghent, who had so
prospered in piratical enterprises that he got together a squadron of
eight or ten vessels, well armed and stored. He not only infested the
coast of Flanders, and Holland, and the English Channel, but scoured the
coasts of Spain as far as Gibraltar, making impartial war on any or all
nations, and styling himself the “Friend of God, and the enemy of all
mankind.” This pirate escaped the vengeance of man, but at length was
punished by the elements: the greater part of his people perished in a
storm, and Hannequin Leeuw disappeared from the scene. Shortly afterwards
we find the Hollanders and Zeelanders uniting their forces against the
Easterling pirates, then infesting the seas, and taking twenty of their
ships. “This action,” says Southey, “was more important in its
consequences than in itself; it made the two provinces sensible, for the
first time, of their maritime strength, and gave a new impulse to that
spirit of maritime adventure which they had recently begun to manifest.”
Previously a voyage to Spain had been regarded as so perilous, that
“whoever undertook it settled his worldly and his spiritual affairs as if
preparing for death, before he set forth,” while now they opened up a
brisk trade with that country and Portugal. Till now they had been
compelled to bear the insults and injuries of the Easterlings without
combined attempt at defence; now they retaliated, captured one of their
admirals on the coast of Norway, and hoisted a besom at the mast-head in
token that they had swept the seas clean from their pirate enemies.

And now, in turn, some of them became pirates themselves, more
particularly Hendrick van Borselen, Lord of Veere, who assembled all the
outlaws he could gather, and committed such depredations, that he was
enabled to add greatly to his possessions in Walcheren, by the purchase of
confiscated estates. He received others as grants from his own duke, who
feared him, and thought it prudent at any cost to retain, at least in
nominal obedience, one who might render himself so obnoxious an enemy.
“This did not prevent the admiral—for he held that rank under the
duke—from infesting the coast of Flanders, carrying off cattle from
Cadsant, and selling them publicly in Zeeland. His excuse was that the
terrible character of his men compelled him to act as he did; and the duke
admitted the exculpation, being fain to overlook outrages which he could
neither prevent nor punish.” A statute of the reign of Henry VI. sets
forth the robberies committed upon the poor merchants of this realm, not
merely on the sea, but even in the rivers and ports of Britain, and how
not merely they lost their goods, but their persons also were taken and
imprisoned. Nor was this all, for “the king’s poor subjects dwelling nigh
the sea-coasts were taken out of their own houses, with their chattels and
children, and carried by the enemies where it pleased them.” In
consequence, the Commons begged that an armament might be provided and
maintained on the sea, which was conceded, and for a time piracy on
English subjects was partially quashed.

Meantime, we had pirates of our own. Warwick, the king-maker, was
unscrupulous in all points, and cared nothing for the lawfulness of the
captures which he could make on the high seas. For example, when he left
England for the purpose of securing Calais (then belonging to England) and
the fleet for the House of York, he having fourteen well-appointed
vessels, fell in with a fleet of Spaniards and Genoese. “There was a very
sore and long continued battle fought betwixt them,” lasting almost two
days. The English lost a hundred men; one account speaks of the Spanish
and Genoese loss at 1,000 men killed, and another of six-and-twenty
vessels sunk or put to flight. It is certain that three of the largest
vessels were taken into Calais, laden with wine, oil, iron, wax, cloth of
gold, and other riches, in all amounting in value to no less than £10,000.
The earl was a favourite with the sailors, probably for the license he
gave them; when the Duke of Somerset was appointed by the king’s party to
the command of Calais, from which he was effectually shut out by Warwick,
they carried off some of his ships and deserted with them to the latter.
Not long after, when reinforcements were lying at Sandwich waiting to
cross the Channel to Somerset’s aid, March and Warwick borrowed £18,000
from merchants, and dispatched John Dynham on a piratical expedition. He
landed at Sandwich, surprised the town, took Lord Rivers and his son in
their beds, robbed houses, took the principal ships of the king’s navy,
and carried them off, well furnished as they were with ordnance and
artillery. For a time Warwick carried all before him, but not a few of his
actions were most unmitigated specimens of piracy, on nations little
concerned with the Houses of York and Lancaster, their quarrels or wars.

But as this is not intended to be even a sketch of the history of England,
let us pass to the commencement of the reign of Henry VII., when the
“great minishment and decay of the navy, and the idleness of the
mariners,” were represented to his first Parliament, and led to certain
enactments in regard to the use of foreign bottoms. The wines of Southern
France were forbidden to be imported hither in any but English, Irish, or
Welsh ships, manned by English, Irish, or Welsh sailors. This Act was
repeated in the fourth year of Henry’s reign, and made to include other
articles, while it was then forbidden to freight an alien ship from or to
England with “any manner of merchandise,” if sufficient freight were to be
had in English vessels, on pain of forfeiture, one-half to the king, the
other to the seizers. “Henry,” says Lord Bacon, “being a king that loved
wealth, and treasure, he could not endure to have trade sick, nor any
obstruction to continue in the gate-vein which disperseth that blood.” How
well he loved riches is proved by the fact that when a speedy and not
altogether creditable peace was established between England and France,
and the indemnity had been paid by the latter, the money went into the
king’s private coffers; those who had impoverished themselves in his
service, or had contributed to the general outfit by the forced
“benevolence,” were left out in the cold. From Calais Henry wrote letters
to the Lord Mayor and aldermen (“which was a courtesy,” says Lord Bacon,
“that he sometimes used), half bragging what great sums he had obtained
for the peace, as knowing well that it was ever good news in London that
the king’s coffers were full; better news it would have been if their
benevolence had been but a loan.”

                [Illustration: SIR ANDREW WOOD’S VICTORY.]

Scotch historians tell us that Sir Andrew Wood, of Largo, Scotland, had
with his two vessels, the _Flower_ and _Yellow Carvel_, captured five
chosen vessels of the royal navy, which had infested the Firth of Forth,
and had taken many prizes from the Scotch previously, during this reign.
Henry VII. was greatly mortified by this defeat, and offered to put any
means at the disposal of the officer who would undertake this service, and
great rewards if Wood were brought to him alive or dead. All hesitated,
such was the renown of Wood, and his strength in men and artillery, and
maritime and military skill. At length, Sir Stephen Bull, a man of
distinguished prowess, offered himself, and three ships were placed under
his command, with which he sailed for the Forth, and anchored behind the
Isle of May, waiting Wood’s return from a foreign voyage. Some fishermen
were captured and detained, in order that they should point out Sir
Andrew’s ships when they arrived. “It was early in the morning when the
action began; the Scots, by their skilful manœuvring, obtained the
weather-gage, and the battle continued in sight of innumerable spectators
who thronged the coast, till darkness suspended it. It was renewed at
day-break; the ships grappled; and both parties were so intent upon the
struggle, that the tide carried them into the mouth of the Tay, into such
shoal water that the English, seeing no means of extricating themselves,
surrendered. Sir Andrew brought his prizes to Dundee; the wounded were
carefully attended there; and James, with royal magnanimity is said to
have sent both prisoners and ships to Henry, praising the courage which
they had displayed, and saying that the contest was for honour, not for
booty.”

Few naval incidents occurred under the reign of Henry VII., but it
belongs, nevertheless, to the most important age of maritime discovery.
Henry had really assented to the propositions of Columbus after Portugal
had refused them; had not the latter’s brother, Bartholomew, been captured
by pirates on his way to England, and detained as a slave at the oar, the
Spaniards would not have had the honour of discovering the New World.
This, and the grand discoveries of Cabot (directly encouraged by Henry),
who reached Newfoundland and Florida; the various expeditions down the
African coast instituted by Dom John; the discovery of the Cape and new
route to India by Diaz and Vasco de Gama; the discovery of the Pacific by
Balboa, and Cape Horn and the Straits by Magellan, will be detailed in
another section of this work. They belong to this and immediately
succeeding reigns, and mark the grandest epoch in the history of
geographical discovery.

“The use of fire-arms,” says Southey, “without which the conquests of the
Spaniards in the New World must have been impossible, changed the
character of naval war sooner than it did the system of naval tactics,
though they were employed earlier by land than by sea.” It is doubtful
when cannon was first employed at sea; one authority(131) says that it was
by the Venetians against the Genoese, before 1330. Their use necessitated
very material alterations in the structure of war-ships. The first
port-holes are believed to have been contrived by a ship-builder at Brest,
named Descharges, and their introduction took place in 1499. They were
“circular holes, cut through the sides of the vessel, and so small as
scarcely to admit of the guns being traversed in the smallest degree, or
fired otherwise than straightforward.” Hitherto there had been no
distinctions between the vessels used in commerce and in the king’s
service; the former being constantly employed for the latter; but now we
find the addition of another tier, and a general enlargement of the
war-vessels. Still, when any emergency required, merchant vessels, not
merely English, but Genoese, Venetian, and from the Hanse Towns, were
constantly hired for warfare. So during peace the king’s ships were
sometimes employed in trade, or freighted to merchants. Henry was very
desirous of increasing and maintaining commercial relations with other
countries. In the commission to one of his ambassadors, he says, “The
earth being the common mother of all mankind, what can be more pleasant or
more humane than to communicate a portion of all her productions to all
her children by commerce?” Many special commercial treaties were made by
him, and one concluded with the Archduke Philip after a dispute with him,
which had put a stop to the trade with the Low Countries, was called the
great commercial treaty (_intercursus magnus_). “It was framed with the
greatest care to render the intercourse between the two countries
permanent, and profitable to both.”

The first incident in the naval history of the next reign, that of Henry
VIII., grew out of an event which had occurred long before. A Portuguese
squadron had, in the year 1476, seized a Scottish ship, laden with a rich
cargo, and commanded by John Barton. Letters of marque were granted him,
which he had not, apparently, used to any great advantage, for they were
renewed to his three sons thirty years afterwards. The Bartons were not
content with repaying themselves for their loss, but found the Portuguese
captures so profitable that they became confirmed pirates, “and when they
felt their own strength, they seem, with little scruple, to have
considered ships of any nation as their fair prize.” Complaints were
lodged before Henry, but were almost ignored, “till the Earl of Surrey,
then Treasurer and Marshal of England, declared at the council board, that
while he had an estate that could furnish out a ship, or a son that was
capable of commanding one, the narrow seas should not be so infested.” Two
ships, commanded by his two sons, Sir Thomas and Sir Edward Howard, were
made ready, with the king’s knowledge and consent. The two brothers put to
sea, but were separated by stress of weather; the same happened to the two
pirate ships—the _Lion_, under Sir Andrew Barton’s own command, and the
_Jenny Perwin_, or _Bark of Scotland_. The strength of one of them is thus
described in an old ballad, by a merchant, one of Sir Andrew’s victims,
who is supposed to relate his tale to Sir Thomas Howard:—

  “He is brass within, and steel without,
    With beams on his top-castle strong;
  And thirty pieces of ordnance
    He carries on each side along;
  And he hath a pinnace dearly dight,
    St. Andrew’s Cross it is his guide;
  His pinnace beareth nine score men,
    And fifteen cannons on each side.
  * * * * *
  Were ye twenty ships, and he but one,
    I swear by Kirk, and bower and hall,
  He would overcome them every one
    If once his beams they do down fall.”

But it was not so to be. Sir Thomas Howard, as he lay in the Downs,
descried the former making for Scotland, and immediately gave chase, “and
there was a sore battle. The Englishmen were fierce, and the Scots
defended themselves manfully, and ever Andrew blew his whistle to
encourage his men. Yet, for all that, Lord Howard and his men, by clean
force, entered the main deck. There the English entered on all sides, and
the Scots fought sore on the hatches; but, in conclusion, Andrew was
taken, being so sore wounded that he died there, and then the remnant of
the Scots were taken, with their ship.” Meantime Sir Edward Howard had
encountered the other piratical ship, and though the Scots defended
themselves like “hardy and well-stomached men,” succeeded in boarding it.
The prizes were taken to Blackwall, and the prisoners, 150 in number,
being all left alive, “so bloody had the action been,” were tried at
Whitehall, before the Bishop of Winchester and a council. The bishop
reminded them that “though there was peace between England and Scotland,
they, contrary to that, as thieves and pirates, had robbed the king’s
subjects within his streams, wherefore they had deserved to die by the
law, and to be hanged at the low-water mark. Then, said the Scots, ‘We
acknowledge our offence, and ask mercy, and not the law,’ and a priest,
who was also a prisoner, said, ‘My lord, we appeal from the king’s justice
to his mercy.’ Then the bishop asked if he were authorised by them to say
thus, and they all cried, ‘Yea, yea!’ ‘Well, then,’ said the bishop, ‘you
shall find the king’s mercy above his justice; for, where you were dead by
the law, yet by his mercy he will revive you. You shall depart out of this
realm within twenty days, on pain of death if ye be found after the
twentieth day; and pray for the king.’” James subsequently required
restitution from Henry, who answered “with brotherly salutation” that “it
became not a prince to charge his confederate with breach of peace for
doing justice upon a pirate and thief.” But there is no doubt that it was
regarded as a national affair in Scotland, and helped to precipitate the
war which speedily ensued.

             [Illustration: THE DEFEAT OF SIR ANDREW BARTON.]

Some of the edicts of the period seem strange enough to modern ears. The
Scotch Parliament had passed an Act forbidding any ship freighted with
staple goods to put to sea during the three winter months, under a penalty
of five pounds. In 1493, a generation after the Act was passed, another
provided that _all_ burghs and towns should provide ships and busses, the
least to be of twenty tons, fitted according to the means of the said
places, provided with mariners, nets, and all necessary gear for taking
“great fish and small.” The officers in every burgh were to make all the
“stark idle men” within their bounds go on board these vessels, and serve
them there for their wages, or, in case of refusal, banish them from their
burgh. This was done with the idea of training a maritime force, but seems
to have produced little effect. James IV. built a ship, however, which
was, according to Scottish writers, larger and more powerfully armed than
any then built in England or France. She was called the _Great Michael_,
and “was of so great stature that she wasted all the oak forests of Fife,
Falkland only excepted.” Southey reminds us that the Scots, like the Irish
of the time, were constantly in feud with each other, and consequently
destroyed their forests, to prevent the danger of ambuscades, and also to
cut off the means of escape. Timber for this ship was brought from Norway,
and though all the shipwrights in Scotland and many others from foreign
countries were busily employed upon her, she took a year and a day to
complete. The vessel is described as twelve score feet in length, and
thirty-six in breadth of beam, within the walls, which were ten feet each
thick, so that no cannon-ball could go through them. She had 300 mariners
on board, six score gunners, and 1,000 men-of-war, including officers,
“captains, skippers, and quarter-masters.” Sir Andrew Wood and Robert
Barton were two of the chief officers. “This great ship cumbered Scotland
to get her to sea. From the time that she was afloat, and her masts and
sails complete, with anchors offering thereto, she was counted to the king
to be thirty thousand pounds expense, by her artillery, which was very
costly.” The _Great Michael_ never did enough to have a single exploit
recorded, nor was she unfortunate enough to meet a tragic ending.

In 1511 war was declared against France, and Henry caused many new ships
to be made, repairing and rigging the old. After an action on the coast of
Brittany, where both claimed the advantage, and where two of the largest
vessels—the _Cordelier_, with 900 Frenchmen, and the _Regent_, with 700
Englishmen, were burned—nearly all on board perishing, Henry advised “a
great ship to be made, such as was never before seen in England,” and
which was named the _Henri Grace de Dieu_, or popularly the _Great
Harry_.(132) There are many ancient representations of this vessel, which
is said to have cost £11,000, and to have taken 400 men four whole days to
work from Erith, where she was built, to Barking Creek. “The masts,” says
a well-known authority, “were five in number,” but he goes on clearly to
show that the fifth was simply the bowsprit; they were in one piece, as
had been the usual mode in all previous times, although soon to be altered
by the introduction of several joints or top-masts, which could be lowered
in time of need. The rigging was simple to the last degree, but there was
a considerable amount of ornamentation on the hull, and small flags were
disposed almost at random on different parts of the deck and gunwale, and
one at the head of each mast. The standard of England was hoisted on the
principal mast; enormous pendants, or streamers, were added, though
ornaments which must have been often inconvenient. The _Great Harry_ was
of 1,000 tons, and in—so far as the writer can discover—the only skirmish
she was concerned in the Channel, for it could not be dignified by the
name of an engagement, carried 700 men. She was burned at Woolwich, at the
opening of Mary’s reign, through the carelessness of the sailors.

                  [Illustration: OLD DEPTFORD DOCKYARD.]

In the reign of Henry VIII. a navy office was first formed, and regular
arsenals were established at Portsmouth, Woolwich, and Deptford. The
change in maritime warfare consequent on the use of gunpowder rendered
ships of a new construction necessary, and more was done for the
improvement of the navy in this reign than in any former one. Italian
shipwrights, then the most expert, were engaged, and at the conclusion of
Henry’s reign the Royal Navy consisted of seventy-one vessels, thirty of
which were ships of respectable burden, aggregating 10,550 tons. Five
years later, it had dwindled to less than one-half. Six years after
Henry’s death, England lost Calais, a fort and town which had cost Edward
III., in the height of his power, an obstinate siege of eleven months. But
on Elizabeth’s accession to the throne, the star of England was once more
in the ascendant.

Elizabeth commenced her reign by providing in all points for war, that she
“might the more quietly enjoy peace.” Arms and weapons were imported from
Germany, at considerable cost, but in such quantities that the land had
never before been so amply stored with “all kinds of convenient armour and
weapons.” And she, also, was the first to cause the manufacture of
gunpowder in England, that she “might not both pray and pay for it too to
her neighbours.” She allowed the free exportation of herrings and all
other sea-fish in English bottoms, and a partial exemption from
impressment was granted to all fishermen; while to encourage their work,
Wednesday and Saturday were made “fish-days;” this, it was stated, “was
meant politicly, not for any superstition to be maintained in the choice
of meats.” The navy became her great care, so much that “foreigners named
her the restorer of the glory of shipping, and the Queen of the North
Sea.” She raised the pay of sailors. “The wealthier inhabitants of the
sea-coast,” says Camden, “in imitation of their princess, built ships of
war, striving who should exceed, insomuch that the Queen’s Navy, joined
with her subjects’ shipping, was, in short time, so puissant that it was
able to bring forth 20,000 fighting men for sea service.”

The greatest and most glorious event of her reign was, without cavil, the
defeat of the Spanish Armada, at one time deemed and called “The
Invincible.” With the political complications which preceded the invasion,
we have nought to do: it was largely a religious war, inasmuch as Popish
machinations were at the bottom of all. When the contest became
inevitable, the Spanish Government threw off dissimulation, and showed “a
disdainful disregard of secrecy as to its intentions, or rather a proud
manifestation of them, which,” says Southey, “if they had been successful,
might have been called magnanimous.” Philip had determined on putting
forth his might, and accounts which were ostentatiously published in
advance termed it “The most fortunate and invincible Armada.” The fleet
consisted of 130 ships and twenty caravels, having on board nearly 20,000
soldiers, 8,450 marines, 2,088 galley-slaves, with 2,630 great pieces of
brass artillery. The names of all the saints appeared in the nomenclature
of the ships, “while,” says Southey, “holier appellations, which ought
never to be thus applied, were strangely associated with the Great Griffin
and the Sea Dog, the Cat and the White Falcon.” Every noble house in Spain
was represented, and there were 180 friars and Jesuits, with Cardinal
Allen at their head, a prelate who had not long before published at
Antwerp a gross libel on Elizabeth, calling her “heretic, rebel, and
usurper, an incestuous bastard, the bane of Christendom, and firebrand of
all mischief.” These priests were to bring England back to the true Church
the moment they landed. The galleons being above sixty in number were,
“exceeding great, fair, and strong, and built high above the water, like
castles, easy to be fought withal, but not so easy to board as the English
and the Netherland ships; their upper decks were musket-proof, and beneath
they were four or five feet thick, so that no bullet could pass them.
Their masts were bound about with oakum, or pieces of fazeled ropes, and
armed against all shot. The galleases were goodly great vessels, furnished
with chambers, chapels, towers, pulpits, and such-like; they rowed like
galleys, with exceeding great oars, each having 300 slaves, and were able
to do much harm with their great ordnance.” Most severe discipline was to
be preserved; blasphemy and oaths were to be punished rigidly; gaming, as
provocative of these, and quarrelling, were forbidden; no one might wear a
dagger; religious exercises, including the use of a special litany, in
which all archangels, angels, and saints, were invoked to assist with
their prayers against the English heretics and enemies of the faith, were
enjoined. “No man,” says Southey, “ever set forth upon a bad cause with
better will, nor under a stronger delusion of perverted faith.” The
gunners were instructed to have half butts filled with water and vinegar,
wet clothes, old sails, &c., ready to extinguish fire, and what seems
strange now-a-days, in addition to the regular artillery, every ship was
to carry two boats’-loads of large stones, to throw on the enemy’s decks,
forecastles, &c., during an encounter.

Meantime Elizabeth and her ministers were fully aware of the danger, and
the appeals made to the Lords, and through the lord-lieutenants of
counties were answered nobly. The first to present himself before the
queen was a Roman Catholic peer, the Viscount Montague, who brought 200
horsemen led by his own sons, and professed the resolution that “though he
was very sickly, and in age, to live and die in defence of the queen and
of his country, against all invaders, whether it were Pope, king, or
potentate whatsoever.” The city of London, when 5,000 men and fifteen
ships were required, prayed the queen to accept twice the number. “In a
very short time all her whole realm, and every corner, were furnished with
armed men, on horseback and on foot; and those continually trained,
exercised, and put into bands in warlike manner, as in no age ever was
before in this realm. There was no sparing of money to provide horse,
armour, weapons, powder, and all necessaries.” Thousands volunteered their
services personally without wages; others money for armour and weapons,
and wages for soldiers. The country was never in better condition for
defence.

Some urged the queen to place no reliance on maritime defence, but to
receive the enemy only on shore. Elizabeth thought otherwise, and
determined that the enemy should reap no more advantage on the sea than on
land. She gave the command of the whole fleet to Charles Lord Howard of
Effingham; Drake being vice-admiral, and Hawkins and Frobisher—all grand
names in naval history—being in the western division. Lord Henry Seymour
was to lie off the coast of Flanders with forty ships, Dutch and English,
and prevent the Prince of Parma from forming a junction with the Armada.
The whole number of ships collected for the defence of the country was
191, and the number of seamen 17,472. There was one ship in the fleet (the
_Triumph_) of 1,100 tons, one of 1,000, one of 900, and two of 800 tons
each, but the larger part of the vessels were very small, and the
aggregate tonnage amounted to only about half that of the Armada. For the
land defence over 100,000 men were called out, regimented, and armed, but
only half of them were trained. This was exclusive of the Border and
Yorkshire forces.

The Armada left the Tagus in the latter end of May, 1588, for Corunna,
there to embark the remainder of the forces and stores. On the 30th of the
same month, the Lord Admiral and Sir Francis Drake sailed from Plymouth. A
serious storm was encountered, which dismasted some and dispersed others
of the enemy’s fleet, and occasioned the loss of four Portuguese galleys.
One David Gwynne, a Welshman, who had been a galley-slave for eleven
years, took the opportunity this storm afforded, and regained his liberty.
He made himself master of one galley, captured a second, and was joined by
a third, in which the wretched slaves were encouraged to rise by his
example, and successfully carried the three into a French port. After this
disastrous commencement, the Armada put back to Corunna, and was pursued
thither by Effingham; but as he approached the coast of Spain, the wind
changed, and as he was afraid the enemy might effect the passage to the
Channel unperceived, he returned to its entrance, whence the ships were
withdrawn, some to the coast of Ireland, and the larger part to Plymouth,
where the men were allowed to come ashore, and the officers made merry
with revels, dancing, and bowling. The enemy was so long in making an
appearance, that even Elizabeth was persuaded the invasion would not occur
that year; and with this idea, Secretary Walsingham wrote to the admiral
to send back four of his largest ships. “Happily for England, and most
honourably for himself, the Lord Effingham, though he had relaxed his
vigilance, saw how perilous it was to act as if all were safe. He humbly
entreated that nothing might be lightly credited in so weighty a matter,
and that he might retain these ships, though it should be at his own cost.
This was no empty show of disinterested zeal; for if the services of those
ships had not been called for, there can be little doubt, that in the
rigid parsimony of Elizabeth’s government, he would have been called upon
to pay the costs.”

            [Illustration: THE FIRST SHOT AGAINST THE ARMADA.]

The Armada, now completely refitted, sailed from Corunna on July 12th, and
when off the Lizard were sighted by a pirate, one Thomas Fleming, who
hastened to Plymouth with the news, and not merely obtained pardon for his
offences, but was awarded a pension for life. At that time the wind “blew
stiffly into the harbour,” but all hands were got on board, and the ships
were warped out, the Lord Admiral encouraging the men, and hauling at the
ropes himself. By the following day thirty of the smaller vessels were
out, and next day the Armada was descried “with lofty turrets like
castles, in front like a half-moon; the wings thereof speading out about
the length of seven miles, sailing very slowly though with full sails; the
wind,” says Camden, “being as it were weary with wafting them, and the
ocean groaning under their weight.” The Spaniards gave up the idea of
attacking Plymouth, and the English let them pass, that they might chase
them in the rear. Next day the Lord Admiral sent the _Defiance_ pinnace
forward, and opened the attack by discharging her ordnance, and later his
own ship, the _Ark Royal_, “thundered thick and furiously” into the
Spanish vice-admiral’s ship, and soon after, Drake, Hawkins, and
Frobisher, gave the Admiral Recalde a very thorough peppering. That
officer’s ship was rendered nearly unserviceable, and he was obliged to
crowd on sail to catch up with the others, who showed little disposition
for fighting. After a smart action in which he had injured the enemy much,
and suffered little hurt himself, Effingham gave over, because forty of
his ships had not yet come up from Plymouth. During the night the
Spaniards lost one of their ships, which was set on fire, it was believed,
by a Flemish gunner, whose wife and self had been ill-treated by the
officer of the troops on board. The fire was quenched, after all her upper
works had been consumed; but when the Spaniards left the hulk, they
abandoned fifty of their countrymen, “miserably hurt.” This night was
remarkable for a series of disasters and _contretemps_. A galleon, under
the command of one Valdez, ran foul of another ship, broke her foremast,
and was left behind. Effingham, supposing that the men had been taken out,
without tarrying to take possession of the prize, passed on with two other
vessels, that he might not lose sight of the enemy. “He thought that he
was following Drake’s ship, which ought to have carried the lanthorn that
night; it proved to be a Spanish light, and in the morning he found
himself in the midst of the enemy’s fleet;” but he managed to get away
unobserved, or at all events unpursued. Drake, meantime, was mistakably
following in the dark and stormy night a phantom enemy, in the shape of
five Easterling vessels. Meantime, the English fleet not seeing the
expected light on Drake’s ship, lay-to during the night. Drake, next
morning, had the good fortune to fall in with Valdez, who, after a brief
parley, surrendered, and the prize was sent into Plymouth. Drake and his
men divided 55,000 golden ducats among them, as part of the spoil on
board. The hulk of the galleon was taken to Weymouth, and although burned
almost to the water’s edge, the gunpowder in the hold remained intact and
had not taken fire. The next day there was considerable manœuvring and
skirmishing, but with no very memorable loss on either side. A great
Venetian ship and some smaller ones were taken from the enemy, while on
our side Captain Cook died with honour in the midst of the Spanish ships,
in a little vessel of his own. Both sides were wary; Effingham did not
think good to grapple with them, because they had an army in the fleet,
while he had none; our army awaited their landing. The Spaniards meant as
much as possible to avoid fighting, and hold on till they could effect a
junction with the Prince of Parma. Next morning there was little wind, and
only the four great galleases were engaged, these having the advantage on
account of their oars, while the English were becalmed; the latter,
however, did considerable execution with chain-shot, cutting asunder their
tacklings and cordage. But they were now constrained to send ashore for
gunpowder, with which they were either badly supplied, or had expended too
freely. Off the Isle of Wight, the English battered the Spanish admiral
with their great ordnance, and shot away his mainmast; but other ships
came to his assistance, beat them off, and set upon the English admiral,
who only escaped by favour of a breeze which sprung up at the right
moment. Camden relates how the English shot away the lantern from one of
the Spanish ships, and the beak-head from a second, and that Frobisher
escaped by the skin of his teeth from a situation of great danger. Still
this was little more than skirmishing. “The Spaniards say that from that
time they gave over what they call the pursuit of their enemy; and they
dispatched a fresh messenger to the Prince of Parma, urging him to effect
his junction with them as soon as possible, and withal to send them some
great shot, for they had expended theirs with more prodigality than
effect.” On the other hand the English determined to wait till they could
attack the enemy in the Straits of Dover, where they expected to be joined
by the squadrons under Lord Seymour and Sir William Winter. Meantime
Effingham’s forces were being considerably increased by volunteers; “For
the gentlemen of England hired ships from all parts at their own charge,
and with one accord came flocking thither as to a set field.” Among the
volunteers were Sir Walter Raleigh, the Earls of Oxford, Northumberland,
and Cumberland. On the evening of the 27th the Spaniards came to anchor
off Calais, and the English ships, now 140 in number, “all of them ships
fit for fight, good sailors, nimble and tight for tacking about which way
they would, anchored within cannon-shot.” A squadron of about thirty ships
belonging to the States, acting in conjunction with the Admiral of Zeeland
and his squadron, effectually blockaded Dunkirk, and the poor Prince of
Parma, with his pressed men constantly deserting, his flat-bottomed boats
leaky, and his provisions not ready, could do nothing.

The Spanish ships were almost invulnerable to the shot and ordnance of the
day, and “their height was such that our bravest seamen were against any
attempt at boarding them.” These facts were well understood by Elizabeth’s
ministers, and the Lord Admiral was instructed to convert eight of his
worst vessels into fire-ships. The orders arrived so _à propos_ of the
occasion, and were so swiftly executed, that within thirty hours after the
enemy had cast anchor off Calais, the ships were unloaded and dismantled,
filled with combustibles and all their ordnance charged, and their sides
being smeared with pitch, rosin, and wildfire, were sent, in the dead of
the night, with wind and tide, against the Spanish fleet. When the
Spaniards saw the whole sea glittering and shining with the reflection of
the flames, the guns exploding as the fire reached them, and a heavy
canopy of dense smoke overhead obscuring the heavens, they remembered
those terrible fire-ships which had been used so effectively in the
Scheldt, and the cry resounded through the fleet, “The fire of Antwerp!”
Some of the Spanish captains let their hawsers slip, some cut their
cables, and in terror and confusion put to sea; “happiest they who could
first be gone, though few or none could tell which course to take.” In the
midst of all this fearful excitement one of the largest of the galleases,
commanded by D. Hugo de Moncada, ran foul of another ship, lost her
rudder, floated about at the mercy of the tide, and at length ran upon
Calais sands. Here she was assailed by the English small craft, who
battered her with their guns, but dared not attempt boarding till the
admiral sent a hundred men in his boats, under Sir Amias Preston. The
Spaniards fought bravely, but at length Moncada was shot through the head,
and the galleas was carried by boarding. Most of the Spanish soldiers, 400
in number, jumped overboard and were drowned; the 300 galley-slaves were
freed from their fetters. The vessel had 50,000 ducats on board, “a
booty,” says Speed, “well fitting the English soldiers’ affections.” The
English were about to set the galleas on fire, but the governor of Calais
prevented this by firing upon the captors, and the ship became his prize.

           [Illustration: THE FIRE-SHIPS ATTACKING THE ARMADA.]

The Duke of Medina Sidonia, admiral of the Spanish Armada, had ordered the
whole fleet to weigh anchor and stand out to sea when he perceived the
approaching fire-ships; his vessels were to return to their former
stations when the danger should be over. When he fired a signal for the
others to follow his example, few of them heard it, “because they were
scattered all about, and driven by fear, some of them in the wide sea, and
driven among the shoals of Flanders.” When they had once more congregated,
they ranged themselves in order off Gravelines, where the final action was
fought. Drake and Fenner were the first to assail them, followed by many
brave captains, and lastly the admiral came up with Lord Thomas Howard and
Lord Sheffield. There were scarcely two or three and twenty among their
ships which matched ninety of the Spanish vessels in size, but the smaller
vessels were more easily handled and manœuvred. “Wherefore,” says Hakluyt,
“using their prerogative of nimble steerage, whereby they could turn and
wield themselves with the wind which way they listed, they came oftentimes
very near upon the Spaniards, and charged them so sore, that now and then
they were but a pike’s length asunder; and so continually giving them one
broadside after another, they discharged all their shot, both great and
small, upon them, spending a whole day, from morning till night, in that
violent kind of conflict.” During this action many of the Spanish vessels
were pierced through and through between wind and water; one was sunk, and
it was learnt that one of her officers, having proposed to strike, was put
to death by another; the brother of the slain man instantly avenged his
death, and then the ship went down. Others are believed to have sunk, and
many were terribly shattered. One, which leaked so fast that fifty men
were employed at the pumps, tried to run aground on the Flemish coast,
where her captain had to strike to a Dutch commander. Our ships at last
desisted from the contest, from sheer want of ammunition; and the Armada
made an effort to reach the Straits. Here a great engagement was expected,
but the fighting was over, and that which the hand of man barely commenced
the hand of God completed. The Spaniards “were now experimentally
convinced that the English excelled them in naval strength. Several of
their largest ships had been lost, others were greatly damaged; there was
no port to which they could repair; and to force their way through the
victorious English fleet, then in sight, and amounting to 140 sail, was
plainly and confessedly impossible.” They resolved upon returning to Spain
by a northern route, and “having gotten more sea room for their
huge-bodied bulks, spread their mainsails, and made away as fast as wind
and water would give them leave.” Effingham, leaving Seymour to blockade
the Prince of Parma’s force, followed what our chroniclers now termed the
Vincible Armada, and pursued them to Scotland, where they did not attempt
to land, but made for Norway, “where the English,” says Drake, “thought it
best to leave them to those boisterous and uncouth northern seas.”

Meantime, it was still expected ashore that the Prince of Parma might
effect a landing, and it was at this time that Elizabeth, who declared her
intention to be present wherever the battle might be fought, rode through
the soldiers’ ranks at Tilbury, and made her now historical speech.
“Incredible it is,” says Camden, “how much she encouraged the hearts of
her captains and soldiers by her presence and her words.” When a false
report was brought that the prince had landed, the news was immediately
published throughout the camp, “and assuredly,” says Southey, “if the
enemy had set foot upon our shores they would have sped no better than
they had done at sea, such was the spirit of the nation.” Some time
elapsed before the fate of the Armada was known. It was affirmed on the
Continent that the greater part of the English fleet had been taken, and a
large proportion sunk, the poor remainder having been driven into the
Thames “all rent and torn.” It was believed at Rome that Elizabeth was
taken and England conquered! Meantime, the wretched Armada was being blown
hither and thither by contending winds. The mules and horses had to be
thrown overboard lest the water should fail. When they had reached a
northern latitude, some 200 miles from the Scottish isles, the duke
ordered them each to take the best course they could for Spain, and he
himself with some five-and-twenty of his best provided ships reached it in
safety. The others made for Cape Clear, hoping to water there, but a
terrible storm arose, in which it is believed more than thirty of the
vessels perished off the coast of Ireland. About 200 of the poor Spaniards
were driven from their hiding-places and beheaded, through the inhumanity
of Sir William Fitzwilliam. “Terrified at this, the other Spaniards, sick
and starved as they were, committed themselves to the sea in their
shattered vessels, and very many of them were swallowed up by the waves.”
Two of their ships were wrecked on the coasts of Norway. Some few got into
the English seas; two were taken by cruisers off Rochelle. About 700 men
were cast ashore in Scotland, were humanely treated, and subsequently
sent, by request of the Prince of Parma, to the Netherlands. Of the whole
Armada only fifty-three vessels returned to Spain; eighty-one were lost.
The enormous number of 14,000 men, of whom only 2,000 were prisoners, were
missing. By far the larger proportion were lost by shipwreck.

        [Illustration: QUEEN ELIZABETH ON HER WAY TO ST. PAUL’S.]

“Philip’s behaviour,” says Southey, “when the whole of this great calamity
was known, should always be recorded to his honour. He received it as a
dispensation of Providence, and gave, and commanded to be given,
throughout Spain, thanks to God and the saints that it was no greater.” In
England, a solemn thanksgiving was celebrated at St. Paul’s, where the
Spanish ensigns which had been taken were displayed, and the same flags
were shown on London Bridge the following day, it being Southwark Fair.
Many of the arms and instruments of torture taken are still to be seen in
the Tower. Another great thanksgiving-day was celebrated on the
anniversary of the queen’s accession, and one of great solemnity, two days
later, throughout the realm. On the Sunday following, the queen went “as
in public, but Christian triumph,” to St. Paul’s, in a chariot “made in
the form of a throne with four pillars,” and drawn by four white horses;
alighting from which at the west door, she knelt and “audibly praised God,
acknowledging Him her only Defender, who had thus delivered the land from
the rage of the enemy.” Her Privy Council, the nobility, the French
ambassador, the judges, and the heralds, accompanied her. The streets were
hung with blue cloth and flags, “the several companies, in their liveries,
being drawn up both sides of the way, with their banners in becoming and
gallant order.” Thus ended this most serious attempt at the invasion of
England.





                               CHAPTER XVI.


        THE HISTORY OF SHIPS AND SHIPPING INTERESTS (_continued_).


        Noble Adventurers—The Earl of Cumberland as a Pirate—Rich
       Prizes—Action with the _Madre de Dios_—Capture of the Great
     Carrack—A Cargo worth £150,000—Burning of the _Cinco Chagas_—But
        Fifteen saved out of Eleven Hundred Souls—The _Scourge of
        Malice_—Establishment of the Slave Trade—Sir John Hawkins’
         Ventures—High-handed Proceedings—The Spaniards forced to
      Purchase—A Fleet of Slavers—Hawkins sanctioned by “Good Queen
        Bess”—Joins in a Negro War—A Disastrous Voyage—Sir Francis
    Drake—His First Loss—The Treasure at Nombre de Dios—Drake’s First
       Sight of the Pacific—Tons of Silver Captured—John Oxenham’s
       Voyage—The First Englishman on the Pacific—His Disasters and
        Death—Drake’s Voyage Round the World—Blood-letting at the
    Equator—Arrival at Port Julian—Trouble with the Natives—Execution
    of a Mutineer—Passage of the Straits of Magellan—Vessels separated
     in a Gale—Loss of the _Marigold_—Tragic Fate of Eight Men—Drake
    Driven to Cape Horn—Proceedings at Valparaiso—Prizes taken—Capture
     of the great Treasure Ship—Drake’s Resolve to change his Course
         Home—Vessel refitted at Nicaragua—Stay in the Bay of San
       Francisco—The Natives worship the English—Grand Reception at
      Ternate—Drake’s Ship nearly wrecked—Return to England—Honours
    accorded Drake—His Character and Influence—Sir Humphrey Gilbert’s
           Disasters and Death—Raleigh’s Virginia Settlements.


The spirit of adventure, fostered by the grand discoveries which were
constantly being made, the rich returns derived from trading expeditions,
and from the pillage of our enemies, was at its zenith in the reign of
Queen Elizabeth. Nor was it confined to mere soldiers of fortune, for we
find distinguished noblemen of ample fortunes taking to the seas as though
their daily bread depended thereupon. Among these naval adventurers “there
was no one,” says Southey, “who took to the seas so much in the spirit of
a northern sea king as the Earl of Cumberland.” He had borne his part in
the defeat of the Armada, while still a young man, and the queen was so
well satisfied with him, that she gave him a commission to go the same
year to the Spanish coast as general, lending him the _Golden Lion_, one
of the ships royal, he victualling and furnishing it at his own expense.
After some fighting he took a prize, but soon after had to cut away his
mainmast in a storm, and return to England. “His spirit remaining,
nevertheless, higher than the winds, and more resolutely by storms compact
and united in itself,” we find him shortly afterwards again on the high
seas with the _Victory_, one of the queen’s ships, and three smaller
vessels. The earl was not very scrupulous as regards prize-taking, and
captured two French ships, which belonged to the party of the League. A
little later he fell in with eleven ships from Hamburg and the Baltic, and
fired on them till the captains came on board and showed their passports;
these were respected, but not so the property of a Lisbon Jew, which they
confessed to have on their ships, and which was valued at £4,500. Off the
Azores, he hoisted Spanish colours, and succeeded in robbing some Spanish
vessels. The homeward-bound Portuguese fleet from the East Indies narrowly
escaped him; when near Tercera some English prisoners stole out in a small
boat, having no other yard for their mainsail than two pipe-staves, and
informed him that the Portuguese ships had left the island a week before.
This induced him to return to Fayal, and the terror inspired by the
English name in those days is indicated by the fact that the town of about
500 houses was found to be completely empty; the inhabitants had abandoned
it. He set a guard over the churches and monasteries, and then calmly
waited till a ransom of 2,000 ducats was brought him. He helped himself to
fifty-eight pieces of iron ordnance, and the Governor of Graciosa, to keep
on good terms with the earl, sent him sixty butts of wine. While there a
Weymouth privateer came in with a Spanish prize worth £16,000. Next we
find the earl at St. Mary’s, where he captured a Brazilian sugar ship. In
bringing out their prize they were detained on the harbour bar, exposed to
the enemy. Eighty of Cumberland’s men were killed, and he himself was
wounded; “his head also was broken with stones, so that the blood covered
his face,” and both his face and legs were burnt with fire-balls. The
prize, however, was secured and forwarded to England.

Cumberland himself held on his course to Spain, and soon fell in with a
ship of 400 tons, from Mexico, laden with hides, cochineal, sugar, and
silver, “and the captain had with him a venture to the amount of 25,000
ducats,” which was taken. They now resolved to return home, but “sea
fortunes are variable, having two inconstant parents, air and water,” and
as one of the adventurers(133) concisely put it, “these summer services
and ships of sugar proved not so sweet and pleasant as the winter was
afterwards sharp and painful.” Lister, the earl’s captain, was sent in the
Mexican prize for England, and was wrecked off Cornwall, everything being
lost in her, and all the crew, save five or six men. On the earl’s ship,
contrary winds and gales delayed them so greatly that their water failed;
they were reduced to three spoonfuls of vinegar apiece at each meal; this
state of affairs lasting fourteen days, except what water they could
collect from rain and hail-storms. “Yet was that rain so intermingled with
the spray of the foaming sea, in that extreme storm, that it could not be
healthful: yea, some in their extremity of thirst drank themselves to
death with their cans of salt water in their hands.” Some ten or twelve
perished on each of as many consecutive nights, and the storm was at one
time so violent that the ship was almost torn to pieces; “his lordship’s
cabin, the dining-room, and the half deck became all one,” and he was
obliged to seek a lodging in the hold. The earl, however, constantly
encouraged the men, and the small stock of provisions was distributed with
the greatest equality; so at last they reached a haven on the west coast
of Ireland, where their sufferings ended. On this voyage they had taken
thirteen prizes. The Mexican prize which had been wrecked would have added
£100,000 to the profits of the venture, but even with this great
deduction, the earl had been doubly repaid for his outlay.

     [Illustration: THE EARL OF CUMBERLAND AND THE “MADRE DE DIOS.”]

The earl’s third expedition was a failure, but the fourth resulted in the
capture of the _Madre de Dios_, one of the largest carracks belonging to
the Portuguese crown. In this, however, some of Raleigh’s and Hawkins’
ships had a share. Captain Thomson, who came up with her first, “again and
again delivered his peals as fast as he could fire and fall astern to load
again, thus hindering her way, though somewhat to his own cost, till the
others could come up.” Several others worried the carrack, until the
earl’s ships came up about eleven at night. Captain Norton had no
intention of boarding the enemy till daylight, if there had not been a cry
from one of the ships royal, then in danger, “An you be men, save the
queen’s ship!” Upon this the carrack was boarded on both sides. A
desperate struggle ensued, and it took an hour and a half before the
attacking parties succeeded in getting possession of the high forecastle,
“so brave a booty making the men fight like dragons.” The ship won, the
boarders turned to pillage, and while searching about with candles,
managed to set fire to a cabin containing some hundreds of cartridges,
very nearly blowing up the ship. The hotness of the action was evidenced
by the number of dead and dying who strewed the carrack’s decks,
“especially,” says the chronicler, “about the helm; for the greatness of
the steerage requiring the labour of twelve or fourteen men at once, and
some of our ships beating her in at the stern with their ordnance,
oftentimes with one shot slew four or five labouring on either side of the
helm; whose room being still furnished with fresh supplies, and our
artillery still playing upon them with continual volleys, it could not be
but that much blood should be shed in that place.” For the times, the
prisoners were treated with great humanity, and surgeons were sent on
board to dress their wounds. The captain, Don Fernando de Mendoza, was “a
gentleman of noble birth, well stricken in years, well spoken, of comely
personage, of good stature, but of hard fortune. Twice he had been taken
prisoner by the Moors and ransomed by the king; and he had been wrecked on
the coast of Sofala, in a carrack which he commanded, and having escaped
the sea danger, fell into the hands of infidels ashore, who kept him under
long and grievous servitude.” The prisoners were allowed to carry off
their own valuables, put on board one of Cumberland’s ships, and sent to
their own country. Unfortunately for them, they again fell in with other
English cruisers, who robbed them without mercy, taking from them 900
diamonds and other valuable things. About 800 negroes on board were landed
on the island of Corvo. Her cargo consisted of jewels, spices, drugs,
silks, calicoes, carpets, canopies, ivory, porcelain, and innumerable
curiosities; it was estimated to amount to £150,000 in value, and there
was considerable haggling over its division, and no little embezzlement;
the queen had a large share of it, and Cumberland netted £36,000. The
carrack created great astonishment at Dartmouth by her dimensions, which
for those days were enormous. She was of about 1,600 tons burden, and 165
feet long; she was of “seven several stories, one main orlop, three close
decks, one forecastle (of great height) and a spar deck of two floors
apiece.” Her mainmast was 125 feet in height, and her main-yard 105 feet
long. “Being so huge and unwieldly a ship,” says Purchas, “she was never
removed from Dartmouth, but there laid up her bones.”

In 1594 the earl set forth on his eighth voyage, with three ships, a
caravel, and a pinnace, furnished at his own expense, with the help of
some adventurers. Early in the voyage they descried a great Indian ship,
whose burden they estimated at 2,000 tons. Her name was the _Cinco Chagas_
(the Five Wounds), and her fate was as tragical as her name. She had on
board a number of persons who had been shipwrecked in three vessels,
which, like herself, had been returning from the Indies. When she left
Mozambique for Europe, she had on board 1,400 persons, an enormous number
for those days; on the voyage she had encountered terrible gales, and
after putting in at Loanda for water and supplies, and shipping many
slaves, a fatal pestilence known by the name of the “mal de Loanda,”
carried off about half the crew. The captain wished to avoid the Azores,
but a mutiny had arisen among the soldiers on board, and he was forced to
stand by them, and by this means came into contact with the Earl of
Cumberland’s squadron off Fayal. The Portuguese had pledged themselves to
the ship at all hazards, and to perish with her in the sea, or in the
flames, rather than yield so rich a prize to the heretics. Cumberland’s
ships, after harassing the carrack on all sides, ranged up against her;
twice was she boarded, and twice were the assailants driven out. A third
time the privateers boarded her, one of them bearing a white flag; he was
the first of the party killed, and when a second hoisted another flag at
the poop it was immediately thrown overboard. The English suffered
considerably, more especially among the officers. Cumberland’s
vice-admiral, Antony, was killed; Downton, the rear-admiral, crippled for
life; and Cave, who commanded the earl’s ship, mortally wounded. The
privateers seem, in the heat of action, almost to have forgotten the
valuable cargo on board, and to have aimed only at destroying her. “After
many bickerings,” says the chronicler, “fireworks flew about
interchangeably; at last the vice-admiral, with a culverin shot at hand,
fired the carrack in her stern, and the rear-admiral her forecastle,
* * * * then flying and maintaining their fires so well with their small
shot that many which came to quench them were slain.” The fire made rapid
headway, and P. Frey Antonio, a Franciscan, was seen with a crucifix in
his hand, encouraging the poor sailors to commit themselves to the waves
and to God’s mercy, rather than perish in the flames. A large number threw
themselves overboard, clinging to such things as were cast into the sea.
It is said that the English boats, with one honourable exception, made no
efforts to save any of them; it is even stated that they butchered many in
the water. According to the English account there were more than 1,100 on
board the carrack, when she left Loanda, of whom only fifteen were saved!
Two ladies of high rank, mother and daughter—the latter of whom was going
home to Spain to take possession of some entailed property—when they saw
there was no help to be expected from the privateers, fastened themselves
together with a cord, and committed themselves to the waves; their bodies
were afterwards cast ashore on Fayal, still united, though in the bonds of
death.

The earl afterwards built the _Scourge of Malice_, a ship of 800 tons, and
the largest yet constructed by an English subject, and in 1597 obtained
letters patent authorising him to levy sea and land forces. Without royal
assistance, he gathered eighteen sail. This expedition, although it
worried and impoverished the Spaniards, was not particularly profitable to
the earl. He took Puerto Rico, and then abandoned it, and did not, as he
expected, intercept either the outward-bound East Indiamen, who, indeed,
were too frightened to venture out of the Tagus that year, or the
homeward-bound Mexican fleet. This was Cumberland’s last expedition, and
no other subject ever undertook so many at his own cost.

The Elizabethan age was otherwise so glorious that it is painful to have
to record the establishment of the slave-trade—a serious blot on the
reign—one which no Englishman of to-day would defend, but which was then
looked upon as perfectly legitimate. John Hawkins (afterwards Sir John)
was born at Plymouth, and his father had long been a well-esteemed
sea-captain, the first Englishman, it is believed, who ever traded to the
Brazils. The young man had gained much renown by trips to Spain, Portugal,
and the Canaries, and having “grown in love and favour” with the
Canarians, by good and upright dealing, began to think of more extended
enterprises. Learning that “negroes were very good merchandise in
Hispaniola, and that store of them might easily be had upon the coast of
Guinea,” he communicated with several London ship-owners, who liked his
schemes, and provided him in large part with the necessary outfit. Three
small vessels were provided—the _Solomon_, of 120 tons, the _Swallow_, of
100, and the _Jonas_, of forty. Hawkins left England in October, 1562, and
proceeding to Sierra Leone, “got into his possession, partly by the sword
and partly by other means, to the number of 300 negroes at the least,
besides other merchandise which that country yieldeth.” At the port of
Isabella, Puerto de Plata, and Monte Christo, he made sale of the slaves
to the Spaniards, trusting them “no farther than by his own strength he
was able to master them.” He received in exchange, pearls, ginger, sugar,
and hides enough, not merely to freight his own vessels, but two other
hulks, and thus “with prosperous success, and much gain to himself and the
aforesaid adventurers, he came home, and arrived in September, 1563.”

                    [Illustration: SIR JOHN HAWKINS.]

The second expedition was on a larger scale, and included a queen’s ship
of 700 tons. Hawkins arriving off the Rio Grande, could not enter it for
want of a pilot, but he proceeded to Sambula, one of the islands near its
mouth, where he “went every day on shore to take the inhabitants, with
burning and spoiling their towns,” and got a number of slaves. Flushed
with easy success, Hawkins was persuaded by some Portuguese to attack a
negro town called Bymeba, where he was informed there was much gold. Forty
of his men were landed, and they dispersing, to secure what booty they
could for themselves, became an easy prey to the negroes, who killed
seven, including one of the captains, and wounded twenty-seven. After a
visit to Sierra Leone, which he left quickly on account of the illness and
death of some of his men, he proceeded to the West Indies, where he
carried matters with a high hand at the small Spanish settlements, at
which very generally the poor inhabitants had been forbidden to trade with
him by the viceroy, then stationed at St. Domingo. To this he replied at
Borburata, that he was in need of refreshment and money also, “without
which he could not depart. Their princes were in amity one with another;
the English had free traffic in Spain and Flanders; and he knew no reason
why they should not have the like in the King of Spain’s dominions. Upon
this the Spaniards said they would send to their governor, who was
three-score leagues off; ten days must elapse before his determination
could arrive; meantime he might bring his ships into the harbour, and they
would supply him with any victuals he might require.” The ships sailed in
and were supplied, but Hawkins, “advising himself that to remain there ten
days idle, spending victuals and men’s wages, and perhaps, in the end,
receive no good answer from the governor, it were mere folly,” requested
licence to sell certain lean and sick negroes, for whom he had little or
no food, but who would recover with proper treatment ashore. This request,
he said, he was forced to make, as he had not otherwise wherewith to pay
for necessaries supplied to him. He received a licence to sell thirty
slaves, but now few showed a disposition to buy, and where they did, came
to haggle and cheapen. Hawkins made a feint to go, when the Spaniards
bought some of his poorer negroes, “but when the purchasers paid the duty
and required the customary receipt, the officer refused to give it, and
instead of carrying the money to the king’s account, distributed it to the
poor ‘for the love of God.’” The purchasers feared that they might have to
pay the duty a second time, and the trade was suspended till the governor
arrived, on the fourteenth day. To him Hawkins told a long-winded story,
concluding by saying that, “it would be taken well at the governor’s hand
if he granted a licence in this case, seeing that there was a great amity
between their princes, and that the thing pertained to our queen’s
highness.” The petition was taken under consideration in council, and at
last granted. The licence of thirty ducats demanded for each slave sold
did not, however, meet Hawkins’ views, and he therefore landed 100 men
well armed, and marched toward the town. The poor townspeople sent out
messengers to know his demands, and he requested that the duty should be
7½ per cent., and mildly threatened that if they would not accede to this
“he would displease them.” Everything was conceded, and Hawkins obtained
the prices he wanted. Fancy a modern merchant standing with an armed
guard, pistol in hand, over his customers, insisting that he would sell
what he liked and at his own price!

But all this is nothing to what happened at Rio de la Hacha. There he
spoke of his quiet traffic (!) at Borburata, and requested permission to
trade there in the same manner. He was told that the viceroy had forbidden
it, whereupon he threatened them that he must either have the licence or
they “stand to their own defence.” The licence was granted, but they
offered half the prices which he had obtained at Borburata, whereupon he
told them, insultingly, that “seeing they had sent him this to his supper,
he would in the morning bring them as good a breakfast.”(134) Accordingly,
early next day he fired off a culverin, and prepared to land with 100 men,
“having light ordnance in his great boat, and in the other boats double
bases in their noses.” The townsmen marched out in battle array, but when
the guns were fired fell flat on their faces, and soon dispersed. Still,
about thirty horsemen made a show of resistance, their white leather
targets in one hand and their javelins in the other, but as soon as
Hawkins marched towards them they sent a flag of truce, and the treasurer,
“in a cautious interview with this ugly merchant,” granted all he asked,
and the trade proceeded. They parted with a show of friendship, and
saluted each other with their guns, the townspeople “glad to be sped of
such traders.”

                [Illustration: ON THE COAST OF CORNWALL.]

On the return voyage, contrary winds prevailed, “till victuals scanted, so
that they were in despair of ever reaching home, had not God provided for
them better than their deserving.” They arrived at Padstow, in Cornwall,
“with the loss,” says the narrative printed in Hakluyt’s collection, “of
twenty persons in all the voyage, and with great profit to the venturers,
as also to the whole realm, in bringing home both gold, silver, pearls,
and other jewels in great store. His name, therefore, be praised for
evermore. Amen!” They did not consider that they had been engaged in a
most iniquitous traffic, nor was it, indeed, the opinion of the times.
“Hawkins,” says Southey, “then, is not individually to be condemned, if he
looked upon dealing in negroes to be as lawful as any other trade, and
thought that force or artifice might be employed for taking them with as
little compunction as in hunting, fishing, or fowling.” He had a coat of
arms and crest bestowed upon him and his posterity. Among other devices it
bore “a demi-Moor, in his proper colour, bound and captive, with annulets
on his arms,” &c.

On his next expedition for slaving purposes he had six vessels.
Herrera(135) says that two Portuguese had offered to conduct this fleet to
a place where they might load their vessels with gold and other riches,
and that the queen had been so taken with the idea that she had supplied
Hawkins with two ships, he and his brother fitting out four others and a
pinnace. The force on board amounted to 1,500 soldiers and sailors, who
were to receive a third of the profits. When the expedition was ready, the
Portuguese deserted from Plymouth, and went to France, but as the cost of
the outfit had been incurred, it was thought proper to proceed. Hawkins
obtained, after a great deal of trouble, less than 150 slaves between the
Rio Grande and Sierra Leone. At this juncture a negro king, just going to
war with a neighbouring tribe, sent to the commander asking his aid,
promising him all the prisoners who should be taken. This was a tempting
bait, and 120 men were sent to assist the coloured warrior. They assaulted
a town containing 8,000 inhabitants, strongly paled and well defended, and
the English losing six men, and having a fourth of their number wounded,
sent for more help; “whereupon,” says Hawkins, “considering that the good
success of this enterprise might highly further the commodity of our
voyage, I went myself; and with the help of the king of our side,
assaulted the town both by land and sea, and very hardly, with fire (their
houses being covered with dry palm-leaves), obtained the town, and put the
inhabitants to flight, where we took 250 persons, men, women, and
children. And by our friend, the king of our side, there were taken 600
prisoners, whereof we hoped to have had our choice; but the negro (in
which nation is seldom or never found truth) meant nothing less, for that
night he removed his camp and prisoners, so that we were fain to content
us with those few that we had gotten ourselves.” They had obtained between
400 and 500, a part of which were speedily sold as soon as he reached the
West Indies. At Rio de la Hacha, “from whence came all the pearls,” the
treasurer would by no means allow them to trade, or even to water the
ships, and had fortified the town with additional bulwarks, well manned by
harquebusiers. Hawkins again enforced trade, by landing 200 men, who
stormed their fortifications, at which the Spaniards fled. “Thus having
the town,” says Hawkins, “with some circumstance, as partly by the
Spaniards’ desire of negroes, and partly by friendship of the treasurer,
we obtained a secret trade, whereupon the Spaniards resorted to us by
night, and bought of us to the number of 200 negroes.”

This voyage ended most disastrously. Passing by the west end of Cuba, they
encountered a terrific storm, which lasted four days, and they had to cut
down all the “higher buildings” of the _Jesus_, their largest ship; her
rudder, too, was nearly disabled, and she leaked badly. They made for the
coast of Florida, but could find no suitable haven. “Thus, being in great
despair, and taken with a new storm, which continued other three days,”
Hawkins made for St. Juan de Ulloa, a port of the city of Mexico. They
took on their way three ships, having on board 100 passengers, and soon
reached the harbour. The Spaniards mistook them for a fleet from Spain,
which was expected about that time, and the chief officers came aboard to
receive the despatches. “Being deceived of their expectation,” they were
somewhat alarmed, but finding that Hawkins wanted nothing but provisions,
“were recomforted.” “I found in the same port,” says Hawkins, “twelve
ships, which had in them, by report, £200,000 in gold and silver; _all of
which being in my possession_, with the king’s island, as also the
passengers before in my way thitherward stayed, I set at liberty, without
the taking from them the weight of a groat.” This savours rather of
impudent presumption, for he was certainly not in good condition to fight
at that period. Next day the Spanish fleet arrived outside, when Hawkins
again rode the high horse, by giving notice to the general that he would
not suffer them to enter the port until conditions had been made for their
safe-being, and for the maintenance of peace. The fleet had on board a new
viceroy, who answered amicably, and desired him to propose his conditions.
Hawkins required not merely victuals and trade, and hostages to be given
on both sides, but that the island should be in his possession during his
stay, with such ordnance as was planted there, and that no Spaniard might
land on the island with any kind of weapon. These terms the viceroy
“somewhat disliked” at first, nor is it very surprising that he did; but
at length he pretended to consent, and the Spanish ships entered the port.
In a few days it became evident that treachery was intended, as men and
weapons in quantities were being transferred from and to the Spanish
ships, and new ordnance landed on the island. Hawkins sent to inquire what
was meant, and was answered with fair words; still unsatisfied, he sent
the master of the _Jesus_, who spoke Spanish, to the viceroy, and
“required to be satisfied if any such thing were or not.” The viceroy, now
seeing that the treason must be discovered, retained the master, blew his
trumpet, and it became evident that a general attack was intended. A
number of the English crews ashore were immediately massacred. They
attempted to board the _Minion_ and _Jesus_, but were kept out, with great
loss on both sides. “Now,” says Hawkins, “when the _Jesus_ and the
_Minion_ were gotten about two ships’ lengths from the Spanish fleet, the
fight began so hot on all sides, that, within one hour, the admiral of the
Spaniards was supposed to be sunk, their vice-admiral burnt, and one other
of their principal ships supposed to be sunk. The Spaniards used their
shore artillery to such effect that it cut all the masts and yards of the
_Jesus_, and sunk Hawkins’ smaller ships, the _Judith_ only excepted.” It
had been determined, as there was little hope to get the _Jesus_ away,
that she should be placed as a target or defence for the _Minion_ till
night, when they would remove such of the stores and valuables as was
possible, and then abandon her. “As we were thus determining,” says
Hawkins, “and had placed the _Minion_ from the shot of the land, suddenly
the Spaniards fired two great ships which were coming directly with us;
and having no means to avoid the fire, it bred among the men a marvellous
fear, so that some said, ‘Let us depart with the _Minion_;’ others said,
‘Let us see whether the wind will carry the fire from us.’ But, to be
short, the _Minion’s_ men, which had always their sails in readiness,
thought to make sure work, and so, without either consent of the captain
or master, cut their sail.” Hawkins was “very hardly” received on board,
and many of the men of the _Jesus_ were left to their fate and the mercy
of the Spaniards, “which,” he says, “I doubt was very little.” Only the
_Minion_ and the _Judith_ escaped, and the latter deserted that same
night. Beaten about in unknown seas for the next fourteen days, hunger at
last enforced them to seek the land; “for hides were thought very good
meat; rats, cats, mice, and dogs, none escaped that might be gotten;
parrots and monkeys, that were had in great price, were thought then very
profitable if they served the turn of one dinner.” So starved and worn out
were they, that about a hundred of his people desired to be left on the
coast of Tabasco, and Hawkins determined to water there, and then, “with
his little remain of victuals,” to attempt the voyage home. During this
time, while on shore with fifty of his men, a gale arose, which prevented
them regaining the ship; indeed, they expected to see it wrecked before
their eyes. At last the storm abated, and they sailed for England, the men
dying off daily from sheer exhaustion, the pitiful remainder being
scarcely able to work the ship. They at last reached the coast of Galicia,
where they obtained fresh meat, and putting into Vigo, were assisted by
some English ships lying there. Hawkins concludes his narrative as
follows:—“If all the miseries and troublesome affairs of this sorrowful
voyage should be perfectly and thoroughly written, there should need a
painful man with his pen, and as great a time as he had that wrote the
lives and deaths of the martyrs.”

              [Illustration: HAWKINS AT ST. JUAN DE ULLOA.]

The _Judith_, which made one of Hawkins’s last fleet, was commanded by
Francis Drake, a name that was destined to become one of the most famous
of the day, and very terrible to the Spaniards. In this last venture he
lost all that he had accumulated by earlier voyages, “but a divine,
belonging to the fleet, comforted him with the assurance, that having been
so treacherously used by the Spaniards, he might lawfully recover in value
of the King of Spain, and repair his losses upon him wherever he could.”
This comfortable doctrine consoled him. “The case,” says Fuller, “was
clear in sea divinity.” Two or three minor voyages he made to gain
knowledge of the field of operation, and in the West Indies made some
little money “by playing the seaman and the pirate.” On May 24th, 1572, he
sailed from Plymouth, in the _Pascha_, of seventy tons, his brother
accompanying him in the _Swan_, of only twenty-five tons; they had three
pinnaces on board, taken to pieces and stowed away. The force with which
he was to revenge himself on the Spanish monarch, numbered seventy-three
men and boys, all told. In the Indies he was joined by Captain Rowse, of
an Isle of Wight bark, with thirty-eight men on board. Let us see how they
sped.

It was known that there was great treasure at Nombre de Dios, and thither
the little squadron shaped its course. The town was unwalled, and they
entered without difficulty, but the Spaniards received them in the
market-place with a volley of shot. Drake returned the greeting with a
flight of arrows, “the best ancient English complement,” but in the attack
received a wound in his leg, which he dissembled, “knowing that if the
general’s heart stoop, the men’s will fall.” He arrived at the
treasury-house, which was full of silver bars, and while in the act of
ordering his men to break it open, fainted from the loss of blood, and his
men, binding up the wound, forcibly took him to his pinnace. It was time,
for the Spaniards had discovered their weakness, and could have overcome
them. Rather disappointed here, Drake made for Carthagena, and took
several vessels on his way. He learned from some escaped negro slaves,
settled on the isthmus of Darien, that the treasure was brought from
Panama to Nombre de Dios upon mules, a party of which he might intercept.
Drake’s leg having healed, he was led to an eminence on that isthmus,
where, from a great tree, both the Pacific and Atlantic might be seen.
Steps had been cut in the trunk of this huge tree, and at the top “a
convenient arbour had been made, wherein twelve men might sit.” Drake saw
from its summit that great Southern Ocean (the Pacific Ocean) of which he
had heard something already, and “being inflamed with ambition of glory
and hopes of wealth, was so vehemently transported with desire to navigate
that sea, that falling down there upon his knees, he implored the divine
assistance, that he might at some time or other sail thither, and make a
perfect discovery of the same.”(136) Drake was the first Englishman to
gaze on its waters.

            [Illustration: DRAKE’S FIRST VIEW OF THE PACIFIC]

On the isthmus, Drake encountered an armed party of Spaniards, but put
them to flight, and destroyed merchandise to the value of 200,000 ducats.
Soon after he heard “the sweet music of the mules coming with a great
noise of bells,” and when the trains came up, he found they had no one but
the muleteers to protect them. It was easy work to take as much silver as
they would, but more difficult to transport it to the coast. They, in
consequence, buried several _tons_, but one of his men, who fell into the
hands of the Spaniards, was compelled by torture to reveal the place, and
when Drake’s people returned for a second load it was nearly all gone.
When they returned to the coast where the pinnaces should have met them,
they were not to be seen, but in place, seven Spanish pinnaces which had
been searching the coast. Drake escaped their notice, and constructing a
raft of the trees which the river brought down, mounted a biscuit sack for
sail, and steered it with an oar made from a sapling, out to sea, where
they were constantly up to their waists in water. At last they caught
sight of their own pinnaces, ran the raft ashore, and travelled by land
round to the point off which they were laying. They then embarked their
comrades with the treasure, and rejoined the ship. One of their negro
allies took a great fancy to Drake’s sword, and when it was presented to
him, desired the commander to accept four wedges of gold. “Drake accepted
them as courteously as they were proffered, but threw them into the common
stock, saying, it was just that they who bore part of the charge in
setting him to sea, should enjoy their full proportion of the advantage at
his return.” Drake made the passage home to the Scilly Isles in the
wonderfully short period of twenty-three days. Arriving at Plymouth on a
Sunday, the news was carried into the church during sermon time, and
“there remained few or no people with the preacher,” for Drake was already
a great man and a hero in the eyes of all Devon.

John Oxenham, who had served with Drake in the varied capacities of
soldier, sailor, and cook, was very much in the latter’s confidence. Drake
had particularly spoken of his desire to explore the Pacific, and Oxenham
in reply, had protested that “he would follow him by God’s grace.” The
latter, who “had gotten among the seamen the name of captain for his
valour, and had privily scraped together good store of money,” becoming
impatient, determined to attempt the enterprise his late master had
projected. He reached the isthmus to find that the mule trains conveying
the silver were now protected by a convoy of soldiers, and he determined
on a bold and novel adventure. “He drew his ship aground in a retired and
woody creek, covered it up with boughs, buried his provisions and his
great guns, and taking with him two small pieces of ordnance, went with
all his men and six Maroon guides about twelve leagues into the interior,
to a river which discharges itself into the South Sea. There he cut wood
and built a pinnace, ‘which was five-and-forty feet by the keel;’”
embarked in it, and secured for himself the honour of having been the
first Englishman to sail over the waters of the blue Pacific. In this
pinnace he went to the Pearl Islands, and lay in wait for vessels. He was
successful in capturing a small bark, bringing gold from Quito, and
scarcely a week later, another with silver from Lima. He also obtained a
few pearls on the islands.

            [Illustration: OXENHAM EMBARKING ON THE PACIFIC.]

So far, fortune had followed Oxenham, and to his own want of caution is
due the fact that this prosperous state of affairs was soon reversed. He
had dismissed his prizes when near the mouth of the river, and had allowed
them to perceive where he was entering. The alarm was soon given; first,
indeed, by some negroes who hastened to Panama. Juan de Ortega was
immediately dispatched with 100 men, besides negro rowers, in four barks.
After entering the river, a four days’ search rewarded him by the
discovery of the pinnace with six Englishmen on board, who leaped ashore
and ran for dear life; one only was killed at this juncture. Ortega
discovered in the woods the hut in which Oxenham had concealed the
treasure, and removed it to his barks. Meantime, Oxenham, whose men had
been disputing over the division of spoils, had been to a distance for the
purpose of inducing some of the Maroon negroes to act as carriers, and
returning with them, met the men who had escaped from the pinnace, and
those who were fleeing from the hut. “The loss of their booty at once
completed their reconcilement; he promised larger shares if they should
succeed in re-capturing it; and marched resolutely in quest of the
Spaniards, relying upon the Maroons as well as upon his own people.” But
Ortega and his men were experienced in bush-fighting, and they succeeded
in killing eleven Englishmen, and five negroes, and took seven of
Oxenham’s party prisoners. He, with the remnant of his party, went back to
search for his hidden ship; it had been removed by the Spaniards. And now
the latter sent 150 men to hunt the Englishmen out, while those whom they
failed to take were delivered up by the natives. Oxenham and two of his
officers were taken to Lima and executed; the remainder suffered death at
Panama.

The greatest semi-commercial and piratical voyage of this epoch is
undoubtedly that of Drake, who reached the South Seas(137) _viâ_ the
Straits of Magellan—the third recorded attempt, and the first made by an
Englishman—and was the first English subject to circumnavigate the globe.
Elizabeth gave it her secret sanction, and when Drake was introduced to
her court by Sir Christopher Hatton, presented him a sword, with this
remarkable speech: “We do account that he which striketh at thee, Drake,
striketh at us!” The expedition, fitted at his own cost, and that of
various adventurers, comprised five vessels; the largest, his own ship,
the _Pelican_, being only 100 tons. His whole force consisted of “164 men,
gentlemen, and sailors; and was furnished with such plentiful provision of
all things necessary as so long and dangerous a voyage seemed to require.”
The frames of four pinnaces were taken, to be put together as occasion
might require. “Neither did he omit, it is said, to make provision for
ornament and delight; carrying to this purpose with him expert musicians,
rich furniture (all the vessels for his table, yea, many belonging to the
cook-room, being of pure silver) with divers shows of all sorts of curious
workmanship, whereby the civility and magnificence of his native country
might, among all nations whither he should come, be the more
admired.”(138) Few of his companions knew at the outset the destination of
his voyage; it was given out that they were bound merely for Alexandria.

The expedition sailed on November 15th, 1577, from Plymouth, and
immediately encountered a storm so severe that the vessels came near
shipwreck, and were obliged to put back and refit. When they had again
started under fairer auspices, Drake gave his people some little
information as to his proposed voyage, and appointed an island off the
coast of Barbary as a rendezvous in case of separation at sea, and
subsequently Cape Blanco, where he mustered his men ashore and put them
through drills and warlike exercises. Already, early in January, he had
taken some minor Spanish prizes, and a little later, off the island of
Santiago, chased a Portuguese ship, bound for Brazil, “with many
passengers, and among other commodities, good store of wine.” Drake
captured and set the people on one of his smaller pinnaces, giving them
their clothes, some provisions, and one butt of wine, letting them all go
except their pilot. The provisions and wine on board the prize proved
invaluable to the expedition. From the Cape de Verde Islands they were
nine weeks out of sight of land, and before they reached the coast of
Brazil, when near the equator, “Drake, being very careful of his men’s
health, let every one of them blood with his own hands.” On nearing the
Brazilian coast, the inhabitants “made great fires for a sacrifice to the
devils, about which they use conjurations (making heaps of sand and other
ceremonies), that when any ships shall go about to stay upon their coast,
not only sands may be gathered together in shoals in every place, but also
that storms and tempests may arise, to the casting away of ships and men.”
Near the Plata they slaughtered large numbers of seals, thinking them
“good and acceptable meat both as food for the present, and as a supply of
provisions for the future.” Further south, they found stages constructed
on the rocks by the natives for drying the flesh of ostriches; their
thighs were as large as “reasonable legs of mutton.” At a spot which Drake
named Seal Bay, they remained over a fortnight. Here they “made new
provisions of seals, whereof they slew to the number of from 200 to 300 in
the space of an hour.” Some little traffic ensued with the natives, all of
whom were highly painted, some of them having the whole of one side, from
crown to heel, painted black, and the other white. “They fed on seals and
other flesh, which they ate nearly raw, casting pieces of four or six
pounds’ weight into the fire, till it was a little scorched, and then
tearing it in pieces with their teeth like lions.” At the sound of Drake’s
band of trumpeters they showed great delight, dancing on the beach with
the sailors. They were described as of large stature. “One of these
giants,” said the chaplain of the expedition, “standing with our men when
they were taking their morning draughts, showed himself so familiar that
he also would do as they did; and taking a glass in his hand (being strong
canary wine), it came no sooner to his lips, than it took him by the nose,
and so suddenly entered his head, that he was so drunk, or at least so
overcome, that he fell right down, not able to stand; yet he held the
glass fast in his hand, without spilling any of the wine; and when he came
to himself, he tried again, and tasting, by degrees got to the bottom.
From which time he took such a liking to the wine, that having learnt the
name, he would every morning come down from the mountains with a mighty
cry of ‘Wine! wine! wine!’ continuing the same until he arrived at the
tent.”(139)

After some trouble caused by the separation of the vessels, the whole
fleet arrived safely at the “good harborough called by Magellan Port
Julian,” where nearly the first sight they met was a gibbet, on which the
Portuguese navigator had executed several mutinous members of his company,
some of the bones of whom yet remained. Drake himself was to have trouble
here. At the outset the natives appeared friendly, and a trial of skill in
shooting arrows resulted in an English gunner exceeding their efforts, at
which they appeared pleased by the skill shown. A little while after
another Indian came, “but of a sourer sort,” and one Winter, prepared for
another display of archery, unfortunately broke the bow-string when he
drew it to its full length. This disabused the natives, to some extent, of
the superior skill of the English, and an attack was made, apparently
incited by the Indian just mentioned. Poor Winter received two wounds, and
the gunner coming to the rescue with his gun missed fire, and was
immediately shot “through the breast and out at back, so that he fell down
stark dead.” Drake assembled his men, ordering them to cover themselves
with their targets, and march on the assailants, instructing them to break
the arrows shot at them, noting that the savages had but a small store.
“At the same time he took the piece which had so unhappily missed fire,
aimed at the Indian who had killed the gunner, and who was the man who had
begun the fray, and shot him in the belly. An arrow wound, however severe,
the savage would have borne without betraying any indication of pain; but
his cries, upon being thus wounded, were so loud and hideous, that his
companions were terrified and fled, though many were then hastening to
their assistance. Drake did not pursue them, but hastened to convey Winter
to the ship for speedy help; no help, however, availed, and he died on the
second day. The gunner’s body, which had been left on shore, was sent for
the next day; the savages, meantime, had stripped it, as if for the sake
of curiously inspecting it; the clothes they had laid under the head, and
stuck an English arrow in the right eye for mockery. Both bodies were
buried in a little island in the harbour.”(140) No farther attempt was
made to injure the English, who remained two months in the harbour, but
friendly relations were not established. A more serious event was to
follow.

One Master Doughtie was suspected and accused of something worse than
ordinary mutiny or insubordination. It is affirmed in a history of the
voyage published under the name of Drake’s nephew, that Doughtie had
embarked on the expedition for the distinct purpose of overthrowing it for
his own aggrandisement, to accomplish which he intended to raise a mutiny,
and murder the admiral and his most attached followers. Further, it is
stated, that Drake was informed of this before he left Plymouth; but that
he would not credit “that a person whom he so dearly loved would conceive
such evil purposes against him.” Doughtie had been put in possession of
the Portuguese prize, but had been removed on a charge of peculation, and
it is likely that “resentment, whether for the wrongful charge, or the
rightful removal, might be rankling in him;” at all events, his later
conduct, and mutinous words, left no alternative to Drake but to examine
him before a properly constituted court, and he seems to have most
reluctantly gone even to this length.(141) He was “found guilty by twelve
men after the English manner, and suffered accordingly.” “The most
indifferent persons in the fleet,” says Southey, “were of opinion that he
had acted seditiously, and that Drake cut him off because of his emulous
designs. The question is, how far those designs extended? He could not
aspire to the credit of the voyage without devising how to obtain for
himself some more conspicuous station in it than that of a gentleman
volunteer; if he regarded Drake as a rival, he must have hoped to
supplant, or at least to vie with him; and in no other way could he have
vied with him but by making off with one of the ships, and trying his own
fortune” (which was afterwards actually accomplished by others). Doughtie
was condemned to death. “And he,” says a writer, quoted by Hakluyt,
“seeing no remedy but patience for himself, desired before his death to
receive the communion; which he did at the hands of Master Fletcher, our
minister, and our general himself accompanied him in that holy action;
which being done, and the place of execution made ready, he, having
embraced our general, and taken his leave of all the company, with prayer
for the queen’s majesty and our realm, in quiet sort laid his head to the
block, where he ended his life.” One account says that after partaking of
the communion, Drake and Doughtie dined at the same table together, “as
cheerfully, in sobriety, as ever in their lives they had done; and taking
their leave by drinking to each other, as if some short journey only had
been in hand.” A provost marshal had made all things ready, and after
drinking this funereal stirrup-cup, Doughtie went to the block. Drake
subsequently addressed the whole company, exhorting them to unity and
subordination, asking them to prepare reverently for a special celebration
of the holy communion on the following Sunday.

And now, having broken up the Portuguese prize on account of its
unseaworthiness, and rechristened his own ship, the _Pelican_, into the
_Golden Hinde_, Drake entered the Straits now named after Magellan, though
that navigator termed them the Patagonian Straits, because he had found
the natives wearing clumsy shoes or sandals: _patagon_ signifying in
Portuguese a large, ill-shaped foot. The land surrounding the straits is
high and mountainous, and the water generally deep close to the cliffs.
“We found the strait,” says the first narrator, “to have many turnings,
and as it were, shuttings up, as if there were no passage at all.” Drake
passed through the tortuous strait in seventeen days. Clift, one of the
historians of the expedition, whose narrative is preserved in Hakluyt’s
collection of “Voyages,” says of the penguins there, three thousand of
which were killed in less than a day, “We victualled ourselves with a kind
of fowl which is plentiful on that isle (St. George’s in the Straits), and
whose flesh is not unlike a fat goose here in England. They have no wings,
but short pinions, which serve their turn in swimming; their colour is
somewhat black, mixed with white spots under their belly, and about their
necks. They wall so upright that, afar off, a man would take them to be
little children. If a man approach anything near them, they run into holes
in the ground (which be not very deep) whereof the island is full, so that
to take them we had staves with hooks fast to the end, wherewith some of
our men pulled them out, and others being ready with cudgels did knock
them on the head, for they bite so cruelly with their crooked bills, that
none of us were able to handle them alive.”

Drake’s vessels, separated by a gale, were driven hither and thither. One
of them, the _Marigold_, must have foundered, as she was never again heard
of. The two remaining ships sought shelter in a dangerous rocky bay, from
which the _Golden Hinde_ was driven to sea, her cable having parted. The
other vessel, under Captain Winter’s command, regained the straits, and
“anchoring there in an open bay, made great fires on the shore, that if
Drake should put into the strait also, he might discover them.” Winter
proceeded later up the straits, and anchored in a sound, which he named
the Port of Health, because his men, who had been “very sick with long
watching, wet, cold, and evil diet,” soon recovered on the nourishing
shell-fish found there. He, after waiting some time, and despairing of
regaining Drake’s company, gave over the voyage, and set sail for England,
“where he arrived with the reproach of having abandoned his commander.”

Drake was now reduced to his own vessel, the _Golden Hinde_, which was
obliged to seek shelter on the coast of Terra del Fuego. The winds again
forced him from his anchorage, and his shallop, with eight men on board,
and provisions for only one day, was separated from him. The fate of these
poor fellows was tragical. They regained the straits, where they caught
and salted a quantity of penguins, and then coasted up South America to
the Plata. Six of them landed, and while searching for food in the
forests, encountered a party of Indians, who wounded all of them with
their arrows, and secured four, pursuing the others to the boat. These
latter reached the two men in charge, but before they could put off, all
were wounded by the natives. They, however, succeeded in reaching an
island some distance from the mainland, where two of them died from the
injuries received, and the boat was wrecked and beaten to pieces on the
rocks. The remaining two stopped on the island eight weeks, living on
shell-fish and a fruit resembling an orange, but could find no water. They
at length ventured to the mainland on a large plank some ten feet in
length, which they propelled with paddles; the passage occupied three
days. “On coming to land,” says Carter, the only survivor, “we found a
rivulet of sweet water; when William Pitcher, my only comfort and
companion (although I endeavoured to dissuade him) overdrank himself, and
to my unspeakable grief, died within half an hour.” Carter himself fell
into the hands of some Indians, who took pity on him, and conducted him to
a Portuguese settlement. Nine years elapsed before he was able to regain
his own country.

                      [Illustration: SIR F. DRAKE.]

Meantime Drake was driven so far to the southward, that at length he “fell
in with the uttermost part of the land towards the South Pole,” or in
other words, reached Cape Horn. The storm had lasted with little
intermission for over seven weeks. “Drake went ashore, and, sailor-like,
leaning over a promontory, as far as he safely could, came back and told
his people how that he had been farther south than any man living.” At
last the wind was favourable, and he coasted northward, along the American
shore, till he reached the island of Mocha, where the Indians appeared at
first to be friendly, and brought off potatoes, roots, and two fat sheep,
for which they received recompense. But on landing for the purpose of
watering the ship, the natives shot at them, wounding every one of twelve
men, and Drake himself under the right eye. In this case no attempt was
made at retaliation. The Indians doubtless took them for Spaniards. Drake,
continuing his voyage, fell in with an Indian fishing from a canoe, who
was made to understand their want of provisions, and was sent ashore with
presents. This brought off a number of natives with supplies of poultry,
hogs, and fruits, while Felipe, one of them who spoke Spanish, informed
Drake that they had passed the port of Valparaiso—then an insignificant
settlement of less than a dozen Spanish families—where a large ship was
lying at anchor. Felipe piloted them thither, and they soon discovered the
ship, with a meagre crew of eight Spaniards and four negroes on board. So
little was an enemy expected, that as Drake’s vessel approached, it was
saluted with beat of drum, and a jar of Chili wine made ready for an
hospitable reception. But Drake and his men wanted something more than
bumpers of wine, and soon boarded the vessel, one of the men striking down
the first Spaniard he met, and exclaiming, “_Abaxo perro!_” (Down, dog!)
Another of the crew leaped overboard and swam ashore to give an alarm to
the town; the rest were soon secured under hatches. The inhabitants of the
town fled incontinently, but the spoils secured there were small. The
chapel was rifled of its altar-cloth, silver chalice, and other articles,
which were handed over to Drake’s chaplain; quantities of wine and other
provisions were secured. The crew of the prize, with the exception of the
Greek pilot, were set ashore, and Drake left with his new acquisition,
which when examined at sea was found to contain one thousand seven hundred
and seventy jars of wine, sixty thousand pieces of gold, some pearls, and
other articles of value. The Indian who had guided them to this piece of
good fortune, was liberally rewarded.

At a place called Tarapaca, whither they had gone to water the ship, they
found a Spaniard lying asleep, and keeping very bad guard over thirteen
bars of silver, worth four thousand ducats. Drake determined to take care
of it for him. At a short distance off, they encountered another, who,
with an Indian, was driving eight llamas, each carrying a hundredweight of
silver. It is needless to say that the llamas were conveyed on board,
_plus_ the silver. At Arica two ships were found at anchor, one of which
yielded forty bars of silver, and the other a considerable quantity of
wine. But these were as trifles to that which followed.

Drake had pursued a leisurely course, but in spite of this fact, no
intelligence of the pirate’s approach had reached Lima. The term “pirate”
is used advisedly, for whatever the gain to geographical science afforded
by his voyages, their chief aim was spoil, and it mattered nothing whether
England was at war with the victims of his prowess or not. A few leagues
off Callao harbour (the port of Lima), Drake boarded a Portuguese vessel:
the owner agreed to pilot him into Callao, provided his cargo was left
him. They arrived at nightfall, “sailing in between all the ships that lay
there, seventeen in number,” most of which had their sails ashore, for the
Spaniards had had, as yet, no enemies in those waters. They rifled the
ships of their valuables, and these included a large quantity of silk and
linen, and one chest of silver reales. But they heard that which made
their ears tingle, and inflamed their desires for gain; the _Cacafuego_, a
great treasure ship, had sailed only a few days before for a neighbouring
port. Drake immediately cut the cables of the ships at Lima, and let them
drive, that they might not pursue him. “While he was thus employed, a
vessel from Panama, laden with Spanish goods, entered the harbour, and
anchored close by the _Golden Hinde_. A boat came from the shore to search
it; but because it was night, they deferred the search till the morning,
and only sent a man on board. The boat then came alongside Drake’s vessel,
and asked what ship it was. A Spanish prisoner answered, as he was
ordered, that it was Miguel Angel’s, from Chili. Satisfied with this, the
officer in the boat sent a man to board it; but he, when on the point of
entering, perceived one of the large guns, and retreated in the boat with
all celerity, because no vessels that frequented that port, and navigated
those seas, carried great shot.” The crew of the Panama ship took alarm
when they observed the rapid flight of the man, and put to sea. The
_Hinde_ followed her, and the Spanish crew abandoned their ship, and
escaped ashore in their boat. The alarm had now been given in Lima, and
the viceroy dispatched two vessels in pursuit, each having two hundred men
on board, but no artillery. The Spanish commander, however, showed no
desire to tackle Drake, and he escaped, taking shortly afterwards three
tolerable prizes, one of which yielded forty bars of silver, eighty
pounds’ weight of gold, and a golden crucifix, “set with goodly great
emeralds.” One of the men having secreted two plates of gold from this
prize, and denied the theft, was immediately hanged.

But it was the _Cacafuego_ that Drake wanted, and after crossing the line
he promised to give his own chain of gold to the first man who should
descry her. On St. David’s Day, the coveted prize was discovered from the
top, by a namesake of the commander, one John Drake. All sail was set, but
an easy capture was before them; for the Spanish captain, not dreaming of
enemies in those latitudes, slackened sail, in order to find out what ship
she was. When they had approached near enough, Drake hailed them to
strike, which being refused, “with a great piece he shot her mast
overboard, and having wounded the master with an arrow, the ship yielded.”
Having taken possession, the vessels sailed in company far out to sea,
when they stopped and lay by. She proved a prize indeed: gold and silver
in coin and bars, jewels and precious stones amounting to three hundred
and sixty thousand pieces of gold were taken from her. The silver alone
amounted to a value in our money of £212,000. It is stated that Drake
called for the register of the treasure on board, and wrote a receipt for
the amount! The ship was dismissed, and Drake gave the captain a letter of
safe conduct, in case she should fall in with his consorts. This, as we
know, was impossible.

Drake’s plain course now was to make his way home, and he wisely argued
that it would be unsafe to attempt the voyage by the route he had come, as
the Spaniards would surely attack him in full force, the whole coast of
Chili and Peru being aroused to action. He conceived the bold notion of
rounding North America: in other words, he proposed to make that passage
which has been the great dream of Arctic explorers, and which has only, as
we shall hereafter see, been once made (and that in a very partial sense)
by Franklin and M’Clure. His company agreed to his views: firstly to
refit, water, and provision the ship in some convenient bay;
“thenceforward,” says one of them, “to hasten on our intended journey for
the discovery of the said passage, through which we might with joy return
to our longed homes.” They sailed for Nicaragua, near the mainland of
which they found a small island with a suitable bay, where they obtained
wood, water, and fish. A small prize was taken while there, having on
board a cargo of sarsaparilla, which they disdained, and butter and honey,
which they appropriated. Drake now sailed northward, and most undoubtedly
reached the grand bay of San Francisco. Californian authorities concede
this. The “Drake’s Bay” of the charts is an open roadstead, and does not
answer the descriptions given of the great navigator’s visit. He had
peaceful interviews with the natives, and took possession, in the fashion
of those days, of the country, setting up a monument of the queen’s “right
and title to the same, namely, a plate nailed upon a fair great post,
whereupon was engraven her Majesty’s name, the day and year of our arrival
there, ... together with her highness’s picture and arms in a piece of
_sixpence_ (!) of current English money under the plate, where under also
was written the name of our general.” History does not tell us the fate of
that sixpence, but the title, New Albion, bestowed on the country by
Drake, remained on the maps half way into this century, or just before the
discovery of gold in California. The natives regarded the English with
superstitious awe, and could not be prevented from offering them
sacrifices, “with lamentable weeping, scratching, and tearing the flesh
from their faces with their nails, whereof issued abundance of blood.”
“But we used,” says the narrator quoted by Hakluyt, “signs to them of
disliking this, and stayed their hands from force, and directed them
upwards to the living God, whom only they ought to worship.” After
remaining there five weeks, Drake took his departure, and the natives
watched the ships sadly as they sailed, and kept fires burning on the
hill-tops as long as they continued in sight. “Good store of seals and
birds” were taken from the Farralone Islands. Many an egg has the writer
eaten, laid by the descendants of those very birds: they are supplied in
quantities to the San Francisco markets. Drake’s attempt at the northern
passage was now abandoned.

               [Illustration: DRAKE’S ARRIVAL AT TERNATE.]

Sixty-eight days was Drake’s ship—containing one of the most valuable
freights ever held in one bottom—in the open sea, during which time no
land was sighted; at the end of this period the Pelew, Philippine, and
Molucca Islands were successively reached. At Ternate, Drake sent a velvet
cloak as a present to the king, requesting provisions, and that he might
be allowed to trade for spices. The king was amiable and well disposed; he
sent before him “four great and large canoes, in every one whereof were
certain of his greatest states that were about him, attired in white lawn
of cloth of Calicut, having over their heads, from the one end of the
canoe to the other, a covering of thin perfumed mats, borne up with a
frame made of reeds for the same use, under which every one did sit in his
order, according to his dignity, to keep him from the heat of the sun.
* * * The rest were soldiers which stood in comely order, round about on
both sides; without whom sat the rowers in certain galleries, which being
three on a side all along the canoes, did lie off from the side thereof
three or four yards, one being orderly builded lower than another, in
every of which galleries were fourscore rowers. These canoes were
furnished with warlike munitions, every man, for the most part, having his
sword and target, with his dagger, besides other weapons, as lances,
calivers, darts, bows and arrows; also every canoe had a small cast-base
(or cannon) mounted at the least one full yard upon a stock set upright.”
These canoes or galleys were rowed about the ship, those on board doing
homage as they passed. The king soon arrived in state, and was received
“with a salute of great guns, with trumpets sounding, and such politic
display of state and strength as Drake knew it was advisable to exhibit.”
Many presents were made to the king, who in return sent off provisions of
rice, fowls, fruits, sugar-cane, and “imperfect and liquid sugar”
(presumably molasses). Next day there was a grand reception ashore; the
king, covered with gold and jewels, under a rich canopy embossed with
gold, professing great friendship. The fact was that his own father had
been assassinated by the Portuguese, and he himself had besieged and taken
their Fort St. Paul’s, and compelled them to leave it. He was, doubtless,
anxious for some alliance which might strengthen his hands against the
Portuguese. Drake, however, had no commission, nor desire at that time to
engage his country to any such treaty; his principal object now was to get
home safely with his treasure. He, however, successfully traded for a
quantity of cloves and provisions.

Off Celebes, the _Hinde_ became entangled among the shoals, and while
running under full sail, suddenly struck on a rock, where she stuck fast.
Boats were got out to see whether an anchor might not be employed to draw
the ship off, but the water all round was very deep, no bottom being
found. Three tons of cloves, eight guns, and certain stores were thrown
overboard, but to no purpose. Fuller says quaintly, that they “threw
overboard as much wealth as would break the heart of a miser to think
on’t; with much sugar, and packs of spices, making a caudle of the sea
round about. Then they betook themselves to their prayers, the best lever
at such a dead lift indeed, and it pleased God that the wind, formerly
their mortal enemy, became their friend.”(142) To the joy of all, the
_Hinde_ glided off the rocks, and almost uninjured. On the way home they
visited Barateva, Java, the Cape, and Sierra Leone, being singularly
fortunate in avoiding the Portuguese and Spanish ships. The _Hinde_
arrived safely at Plymouth on September 26th, 1580, having been nearly
three years on her eventful voyage. Drake was received with great honour,
and was knighted by the queen. She gave orders that his little ship should
be laid up at Deptford, and there carefully preserved as a monument of the
most remarkable voyage yet made. Elizabeth honoured Drake by banqueting on
board, and his fame spread everywhere through the kingdom. The boys of
Westminster School set up some Latin verses on the mainmast, of which
Southey gives the following free translation—

  “On Hercules’ Pillars, Drake, thou may’st _plus ultra_ write full well,
  And say, I will in greatness that great Hercules excel.”

And again—

  “Sir Drake, whom well the world’s end knows, which thou didst compass
              round,
  And whom both poles of heaven once saw which north and south do bound,
  The stars above will make thee known if men here silent were;
  The sun himself cannot forget his fellow-traveller.”

Drake’s series of victories over the Spaniards, and the repulse which
occurred just before his death are details of history which would fill a
volume. He received a sailor’s funeral at Puerto Bello, his body being
committed to the deep in a leaden coffin, with the solemn service of the
English Church, rendered more impressive by volleys of musketry, and the
booming of guns from all the fleet. A poet of the day says—

  “The waves became his winding sheet, the waters were his tomb;
  But for his fame the ocean sea was not sufficient room.”

No single name in naval history has ever attained the celebrity acquired
by Drake. The Spaniards, who called him a dragon, believed that he had
dealings with the devil; “that notion,” says Southey, “prevented them from
feeling any mortification at his successes, * * * and it enhanced their
exultation over the failure of his last expedition, which they considered
as the triumph of their religion over heresy and magic.” The common people
in England itself, more especially in the western counties, believed any
quantity of fables concerning him, some of them verging on childishness.
He had only to cast a chip in the water when it would become a fine
vessel. “It was not by his skill as an engineer, and the munificent
expenditure of the wealth which he had so daringly obtained, that Drake
supplied Plymouth with fresh water; but by mounting his horse, riding
about Dartmoor till he came to a spring sufficiently copious for his
design, then wheeling round, pronouncing some magical words, and galloping
back into the town, with the stream in full flow, and forming its own
channel at the horse’s heels.” One of the popular stories regarding him is
briefly as follows. When Sir Francis left on one of his long voyages, he
told his wife that should he not return within a certain number of years
she might conclude that he was dead, and might, if she so chose, wed
again. One version places the time at seven, and another at ten years.
During these long years the excellent lady remained true to her lord, but
at the end of the term accepted an offer. “One of Drake’s ministering
spirits, whose charge it was to convey to him any intelligence in which he
was nearly concerned, brought him the tidings. Immediately he loaded one
of his great guns, and fired it right through the globe on one side, and
up on the other, with so true an aim that it made its way into the church,
between the two parties most concerned, just as the marriage service was
beginning. ‘It comes from Drake!’ cried the wife to the now unbrided
bridegroom; ‘he is alive! and there must be neither troth nor ring between
thee and me.’”

Drake is described as of low stature, but well set, and of an admirable
presence. His chest was broad, his hair nut-brown, his beard handsome and
full, his head “remarkably round,” his eyes large and clear, his
countenance fresh, cheerful and engaging. “It has been said of him that he
was a willing hearer of every man’s opinion, but commonly a follower of
his own,” which, as a rule, was really sure to be judicious. He had a
quick temper, and once offended, was “hard to be reconciled,” but his
friendships were firm; he was ambitious to the last degree, and “the
vanity which usually accompanies that sin laid him open to flattery.” He
was affable with his men, who idolised him as the grand commander and
skilful seaman that he most undoubtedly was.

In spite of the rich prizes so often taken, a competent authority says:
“The expeditions undertaken in Elizabeth’s reign against the Spaniards are
said to have produced no advantage to England in any degree commensurate
with the cost of money and expense of life with which they were
performed.” But we must never forget the wonderful development of the navy
which resulted; the splendid training acquired by our sailors, and the
grand gains to geographical science.

The opening of colonisation and trade with America—so far as England is
concerned—is due to Sir Humphrey Gilbert, and his step-brother, Sir Walter
Raleigh. From their comparatively insignificant attempts at settling parts
of that vast northern continent what grand results have accrued! The acorn
has become a mighty, wide-spreading oak, sheltering the representatives of
every nationality.

When Sir Humphrey Gilbert proposed to Queen Elizabeth the settlement of a
colony in the New World, she immediately assented, and granted him letters
patent as comprehensive and wide-spreading as ever issued by papal
sanction. She accorded free liberty to him, his heirs and assigns for
ever, to discover and take possession of any heathen and savage lands not
being actually possessed by any Christian prince or people; such
countries, and all towns, castles or villages, to be holden by them of the
crown, payment of a fifth of all the gold and silver ore discovered being
required by the latter. The privileges seemed so great that “very many
gentlemen of good estimation drew unto Sir Humphrey to associate with him
in so commendable an enterprise.” But divisions and feuds arose, and
Gilbert went to sea only to become involved in a “dangerous sea-fight, in
which many of his company were slain, and his ships were battered and
disabled.” He was compelled to put back “with the loss of a tall ship.”
The records of this encounter are meagre, but the disaster retarded for
the time his attempt at colonisation, besides impairing his estate.

Sir Humphrey’s patent was only for six years, unless he succeeded in his
project, and in 1583 he found means to equip a second expedition, to which
Raleigh contributed a bark of 200 tons, named after him, the little fleet
numbering in all five vessels. The queen had always favoured Gilbert, and
before he departed on this voyage, sent him a golden anchor with a large
pearl on it, by the hands of Raleigh. In the letter accompanying it,
Raleigh wrote, “Brother, I have sent you a token from her Majesty—an
anchor guided by a lady, as you see. And, further, her highness willed me
to send you word, that she wished you as great a good hap and safety to
your ship, as if she herself were there in person, desiring you to have
care of yourself as of that which she tendereth; and, therefore, for her
sake you must provide for it accordingly. Further she commandeth that you
leave your picture with me.” Elizabeth’s direct interest in the rapidly
increasing maritime and commercial interests of the day was very apparent
in all her actions.

_Bark Raleigh_ was the largest vessel of the expedition, two of the others
being of forty, and one of twenty tons only. The number of those who
embarked was about 260, and the list included carpenters, shipwrights,
masons, and smiths; also “mineral men and refiners.” It is admitted that
among them there were many “who had been taken as pirates in the narrow
seas, instead of being hanged according to their deserts.” “For solace of
our people,” says one of the captains under Gilbert, “and allurement of
the savages, we were provided of music in good variety, not omitting the
least toys, as morris-dancers, hobby-horse, and May-like conceits to
delight the savage people, whom we intended to win by all fair means
possible.” The period of starting being somewhat late in the season, it
was determined to sail first for Newfoundland instead of Cape Florida, as
at the former Gilbert knew that he could obtain abundant supplies from the
numerous ships employed in the abundant cod-fisheries. The voyage was to
commence in disaster. They sailed on June 11th, and two days later the men
of the _Bark Raleigh_ hailed their companions with the information that
their captain and many on board were grievously sick. She left them that
night and put back to Plymouth, where, it is stated, she arrived with a
number of the crew prostrated by a contagious disease. Some mystery
attaches to this defection; “the others proceeded on their way, not a
little grieved with the loss of the most puissant ship in their fleet.”
Two of the fleet parted company in a fog; one of them was found in the Bay
of Conception, her men in new apparel and particularly well provided, the
secret being that they had boarded an unfortunate Newfoundland ship on the
way, and had pretty well rifled it, not even stopping at torture where the
wretched sailors had objected to be stripped of their possessions. The
other vessel was found lying off the harbour of St. John’s, where at first
the English merchants objected to Gilbert’s entry, till he assured them
that he came with a commission from her Majesty, and had no ill-intent. On
the way in, his vessel struck on a rock, whereupon the other captains sent
to the rescue, saved the ship, and fired a salute in his honour. His first
act was to tax all the ships for his own supply; the Portuguese, in
particular, contributed liberally, so that the crews were “presented,
above their allowances, with wines, marmalades, most fine rusk or biscuit,
sweet oil, and sundry delicacies.” Then the merchants and masters were
assembled to hear his commission read, and possession of the harbour and
country for 200 leagues every way was taken in the name of the queen. A
wooden pillar was erected on the spot, and the arms of England, engraved
on lead, were affixed. The lands lying by the water side were granted to
certain of the adventurers and merchants, they covenanting to pay rent and
service to Gilbert, his heirs and assigns for ever.

Some of the before-mentioned pirates of the expedition gave Sir Humphrey a
considerable amount of trouble while at St. John’s, some deserting, and
others plotting to steal away the shipping by night. A number of them
stole a ship laden with fish, setting the crew on shore. When ready to
sail, he found that there were not sufficient hands for all his vessels,
and the _Swallow_ was left for the purpose of transporting home a number
of the sick. He selected for himself the smallest of his fleet, the
_Squirrel_, described as a “frigate” of ten tons, as most suitable for
exploring the coasts. But that which made him of good heart was a sample
of silver ore which one of his miners had discovered; “he doubted not to
borrow £10,000 of the queen, for his next voyage, upon the credit of this
mine.”

For eight days they followed the coast towards Cape Breton, at the end of
which time the wind rose, bringing thick fog and rain, so that they could
not see a cable’s length before them. They were driven among shoals and
breakers, and their largest ship was wrecked in a moment. “They in the
other vessel,” says Hayes,(143) “saw her strike, and her stern presently
beaten to pieces; whereupon the frigate in which was the general, and the
_Golden Hinde_ cast about, even for our lives, into the wind’s eye,
because that way carried us to the seaward. Making out from this danger,
we sounded one while seven fathoms, then five, then four, and less; again
deeper, immediately four fathom, then but three, the sea going mightily
and high. At last we recovered (God be thanked!) in some despair to sea
room enough. All that day, and part of the night, we beat up and down as
near unto the wreck as was possible, but all in vain. This was a heavy and
grievous event to lose our chief ship, freighted with great provision; but
worse was the loss of our men, to the number of almost a hundred souls;
amongst whom was drowned a learned man, an Hungarian, born in the city of
Buda, called thereof Budæus, who out of piety and zeal to good attempts,
adventured in this action, minding to record in the Latin tongue, the
gests and things worthy of remembrance happening in this discovery to the
honour of our nation. Here, also, perished our Saxon refiner, and
discoverer of inestimable riches. Maurice Brown, the captain, when advised
to shift for his life in the pinnace, refused to quit the ship, lest it
should be thought to have been lost through his default. With this mind he
mounted upon the highest deck, where he attended imminent death and
unavoidable,—how long, I leave it to God, who withdraweth not his comfort
from his servants at such a time.” Of the company only ten were saved in a
small pinnace which was piloted to Newfoundland.

Meantime, on board the remaining vessels, there was much suffering, and
Sir Humphrey was obliged to yield to the general desire, and sail for
England, having “compassion upon his poor men, in whom he saw no lack of
good will, but of means fit to perform the action they came for.” He
promised his subordinate officers to set them forth “royally the next
spring,” if God should spare them. But it was not so to be.

            [Illustration: THE DEATH OF SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT.]

Sir Humphrey Gilbert was entreated, when one day he had come on board the
_Hinde_, to remain there, instead of risking himself “in the frigate,
which was overcharged with nettage, and small artillery,” to which he
answered, “I will not forsake my little company going homewards, with whom
I have passed so many storms and perils.” A short time afterwards, while
experiencing “foul weather and terrible seas, breaking short and high,
pyramidwise, men which all their life had occupied the sea never saw it
more outrageous,” the frigate was nearly engulfed, but recovered. Gilbert,
sitting abaft with a book in his hand, cried out to the crew of the
_Hinde_ in the following noble words, so often since recorded in poetry
and prose: “Courage, my lads! We are as near to heaven by sea as by land!”
That same night the lights of the little vessel were suddenly missed, and
Gilbert and his gallant men were engulfed in the depths for ever. Of such
men we may appropriately say with the poet Campbell—

  “The deck it was their field of fame,
  And Ocean was their grave.”

The _Hinde_ reached Falmouth in safety, though sadly shattered and torn.

But the spirit of enterprise then prevailing was not to be easily quashed,
and only a few months after the failure of poor Gilbert’s enterprise, we
find Sir Walter Raleigh in the field. He obtained letters of patent
similar to those before mentioned, and was aided by several persons of
wealth, particularly Sir Richard Greenville and Mr. William Saunderson.
Two barks, under Captains Amadas and Barlow, were sent to a part of the
American continent north of the Gulf of Florida, and after skirting the
coast for one hundred and twenty miles, a suitable haven was found, the
land round which was immediately taken for the queen with the usual
formalities. After sundry minor explorations they returned to England,
where they gave a glowing account of the country. It was “so full of
grapes that the very beating and surge of the sea overflowed them.” The
vegetation was so rich and abundant that one of the captains thought that
“in all the world the like abundance is not to be found,” while the woods
were full of deer and smaller game. The cedars were “the highest and
reddest in the world,” while among smaller trees was that bearing “the
rind of black cinnamon.” The inhabitants were kind and gentle, and void of
treason, “handsome and goodly people in their behaviour, as mannerly and
civil as any of Europe.” It is true that “they had a mortal malice against
a certain neighbouring nation; that their wars were very cruel and bloody,
and that by reason thereof, and of civil dissensions which had happened of
late years amongst them, the people were marvellously wasted, and in some
places the country left desolate.” These little discrepancies were passed
over, and Elizabeth was so well pleased with the accounts brought home,
that she named the country Virginia; not merely because it was discovered
in the reign of a virgin queen, but “because it did still seem to retain
the virgin purity and plenty of the first creation, and the people their
primitive innocence.” These happy natives were described as living after
the manner of the golden age; as free from toil, spending their time in
fishing, fowling, and hunting, and gathering the fruits of the earth,
which ripened without their care. They had no boundaries to their lands,
nor individual property in cattle, but shared and shared alike. All this,
which was rather too good to be absolutely true, seems to have been
implicitly believed. The letters of patent, however, granted to poor Sir
Humphrey Gilbert, and subsequently to Sir Walter Raleigh, mark a most
important epoch in the world’s history, for from those small
starting-points date the English efforts at colonising America—the great
New World of the past, the present, and the future. Where then a few naked
savages lurked and lazed, fished and hunted, forty millions of
English-speaking people now dwell, whose interests on and about the sea,
rising in importance every day, are scarcely excelled by those of any
nation on the globe, except our own. Some points in connection with this
colonisation, bearing as they do on the history of the sea and maritime
affairs, will be treated in the succeeding volume.

The reader, who while living “at home in ease,” has voyaged in spirit with
the writer over so much of the globe’s watery surface, visiting its most
distant shores, will not be one of those who under-rate

  “The dangers of the seas.”

Nor will current events allow us to forget them. “The many voices” of
ocean—as Michelet puts it—its murmur and its menace, its thunder and its
roar, its wail, its sigh, rise from the watery graves of six hundred brave
men, who but a few weeks ago formed the bulk of two crews, the one of a
noble English frigate, the other a splendid German ironclad, both lost
within sight of our own shores. Early in this volume wooden walls were
compared with armoured vessels, and we are painfully reminded by the loss
of both the _Eurydice_ and _Grosser Kurfüst_ how unsettled is the question
in its practical bearings. Its discussion must also be resumed as a part
of the history of ships and shipping in the ensuing volume. Till then,
kind reader, adieu!



                             END OF VOLUME I.



     CASSELL, PETTER, GALPIN & CO., BELLE SAUVAGE WORKS, LONDON, E.C.






                                FOOTNOTES


    1 Milton.

    2 Pindar.

    3 “La Mer.” There is much truth in Michelet’s charming work, but
      often, as above, presented in an exaggerated form. Animals, in
      reality, soon become accustomed to the sea. They show generally,
      however, a considerable amount of indisposition to go on board a
      vessel.

    4 W. S. Lindsay, “History of Merchant Shipping,” &c.

    5 Southey, in his “Life of Nelson,” says nine.

    6 “Songs for Sailors.”

    7 Southey’s “Life of Nelson.”

    8 “Annals of the Wars of the Nineteenth Century,” by the Hon. Sir
      Edward Cust, D.C.L., &c.

    9 Brialmont, “Étude sur la Défense des Etats et sur la Fortification.”

   10 The Turks had at Sinope seven frigates, one sloop, two corvettes,
      and two transports. The Russians were stronger, but this did not
      determine the battle; their success was won because they were well
      supplied with large shells and shell-guns, while the Turks had
      nothing more effective than 24-pounders. Their wooden vessels were
      speedily on fire, and the Russians won an easy success. Shells were
      no novelty, yet a great sea-fight had never before been, as it was
      then, won by their exclusive agency.

   11 The Hon. S. J. G. Calthorpe, “Letters from Head-quarters.”

   12 The seven Russian ships sunk at the entrance of the harbour of
      Sebastopol were of no small size or value, and they were scuttled in
      a hurry so great that they had all their guns, ammunition, and
      stores on board, and their rigging standing. They comprised five
      line-of-battle ships, two of them eighty, two eighty-four, and one
      120 guns, and two frigates of forty guns; a total of 528 guns.
      Afterwards it became a common report that vessels had been disabled
      and sunk in the harbour. On the night of the 5th of September, just
      before the evacuation of the town, two large Russian men-of-war
      caught fire and burned fiercely, illumining the harbour and town,
      and causing great excitement, as an omen of coming doom. The night
      of the memorable 8th, when the Russians gave up all further idea of
      resistance, and left the town to take care of itself, witnessed the
      sinking of the remainder of the Black Sea fleet. So far, therefore,
      the presence of our fleet had a pronounced moral effect, without
      involving further loss of life.

   13 Cust, “Annals of the Wars of the Eighteenth Century.”

   14 Drinkwater, “Siege of Gibraltar.”

   15 Some have even gone so far as to consider Louis Napoleon the
      inventor of iron-plated and armoured vessels. This is absurd. The
      ancients knew the use of plates of iron or brass for covering ships
      of war and battering-rams. One of Hiero’s greatest galleys was
      covered that way. That it must come to this sooner or later was the
      published idea of many, both in this country and in France. The
      Emperor’s sagacity, however, was always fully alive to questions of
      the kind.

   16 The report of the Chief Engineer and Naval Constructor of the
      Confederate Service, in regard to the conversion of the _Merrimac_
      into an armoured vessel, distinctly stated that from the effects of
      fire she was “useless for any other purpose, without incurring a
      very heavy expense for rebuilding.”

   17 The official reports state that she was plated, many popular
      accounts averring that she was only covered with “railroad iron.”
      The information presented here is drawn from the following
      sources:—“The Rebellion Record,” a voluminous work, edited by Frank
      Moore, of New York, and which contains all the leading official
      war-documents, both of the Federals and Confederates; the statement
      of Mr. A. B. Smith, pilot of the _Cumberland_, one of the survivors
      of the fight; the Baltimore _American_, and the Norfolk _Day Book_,
      both newspapers published near the scene of action. There is great
      unanimity in the accounts published on both sides.

   18 The pilot of the _Cumberland_.

   19 “Finally, after about three-fourths of an hour of the most severe
      fighting, our vessel sank, the Stars and Stripes still waving. That
      flag was finally submerged; but after the hull grounded on the
      sands, fifty-four feet below the surface of the water, our pennant
      was still flying from the top mast above the waves.” (The Pilot of
      the _Cumberland’s_ Narrative.)

   20 The original _Monitor_, from which that class of vessel took its
      name.

   21 Account of eyewitnesses furnished to the Baltimore _American_.

_   22 Vide_ the _Times_, 17th July, 1877.

   23 Berlin correspondence of the _Times_, 31st July, 1877.

   24 The full official account has not yet been issued. The brief
      narrative presented here is derived principally from the lively and
      interesting series of letters from the pen of Lord George Campbell;
      from “The Cruise of H.M.S. _Challenger_,” by W. J. J. Spry, R.N.,
      one of the engineers of the vessel; and the Nautical and other
      scientific and technical magazines.

   25 The Austrian frigate _Novara_ made, in 1857-8-9, a voyage round “and
      about” the world of 51,686 miles. As it was a sailing vessel, no
      reliable results could be expected from their deep-sea soundings,
      and, in fact, on the only two occasions when they attempted anything
      very deep, their lines broke.

   26 The “sinkers” were usually allowed at the rate of 112 lb. for each
      1,000 fathoms.

   27 Most of the recorded examples of earlier deep-sea soundings have
      little scientific value. Unless the sounding-line sinks
      perpendicularly, and the vessel remains stationary—to do which she
      may have to steam against wind and tide or current—it must be
      evident that the data obtained are not reliable. From a sailing
      vessel it is impossible to obtain absolutely reliable soundings
      except in, say, a tideless lake, unruffled by wind. It is very
      evident that if the sounding line drags after or in any direction
      from the vessel, the depth indicated may be greatly in excess of the
      true depth; indeed, it may be double or treble in some cases. There
      is one recorded example of a depth of 7,706 fathoms having been
      obtained, which too evidently comes under this category. After
      several years’ soundings on the part of the _Challenger_ and the
      United States vessel _Tuscarora_, it has become probable that no
      part of the ocean has a depth much greater than 4,500 fathoms. But
      even this is upwards of five miles!

   28 In their popular works on the sea, “The Ocean World,” and “The World
      of the Sea.”

   29 “Log Letters from the _Challenger_.”

   30 All readers will remember Peter Simple, and how he tells us that “It
      has been from time immemorial the heathenish custom to sacrifice the
      greatest fool of the family to the prosperity and naval superiority
      of the country,” and that he personally “was selected by general
      acclamation!” Marryat knew very well, however, that it was “younger
      sons,” and not by any means necessarily the greatest fools of the
      family who went to sea.

   31 William Pitt, long Master-Attendant at Jamaica Dockyard, who died at
      Malta, in 1840. The song is often wrongly attributed to Dibdin, or
      Tom Hood the elder.

   32 Alphonse Esquiros, “English Seamen and Divers.”

   33 “Westward Ho!”

   34 Robert Mindry, “Chips from the Log of an Old Salt.”

   35 The conditions for entering a Government training-ship for the
      service involve, 1st, the consent of parents or proper guardians;
      2nd, the candidate must sign to serve ten years commencing from the
      age of eighteen. A bounty of £6 is paid to provide outfit, and he
      receives sixpence a day. At the age of eighteen he receives one
      shilling and a penny per day—the same as an ordinary seaman. Each
      candidate passes a medical examination, and must be from fifteen to
      sixteen and a half years of age. The standard height is five feet
      for sixteen years old—rather a low average.

   36 In “Singleton Fontenoy, R.N.”

_   37 Vide_ “The Queen’s Regulations and the Admiralty Instructions for
      the Government of Her Majesty’s Naval Service;” also Glascock’s
      “Naval Officer’s Manual.”

   38 “A Sailor-Boy’s Log-Book from Portsmouth to the Peiho,” edited by
      Walter White.

   39 A naval friend kindly informs me that the Malta holystones are
      excellent, natural lava being abundant.

_   40 Vide_ Dana’s “Seaman’s Manual.”

   41 A form of heavy pile silk.

   42 “Medical Life in the Navy,” by W. Stables, M.D., &c.

   43 Portsmouth, Devonport, Plymouth, and some Cornish seaport towns and
      villages were the chief sufferers. Plymouth had furnished more than
      one-third of the crew.

   44 None of the survivors appeared to know whether the _Captain’s_ screw
      was revolving at the time. Her steam was partially up. Had she
      steamed, there is every probability that the catastrophe would not
      have occurred.

   45 One man testified that he had heard Captain Burgoyne’s inquiries as
      to how much the ship was heeling over, the answers given being
      respectively, “18,” “23,” “25 degrees.” The movement was never
      checked, and almost the moment after she had reached 25 degrees, she
      was keel-uppermost, and about to make that terrific plunge to the
      bottom.

   46 Mr. May’s statement at the court-martial was in part as
      follows:—“Shortly after 0.15 a.m. on the 7th inst., being in my
      cabin, which was on the starboard or lee side of the ship, I was
      disturbed in my sleep by the noise of some marines. Feeling the ship
      uneasy, I dressed myself, and took the lantern to look at the guns
      in the turrets.... It was but a very short time—from fifteen to
      twenty minutes—past midnight. I then went to the after-turret. The
      guns were all right. Immediately I got inside the turret I felt the
      ship heel steadily over, deeper and deeper, and a heavy sea struck
      her on the weather-side. _The water flowed into the turret_ as I got
      through the pointing-hole on the top, and I found myself overboard;
      I struck out, and succeeded in reaching the steam-pinnace, which was
      bottom up, on which were Captain Burgoyne and five or six others. I
      saw the ship turn bottom-up, and sink stern first, the last I saw of
      her being her bows. The whole time of her turning over to sinking
      was but from five to ten minutes, if so much. Shortly after, I saw
      the launch drifting close to us who were on the pinnace; she was but
      a few yards from us; I called out, ‘Jump, men—it is your last
      chance!’ I jumped, and succeeded, with three others, in reaching
      her. I do not know for certain whether Captain Burgoyne jumped or
      not. I was under the impression he did; but the others in the launch
      do not think so. At any rate, he never reached her. When on the
      pinnace, a large ship, which I believe to have been the
      _Inconstant_, passed us fifty yards to leeward. We all hailed her;
      but, I suppose, the howling of the wind and sea prevented their
      hearing us.”

   47 The late Admiral Sherard Osborn, in a letter to the _Times_, said,
      “The desire of our Admiralty to make all their fighting-ships cruise
      under canvas, as well as steam, induced poor Captain Coles to go a
      step further, and to make a ship with a low free board a
      sailing-ship.” This was against his judgment, however.

   48 Admiral Milne, in his despatch dated from H.M.S. _Lord Warden_, off
      Finisterre, September 7th, 1870, stated that, at a little before 1
      a.m., the _Captain_ was astern of his ship, “apparently closing
      under steam. The signal ‘open order’ was made, and at once answered;
      and at 1.15 a.m. she was on the _Lord Warden’s_ (the flag-ship’s)
      lee quarter, about six points abaft the beam. From that time until
      about 1.30 a.m. I constantly watched the ship.... She was heeling
      over a good deal to starboard,” &c. We have seen that she went down
      shortly after the midnight watch had been called.

   49 A “Narrative of the Loss of the _Royal George_,” published at
      Portsea, and written by a gentleman who was on the island at the
      time.

   50 The exact number was never known. There were 250 women on board, a
      large proportion of whom were the wives and relatives of the
      sailors; and there were also a number of children, most of whom
      belonged to Portsmouth. Besides these, there were a number of Jew
      and other traders on board.

   51 Mr. Ingram, whose narrative, printed in the little work before
      quoted, bears all the impress of truth.

   52 The sentence of the court-martial blamed Captain Dawkins, his
      navigating-lieutenant, and the ship’s carpenter, for not
      endeavouring to stop “the breach from the outside with the means at
      their command, such as hammocks and sails;” for not having “ordered
      Captain Hickley, of H.M.S. _Iron Duke_, to tow H.M.S. _Vanguard_
      into shallow water,” such being available at a short distance; the
      chief-engineer for not “applying the means at his command to relieve
      the ship of water;” the navigating-lieutenant “for neglect of duty
      in not pointing out to his captain that there was shoaler water
      within a short distance;” and the carpenter in “not taking immediate
      steps for sounding the compartments, and reporting from time to time
      the progress of the water.” A lamentable showing, truly, if all
      these points were neglected! So far as the commander is concerned,
      his successful efforts to save the lives of all on board (not
      knowing when his ship might go down, and with the remembrance of the
      sudden loss of the _Captain_ full in view) speak much in his favour,
      and in extenuation of much that would otherwise appear culpable
      neglect.

   53 Nineteen fathoms, or 114 feet. Her main-topmast-head was afterwards
      twenty-four feet out of water.

   54 The total estimated loss was £550,000.

   55 Mr. Ward Hunt said publicly that, “If the _Iron Duke_ had sent an
      enemy’s ship to the bottom, we should have called her one of the
      most formidable ships of war in the world, and all that she has done
      is actually what she was intended to do, _except, of course, that
      the ship she struck was unfortunately our own property, and not that
      of the enemy_.”

   56 Mr. Reed wrote to the _Times_ to the effect that there would,
      undoubtedly, be a “greater measure of safety during a naval
      engagement than on ordinary occasions,” and explained that “the
      ruling consideration which has been aimed at in these ships has been
      so to divide them into compartments, that, when all the water-tight
      doors and valves are arranged as they would be on going into action,
      the breach by a ram of one compartment only should not suffice to
      sink the ship.”

   57 Sir Henry James, Attorney-General to the previous Government, spoke
      publicly on the subject in the plainest terms. He said:—“One would
      have thought that if there were a court-martial on the vessel which
      is lost, the officers of the vessel which caused that loss would not
      go scot free.” The Admiralty was blamed for not having sent the
      decision of the Court back to it for reconsideration, instead of
      which they broke a rule of naval etiquette, and seemed anxious to
      quash inquiry.

   58 “The loss of the _Kent_, East Indiaman,” by Lieut.-General Sir
      Duncan MacGregor, K.C.B.

   59 The raft is described in the original work on the shipwreck of the
      _Medusa_ substantially as follows:—It was composed of topmasts,
      yards, planks, the boom, &c., lashed strongly together; two topmasts
      formed the sides, and four other masts, of the same length as the
      former, were placed in the centre, planks being nailed on them. Long
      timbers were placed across the raft, adding considerably to its
      strength; these projected about ten feet on each side. There was a
      rail along the sides, to keep those on board from falling into the
      sea. Its height being only about a foot and a half, it was
      constantly under water, though this could easily have been remedied,
      by raising a second floor a foot or two above it. Two of the ship’s
      yards, joined to the extremities of the sides, at one end met in
      front and formed a bow. Its length was sixty feet, and breadth about
      twenty.

   60 Later it took with many of them still stranger forms. One M. Savigny
      had the most agreeable visions; he fancied himself in a rich and
      highly-cultivated country, surrounded by happy companions. Some
      desired their companions not to fear, that they were going to look
      for succour, and would soon return; they then plunged into the sea.
      Others became furious, and rushed on their companions with drawn
      swords, asking for the wing of a chicken, or some bread. Some,
      thinking themselves still aboard the frigate, asked for their
      hammock, that they might go below to sleep. Others imagined that
      they saw ships, or a harbour, behind which was a noble city. M.
      Correard believed he was in Italy, enjoying all the delights of that
      beautiful country. One of the officers said to him, “I recollect
      that we have been deserted by the boats, but don’t be afraid; I have
      just written to the governor, and in a few hours we shall be in
      safety.” These illusions did not last for any length of time, but
      were constantly broken by the war of the elements, and the fitful
      revolts which constantly disgraced the company.

   61 The writer, during a long voyage (England to Vancouver Island, _viâ_
      Cape Horn), made in 1862, saw flying-fish constantly falling on the
      deck, where they remained quivering and glittering in the sunlight.
      To accomplish this, they had to fly over a height of about fifteen
      or sixteen feet, the top of the bulwarks, or walls of the steamship,
      being at least that distance above the water.

   62 Large merchant-vessels have been constructed of steel, which is
      stronger than iron, weight for weight; and consequently, in building
      vessels of equal strength, a less weight and thickness is required.
      It is said, that if the large Atlantic steamers of 3,500 tons and
      upwards were built of steel, instead of iron, their displacement in
      the water would be one-sixth less, and their carrying capacity
      double. A steel troop-ship, accommodating about 1,000 persons and
      drawing only two feet and a quarter of water, was constructed, in
      1861, for use on the Lower Indus. She was taken out in pieces and
      put together in India, the total weight of the steel employed being
      only 270 tons, although she was 375 feet long, with a beam of 46
      feet.

   63 “The Fleet of the Future: Iron or Wood,” by J. Scott Russell,
      F.R.S., &c.

   64 Letter to the _Times_, Sept. 6th, 1875 (after the loss of the
      _Vanguard_).

   65 Parliamentary Paper, 1872. Reports of the Committee on Designs for
      Ships of War &c.

_   66 Ibid._

   67 “Our Ironclad Ships.”

_   68 Vide_ “The Mediterranean,” by Rear-Admiral Smyth. This is a
      standard work on all scientific points connected with the
      Mediterranean.

   69 One of the earliest of the Moorish conquerors of Spain, who first
      fortified the Rock.

_   70 Vide_ page 16.

   71 “History of Gibraltar and its Sieges,” by F. G. Stephens, with
      photographic illustrations by J. H. Mann. The writer is much
      indebted to this valuable work for information embodied in these
      pages.

   72 On more than one occasion such wrecks have happened, as, for
      example, when a Danish vessel, laden with lemons, fell into the
      hands of General Elliott’s garrison, then suffering fearfully with
      scurvy, October 11th, 1780. A year before a storm cast a quantity of
      drift-wood under the walls. “As fuel had long been a scarce article,
      this supply was therefore considered as a miraculous interference of
      Providence in our favour.” (_Vide_ Drinkwater’s “Gibraltar.”)

   73 The Romans, however, sometimes employed red-hot bolts, which were
      ejected from catapults.

   74 Lopez de Ayala, “Historia de Gibraltar.”

   75 “Memoirs of Sully,” bk. xx.

   76 In a memorial presented to Philip V. after the capture, it was
      stated that the garrison comprised “fewer than 300 men; a few poor
      and raw peasants.” Other accounts range from 150 to 500.

   77 “Journal of an Officer during the Siege.”

   78 See _ante_, page 16.

   79 Sayer’s “History of Gibraltar.”

   80 Barrow’s “Life of Lord Howe.”

_   81 Vide_ “Malta Sixty Years Ago,” by Admiral Shaw.

   82 “The Crescent and the Cross.”

   83 “Malta under the Phœnicians, Knights, and English,” by W. Tallack.

   84 In contradistinction to the Red Cross Knights, or Templars, who,
      though Crusaders, formed a purely military order.

   85 The Order of the Knights of St. John exists now as a religious and
      benevolent body—a shadow of its former self. There was a period when
      the revenues of the Order were over £3,000,000 sterling. It still
      exists, however, the head-quarters being at Ferrara in Italy. Recent
      organisations, countenanced and supported by distinguished noblemen
      and gentlemen for the relief of sufferers by war, and convalescents
      in hospital in many parts of England, are in some sense under its
      banner; H.R.H. the Prince of Wales is President of one of them—the
      National Society for the Sick and Wounded in War. It had been
      recommended by one writer, that gentlemen of the present day should
      become members, and wear at evening entertainments a special dress
      and decoration, and that there should also be _dames chevalières_,
      with decorations also. He believes, of course, that this would
      greatly aid the funds for those benevolent purposes.

   86 For an elaborate, exhaustive disquisition on this subject, _vide_
      “The Voyage and Shipwreck of St. Paul,” by James Smith.

   87 The Suez Canal, and all appertaining thereto, is well described in
      the following works:—“The Suez Canal,” by F. M. de Lesseps; “The
      History of the Suez Canal,” by F. M. de Lesseps, translated by Sir
      H. D. Wolff; “My Trip to the Suez Canal,” &c.

   88 M. de Lesseps acknowledges frankly that the English people were
      always with him, and cites example after example—as in the case of
      the then Mayor of Liverpool, who would not allow him to pay the
      ordinary expenses of a meeting. He says: “While finding sympathy in
      the commercial and lettered classes, I found heads of wood among the
      politicians.” There were, however, many who supported him in all his
      ideas, prominently among whom the present writer must place Richard
      Cobden.

   89 O. Ritt, “Histoire de l’Isthme de Suez.”

   90 Exodus xiv. 21, _et seq._

   91 “Life in China,” by William C. Milne, M.A.

   92 The reader may have heard of mummies manufactured in Cairo for the
      English market. The idol trade of Birmingham has often been stated
      as a fact.

   93 Readers who have seen Mr. Edouin’s impersonations of a Chinaman may
      be assured that they are true to nature, and not burlesques. That
      gentleman carefully studied the Chinese while engaged professionally
      in San Francisco.

   94 The Tycoon is nominated out of the members of three families having
      hereditary rights. The princes or Daimios number three or four
      hundred, many having enormous incomes and armies of retainers. The
      Prince of Kangâ, for example, has £760,000 a year; the Prince of
      Satsuma £487,000; and the Prince of Owari £402,900.

   95 For further details concerning this most interesting people, _vide_
      Dr. Robert Brown’s “Races of Mankind.”

_   96 Vide_ “Nautical Magazine,” October, 1855.

   97 Captain Scammon, detailed from the United States Revenue Service, to
      take the post of Chief of Marine in the telegraph expedition on
      which the writer served, made a series of soundings. For nearly two
      _degrees_ (between latitudes 64° and 66° N.) the average depth is
      under 19½ fathoms.

_   98 Vide_ Washington Irving’s “Astoria;” also, Sir Edward Belcher’s
      “Voyage of the _Sulphur_.”

   99 “Our Tropical Possessions in Malayan India,” by John Cameron, Esq.

  100 J. Thomson, “The Straits of Malacca, Indo-China, and China.”

  101 It is stated that an old man, named Macgregor, had long before been
      in the habit of bringing once a year to Sydney small pieces of gold,
      which he always sold to a jeweller there, and also that a convict
      had been whipped for having lumps of gold in his possession prior to
      the above. Hargreaves’ claim rests both on the actual amount
      discovered, and on his publishing the fact at once.

  102 “The Australian Colonies: their Origin and Present Condition.”

  103 In his work “Westward by Rail,” which contains a most reliable
      account of California, its history and progress.

  104 At the Cariboo mines, British Columbia, in 1863, there were 7,000
      men on the various creeks. There were not over a dozen women there!

  105 Excepting at San Francisco, the only docks worthy of the name on the
      _whole_ Pacific coasts of America are those of England’s naval
      station at Esquimalt.

  106 Douglas pines have been measured in British Columbia which were
      _forty-eight_ feet in circumference at their base, and therefore
      about sixteen feet through. These magnificent trees are only second
      in size to the “Big Trees” of California.

  107 On many parts of the North-west Pacific coasts of America, from
      Oregon northwards to Bering Straits, the salmon, in their season,
      swarm so that a boat can hardly make a way through their “schools.”

_  108 Harper’s Magazine_ (New York), April, 1869.

  109 “Extracts from a Journal written on the Coasts of Chili, Peru, and
      Mexico, &c.”

  110 “The West Indies and the Spanish Main.”

  111 “At Last: A Christmas in the West Indies.”

  112 “Naval Chronicles,” vol. xii.

  113 Other islands of the West Indies, as St. Thomas’s, which is a kind
      of leading “junction” for mail steamers, and St. Domingo—so
      intimately connected with the voyages of Columbus—will be mentioned
      hereafter.

  114 “Lands of the Slave and the Free,” by the Hon. Henry A. Murray.

  115 “Historical and Statistical Account of Nova Scotia,” by Judge
      Haliburton.

  116 “To the Cape for Diamonds.” By Frederick Boyle.

  117 “The Cruise of H.M. Ship _Galatea_.” By the Rev. John Milner, B.A.,
      Chaplain, and Oswald W. Brierly.

  118 Alluding to the previous visit of Prince Alfred when a midshipman.

  119 “The Settler’s Guide to the Cape of Good Hope,” &c., by Mr. Irons.

  120 “The Autobiography of a Seaman.” By Thomas, tenth Earl of Dundonald,
      G.C.B., Admiral of the Red, &c. &c.

  121 “Medical Life in the Navy.”

_  122 The Naval Chronicle_, vol. xiii. (1806).

  123 Her tonnage being no doubt calculated by what is known as O. M. (old
      measurement), and which was used up to a late date in England, her
      actual capacity must have been considerably greater.

  124 “The Eventful History of the Mutiny and Piratical Seizure of H.M.S.
      _Bounty_: Its Causes and Consequences.”

  125 “Voyage Round the World,” by G. Hamilton.

  126 “A Missionary Voyage to the Southern Pacific”

_  127 The Annual Register_, 1789. The account above presented is derived
      from that source, and from the standard works of Yonge and James.

  128 The curious in such matters will find this poem translated by Heeren
      in his work entitled “Asiatic Nations.”

  129 (The late) W. S. Lindsay, M.P., &c., “The History of Merchant
      Shipping.”

  130 “The British Admirals: with an Introductory View of the Naval
      History of England.”

  131 Charnock: “History of Marine Architecture.”

  132 It has been clearly shown that a large vessel which had been built
      by Henry VII. bore the same name. The above was a successor,
      probably built after the first had become unfit for service.

  133 Sir William Monson: Churchill’s “Collection of Voyages.”

  134 Hakluyt.

  135 “Historia General.”

  136 Camden. Balboa, the discoverer of the Pacific, had expressed the
      same feelings in almost the same locality.

  137 Whenever the South Seas are mentioned in these early records, they
      must he understood to mean the South Pacific, and, indeed, sometimes
      portions of the North Pacific. The title still clings to the
      Polynesian Islands.

  138 Burney’s “Voyages.”

  139 Narrative of Chaplain Fletcher, quoted by Burney.

  140 Various authorities cited by Southey.

  141 The various slanders thrown on Drake’s name in connection with this
      occurrence seem to have had no foundation in fact. Some of his
      enemies averred that he sailed from England with instructions from
      the Earl of Leicester to get rid of Doughtie at the first
      opportunity, because the latter had reported that Essex had been
      poisoned by the former’s means. But Drake appears to have been
      really attached to him.

  142 Fuller’s “Holy State.”

  143 Narrative of Captain Hayes (owner of the _Golden Hinde_) printed in
      Hakluyt’s “Collection.”





                            TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE


The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs
and are near the text they illustrate.

Several illustrations which were missing from the List of Illustrations
have been added to it. They can be identified by the missing page numbers
in the list.

The following changes have been made to the text:

      page 10, period and quote mark added after “came”
      page 13, “be” added before “interesting”
      page 42, “Shakspeare” changed to “Shakespeare”
      page 44, quote mark added before “manned”
      page 50, quote mark added after “immediately.”
      page 59, quote mark removed after “steam.”
      page 60, period changed to comma after “survivors”
      page 63, quote mark added after “water;”
      page 101, “It” changed to “Its”
      page 117, comma changed to colon after “Drawbacks”
      page 119, period added after “O”
      page 123, “It” changed to “Its”
      page 129, “Portugese” changed to “Portuguese”
      page 136, “via” changed to “viâ”
      page 146, quote mark removed after “elsewhere.”
      page 147, “interspered” changed to “interspersed”
      page 155, comma changed to closing parenthesis after “Australia”
      page 159, comma changed to period after “creeks”
      page 175, colon added after “Bermuda”
      page 181, “sweatmeats” changed to “sweetmeats”
      page 189, comma added after “too”
      page 219, period added after “tons”
      page 236, “broad” changed to “board”
      page 277, quote mark added after “benevolence,”
      page 282, quote mark added after “England,”
      page 293, period added after “up”
      page 302, quote mark added after “complement,”
      page 313, quote mark added after “blood.”
      page 317, quote mark removed before “Two”

Differences between the table of contents and the chapter summaries have
not been corrected. Neither have variations in hyphenation been
normalized.