Peter Simple

“Why, I’ll tell you, Mr Simple; I steered the yawl, as coxswain, and when admirals and captains talk in the stern sheets, they very often forget that the coxswain is close behind them. I only learnt half of it that way, the rest I put together when I compared logs with the admiral’s steward, who, of course, heard a great deal now and then. The first I heard of it, was when old Sir John called out to Sir Isaac, after the second bottle, ‘I say, Sir Isaac, who killed the Spanish messenger?’ ‘Not I, by God!’ replied Sir Isaac, ‘I only left him for dead;’ and then they both laughed, and so did Nelson, who was sitting with them. Well, Mr Simple, it was reported to Sir Isaac that his clerk was often seen taking memorandums of the different orders given to the fleet, particularly those as to there being no wasteful expenditure of His Majesty’s stores. Upon which, Sir Isaac goes to the admiral, and requests that the man might be discharged. Now, old Sir John was a sly old fox, and he answered, ‘Not so, commissioner—perhaps we may catch them in their own trap.’ So the admiral sits down, and calls for pen and ink, and he flourishes out a long letter to the commissioner, stating that all the stores of the fleet were expended, representing as how it would be impossible to go to sea without a supply, and wishing to know when the commissioner expected more transports from England. He also said, that if the Spanish fleet were now to come out from Cadiz, it would be impossible for him to protect Sir W. Parker with his six sail of the line, who was watching the Spanish fleet, as he could not quit the port in his present condition. To this letter the commissioner answered, that from the last accounts, he thought that in the course of six weeks or two months, they might receive supplies from England, but that sooner than that was impossible. These letters were put in the way of the damned Portuguese spy clerk, who copied them, and was seen that evening to go into the house of the Spanish ambassador. Sir John then sent a message to Ferro—that’s a small town on the Portuguese coast to the southward—with a despatch to Sir William Parker, desiring him to run away to Cape St. Vincent, and decoy the Spanish fleet there, in case they should come out after him. Well, Mr Simple, so far d’ye see the train was well laid. The next thing to do was to watch the Spanish ambassador’s house, and see if he sent away any despatches. Two days after the letters had been taken to him by this rascal of a clerk, the Spanish ambassador sent away two messengers, one for Cadiz, and the other for Madrid, which is the town where the King of Spain lives. The one to Cadiz was permitted to go, but the one to Madrid was stopped by the directions of the admiral, and this job was confided to the commissioner, Sir Isaac, who settled it some how or another; and this was the reason why the admiral called out to him, ‘I say, Sir Isaac, who killed the messenger?’ They brought back his despatches, by which they found out that advice had been sent to the Spanish admiral—I forget his name, something like Magazine—informing him of the supposed crippled state of our squadron. Sir John, taking it for granted that the Spaniards would not lose an opportunity of taking six sail of the line—more English ships than they had ever taken in their lives—waited a few days to give them time, and then sailed from Lisbon for Cape St. Vincent, where he joined Sir W. Parker, and fell in with the Spaniards sure enough, and a pretty drubbing we gave them. Now, it’s not everybody that could tell you all that, Mr Simple.”

“Well, but now for the action, Swinburne.”

“Lord bless you, Mr Simple! it’s now past seven bells, and I can’t fight the battle of St. Vincent in half-an-hour; besides which, it’s well worth another glass of grog to hear all about that battle.”

“Well, you shall have one, Swinburne; only don’t forget to tell it to, me.”

Swinburne and I then separated, and in less than an hour afterwards I was dreaming of despatches—Sir John Jervis—Sir Isaac Coffin—and Spanish messengers.

Chapter Thirty Four

O’Brien’s good advice—Captain Kearney again deals in the marvellous

I do not remember any circumstance in my life which, at that time, lay so heavily on my mind, as the loss of poor Mr Chucks, the boatswain, whom, of course, I took it for granted I should never see again. I believe that the chief cause was, that at the time I entered the service, and every one considered me to be the fool of the family, Mr Chucks and O’Brien were the only two who thought of and treated me differently; and it was their conduct which induced me to apply myself, and encouraged me to exertion. I believe, that many a boy, who, if properly patronised, would turn out well, is, by the injudicious system of brow-beating and ridicule, forced into the wrong path, and, in his despair, throws away all self-confidence, and allows himself to be carried away by the stream to perdition. O’Brien was not very partial to reading himself; he played the German flute remarkably well, and had a very good voice. His chief amusement was practising, or rather playing, which is a very different thing; but although he did not study himself, he always made me come into his cabin for an hour or two every day, and after I had read, repeat to him the contents of the book. By this method, he not only instructed me, but gained a great deal of information himself; for he made so many remarks upon what I had read, that it was impressed upon both our memories.

“Well, Peter,” he would say, as became into the cabin, “what have you to tell me this morning? Sure it’s you that’s the schoolmaster, and not me—for I learn from you every day.”

“I have not read much, O’Brien, to-day, for I have been thinking of poor Mr Chucks.”

“Very right for you so to do, Peter: never forget your friends in a hurry; you’ll not find too many of them as you trot along the highway of life.”

“I wonder whether he is dead?”

“Why, that’s a question I cannot answer: a bullet through the chest don’t lengthen a man’s days, that’s certain; but this I know, that he’ll not die if he can help it, now that he’s got the captain’s jacket on.”

“Yes; he always aspired to be a gentleman—which was absurd enough in a boatswain.”

“Not at all absurd, Peter, but very absurd of you to talk without thinking: when did any one of his shipmates ever know Mr Chucks to do an unhandsome or mean action? Never—and why? because he aspired to be a gentleman, and that feeling kept him above it. Vanity’s a confounded donkey, very apt to put his head between his legs, and chuck us over; but pride’s a fine horse, who will carry us over the ground, and enable us to distance our fellow-travellers. Mr Chucks had pride, and that’s always commendable, even in a boatswain. How often have you read of people rising from nothing, and becoming great men? This was from talent, sure enough: but it was talent with pride to force it onward, not talent with vanity to cheek it.”

“You are very right, O’Brien; I spoke foolishly.”

“Never mind, Peter, nobody heard you but me, so it’s of no consequence. Don’t you dine in the cabin to-day?”

“Yes.”

“So do I. The captain is in a most marvellous humour this morning. He told me one or two yarns that quite staggered my politeness and my respect for him on the quarter-deck. What a pity it is that a man should have gained such a bad habit!”

“He’s quite incurable, I’m afraid,” replied I; “but, certainly, his fibs do no harm; they are what they call white lies: I do not think he would really tell a lie, that is, a lie which would be considered to disgrace a gentleman.”

“Peter, all lies disgrace a gentleman, white or black; although I grant there is a difference. To say the least of it, it is a dangerous habit, for white lies are but the gentlemen ushers to black ones. I know but of one point on which a lie is excusable, and that is, when you wish to deceive the enemy. Then your duty to your country warrants your lying till you’re black in the face; and, for the very reason that it goes against your grain, it becomes, as if were, a sort of virtue.”

“What was the difference between the marine officer and Mr Phillott that occurred this morning?”

“Nothing at all in itself—the marine officer is a bit of a gaby, and takes offence where none is meant. Mr Phillott has a foul tongue, but he has a good heart.”

“What a pity it is!”

“It is a pity, for he’s a smart officer; but the fact is, Peter, that junior officers are too apt to copy their superiors, and that makes it very important that a young gentleman should sail with a captain who is a gentleman. Now, Phillott served the best of his time with Captain Ballover, who is notorious in the service for foul and abusive language. What is the consequence?—that Phillott, and many others, who have served under him, have learnt his bad habit.”

“I should think, O’Brien, that the very circumstance of having had your feelings so often wounded by such language when you were a junior officer, would make you doubly careful not to make use of it to others, when you had advanced in the service.”

“Peter, that’s just the first feeling, which wears away after a time; but at last, your own sense of indignation becomes blunted, and becoming indifferent to it, you forget also that you wound the feelings of others, and carry the habit with you, to the great injury and disgrace of the service. But it’s time to dress for dinner, so you’d better make yourself scarce, Peter, while I tidivate myself off a little, according to the rules and regulations of His Majesty’s service, when you are asked to dine with the skipper.”

We met at the captain’s table, where we found, as usual, a great display of plate, but very little else, except the ship’s allowance. We certainly had now been cruising some time, and there was some excuse for it; but still, few captains would have been so unprovided. “I’m afraid, gentlemen, you will not have a very grand dinner,” observed the captain, as the steward removed the plated covers off the dishes; “but when on service we must rough it out how we can. Mr O’Brien, pea-soup? I recollect faring harder than this through one cruise, in a flush vessel. We were thirteen weeks up to our knees in water, and living the whole time upon raw pork—not being able to light a fire during the cruise.”

“Pray, Captain Kearney, may I ask where this happened?”

“To be sure. It was off Bermudas: we cruised for seven weeks before we could find the Islands, and began verily to think that the Bermudas were themselves on a cruise.”

“I presume, sir, you were not sorry to have a fire to cook your provisions when you came to an anchor?” said O’Brien.

“I beg your pardon,” replied Captain Kearney; “we had become so accustomed to raw provisions and wet feet, that we could not eat our meals cooked, or help dipping our legs over the side, for a long while afterwards. I saw one of the boat keepers astern catch a large barracouta, and eat it alive—indeed, if I had not given the strictest orders, and flogged half-a-dozen of them, I doubt whether they would not have eaten their victuals raw to this day. The force of habit is tremendous.”

“It is, indeed,” observed Mr Phillott, dryly, and winking to us—referring to the captain’s incredible stories.

“It is, indeed,” repeated O’Brien; “we see the ditch in our neighbour’s eye, and cannot observe the log of wood in our own;” and O’Brien winked at me, referring to Phillott’s habit of bad language.

“I once knew a married man,” observed the captain, “who had been always accustomed to go to sleep with his hand upon his wife’s head, and would not allow her to wear a night-cap in consequence. Well, she caught cold and died, and he never could sleep at night until he took a clothes brush to bed with him, and laid his hand upon that, which answered the purpose—such was the force of habit.”

“I once saw a dead body galvanised,” observed Mr Phillott: “it was the body of a man who had taken a great deal of snuff during his lifetime, and, as soon as the battery was applied to his spine, the body very gently raised its arm, and put its fingers to its nose, as if it were taking a pinch.”

“You saw that yourself, Mr Phillott?” observed the captain, looking the first lieutenant earnestly in the face.

“Yes, sir,” replied Mr Phillott, coolly.

“Have you told that story often?”

“Very often, sir.”

“Because I know that some people, by constantly telling a story, at last believe it to be true; not that I refer to you, Mr Phillott, but still I should recommend you not to tell that story where you are not well known, or people may doubt your credibility.”

“I make it a rule to believe everything myself,” observed Mr Phillott, “out of politeness; and I expect the same courtesy from others.”

“Then, upon my soul! when you tell that story, you trespass very much upon our good manners. Talking of courtesy, you might meet a friend of mine, who has been a courtier all his life; he cannot help bowing. I have seen him bow to his horse, and thank him after he had dismounted—beg pardon of a puppy for treading on his tail; and one day, when he fell over a scraper, he took off his hat, and made it a thousand apologies for his inattention.”

“Force of habit again,” said O’Brien.

“Exactly so. Mr Simple, will you take a slice of this pork; and perhaps you’ll do me the honour to take a glass of wine? Lord Privilege would not much admire your dinner to-day, would he, Mr Simple?”

“As a variety he might, sir, but not for a continuance.”

“Very truly said. Variety is charming. The negroes here get so tired of salt fish and occra broth, that they eat dirt by way of a relish. Mr O’Brien, how remarkably well you played that sonata of Pleydel’s this morning.”

“I am happy that I did not annoy you, Captain Kearney, at all events,” replied O’Brien.

“On the contrary, I am very partial to good music. My mother was a great performer. I recollect once, she was performing a piece on the piano, in which she had to imitate a thunder storm. So admirably did she hit it off, that when we went to tea, all the cream was turned sour, as well as three casks of beer in the cellar.”

At this assertion Mr Phillott could contain himself no longer; he burst out into a loud laugh, and having a glass of wine to his lips, spattered it all over the table, and over me, who unfortunately was opposite to him.

“I really beg pardon, Captain Kearney, but the idea of such an expensive talent was too amusing. Will you permit me to ask you a question?—As there could not have been thunder without lightning, were any people killed at the same time by the electric fluid of the piano?”

“No, sir,” replied Captain Kearney, very angrily; “but her performance electrified us, which was something like it. Perhaps, Mr Phillott, as you lost your last glass of wine, you will allow me to take another with you?”

“With great pleasure,” replied the first lieutenant, who perceived that he had gone far enough.

“Well, gentlemen,” said the captain, “we shall soon be in the land of plenty. I shall cruise a fortnight more, and then join the admiral at Jamaica. We must make out our despatch relative to the cutting out of the Sylvia” (that was the name of the privateer brig), “and I am happy to say that I shall feel it my duty to make honourable mention of all the party present. Steward, coffee.”

The first lieutenant, O’Brien, and I, bowed to this flattering avowal on the part of the captain; as for myself, I felt delighted. The idea of my name being mentioned in the Gazette, and the pleasure that it would give to my father and mother, mantled the blood in my cheeks till I was as red as a turkey-cock.

“Cousin Simple,” said the captain, good-naturedly, “you have no occasion to blush; your conduct deserves it; and you are indebted to Mr Phillott for having made me acquainted with your gallantry.”

Coffee was soon over, and I was glad to leave the cabin and be alone, that I might compose my perturbed mind. I felt too happy. I did not however, say a word to my messmates, as it might have created feelings of envy or ill-will. O’Brien gave me a caution not to do so, when I met him afterwards, so that I was very glad that I had been so circumspect.

Chapter Thirty Five

Swinburne continues his narrative of the battle off Cape St. Vincent

The second night after this, we had the middle watch, and I claimed Swinburne’s promise that he would spin his yarn, relative to the battle of St. Vincent. “Well, Mr Simple, so I will; but I require a little priming, or I shall never go off.”

“Will you have your glass of grog before or after?”

“Before, by all means, if you please, sir. Run down and get it, and I’ll heave the log for you in the meantime, when we shall have a good hour without interruption, for the sea-breeze will be steady, and we are under easy sail.” I brought up a stiff glass of grog, which Swinburne tossed off, and as he finished it, sighed deeply as if in sorrow that there was no more. Having stowed away the tumbler in one of the cap stern holes for the present, we sat down upon a coil of ropes under the weather bulwarks, and Swinburne, replacing his quid of tobacco, commenced as follows:—

“Well, Mr Simple, as I told you before, old Jervis started with all his fleet for Cape St. Vincent. We lost one of our fleet—and a three-decker, too—the St. George; she took the ground, and was obliged to go back to Lisbon; but we soon afterwards were joined by five sail of the line, sent out from England, so that we mustered fifteen sail in all. We had like to lose another of our mess, for d’ye see, the old Culloden and Colossus fell foul of each other, and the Culloden had the worst on it, but Troubridge, who commanded her, was not a man to shy his work, and ax to go in to refit, when there was a chance of meeting the enemy—so he patched her up somehow or another, and reported himself ready for action the very next day. Ready for action he always was, that’s sure enough, but whether his ship was in a fit state to go into action, is quite another thing. But as the sailors used to say in joking, he was a true bridge, and you might trust to him; which meant as much as to say, that he knew how to take his ship into action, and how to fight her when he was fairly in it. I think it was the next day that Cockburn joined us in the Minerve, and he brought Nelson along with him, with the intelligence that the Dons had chased him, and that the whole Spanish fleet was out in pursuit of us. Well, Mr Simple, you may guess we were not a little happy in the Captain, when Nelson joined us, as we knew that if we fell in with the Spaniards, our ship would cut a figure—and so she did, sure enough. That was on the morning of the 13th, and old Jervis made the signal to prepare for action, and keep close order, which means, to have your flying jib-boom in at the starn windows of the ship ahead of you; and we did keep close order, for a man might have walked right round from one ship to the other, either lee or weather line of the fleet. I shan’t forget that night, Mr Simple, as long as I live and breathe. Every now and then we heard the signal guns of the Spanish fleet booming at a distance to windward of us, and you may guess how our hearts leaped at the sound, and how we watched with all our ears for the next gun that was fired, trying to make out their bearings and distance, as we assembled in little knots upon the booms and weather gangway. It was my middle watch, and I was signalman at the time, so of course I had no time to take a caulk if I was inclined. When my watch was over, I could not go down to my hammock, so I kept the morning watch too, as did most of the men on board: as for Nelson, he walked the deck the whole night, quite in a fever. At daylight it was thick and hazy weather, and we could not make them out; but about five bells, the old Culloden, who, if she had broke her nose, had not lost the use of her eyes, made the signal for a part of the Spanish fleet in sight. Old Jervis repeated the signal to prepare for action, but he might have saved the wear and tear of the bunting, for we were all ready, bulkheads down, screens up, guns shotted, tackles rove, yards slung, powder filled, shot on deck, and fire out—and what’s more, Mr Simple, I’ll be damned if we wer’n’t all willing too. About six bells in the forenoon, the fog and haze all cleared away at once, just like the rising of the foresail, that they lower down at the Portsmouth Theatre, and discovered the whole of the Spanish fleet. I counted them all. ‘How many, Swinburne?’ cries Nelson. ‘Twenty-six sail, sir,’ answered I. Nelson walked the quarterdeck backwards and forwards, rubbing his hands, and laughing to himself, and then he called for his glass, and went to the gangway with Captain Miller. ‘Swinburne, keep a good look upon the admiral,’ says he. ‘Ay, ay, sir,’ says I. Now, you see, Mr Simple, twenty-six sail against fifteen were great odds upon paper; but we didn’t think so, because we know’d the difference between the two fleets. There was our fifteen sail of the line all in apple-pie order, packed up as close as dominoes, and every man on board of them longing to come to the scratch; while there was their twenty-six, all somehow nohow, two lines here, and no line there, with a great gap of water in the middle of them. For this gap between their ships we all steered, with all the sail we could carry, because, d’ye see, Mr Simple, by getting them on both sides of us, we had the advantage of fighting both broadsides, which is just as easy as fighting one, and makes shorter work of it. Just as it struck seven bells, Troubridge opened the ball, setting to half-a-dozen of the Spaniards, and making them reel ‘Tom Collins,’ whether or no. Bang-bang-bang, bang! Oh, Mr Simple, it’s a beautiful sight, to see the first guns fired, that are to bring on a general action. ‘He’s the luckiest dog, that Troubridge,’ said Nelson, stamping with impatience. Our ships were soon hard at it, hammer and tongs, (my eyes, how they did pelt it in!) and old Sir John, in the Victory, smashed the cabin windows of the Spanish admiral, with such a hell of a raking broadside, that the fellow bore up as if the devil kicked him. Lord-a-mercy! you might have drove a Portsmouth waggon into his starn—the broadside of the Victory had made room enough. However, they were soon all smothered up in smoke, and we could not make out how things were going on—but we made a pretty good guess. Well, Mr Simple, as they say at the play, that was act the first, scene the first; and now we had to make our appearance, and I’ll leave you to judge, after I’ve told my tale, whether the old Captain wasn’t principal performer, and top sawyer over them all. But stop a moment, I’ll just look at the binnacle, for that young topman’s nodding at the wheel.—I say, Mr Smith, are you shutting your eyes to keep them warm, and letting the ship run half a point out of her course? take care I don’t send for another helmsman that’s all, and give the reason why. You’ll make a wry face upon six-water grog, to-morrow, at seven bells. Damn your eyes, keep them open—can’t you?”

Swinburne, after this genteel admonition to the man at the wheel, reseated himself and continued his narrative.

“All this while, Mr Simple, we in the Captain had not fired a gun; but were ranging up as fast as we could to where the enemy lay in a heap. There were plenty to pick and choose from; and Nelson looked out sharp for a big one, as little boys do when they have to choose an apple: and, by the piper that played before Moses! it was a big one that he ordered the master to put him alongside of. She was a four-decker, called the Santissima Trinidad. We had to pass some whoppers, which would have satisfied any reasonable man; for there was the San Josef, and Salvador del Mondo, and San Nicolas; but nothing would suit Nelson but this four-decked ship; so we crossed the hawse of about six of them, and as soon as we were abreast of her, and at the word ‘Fire!’ every gun went off at once, slap into her, and the old Captain reeled at the discharge as if she was drunk. I wish you’d only seen how we pitched it into this Holy Trinity; she was holy enough before we had done with her, riddled like a sieve, several of her ports knocked into one, and every scupper of her running blood and water. Not but what she stood to it as bold as brass, and gave us nearly gun for gun, and made a very pretty general average in our ship’s company. Many of the old captains went to kingdom come in that business, and many more were obliged to bear up for Greenwich Hospital.