First trip to sea—Shipmates—Admiral Sir John Borlase Warren, Bart, K.B.

My father[A] and uncle both served their king and country in the American war of independence; the former was with Lord Cornwallis’s army when it surrendered at York to the American forces under the command of General Washington (he was at that time an officer in the 6th Regiment of Foot); and the latter in the 4th Dragoons. Both were magistrates for the county of Buckinghamshire, and served the office of high sheriff for the same.

When scarcely ten years old, I joined H.M. ship Renown (74) in Torbay, bearing the flag (blue at the mizen) of one of the most amiable men in the service, Sir John Borlase Warren, Bt, K.B., who had commanded a squadron of dashing frigates during all the early part of the war, and had taken and destroyed several French ships, and finished his glorious flying squad career by capturing most of those, which, under the command of Monsieur Bompart, had been sent with troops to assist the Irish during the rebellion of 1798, thereby saving the blood of thousands in Ireland, if not Ireland itself. A better or braver officer than the late Admiral Sir J. B. Warren never lived; he was that perfect model of a gentleman that every one might take as a pattern. I had the melancholy honour of following him to his grave, and wept over it tears of unfeigned sorrow.

But to commence my peregrinations. I still recollect the delight that a letter from my father gave me when at school, informing me I was to leave Latin and Greek, which classical knowledge was all blown overboard and forgotten the first gale of wind at sea; and after spending a short time at Little Missenden Abbey (which then belonged to my father) with my mother and two sisters,[B] I proceeded to Portsmouth, thence to find a passage to join the before-mentioned ship in Torbay.

I bore the parting with my kind, dear, excellent mother and sisters pretty well, because my father accompanied me to Portsmouth to see me safely launched into a new world; but when he took leave, I thought my heart would burst with grief. Time, however, reconciles us to everything, and the gaiety and thoughtlessness of youth, added to the cocked hat, dirk, spy-glass, etc., of a nautical fit out, assisted wonderfully to dry my tears, and, in a manner, reconciled me to a new scene of life.

Captain Pickmore, who at that period commanded the Royal William, at Spithead, very kindly sent me on board the Montague (74) with all my baggage, in the admiral’s tender, to join my ship to the westward. The first night on board was not the most pleasant; the noises unusual to a novice—sleeping in a hammock for the first time—its tarry smell—the wet cables for a bed carpet, and a somersault or two from my lubberly manner of getting into it, made me draw comparisons between sleeping on beds of down ashore, and my new abode, by no means very favourable to the latter.

The second day after quitting Portsmouth brought us to Torbay, where the channel fleet of thirty-six sail of the line, under Lord Bridport, was lying at anchor. I was soon transferred to my own ship, and introduced to my new messmates.

We lived in the gun-room on the lower deck, and in fine weather had daylight, which was better in many respects than the old midshipmen’s berths in the cockpit. Amongst the youngsters were some within a year or two as young as myself; nice boys, full of fun and mischief, who soon initiated me in the sea pranks of “sawing your bed-posts,”—cutting you down head and foot; “reefing your bed-clothes,”—making them up into hard balls which, if properly done, will take one unpractised in the art a good half-hour or more to undo. It used to be a great annoyance to come off deck after a first or middle watch (from eight at night to twelve, or from twelve to four in the morning), perhaps quite wet through, thinking, on being relieved, what a nice sleep you would have, to find, on going to your hammock, all your sheets and blankets made up into hard balls, and a good half-hour’s work in the dark to undo them, particularly when tired and sleepy. During your labour to effect this, you had the pleasure of hearing the mischievous fellows that had a hand in doing it, laughing in their hammocks, and offering their condolences by saying what a shame it was to play such tricks when you were absent on deck, keeping your watch, and recommending you to lick them all round, if you were able, or at all events to retaliate the first opportunity.

Blowing the grampus (sluicing you with water), and many other tricks used to be resorted to occasionally. Taking it all in good part, from the persuasion that it was the customary initiation to a sea life, my torments were few, for when the art of tormenting ceases to irritate, it loses the effect intended, and it generally ends by your shipmates saying, “Well, you are a good-natured fellow, and shall not be annoyed any more.”

I must do my brother mids the justice to say that a more kind-hearted set was not to be met with. We had few or no real quarrels the four years we sailed together, and, whenever spare time permitted, our evenings were spent in the amusements afforded by the old games of cribbage, loo, draughts and able wackets, which is a kind of forfeit played with cards, where each player is subject, for every mistake, to one or more blows with a knotted handkerchief on the palm of the hand. Many of them have paid the debt of nature, but some have risen to high rank and honours, most deservedly, in the service. We were all kept tight at work, and had at least four hours of sky-parlour (being sent to the main-topmast-head), when our watch was over, for every delinquency. I recollect one of my messmates was a lazy fellow, and shocking bad relief (the Hon. Henry Dawson); he always kept the unfortunate mid he had to relieve at least half-an-hour beyond his time on deck, until his patience was exhausted, forcing him to the unwelcome alternative of making a complaint to the lieutenant of the watch, who sent down to bring his relief on deck. It frequently happened that an old quarter-master, named Ned Cowen, was employed on this errand; he was a complete character, and as he had sailed round the world with the celebrated Captain Cook, and was a great favourite with us mids, we used to get him into our berth, give the old fellow a glass or two of grog, and make him relate his adventures.

Whenever old Ned presented himself at the Honble. H. Dawson’s hammock, he signified the purport of his visit with this summons—“Come, Mr. Dawson, past one bell (the half-hour after the watch has been called), turn out, show a leg, or I am ordered to bring you up on the quarter-deck, hammock and all; take my advice, bring a good, thick greatcoat with you; it is a wet night, and the masthead waiting for you—the old story, you know.” The delinquent’s tale of “overslept myself, sir,” was quite worn out—it occurred too often; therefore nothing was left but to mount up to the masthead, and there enjoy the refreshing breezes, fine showers, and exhilarating air of sky-parlour, to awaken him from his balmy slumbers.

The ship was in fine order and a perfect man-of-war, well manned and officered. The lieutenants were good seamen, knew and did their duty promptly, and managed the ship well.

Of the first lieutenants, two, after being promoted, found a watery grave—poor Hawes, in the Moucheron, brig of 16 guns, which foundered in a heavy gale with all his crew; and the gallant Burke shared a similar fate in the Seagull, of 18 guns.