BEFORE CADIZ.

“For honour, glory, and the laws,
Is native courage given;
And he who fights his country’s cause,
Fights in the cause of Heaven.”—Dibdin.

may be doubted whether the awful bombardment of Cadiz was a necessity of war. A bombardment is always a cruel undertaking, and often seems positively cowardly. But Sir John had one particular reason of his own, independent of exigency, for this cannonade. There was still a smouldering fire of disaffection among the seamen of the fleet, and he therefore determined to keep the sailors busy. Busy with a terrible busy-ness surely, for day and night, night and day, the firing went on, while many a daring cutting-out expedition was organized; and in some of these, deeds of heroism were accomplished that the British nation may well be proud of, even till this day. In one of these, during a boat action, Nelson himself was overpowered, and narrowly escaped being slain. But for his coxswain, who twice or thrice interposed his own body betwixt the swords of the assailants and the commodore, the battle of the Nile would never have been fought.[C]

In the cutting-out expeditions and boat actions, in or near to the harbour, and in repelling attempts to run the blockade from the town, our officers, even our captains, fought side by side with their men.

The marines were particularly gallant and courageous. Sir John Jervis delighted to honour this gallant body of men. They certainly deserved to be petted and made much of; but the admiral had another reason for his treatment of them. He thought he might possibly have eventually to play them off against the seamen in case of revolt.

Surely, upon the whole, this year 1797 was one of the most eventful in the whole history of this long and bloody war. A dark cloud seemed hanging over our native land, which at any moment might burst into a storm that would end in our utter collapse, if not destruction. And the shadow of this cloud was in every heart. Nor is this to be wondered at. The people were positively an-hungered, the children were crying for bread. Far away in the north, the crops had all but failed, and famine and death stared the people in the face. Britain’s best blood was being drained off to the wars; her sturdiest sons—those who ought to have stayed at home to work for the women and children—were “weeded away.” Money seemed to have taken unto itself wings and flown off; and in February the Bank of England itself came down with a crash, and closed its doors. Even those who in wild disorderly mobs did not preach anarchy or cry for bread, called aloud for “Peace.” Peace, indeed! what would peace have meant at such a time but dishonour and ruin. No, no! peace could not again hover on her white wings over our distracted country for many a day. To make matters worse, Ireland was ripe for rebellion, and our British forces by land had been unsuccessful; for we had been beaten and thrashed by the French in Holland. Is it not a pretty picture?

But the darkest hour had yet to come. I have already told you about the combination formed against us. Well, had the Dutch fleet been able to join forces with the French, this brave Britain of ours would no longer have ruled the ocean, and all the horrors of invasion, massacre, and rapine would have been added to our other troubles. We were depending upon our Channel fleet to avert the last and overwhelming calamity, when all at once, to the horror of every one, this fleet mutinied and refused to go to sea. They even seized their officers, and though they lifted no hand against them, they disarmed them, and either made them prisoners or allowed a few, among whom were medical officers, to go on shore.

The men demanded increase in pay and other allowances; and it must be confessed that, upon the whole, they had their grievances. It was not before several anxious weeks had gone by that the differences were settled.

It was the good old admiral Lord Howe who himself brought the king’s free pardon to the men, and the Act of Parliament granting them their just demands. He was a very great favourite, and looked upon as quite a father to the fleet.

Then on the 17th of May the ships put to sea.

We must remember that seamen in the royal navy in those old days had a good deal to complain of. The pay was inadequate, the food was often unfit for human consumption, leave was seldom given in port, and discipline was often maintained by the cat-o’-nine-tails, the services of which might in nine cases out of ten have been dispensed with.

Just a word or two about the mutiny at the Nore, and I have done, for ever I trust, with so shocking a subject. The men here were far more insolent and overbearing in their demands. The president of the mutineers—fancy calling a mutineer a president!—was, worse luck, a Scotsman from Perth, of the name of Parker. He indeed ruled it for a time with a high hand, and was virtually admiral of the fleet at Sheerness, up and down the streets of which, carrying red flags, his fellows marched, in order to secure the sympathy of civilians.

At this time, it will be remembered, Admiral Duncan was blockading the Texel, hemming in the Dutch fleet so that they might not join the French. Was it not a terrible thing that with the exception of two ships—the Venerable (the flagship) and the Adamant—his fleet should desert him, sail across the water and join the scoundrel Parker at the Nore?

Poor Scotch Duncan! When even the men of the flagship showed signs of revolting, he drew them around him, and in a voice which seemed almost choked with rising tears addressed them in words that were at once simple and touching. His concluding sentences were somewhat as follows:—

“Often and often, men, it has been my pride with you to look into the Texel on a foe which dreaded to come out to meet us. But my pride is humbled now indeed; and no words of mine can express to you the anguish and sorrow in my heart. To be deserted by my fleet in the presence of the enemy is a disgrace that is hard, hard to bear, for never could I have deemed it possible.”

That speech settled Jack as far as the flagship was concerned; for British sailors really have soft, kind hearts. It is as true even to this hour what Dibdin wrote about Jack as it was in the dashing days of old:—

“’Longside of an enemy, boldly and brave,
He’ll with broadside on broadside regale her;
Yet he’ll sigh to the soul o’er that enemy’s grave,
So noble’s the mind of a sailor.

“Let cannons roar loud, burst their sides let the bombs,
Let the winds a dread hurricane rattle,
The rough and the pleasant he takes as it comes,
And laughs at the storm and battle.

“To rancour unknown, to no passion a slave,
Nor unmanly, nor mean, nor a railer,
He’s gentle as mercy, as fortitude brave,
And this is a true British sailor.” President Parker of the “Republic Afloat” formed a cordon across the mouth of the Thames, and intercepted all traffic. But he did not burn a long peat stack, to use a Scotticism; for the nation was enraged at him, and one by one his ships went back to their allegiance. He was seized, and after a three days’ trial was condemned and executed, cool and intrepid to the very last.

The battle of St. Vincent—by no means a crowning victory—did much to cheer the drooping hearts of the people of England. It was an earnest of what was to follow, and probably did more to restrain the crawling demon Revolution than anything else could have done; for Britain ever loved her ships and her sailors.

But none knew the state of our country at this time better than Sir John Jervis, nor how much depended upon the success of our arms at sea. It was for this reason that he threw himself so thoroughly heart and soul into the great game of naval warfare, and became the pivot around which the whole fleet lived and moved.

There were many petty officers, and men too, among the ships who were fully aware that we were fighting against fearful odds. But a sailor is so constituted that he never lets care trouble him. Jack Mackenzie was a very great favourite with his men. He knew the way to their hearts. It was not his young friend Murray’s bedside only that he visited. There was not a wounded or a sick man in the whole ship who did not see him at least once a day, and he freely distributed wine, jellies, and many another dainty from his own mess to comfort and sustain the sick.

Jack spliced the main-brace sometimes too. One Saturday evening he returned from a very daring and extra-well-carried-out brush with the enemy’s river craft, in which his gallant fellows had cut out a barque from the very harbour’s mouth, without the loss of a man. As soon as he had refreshed himself somewhat with a bath and change of clothes, he visited young Murray, whom he found doing well, and hopeful now that he would live to see his little sweetheart once again. Then he saw the sick men, after which he gave orders to splice the main-brace.

Walking forward some hours after this, you might have heard such songs as “Tom Bowling” rolled up from near the forecastle, or Dibdin’s “Saturday Night at Sea.”

“’Twas Saturday night: the twinkling stars
Shone on the rippling sea;
No duty called the jovial tars,
The helm was lashed a-lee.
The ample can adorned the board:
Prepared to see it out,
Each gave the lass that he adored,
And pushed the can about.”

Jack on this particular evening had M?Hearty and Tom Fairlie to dine with him, and they were still lingering over dessert, when the steward informed the captain that Jones the boatswain desired to speak to him.

It was an odd request at such a time, but Jones was immediately admitted. His face was very serious indeed. He glanced uneasily at the servants, and interpreting the look to mean that he wished privacy, Captain Mackenzie ordered them to retire.

If Jones was serious, Jack was much more so when he made his statement, which he did in straightforward British sailor’s English.