Nelson Confides

By Mark Iliff

1792. Keen to escape a stifling home life and explore the world, Sim Roberts joins the Royal Navy. Jolly Jack Tar doesn’t know what to make of a nice 14-year-old of the middling classes. And the feeling is mutual. Then the war begins...

Admiral Lord Nelson is revered by his men. As the only seaman to serve in Nelson’s ship for every one of his four great Fleet Actions, Sim knows exactly why.

This adventure follows Sim’s progress from dazed and confused Landsman to respected Bosun’s Mate across 14 epic years of the war against France, culminating at Trafalgar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Iliff
• Release date: Oct 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215692561

Mark Iliff

Mark Iliff is a white male of no discernible youth. He writes. And other stuff. He’d be a recluse if there were any sort of public interest to reclude from.

Book preview

Original title page

St. Vincent, The Nile, Copenhagen & Trafalgar

Being the onlie Account of the late lamented LORD NELSON’s great Fleet Actions by a Sailor who serv’d in His Ship upon every Occasion

by Sim Roberts, Bosun’s Mate

‘Nelson confides that every man will do his duty’

being the Signal Lord Nelson wished to send to the Fleet at Seven Bells in the Forenoon Watch on the 21st Day of October in the Year of our Lord 1805

Editor’s note

This book was so nearly lost. The gentleman who discovered it, who wishes to remain anonymous, found it in a battered, black-painted steel deed box while clearing his parents’ house after his mother died. Stencilled on the lid in white paint was Flt. Lt. P. O’N. Oates. Most of the contents appeared to be the personal effects of an airman from the second world war.

The gentleman was intrigued by this. Oates had been the maiden name of his maternal grandmother, so the airman might have been a relative of some sort. In due course he discovered that his uncle, Flight Lieutenant Paddy Oates, had been one of the Irishmen who served in the RAF during WW2, losing his life in a bomber raid on Köln at the age of nineteen.

In researching this he had put to one side a thick sheaf of paper fastened in pink tape between two pieces of card that clearly had no RAF connections. It only surfaced again years later when he moved house after retiring from work. That was when he examined it. You could actually smell the ink! he exclaimed when describing the moment he untied the tape and opened the pages. It turned out to be the book you have now.

The book raises many questions. The pages were printed but not bound, which suggests it was a proof sent to the author for approval, although books could be sold in this form at the time. An extensive search has thrown up no other copies and no catalogue entries, so it’s possible that the author never approved it: whether through a change of heart, misdirection of the parcel, death or some other cause we shall probably never know. The author used a pseudonym, and has not been identified, so we cannot know whether the ambitions set out in the final paragraph remained pipe dreams. The printer and publisher have both closed or been acquired long since. There are no further leads to follow.

Another question is whether the book is the first-hand account it claims to be, or a work of fiction. A number of the fine details would be very hard to imagine for someone who had never served in the navy, so the balance of probability is that it is indeed a first-hand account. Some of the broader details are wrong, but ordinary sailors were not privy to the charts, signals and other means by which officers were able to understand events. The author’s biggest secret was one kept by several other sailors in well attested cases from the period, however implausible that might appear to us now.

The tale is so much more than the account of four battles promised by the original title (which in any case might not have been the author’s idea). Through the eyes of a seaman who served with Nelson in four ships, we gain a vivid sense of the day-to-day lives of Jack Tar, usually presented – if at all – through the eyes of the officer class but here lived first-hand. It’s a long way from Winston Churchill’s rum, sodomy and the lash. Though you will find all of those here, you will also find bravery, skill and comradeship, alongside moments of very human fear, cruelty and failure.

Also in favour of the account’s authenticity is the fact that the author is not always in the right place to participate in every significant moment, which is rarely the case in historical fiction! On the other hand, sailors of the time were notorious for exaggerating their own prowess and achievements, while this appears to be a modest, balanced account.

The reader must decide.

In producing the current edition we have inserted (sparingly) international units of measure and modern placenames [thus] in order to make the text more easily understood by a modern reader. We have also made limited modifications to language and punctuation. This has been carried out in the spirit of a translation from another language, aiming to preserve the essential character of the book. It has involved no abridgement of the text nor conscious alteration of its meaning. We have not flinched from preserving language that might be regarded as sensitive in a modern work.

Contents

Part One: 1792-97 ~ Theia, Captain & St. Vincent

Chapter I – In which I first set eyes upon Captain Nelson

Chapter II – Reflexions upon the First Article of War

Chapter III – In which the Ship’s Company observe the Lord’s Day according to law

Chapter IV – In which I conduct the Reader upon a tour of H. M. Ship Captain, whether he wishes it or no

Chapter V – In which we begin to become used our new circumstances

Chapter VI – In which I relate my joining the Navy, as I ought to have done at the start of this book

Chapter VII – In which I become a seaman

Chapter VIII – Reflexions upon the Twentieth Article of War

Chapter IX – In which I meet my messmates

Chapter X – In which I learn seafaring

Chapter XI – In which the blockade of Brest begins

Chapter XII – In which I make purchases and observe, with no little perplexity, certain other transactions

Chapter XIII – Reflexions upon the Second & Thirty-Fifth Articles of War

Chapter XIV – In which I endeavour to make plain the points of the compass

Chapter XV – In which the blockade of Brest is, and is not, carried forward

Chapter XVI – In which I come to know the meaning of storm

Chapter XVII – Wherein our squadron protects the Gulf of Genoa & we become fiercer foes to the King’s Enemies

Chapter XVIII – Concerning Leghorn

Chapter XIX – Reflexions upon the Article of War that none wrote

Chapter XX – Wherein we are beset by many changes

Chapter XXI – Reflexions upon the Fifteenth Article of War

Chapter XXII – Wherein I see Gibralter, Lisbon and, with surprizing clarity, Cadiz

Chapter XXIII – Reflexions upon the Twenty-eighth and Thirty-second Articles of War

Chapter XXIV – Wherein we get wind of the Enemy Fleet

Chapter XXV – Reflexions upon the Twelfth Article of War

Chapter XXVI – Wherein we bring the Enemy to action at Cape St. Vincent

Part Two: 1797-98 ~ Captain, Vanguard & The Nile

Chapter XXVII – Wherein we repair much of the damage occasioned by the late Battle, but not all

Chapter XXVIII – Wherein I recall the loss of Theia in 1794

Chapter XXIX – In which Admiral Nelson shifts his Flag and Captain goes for a refit

Chapter XXX – In which I get a new Ship under a new Captain, whom I know of old, and pipe aboard an unexpected Admiral

Chapter XXXI – In which I return to the Mediterranean

Chapter XXXII – In which our Squadron becomes a Fleet

Chapter XXXIII – The Battle of the Nile

Chapter XXXIV – Wherein we repair damages

Chapter XXXV – Wherein we take our leave of Egypt

Part Three: 1798-1801 ~ Vanguard, Keen, Elephant & Copenhagen

Chapter XXXVI – Wherein Nelson becomes much occupied

Chapter XXXVII – Acting Bosun Sim Roberts!

Chapter XXXVIII – In which I am ashore for a longer time than I would

Chapter XXXIX – In which I go into a new Ship once more

Chapter XL – In which a happy year flits past

Chapter XLI – In which we turn to larboard

Chapter XLII – Wherein we bring Copenhagen in view

Chapter XLIII – The Battle of Copenhagen

Chapter XLIV – We conclude our business with the Danes and sail into the Baltic

Part Four: 1801-05 ~ Elephant, Ambuscade, France, Isis, Victory, Merton & Trafalgar

Chapter XLV – Sweden, Russia, Prussia and Home

Chapter XLVI – In which I cross the Atlantic Ocean only to return

Chapter XLVII – Wherein I walk about, without let or hindrance, in France!

Chapter XLVIII – Wherein we engage in a long, long chace

Chapter XLIX – Wherein Vice-Admiral The Right Honourable The Viscount Nelson takes greater notice of me than ever I thought possible

Chapter L – Off Cadiz, we trail our coat-tails before the Enemy

Chapter LI – The Battle of Trafalgar

Chapter LII – Wherein we battle two storms: one of wind and the other of sorrow

Part Five: 1806-10 ~ Ashore

Chapter LIII – Wherein a Nation laments its Hero

Chapter LIV – In which I return home

Chapter LV – In which I begin a new life

Chapter LVI – In which my tale reaches its end

Introduction by The Author

I served in Lord Nelson’s Ship in every one of his four Great Fleet Actions. I do not believe that any other lower deck sailor can lay such a claim, for the first act of a Seaman upon joining a Ship is to name his previous Ships. Albeit that a Ship’s Company is numbered in hundreds, if any had served in the same Ships as I, I am sure I should have discovered it.

The World has received accounts of the Battles of Saint Vincent, The Nile, Copenhagen and Trafalgar from the Historian’s view, which is the Officers’ view. I am pleased to present my recollections of a Sailor’s view.

An apology

I am entirely sensible of the convention that a Story should begin with the beginning and proceed in due sequence therefrom. I can plead only that I misjudged the beginning, not merely once, and that in consequence my Story leaps ahead and astern in time.

Should my situation change I will rectify this, but if you are reading this paragraph it must be the case that it remains unaltered, namely that I work long hours in my Master’s service and must perforce write when I should sleep. My scribblings by night greatly vex the maid with whom I share a bed, and my expenditure on candles, paper and ink is already at the limit of what I can afford without I contemplate writing the story anew. I give thanks to the geese upon Master’s lake that they, at least, furnish my pens gratis.

Part One:

1792-97 ~

Theia, Captain &

St. Vincent

Chapter I

In which I first set eyes upon Captain Nelson

My first sight of the new Captain, in the year ’96, was the crown of his hat as it rose at the Entry Way, followed brisk by the remainder of him (such as there was – he appeared but a blessing taller than me, and I was known aboard as Shrimp). He came to a halt, saluted the space at the stern where the Helmsmen steer and the Officers give command, the Quarterdeck, and strode aft to greet Captain Smith. I held my place at the end of the line, the new member of the Side Party that had piped him aboard.

Piping the Captain aboard is a common Ceremony that I had seen many times in my four years in the Navy. An Officer would say it was a cuuhstom conducive to the biynding togethah of the sahvice (for that is how they speak) (aside from the many that do not, but that is the voice we use to mock them quietly below deck when they vex us). Shipmates would call it a tallywagging taradiddle, or suchlike, was they being frank, but would defend the Ceremony to their utmost should any man not of the Navy be present. So perhaps my imagined Officer had the right of it.

It was the first time that it fell to me to serve in the Side Party since I was lately made Bosun’s Mate, and I had feared lest I do it clumsy. The Ceremony accomplished, I had leisure to reflect upon what was known of the small man who was to be our new Captain. His prior Ship, Agamemnon 64, had proved a sweet sailer and well handled, when together we chased the Ca Ira, a French 80. She was old, though, and in want of repair. Had the French not lopped the head off their King some three years since, our Country might be at peace and Agamemnon rotting in some forgotten creek. Captain Smith was ailing too, and was to take Agamemnon Home, while the Agamemnon’s Captain took command of our dear Captain. (When a boat approaches a Ship, the customary challenge is What boat? If the reply is the name of a Ship then it is known that that Ship’s Captain is aboard – the reply Agamemnon was given moments earlier. Thus Captain would signify that Captain’s Captain is aboard. In naming our Ship, their Lordships of the Admiralty had perhaps displayed a degree of uncommon merriment.)

As to the man, all we knew was that he had been on half pay before taking command of the Eggs-and-bacon, sailors’ jocular name for Agamemnon. Jack Tar likes to serve under a Fighting Captain with salt water in his veins. Their Lordships had seen fit to keep our man ashore for five years entire, so we inclined to believe that we were in for a sad time of it. Some shipmates related that he had been active in ’93 in laying siege to Corsica, off which we now lay, though how they could know I can not say.

At last Captain Smith, an unaccustomed smile upon his face, tottered toward the Entry Way where we still stood. We piped as he mounted the bosun’s chair – a plank depending from two ropes, used by Captains unable or unwilling to enter or leave by their own exertions – and continued until he sank from view, and that was our duty done.

≈≈≈

When Agamemnon’s boat was some way off – so that Captain Smith should not suffer the indignity of hearing it, I supposed – the cry went up for all hands to muster aft. The order was expected and the muster took but a few moments. Our new Captain, whom I judged to be of some 40 years, stood at the Quarterdeck rail, the Lieutenants and Midshipmen ranged aside him in due order, and drew a document from his breast. Seen with the Officers he was, in truth, of quite unremarkable height. It must have been his slender build and fragile demeanour that had before led me ahoo.

We listened as he read, not for the words, as familiar as salt beef, but for the voice. By the Commissioners for executing the office of Lord High Admiral, he began, and I felt mirth rising, for the voice appeared to emanate from his nose and to be lighter and higher than befits a fighting man. The shoulders of some of my shipmates were a-quiver, and I resolved to look only at our Captain’s face for fear of putting myself in disgrace. "Of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland etcetera, to Captain Horatio Nelson hereby appointed Captain of His Majesty’s Ship the Captain, he continued, and so on through the entire litany, ending, —nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer the contrary at your peril." The reading was over in a few minutes, but for all that I could swear that Captain Nelson had looked me in the eye direct three or four times in that short span.

Whilst Captain Nelson read, a flag was hoist to the mizzen mast. It was most irregular for the Ceremony to be gainsaid in such a way, but all was made clear when the signal broke to reveal itself a Broad Pennant. So it was not Captain but Commodore Nelson who now had command of us, a Commodore being a Captain in Command, for the time being, of the other Captains in a Detachment of Ships. A Detachment held promise of more interesting work than our customary pounding to and fro across the Bay of Toulon to keep the French Fleet in and their supplies out.

It being after seven bells in the forenoon watch [1130], we were tormented by the smell of Saturday’s beef from the galley. We knew that a new Captain must needs inspect his Command at the first moment, and were resigned to a spoilt dinner, when he surprized us with, I might be blind in one eye, but my sense of smell has not deserted me. I shall inspect the Ship after dinner.

≈≈≈

When we had settled at our mess table, Bradford Mick began, as we knew he would, By the Commissioners for executing the office of Lord High Admiral, in fair personation of the Commodore. Aping the speech of Officers and shipmates alike was his particular gift, and much merriment he gave us thus. He repeated it for the tables ahead and astern of us, gaining in fidelity each time.

We soon tired of that, there being much else to consider: what was the nature of our new Commodore, and what were his achievements? He having been ashore so very long, there were few who had served under him. Foysey Jim of our mess was one such: he was at the Siege of Catillo on the Spanish Main in the year ’80 where so many of the Expedition fell sick that the venture was given up, And it was there that my gut began the habit that ye all attach so roguishly to my name. Nelson had had Command of the Vessels that supported the soldiers, and had gone home with a jungle sickness after the enterprize failed. Jim then took his tale along the gun-deck, retelling it to the other messes, while others did likewise with their own intelligences. One told how Nelson had shewn much vigour as 2d Lieutenant of Lowestoffe 32 in the West Indies, playing a dashing part in the capture of many Prizes. An other retailed the story a fight with a polar bear when a Midshipman of 14 or 15 years, being then required to explain that what made a bear polar was a white fur, a home in the icy latitudes and remarkable ferocity. Those sailors – every Ship has them – who were assiduous in exchanging news with other Ships when in company told that the Commodore had lost the sight of one eye two years since, in the taking of Calvi in Corsica, though he was a foolish sailor who believed his actions might ever pass unseen by the other. The cries from mess to mess continued withal, exchanging small pieces of information or opinion, making for a rowdy dinner.

Only Ned Spink, who sat across from me at mess, was silent. His eyes flicked from side to side as he watched the doings over my shoulder. I turned to look. A line of seamen I knew not were taking turns to shift their chests and other dunnage from the Entry Port and carry them below. It was usual for a Captain to bring followers aboard a new command: Clerk, Cook, Servant, the Coxswain (and often the Crew) of his gig, and the Midshipmen, who are entrusted by their parents to a particular Captain and not the Navy. Other crew members might be brought too, but never more than a handful.

There seemed no thing amiss, so I asked Ned, What is’t?

I’ve never seen the like, he replied. He has replaced five Lieutenants.

"But that is all of them!"

Aye! ’Tis bad.

A sailor belongs first to his Ship and its People, and only then to his King and Country. He believes every other Ship to be inferior to his own. To be turned over to an other Ship, at the end of a Commission or for any other reason, is perceived as a gross hurt. Here was the entire character of the Ship being turned over about our ears and, without more needing to be said, Ned and I agreed that it would hurt near as much.

There is worse for you, said Ned. I inclined my head. Above 30 seamen – and a new Bosun.

This was a blow indeed, for the man who had called for my step to Bosun’s Mate just a few weeks since must needs leave the Ship. The new man would wish to make his own appointments, and I as the most junior must surely lose my place to one of the picked hands now coming aboard.

With Captains being sent into Agamemnon to make way for the fresh hands, I was upon the point of congratulating our mess upon being spared the cull when Mardy Jim received a tap on the shoulder from a Lieutenant and a word in his ear, in consequence of which he announced, Well, shipmates, I’ll be Home afore ye, whereupon he turned his back and went to fetch his dunnage, saying not a word more. We looked one at another, none feeling obliged to put into words that he would be little missed.

His place was later taken by Hoo Nose, as I heard it, though it turned out to be Huw Knows – a name bestowed by shipmates past – a Welchman, an Ordinary beset by a passion to follow the progress of the War at every turn.

≈≈≈

As we waited in our places upon the Upper Gun-deck we heard the footfalls of the Inspection Party pass forward above our heads, across the Forecastle and back upon the other Gangway, pausing from time to time then moving on. It was the Commodore’s first occasion to look 500 men in the face and take the measure of each. Having left the Bay of Saint Florent, a snug anchorage at the North-West of Corsica, we were slipping through a calm sea under all plain sail in a moderate breeze with the wind large, the motion easy, and the hot sun – it being near Midsummer’s Day – softened by the sails’ shade. The Inspection Party passed through our sight along the opposite Gangway, and soon after the Commodore leapt down the companionway with the briskness of a colt, our new First Lieutenant Mr. Berry following more sedate. He soon reached our station. Mills, is it not? he cried out upon seeing Foysey Jim, whose face broke into an astonished grin. How very glad I am to see you!, he continued, shaking him by the hand. You are keeping well I see. The Med is an improvement upon the San Juan River, is it not? Jim remained mute – in a forwards direction, at least – contenting himself with a vigorous nodding of his head and an ever-wider grin, as the party moved on. We heard like encounters from time to time as the Inspection moved along the Main Gun-deck below, then kept our places as it descended from hearing into the Orlop and the Hold. An Inspection is easy work for the inspected, with no thing to climb, haul or clean.

When the Inspection ended an extra tot of rum was declared. As a consequence of all, our estimation of the Commodore rose. With the entire new slate of Officers, however, I still felt a stranger in my own Ship.

Chapter II

Reflexions upon the First Article of War

In every Ship I served was displayed a series of broadsheets, dense-filled with writing, in the way from the Gun-deck to the Heads where every man must go not less than once a day, and more often if there be fresh vegetables or his bowel be disordered. It matters not that the power of reading is so very uncommon, for the texts are known by heart: the Articles of War are read out every month.

When first I was at sea they were a cause of great confusion to me, for it appeared that their strictures were in some part observed with diligence and in some part disregarded entire. When I taxed shipmates with this they shewed no interest in the point, until I came to Old Davey. (Every Ship has an Old Davey – though he often goes by an other name – who knows every thing of the sea and prefers to listen and think than to talk.) Davey drew upon his pipe, blew smoak to the deckhead, fixed me with his eye and said, "Well, lad, you might think that if you only read ’em. Howsoever, when you consider how they came about, all becomes clear. Picture a room in the Admiralty where a Clerk is at work setting down the Articles. Upon one hand are Admirals, for the most part thorough-going seamen who know what they are about. Upon the other are Honourable Members of the Houses of Parliament, who believe they were set upon this Earth to become severe Fathers to the Nation. Many hours of talking to and fro must pass, with the poor Clerk inserting and scoring out matter until he don’t know his pen from his todger, before a draft is produced that all can agree." With that he drew on his pipe again and looked at me steady.

After chewing his words in my mind for no little time, I nodded and replied, Yes, I comprehend. He gave me no thing more than a slow nod and a twitch of his mouth in return. I gave him the same. But how am I to proceed? I asked at last.

As to that, it is simple, he said. The true law is the one the Officers apply. Learn that, and learn it afresh for a new Ship or a new Captain, and never be the buffle-headed nickumpoop that puts it to the test.

Thankee, was my reply.

He flapped me away with a hand.

≈≈≈

The Articles summon impressions of Navy life, the parts of them that are disregarded as much as the parts that are observed, so I will set some of them before you in this book.

Article I

All Commanders, Captains, and Officers, in or belonging to any of His Majesty’s Ships or Vessels of War, shall cause the publick Worship of Almighty God, according to the Liturgy of the Church of England established by Law, to be solemnly, orderly and reverently performed in their respective Ships; and shall take care that prayers and preaching, by the Chaplains in Holy Orders of the respective Ships, be performed diligently; and that the Lord’s Day be observed according to Law.

These are our proceedings of a Sunday, without there be a storm blowing or an enemy in sight: priddy up our shoes and finest cloaths, sponging out any spots and perhaps adding a riband or other ornament; wash; set our hair to rights; assemble aft, sparkling, for Divine Service; eat the finest dinner of the week; and spend the rest of the day as we please. Each man has a tie-mate to tie his pigtail, though the pigtail is no longer favoured by the younger men, it being agreeable to share labours with a particular friend. Bald men in general become each other’s tie-mates withal.

Amongst the activities you might observe after dinner number spinning yarns (be they ever so old), writing letters, singing, dancing, playing music, boxing, tattooing, wrestling, model making, skylarking aloft and, when the weather be right, fishing, and swimming in a sail hung over the side. So it appears to me that the Lord’s Day is properly observed, as required.

But I would hesitate to say that Divine Service be observed according to the customs of the Church of England. There is no place to kneel. The Holy Sacrament is not given. The sermon every four weeks is a reading of the Articles, and at other times is apt to be a critique by the Captain of our particular misdemeanours of the preceding week in stead of any elaboration of the Holy Scriptures, even if there be a Chaplain aboard which there often is not.

I have observed, privily, some of my shipmates to demark a covert Cross upon their breast during the Service, and I take them to be Papists, more afraid of professing their religion than the Hindoos, Mussulmen and Jews we have aboard. I know not what Gods our Chinees observe. But perhaps all Gods are the same God, and a vague celebration of rectitude is the best form of Service.

Chapter III

In which the Ship’s Company observe the Lord’s Day according to law

When Jack Tar is perturbed he is more like to write home. With above forty new faces aboard, including all who wore the blue coat of an officer, Jack was perturbed. The day after Commodore Nelson read himself in being a Sunday, I was in great demand, for I was known for a good letter and many of my shipmates did not write. So very much in demand was I in this wise that many shipmates were in my debt, a debt that they honoured with much kindness and assistance. I make no doubt that my life in the Navy would have been much harsher else, for I had joined as a weak, ignorant young’un of the middling classes who knew no thing of the sea and spoke in a manner that many shipmates found too fancy for comfort. (The manner of my joining the Navy I will contrive to work later into my story, which has already become sadly tofsy-turvy.)

I spent the greater part of the after-noon upon the Forecastle, my back against the Forecastle rail, mid-way twixt the belfry and the larboard Gangway, a favoured position preserved for me against the claims of more senior shipmates by the queue of men whose letters I wrote. It was affecting how they stood apart from the man whose letter I was taking, making idle chat to preserve his confidences, and affecting too how the roughest of men could pour forth the softest endearments for me to set down to their sweethearts.

Beneath the place where my pratts rested was the cabin of Joseph King, our new Bosun and thus my new Chief. Despite his English name he was a Portagee [Portuguese], and his sandy consonants and tarry vowels were those of a foreigner (though I own I had once believed a man from County Durham to be speaking foreign, so perhaps my testimony on this point is of little worth). The day before, he had engaged me in seemingly idle chatter, but I knew he was taking my measure before deciding if he would preserve me as a Bosun’s Mate.

My last letter wrote, I stood and shook the life back into my legs. It is a surprizing truth of life aboard that a man can close his mind to any distraction, be it ever so loud, as a consequence of living chop by jowl with so very many shipmates, and so it was that I had been unaware of a ferocious mill carrying on mere feet away between Dark George, our champion boxer, and a stranger who a shipmate informed me was Dick M’Carthy that had been champion of the Eggs-and-bacon. The crowd were for George, in course, and the din they put up was tremendous. By and by it rose to a hearty cheer as George knocked down Dick for the victory. Dark George was so named because he kept every particular of his life before the Navy secret, though the colour of his skin must have helped the name along. There were scars and welts upon every part of his body, and in the ring he seemed insensible to every blow. Out of the ring he was a quiet, gentle man. He was also my tie-mate and I was glad I had witnessed his triumph, for he was sure to talk of it when next we were together.

In time, Dick staggered upright and received a generous cheer from the crowd. He shook George’s hand warmly and received a kindly clap upon the shoulder. It was then that it came to my notice that Dan Eaton, George’s customary second, was tending Dick’s wounds whilst an Agamemnon had seconded George. Thus did the new-comers begin to become part of us.

≈≈≈

There still remained some leisure time when all was done, so I sought out the new Bosun to seek his advice in a manner that I hoped would portray me as earnest and diligent. When on duty I wore about my neck, both as a badge of the office of Bosun’s Mate and as a tool of my trade, a bosun’s call, a type of whistle that gives a shrill note and, with a right movement of the hand, a shriller. These two notes, in differing combination, are used to pass orders through the Ship. I had been obeying these orders all my days at sea, and knew their meaning by heart, but did not have the skill of sounding them, my being so lately made up. When we had piped the Commodore aboard I had held the call to my lips and puffed out my cheeks in dumb shew, fearful lest I mar the occasion with a false note.

So I desired to practise. The difficulty came in achieving this without sending my shipmates hither and yon to attend to the orders denoted by my calls. Bosun’s advice was to ascend to the highest part of the Ship and to practise calls that had but one note, the solution I would have lighted on myself had I not been intent on making an impression upon him. I could not tell whether the conversation had done me good or ill, though I suspected the latter. Thanking Bosun, I gave a shew of swinging lithely into the shrouds to ascend to the main truck.

Chapter IV

In which I conduct the R eader upon a tour of H. M. Ship Captain, whether he wishes it or no

I am sensible that the greater part of my readers have never seen a Ship, and would be at a loss should they find themselves aboard, – would be all at sea, to jest – so permit me, in imagination, to conduct you upon a tour of H. M. Ship Captain.

We begin at the Main Top which, as you may observe, is far from the top of the Main Mast – indeed, it is not half way up. This platform, with its surrounding rail, is some times called the Fighting Top because in Action it is manned by Sharp-shooters, which is to say men who are particular deadly with a musket.

This sail below us is the Mainsail, or Main Course when being most specific. If you look over the yard you will perceive a row of cords across the forward face of the sail. There is a like row upon the other face. These we call reef points. To reduce the area of the sail in a freshening wind, the Topmen lay out along the yard and pull up the top part of the canvas until the reef points can be tied together, front and back, over the yard.

Above us is the Topsail, the tallest sail upon the mast but narrower than the Course. See, it has three rows of reef points. The topsail is the first to be set when getting under way and the last to be struck when coming to anchor.

Now let us ascend.

≈≈≈

This here is the Crosstrees. Though but a mild sea runs today, see how we sway through the air prodigious, dwelling longer over the deep than over the Ship. If a greater sea be running the sway is mighty.

We have climbed past the topsail, and above us stands the Topgallant, and above that the Royal. You will observe that the Topgallant Mast they stand upon is mounted upon the topmast. It can be struck down in wild weather to reduce windage. Likewise the topmast can be sent down in even wilder weather, leaving only the lower mast.

Was we to climb on to the very top, the Mainmast truck, we would soar 180 feet above the sea [55 m]. From time to time I contrive an imagined order so that I might ascend in fine weather to sit there a while, breathing the sweet air and hoping to see an Angel pass nigh. The horizon thence is 14 miles distant, commanding a view of some 640 squared miles [26 km & 2,200 km²]. Sharp eyes might espy the truck of a like Ship as far again beyond the horizon, which brings into view a circle of 2,500 squared miles [8,700 km²] if our senior Midshipman is to be believed. He is a dab at the trigonometry by many accounts.

Below us is the Ship herself, 170 feet long and 50 feet broad [52 m & 15 m], with a thick white moustache where she shoulders the sea aside in her thrusting progress across the oceans of the World. Betwixt us and that moustache stand the sails of the Foremast, which obscure the greater part of the view forward. Upon the other hand stands the Mizzen mast, the smallest of the three, and beyond it her wake stretching straight and true to the horizon.

You will also perceive, betwixt the square sails, other triangular sails that stand fore-and-aft between the masts.

But I see you become discomfited. Let us descend a little. Do you grasp here and here, and reach down with one foot until it is firm upon the first ratline, those rungs of rope by which we ascended. No, do not look downwards lest you become amazed, just feel with your foot. There, that is planted sound now, so shift this hand and reach for the next ratline with your other foot. Good, you have the way of it now.

Yes, I do swarm about the rigging like a monkey, do I not? This dizzying height was my station when I was a Topman. It fell to us to come here to lay out along a Yard – the crosswise spars from which sails depend – to furl a sail when the wind freshened and the Ship could no longer bear so much canvas.

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Just step down with one foot upon the rail and the next on the deck. There! This is the Quarterdeck, the Officers’ domain, so let us haste forward along this Gangway to the Forecastle. You will see that the Quarterdeck and Forecastle are at the same level but separated by an open space. The Gangways that join them, larboard and starboard, provide a means of passing from the one to the other without the need of descending to the deck below.

Here upon the Forecastle you will see, upon each side of the Ship, two lesser guns – one at the broadside and one that faces forward – and one greater. The greater is one of the Gunner’s darlings, a Carronade brought over to us from Agamemnon. They fire a prodigious ball of 68 lb [31 kg] and, though it don’t carry much above ½ mile [0·9 km], at close range it can wreak fearsome damage upon an enemy Ship, or so it is thought, for we have not yet had occasion to try them. The gun is light built and short, and it is on account of this lightness that it can be borne so high in the Ship. Can you imagine the devastation was we to load it with cannister – 300 musket balls – against a boarding party? I am with child to see it in action!

The two lesser guns are 9-pounders, a more normal weight of metal for this height above the waterline. You might observe that the one that faces the bows is longer. That is because it is employed when we chase an other Ship and the greater length gives greater range. Yes, you have the right of it, it is indeed known as a bow chaser.

The 9-pounders can send a 9 lb [4 kg] ball as far as two miles [3·7 km] – a half hour’s walk in seconds! – and are fearsome accurate up to ½ mile. Upon firing the gun will leap back, hence these wheels to protect the deck and these strong ropes to restrain the gun. Then the true work begins, for the barrel must be sponged to extinguish any remaining fire, then loaded with powder and shot with a wad rammed down upon each, and brought back to a firing position without loss of time, for if you can fire three shots to the Enemy’s two you will have him.

Was we to go on the Quarterdeck we would see 14 more 9-pounders, six where the deck is open – you can just observe them from here – and eight in the Captain’s quarters. Now let us descend by this ladder to the Upper Gun-deck. Does the Captain mind? No, for all love, for when we clear for action his quarters quite disappear, his dining table, cot and desk removed to the Hold, along with the partitions and his other possessions, to leave a clean sweep for fighting.

Now here is the Upper Gun-deck, with fourteen 18 lb [8 kg] guns each side. Beneath our feet, upon the Main Gun-deck, are a further 28 guns, these of 32 lb [15 kg], for closer to the water the Ship will bear more weight.

Stern chasers? They too are 32-lbers, upon the Main Gun-deck. No, I could not say whether the Ship gains speed when they fire: if she does it is by a very small amount.

These 56 guns are our main battery. Add in the eighteen 9-pounders and you have 74. That is why Captain is known as a 74. Agamemnon is an older Ship, mounting only 64 guns. Some French ships mount 80 guns upon two decks. The largest ships in the Navy mount 100 or more upon three decks.

You have seen the guns that are our purpose and the sails that propel us to where they are needed. All else about you is ancillary. Now I must go lest I be missed.

Chapter V

In which we begin to become used our new circumstances

See that ’ouse? asked Weejee. The red one, with the cloath-es a-drying and the big yellow flower. I looked at the place where he was pointing, and collected that his eyesight must be greatly superior to mine, but I knew what reply he required, so I nodded my head. "I was bambino in that ’ouse. I think my Mamma still there." It was strange to me that, whilst by far the greater part of the Crew were from my own Country, the first time I saw the Home of a shipmate it was upon a distant shore in one of the Republics of Italy. (It must have been stranger by far to Weejee to have his Home in sight but out of reach.)

We were at anchor in the roads at Genoa. Weejee and I were at liberty to stand idle at the Ship’s side and view the shore, albeit a Wednesday, for the Commodore had so ordered. Chipping rust flakes from round shot, washing hammocks, removing tiny dots of tar from the bone-white decks, turning halyards end-for-end, touching-in the merest graze to paintwork – these chores and more were ever at hand for the First Lieutenant that wished to present himself to his Chief as energetic, yet we had been spared for a day.

Our time here was to be brief, and we viewed with envy the crew of a fine Spanish 32 as they frolicked in the sea beside their Ship. The Spanish Frigate was most elegant to the eye and purposeful of demeanour, and I was glad that there remained Navies that were not our Enemy: they had been our Ally at the start, but – I know not how – they had later become Neutrals.

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I wonder how Captain Smith does? said Ned at dinner the day before, when the converse had waned to naught. The Commodore had been aboard of us for two weeks, and I had given our old Captain little thought, save praying nightly for his return to Health. We could not, in course, know the answer to Ned’s question, but the name of Smith led us to reflect upon the many changes to which we had been put. Two casks of meat and one of water had been condemned as unfit that we would have been suffered to consume in days past. The new Officers had been at pains to learn the names of the men under them. Jim was in the Sick Bay with his bowels again, but told us that he was now thought a fighting seaman that must be returned to health with every consideration, whereas before he had been disdained as though his sickness were his own fault. Above all, we had worked to fettle Captain as a fighting machine.

Under the new Bosun we had laboured mightily to re-stow the hold and to adjust the rake of each mast. In consequence, Captain could now point a full half point higher into the wind when sailing on a bowline, which might be thought meagre but could prove decisive in a chace to windward, an achievement that the Commodore announced with admiration and celebrated by declaring an extra tot, which respect for our labours other Captains would like have foregone. To make sure of the gain, we had sailed something North of West from Corsica in a succession of short boards of one or two bells’ duration, and thus become right handy at tacking Ship.

After speaking the fleet at Toulon, we had sailed East along the coast to re-join the blockade of Genoa. We exercised the Great Guns every day, but in a fashion all-together more earnest than had been the former custom. The Officers in each Division would from time to time tap a man upon the shoulder, whereupon he must consider himself killed and the remainder of the gun’s crew must contrive to discharge their duties notwithstanding. Topmen such as myself – for I had, as I had foreseen, lost my position as Bosun’s Mate, though being made Captain of the Mizzen Top was a pleasing recompense – were called to take a turn at the Great Guns. We practised dividing crews to fire both sides simultaneous, an eventuality that is required but rarely and customarily practised never. Reward for these exertions came when we were indulged with evenings of live fire, for there is no thing that stirs the soul so much as the roar, flame and smoak of a gun set to its purpose, with the accompanying delightful aroma of burnt powder.

The general opinion of Commodore Nelson had improved much.

Chapter VI

In which I relate my joining the Navy, as I ought to have done at the start of this book

I arrived at the gate of Portsmouth Dockyard, in September of the year ’92, in the attire of a young Gentleman of modest means, being that which my Brother’s cloaths chest would yield on the day I took my departure. The garments had become crumpled in my pack during the long journey South, and I had sponged and pressed them as well as I could contrive before presenting myself to the Sentry at the gate, who was somewhat taken a-back (though I had yet to learn that sailors’ expression), for people were passing through the gate freely and he was unused to being addressed.

I wish to join the Navy, Sir, I said. He started, thrust his pipe out of sight in the sentry box, blew tobacco smoak over his shoulder, where it lingered about the bayonet affixed to the musket he carried, then replied with words I could not make out. Throughout my journey I had been at struggle to comprehend the speech of the Towns and Villages I had passed through, each its own little Country, yet I fancied I had become used to the slow, curly sounds I had heard since in the way of Oxford. This was no thing like. He saw my confusion and, pointing the way, said something akin to, Paw’ ahmrals offus, doon thar ontleft. I had never been so near a man bearing such a fearsome weapon, and was keen to be on my way, so I affected to understand him and set off in the direction he had indicated.

I inquired three times more, each man replying in his own strange manner, before I arrived at the entrance hall of the Port Admiral’s Office, a large space with abundant polished wood and an aroma of bees-wax polish. There I stated my business, replied with my name and Town when asked, and was told to wait. (I gave the name B___, but shall herein call myself by the same Roberts under whose name I write this work, lest we all become confounded.)

I endeavoured to present a composed yet eager figure as I sat under the eye of the Attendant, a man of middle years, attired in a uniform of some kind; but, within, I seethed with fears. What if my secret be discovered, that I could not live up to the capable young man I presented myself to be? for I had no other plan should this one miscarry. What if I was required to undertake some trial of sailorly qualities before being admitted to the Navy? What if I became spiflicated when interviewed by some mighty Admiral, my silence taken for ignorance (or insolence)? The longer I sat in that echoed hall, the greater my fears became.

Whilst I waited, a succession of imposing Gentlemen, that I would later recognize for Captains and Lieutenants by their blue coats and white breeches, or Marine Officers in their red coats, came and went. Each man would approach the Attendant and softly state his business. The Attendant would write upon a slip of paper, sand it, fold it and call forward a small boy from the row of half a dozen upon a hard bench next to his desk. The boy would carry the slip into the depths of the building, and all the others would slide up one place. When the first boy returned he would seat himself at the far end of the bench. Whilst waiting to be called, the boys remained silent, but perpetually goaded each other with signs and grimaces as small boys will. When a boy had been sent the Attendant would gesture the Officer towards the padded benches where I sat, an offer he would invariably ignore, preferring to stand by a window and look out upon the busyness of the Dockyard, thereby giving himself a moment to compose his features when – to avoid the indignity of an Officer’s name being called aloud – the Attendant stumped over upon his wooden leg to tell him he was called.

You may collect from the close study I was able to make of these proceedings that my wait was not a short one.

When, in the fullness of time, my name was called, a boy was told off to lead me along a corridor, up some stairs and into a spacious room where sat, behind a desk, a man older and more imposing than any I had seen during my wait, whom I would now be able to identify as a senior Captain. Behind him was a window that looked out upon the glinting waters, which put me in trouble to discern his features.

Pray be seated, Mr. Roberts, he began in an amiable voice. I sat. Are you acquainted with the Earl of W___?

No, sir, I replied.

Lord H___, perhaps?

I regret not, sir.

Sir G___ F___? Sir T___ E___? He must have perceived the answer in my face, for he straightway continued, What age are you, Mr. Roberts?

Fourteen, sir, I answered, deducting two years, knowing that I did not have the appearance of a man of sixteen.

Then your Father is either remiss or sadly wanting in connexions. Where do you lodge? The course of this conversation was deviating far from my expectations. At what Inn or Hostelry do you stay? he went on when I did not reply.

None, sir.

So where are your uniform, shoes and cloaths, your hat, your sextant, your dirk, your other equipment? for there is clearly not room enough in that shabby pack by your feet.

Tears attempted to find the daylight. I bated them as well as I could. Sir, I possess none of those things.

Well can you tell me the name of your Captain, or even your Ship?

I could hold back the tears no longer.

Come, Mr. Roberts, he continued, you are already old to become a Midshipman. Now I find that you arrive here unequipped and unable to name your Captain. This is a damned poor start.

Whilst I endeavoured to make sense of his words, I looked at him and he looked at me. In time I found a response, Sir, I do not know what a Midshipman is. I simply wish to become a sailor and serve my King.

In that case, he replied in a more kindly voice, I am in error and I beg your forgiveness. With that he picked up a small bell from his desk and shook it briefly. A man of maybe 17 or 18 years, in attire I would come to recognize as a Lieutenant’s, a lank sleeve pinned to the front of his coat, entered the room presently, to whom the Captain said brusquely, See that Roberts is taken to the Receiving Ship.

Thank you, sir, I said as I followed the Lieutenant out of the room, but the Captain was looking through papers and paid me no heed.

I’m Lieutenant J___, said the young man as we descended the stairs. I offered him my hand to shake, but he affected not to notice. That is the first time I have seen a Volunteer welcomed by the Port Captain! I dare say some-one will answer for it before the day is out. He stopped on the stair and beckoned me close, then continued in a soft voice, I would strongly advise you never again to address an Officer unless spoke to, before resuming down the stairs.

Thank you, sir, I said.

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In those days the Receiving Ship was moored alongside, where we could come and go on a nod from the Sentry, for we were all Volunteers. She was an old Two-decker, a Fourth-rate 48 that had been stripped of guns, spars and rigging, which reduced her to a mere hulk, a barn afloat. The name-board had been removed from her transom, perhaps to avoid indignity for those who had fought in her in times past, and her figurehead likewise removed.

A Ship has a particular smell, entirely alien to me then but most familiar now: a smooth, brown barkiness from the timbers; the rich, flat smell of canvas and rope; and a treacly topping of tar. To that may be added tobacco smoak, cooking if it be meal time, human waste if the bilges be not sweet, burnt powder and perhaps blood if she has lately been in Action, and the sweat of honest labour if the ports and hatches be closed against foul weather. One more smell might be perceived by the attuned nose: rotting timber. That was the case in this Receiving Ship: we were obliged to spend several hours a day at the pumps, for her planking was sore a-rot, but she leaked so prodigious that her bilges were ever sweet.

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I was much disliked aboard. My attire, that had perhaps misled the Attendant at the Port Admiral’s Office, proclaimed me to be of the middling class, to the unease of my companions, and the same was true of my manner of speaking. That I disdained to join in their card play, their drinking and their smoaking confirmed me to them as unworthy of their consideration, or even of common courtesy. Indeed, they appeared to take much pleasure in making sport of me, without hazarding the redress that would, in other circumstances, attend upon such disrespect. It was a most unpleasant time, but it served well in teaching me the necessity of making myself agreeable when I got my Ship.

There was one man aboard, though, who called himself Billy, with whom I became on friendly terms, though to call him a man might mislead for he was three or four years my younger. Having no Mother, and a Father that was cruel, he had fled his home in London in hope of a better life at sea.

Billy described to me his flight. (I have taken liberties with some of the greater peculiarities of his speech that you might comprehend it.) "Me Dad works in Deptford Dockyard, so there’s no chance I can join up there. Next along is Woolwich, but that’s too near the old man. Then comes Chatham and Sheerness, but me Dad has mates in all the London River Dockyards and if’n he puts out the word I’ll get taken up. So I sets me mind on Portsmuff.

I lives in Bermsey, leastwise I used to, so I goes to the Elephant and there’s the Portsmuff road leading me on like. Well it all starts prime, but pretty soon I’m in these fields and trees and the like, and the people say ‘good day’ and stuff, which you never gets in London, only it comes out like the sound of kine. ’Tis a fearsome world, that, with no streets, hardly no people, weather in yer face, grub hard to come by, and it’s the same for days and days. When I comes to a Town I snaffles something to eat and finds a yard or doorway to kip, then off I goes again – until here I am.

I can not tell what led him to seek my company, though I surmise that he had been the principal butt of the others’ abuse before I arrived.

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I had been in the Receiving Ship above a week before it bore in on me that men who had arrived after me had already got ships. When a Ship was in want of hands, the Sentry would direct us to form a line, there being between 30 and 50 of us most days, and an Officer from the Ship – usually a Lieutenant or Midshipman, but some times a Warrant Officer such as a Bosun – would walk along the line. When he saw a man he liked the look of he would make inquiries of him. If the man was wanted, the Officer bade him step out of the line. When he had enough men the Officer would depart.

Billy and I were ever made to stand near the far end of the line. Some times the Officer would progress as far as our place in the line, but none stopped for us. I was here out of a desire to serve my King, yet I was passed over time and again. One evening I expressed this to Billy.

Don’t you get it? he replied in tones of astonishment.

I do not.

You must have spied men passing money to the sentry!

No.

"Gawd you’re such a chub! The way of it is this: a Landsman, that’s you and me, gets 7d. a day, which is above £10 a year!, but only when we’s signed on to a Ship. We gets nuffin’ as long as we’s stuck here, so the