Читать книгу Looking Back - Seymour John Sir Fortescue - Страница 6

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During my school days, owing, I suppose, to my thorough dislike of the whole process of education, I made up my mind to go into the Navy if I could get the necessary permission from my father, so as to escape from school once and for all. I am afraid that I had not reckoned on the amount of elementary mathematics, which I detested even more than Latin grammar, that was to be forced into me during the fifteen months’ training in the Britannia. Anyhow it was decreed that the Navy should be my profession, and I was taken down to Portsmouth in the summer of 1869 to try to pass the examination for candidates for Naval Cadetships, the necessary nomination having been procured through the kindness of a cousin of my mother, then Captain Beauchamp Seymour, Naval Private Secretary to the First Lord of the Admiralty of that day, who subsequently became Admiral Lord Alcester, of whom more anon.

Naturally, every candidate was submitted to a medical examination which took place at Haslar Hospital. In those days Army and Navy Surgeons had not developed into lace-clad Generals and Inspector-Generals. (Incidentally I can never understand why a man who is by profession a doctor or surgeon should want to call himself a colonel. To my mind a captain in the Navy might just as logically call himself a dean, or a commander-in-chief an archbishop!) The Superintendent of Haslar was a Post-Captain, Wodehouse by name. He had lately returned from commanding a line-of-battleship in the Mediterranean, Admiral Sir Robert Smart being his Commander-in-Chief at that time. It was always spread abroad that Captain Wodehouse was on extremely bad terms with Bobby Smart, which was the pet name of his Commander-in-Chief, but, on the other hand, his great friend on the Station was the French Commander-in-Chief, who in those days was very apt to be at Malta with his squadron, as the entente which existed during the Crimean Campaign was still kept going during the late ’sixties. As may be imagined, he did not have many opportunities of getting even with his Chief, but on one occasion he may be said to have had the best of it. His vessel was leaving Malta for England and was moving majestically out of the Grand Harbour, Valetta, with the band on the poop and all the usual pomp and circumstance. Wodehouse knew that the French Admiral was on board the English flagship, so as a parting shot, as he passed under the flagship’s stern, the band was ordered to play, “Robert, toi que j’aime.” This affecting farewell was a delight to the Frenchman, who could not resist telling Smart how fond he was of “ce cher Wodehouse qui avait tant d’esprit.”

I succeeded in passing my examinations, both medical and scholastic, all right, and after a few weeks’ suspense I was informed by the Admiralty that I was to join the Britannia at Dartmouth in September. That training-ship has so often been described that I do not think it necessary to say much about it; but a few words may be written about the impressions that my first introduction to the Navy conveyed to my youthful mind. The Captain of the Britannia was at that time Captain Corbett, a very distinguished officer, and, to the cadets, an awe-inspiring figure when he inspected our ranks on Sundays with his ribbon of the C.B. (a really prized distinction in days when orders and ribbons were very sparsely bestowed), and the sash over his shoulder that was then worn by the Naval Aide-de-Camp to the Sovereign. The fashion in hair at that time was very different from the present Navy fashion, when everyone is either bearded or clean-shaven. In 1869, just before Mr. Childers allowed beards to be grown, every officer and man had to shave his upper lip and chin, the result being that the young bloods of the quarter and lower decks delighted in appearing in long Dundreary whiskers.

The Britannia was a good school in its way, for the amount of hard knowledge in the shape of the elements of navigation and mathematics that we were made to absorb in twelve months was rather remarkable; but the old hulk was not particularly sanitary, and we were shamefully underfed, considering the amount of school work and drill that we had to do. During my year there I personally lost a good deal of time owing to a simultaneous outbreak of smallpox and scarlatina that occurred in 1870. I was unfortunate enough to develop the scarlatina and was at once put behind a canvas screen, which was supposed to separate me from my fellow-cadets, whilst waiting for the boat to take me ashore to the sick quarters. Unfortunately for me, another cadet was attacked with smallpox that same morning; so, to save trouble, we two wretched boys were coupled together behind the same screen, for, as the doctor sagely remarked, it was very uncommon for anybody to have smallpox and scarlatina at the same time. I, unfortunately, thanks to his speculative philosophy, succeeded in getting both, with the result that I was extremely ill, and was put considerably back with my studies.

There is no period of my life that I look back upon with less pleasure than I do to the time I spent in the Britannia. Whilst admitting that the instruction was good—indeed very good—it was rather overdone considering the average age of the boys—between thirteen and fifteen—and, as I have already said, the food was disgracefully bad and scanty. To show how hungry we were, it became a regular practice of the cadets when passing a bluejacket to drop a handkerchief with sixpence knotted into the corner, the handkerchief being surreptitiously returned in the course of a few minutes with bits of ship’s biscuit wrapped up in it instead of the sixpence. I think that all of us—and by all of us I mean the fifty cadets who had joined together in the autumn of 1869—were rejoiced when our release came in December 1870. I was fortunate enough to take a first-class, which meant that I was raised to the dignity of a midshipman at once instead of having to wait for three, six or nine months, according to the class taken on passing out. I may as well confess that, as a matter of fact, I was first of the whole term, and was probably conceited and odious on the strength of it. The conceit only lasted till I joined a sea-going ship, where, naturally, no one cared a straw whether a midshipman was first or last when he left the Britannia; and as I had acquired a certain amount of philosophy, even at that early age, it was brought home to me that the only individual who benefited in the least by my exploits was my father, for the grateful country bestowed a regulation dirk and a spy-glass upon me as prizes, both of which necessaries would otherwise have been supplied by an outfitter and paid for by my parent.

And now to mention some of my contemporaries who have arrived at distinction. A good many of the survivors I still meet from time to time, and they include Admiral Sir Berkeley Milne, Admiral of the Fleet Sir Hedworth Meux, and that really authentic specimen of the “bravest of the brave,” Admiral Sir James Startin. Jimmy Startin, from his youth up, was one of those very rare and fortunate individuals who have absolutely no sense or knowledge of fear. He has distinguished himself by his splendid personal bravery a hundred times, but perhaps never more so than when, as a man of over sixty years of age and Commodore of a squadron of patrol vessels, he boarded a burning patrol vessel that was in momentary danger of blowing up and attempted to rescue the engineer of that vessel. For this gallant exploit he was decorated by the King with the Albert Medal, and I cannot do better than quote the official account which appeared in the London Gazette:—

“Gazette, 20th August, 1918:—

“Admiral Sir James Startin, K.C.B.

“An explosion occurred on board H.M. Motor-launch 64 on the 10th June, 1918. Immediately after the explosion Commodore Startin proceeded alongside Motor-launch 64, the engine-room of which was still burning fiercely. On learning that the engineer was below he sprang down the hatch without the slightest hesitation and succeeded in recovering the body practically unaided. In view of the fact that the bulkhead between the engine-room and the forward tanks had been blown down by the force of the explosion, and that the fire was blazing upon the side and on the top of the forward tanks, which are composed of extremely thin metal, and consequently were liable to burst at any moment, the action of Commodore Startin in entering the engine-room before the fire was subdued showed the utmost possible gallantry and disregard of personal safety. Had the engineer not been past human aid he would undoubtedly have owed his life to the courage and promptitude of Commodore Startin.”

Of course there were several others who arrived at the rank of Admiral, and amongst them may be mentioned a very dear old friend, the late Sir Frederick Hamilton, who, after serving as Second Sea Lord and as Commander-in-Chief at Rosyth during the War, practically succumbed as the result of a long period of overwork.

After the labours of the Britannia a fairly long holiday was very pleasant, and my first appointment after a Christmas spent at home, was to the guardship, H.M.S. Duke of Wellington, at Portsmouth, whilst waiting to be appointed to a sea-going ship. Anything worse for the morals and discipline of a number of lads of our age than life aboard the guardships of those days, it is hard to imagine. We were nearly a hundred in the mess. In the gunroom there were a certain number of sub-lieutenants and assistant paymasters who were actually serving in the ship for various duties and were known as “standing numbers.” The steward treated them on a sort of favoured nation basis, supplying them with all the best of the food at minimum prices, wisely making a large profit out of the supernumeraries like ourselves, who, being there for only a short time—anything from a few days to a few months—were obviously sent there by Providence and the Admiralty for that particular object. There was one very remarkable specimen of a “standing number” of a gunroom mess in the guardship at that time. He was an elderly, white-haired gentleman of about fifty years of age—a man of fifty is certainly elderly for a gunroom. His rank was that of Acting Navigating Sub-Lieutenant. He had passed his preliminary examination for Master’s Mate, as they were then called, some thirty years before, had never presented himself for the final examination—which, successfully passed, would have confirmed him in his rank—and so an acting master’s mate or sub-lieutenant he had remained ever since.

The Duke of Wellington period lasted only a very few weeks, but long enough to earn me my first certificate from my first captain afloat, Captain the Hon. Richard Carr Glyn, then Flag-Captain to the Commander-in-Chief at Portsmouth, and who subsequently commanded the Serapis on the occasion of the late King Edward’s visit to India when Prince of Wales. The certificate I allude to was bestowed on all officers by all the captains under whom they served, whether for days or years, and to my mind was couched in the most insulting terms. I suspect it to have been composed by some more than usually red-tapeist specimen of an Admiralty clerk in the early part of the Victorian period. It ordained that whatever else the captain liked to say about an officer he had to testify in writing to his sobriety. I remember, years afterwards, when I had arrived at a rank that made it my province to give, instead of to receive, these benefits, the joy with which I destroyed some dozens of them testifying to my sobriety over a period of some thirty years. I wonder if they still exist! The permanent officials and civilian clerks at the Admiralty are not fond of change, unless it takes the shape of an increase to their own pay, and, human nature being usually much alike, were I one of them I should probably take exactly the same view as they do.

In the spring of 1871, when I first went to sea, the Admiralty had instituted a system of sea-going training-ships, which was abandoned a few years later and revived, I believe, shortly before the War in a new scheme of education which was devised by Lord Fisher as First Sea Lord. I could never understand why the Admiralty ever did away with it, for, in my opinion, it worked excellently well, and to modernise it and bring it up to the present date it was only necessary to divert the time and instruction that used to be devoted to masts and sails to marine engineering, wireless telegraphy and torpedo work. However, this dissertation has nothing to do with my reminiscences, so I must return to my story.

The whole of my “term” in the Britannia, still some fifty strong, was appointed to H.M.S. Bristol, a frigate of between 2000 and 3000 tons that had done duty as flagship at the Cape of Good Hope Station. Our Captain, the Hon. Walter Carpenter, was thus able to take up his abode in the quarters designed for an admiral, under the poop, the ordinary captain’s quarters being turned into a mess-room and school-room for the young gentlemen under training. The ship had her usual complement of officers and men, and carried, in addition, an extra lieutenant, sub-lieutenant and assistant paymaster, and two naval instructors for special duties connected with the cadets. Practically the onus of directing our training fell upon one man, Lieutenant Day Hort Bosanquet, who, many years afterwards, I knew as Commander-in-Chief at Portsmouth. Certainly, it could not have fallen into better hands. He was a thoroughly good fellow and a gentleman, to begin with, and a first-rate seaman and disciplinarian to go on with, and though he kept us all in terrific order he was none the less very popular.

We were worked hard; but anything was preferable to our late home, the Britannia. The routine was somewhat as follows:—We were turned out of our hammocks just after 6 a.m. Then came gun drill, rifle-drill or sail-drill on alternate mornings; breakfast at 8 a.m.; after breakfast we were inspected, and after prayers at 9 a.m. we were put into the hands of the naval instructors till dinner time at noon. At 1.15 more school or drill of some sort, and about 5 p.m. the ship’s company would be at sail-drill for the best part of an hour, and we shared in their exercises of shifting sails, masts, reefing topsails, and all the manœuvres that were dear to the smart naval officer of that day. In a very short time we had complete charge of the mizzen masts and drilled against the men at the fore and main. After evening drill was over we were left in peace except for about an hour’s preparation work for the next day’s studies. On alternate weeks we kept regular night and day watch under the officers of the ship, and though it was a sad struggle to turn out of one’s hammock, at midnight after a long day, to keep the middle watch, the discomfort and want of sleep so necessary for a young growing boy was almost made up for, when the weather was fine and warm, by the beauty of those tropical nights when the ship was bowling along under easy sail running down the trades. All our passages were made under sail, for the steam engine in those days was very rarely requisitioned unless the ship was becalmed for a very long time or was entering or leaving a port, to sail in and out of which was impossible. In those days, I regret to have to say, gunnery in the Navy was terribly neglected, principally on account of the craze which existed for smartness aloft. And there was considerable excuse for it, for the upper yardmen of that time were, to my mind, the finest specimens of humanity I have ever met. From constantly running the rigging at top speed, they were in the highest state of training; they were as active as cats and as brave as lions; for, if once a man showed, when aloft, the smallest desire to hold on with one hand and work with the other, instead of chancing everything and working with both, he was useless as an upper yardman, and was at once relegated to safer and less ambitious duties. And so the tradition went on and descended to us. The only quality we really admired in our superior officers was their seamanship. Anything in the shape of science was a bore, and the only part of the gun-drill that interested us was the part that resembled seamanship; the shifting of tackles and breeching, and transporting the 64-pounders which formed our armament to a different position, the whole business of the gun in those days having to be done by quoins, handspikes and tackle. When it came to gun practice, which consisted in firing at a cask with a small flagstaff bobbing about in the sea, the one object was to get it over as soon as possible, as it was looked upon as distinctly uninteresting. Notwithstanding this defect, I still think that, in those days, the sea-going training did us boys a great deal of good. Amongst other advantages, when visiting foreign ports we were made to go and see the principal sights whether we liked it or not. Probably famous cathedrals, world-famous panoramic views, and such like, did not appeal to many of us, and we would far sooner have been left to our own resources; but in after life I have become grateful to those who first introduced me to some of the wonders of the world.

The Bristol sailed away from Portsmouth in February 1871 on an eminently fine-weather cruise, most suitable for the raw material on board her. There is always some sort of a swell when crossing the Bay, and the new hands were nearly all sea-sick. As for myself, I am proud to say that I was one of the exceptions; this immunity was due, I suppose, to the previous voyage that I had made on a sailing ship to Madeira some dozen years before. Madeira, as a matter of fact, was our first port of call, and it was interesting to me to see how much I could remember of that lovely island. A very few days after we were rolling along in the trades on our way to Rio de Janeiro. At Rio a long stay was made, for the ship required a certain amount of refitting after nearly a month at sea under sail, and leave had to be given to the men. The cadets were taken in a body to Petropolis, a lovely place up in the hills which was the summer residence of the Court and the Corps Diplomatique. The beauty of Rio has been so often described by far abler pens than mine that I refrain from giving any childish impressions of it; but what we enjoyed most, I well remember, was the drive back from Petropolis in large coaches with four horses, the one I was in being actually driven by an old Yorkshire stage-coachman, who had found his way out to Brazil.

The only very distinct memory I have of the actual town of Rio of those days (I am glad to say I have revisited it since) was the peculiarity of the currency. In 1871 a tramway ticket for an ordinary length of fare was equivalent to sevenpence, English. For this same ticket, anything of a similar value from a hair-cut to a cocktail could be purchased, and with a pocket full of tickets a great deal of purchasing could be done. It was like shopping in a small provincial town with a pocket full of sixpences. After leaving Rio, the Bristol stood down to the southward and presently picked up the “Roaring Forties,” as the strong prevailing westerly winds which are found about 40º south of the equatorial line are called, and stood across to the Cape of Good Hope, our next port of call. Next to fishing for albatross, with a bit of meat on the end of a hook and a long fishing line,—a sport which was occasionally successful,—the greatest excitement was when, as midshipman of the watch, it came to one’s turn to heave the log, for, with half a gale behind, the old ship was really travelling, and our great ambition was to be able to chronicle an actual run of 50 nautical miles in the watch. A steady 12½ knots for four hours consecutively was not so very easily accomplished, and did not happen very often. It has to be confessed that the Bristol was not a very fast frigate, and compared very badly as a sailer with my next two ships of the same class.

Well, we finally arrived at Simon’s Bay, and once more leave and refitting took place, and there I certainly spent some of the happiest days of my early youth, thanks to the hospitality of an acquaintance who had a large farm in the neighbourhood of Constantia, about half-way between Simon’s Bay and Cape Town. This kind man, Watermeyer by name, had married a daughter of the Rector of Filleigh, the village of Castle Hill, and hearing that I was on board, asked permission to take me and a friend away for a week to stay with him. My friend on this occasion was another cadet of the same standing who was also a cousin, Francis Stuart Wortley, the present Lord Wharncliffe. Leave having been granted, we were driven off in glory in Mr. Watermeyer’s Cape cart, and after a drive of some fifteen miles, principally along the coast, we arrived at our destination. It was one of those typically Dutch houses, with a stoop or verandah all round, so well suited to the fierce heat of that delightful climate. Our hostess was delighted to meet old and new friends and made us most welcome, and later on, when the time came to go to bed, it was a pleasure to sleep in a good English bed again, in a room all to oneself, after being accustomed to have one’s worldly surroundings limited to a sea-chest and a hammock. And what a pleasant country it was! We used to ride for miles over the flats, which would have made an ideal hunting country, except for the absence of fences, and were shown the various business establishments in the neighbourhood. These were principally connected with the wine-making trade, for vines flourished exceedingly in that part of the Colony, and wine-making was a very thriving industry.

The world is very small and very round. Nearly forty years later, during the South African War, it was my fate to meet my old friend’s son, then attached to Lord Robert’s Staff as Colonial Aide-de-Camp, I being Naval Aide-de-Camp to his Lordship at the time.

After a delightful week of freedom, we were back on board again, and now our bows were turned for home. St. Helena, Ascension, Madeira, and Gibraltar, were visited in succession, and we finally anchored at Spithead after an excellent cruise.

The Admiralty had meanwhile decided that our time in training was to be extended, and as the Bristol was about done for, we cadets—who, by the way, were by this time nearly all midshipmen, were turned over to the Ariadne, a larger and far more beautiful vessel than our late one. The Ariadne was one of the crack frigates of her time. She sailed very well and had been selected for the use of the Prince and Princess of Wales in the spring of 1867, when their Royal Highnesses made their Eastern trip to Egypt, Turkey, the Crimea, and Greece.