Tom Cringle's Log

by Michael Scott

  But thou hadst more, the soldier’s tear,

  The heart-warm offering of the brave.

  On Lusitania’s rock-girt coast,

  All coffinless thy relics lie,

  Where all but honour bright was lost,

  Yet thy example shall not die.

  Albeit no funeral knell was rung,

  Nor o’er thy tomb in mournful wreath

  The laurel twined with cypress hung,

  Still shall it live while Britons breathe.

  What though, when thou wert lowly laid,

  Instead of all the pomp of woe,

  The volley o’er thy bloody bed

  Was thundered by an envious foe?—

  Inspired by it in after time,

  A race of heroes will appear,

  The glory of Britannia’s clime,

  To emulate thy bright career.

  And there will be, of martial fire,

  Those who all danger will endure;

  Their first, best aim, but to aspire

  To die thy death—the death of Moore.

  To return. On the evening of the second day, we were off Falmouth, and then got a slant of wind that enabled us to lie our course.

  Next morning, at daybreak, saw a frigate in the north-east quarter, making signals;—soon after we bore up. Bay of Biscay—tremendous swell—Cape Finisterre—blockading squadron off Cadiz—in-shore squadron—and so on, all trifle and no plums.

  At length the Kraaken, in which I had now served for some time, was ordered home; and, sick of knocking about in a fleet, I got appointed to a fine eighteen-gun sloop, the Torch, in which we sailed, on such a day, for the North Sea—wind foul—weather thick and squally; but towards evening on the third day, being then off Harwich, it moderated, when we made more sail, and stood on, and next morning, in the cold, miserable, drenching haze of an October daybreak, we passed through a fleet of fishing-boats at anchor. “At anchor,” thought I, “and in the middle of the sea,”—but so it was—all with their tiny cabooses, smoking cheerily, and a solitary figure, as broad as it was long, stiffly walking to and fro on the confined decks of the little vessels. It was now that I knew the value of the saying, “A fisherman’s walk, two steps and overboard.” With regard to these same fishermen, I cannot convey a better notion of them, than by describing one of the two North Sea pilots whom we had on board. This pilot was a tall, raw-boned subject, about six feet or so, with a blue face—I could not call it red—and a hawk’s bill nose of the colour of bronze. His head was defended from the weather by what is technically called a south-west—pronounced sow-west—cap, which is in shape like the thatch of a dustman, composed of canvass, well tarred, with no snout, but having a long flap hanging down the back to carry the rain over the cape of the jacket. His chin was imbedded in a red comforter that rose to his cars. His trunk was first of all eased in a shirt of worsted stocking-net; over this he had a coarse linen shirt, then a thick cloth waistcoat; a shag jacket was the next layer, and over that was rigged the large cumbrous pea-jacket, reaching to his knees. As for his lower spars, the rig was still more peculiar;—first of all, he had on a pair of most comfortable woollen stockings, what we call fleecy hosiery—and the beauties are peculiarly nice in this respect—then a pair of strong fear-naught trowsers; over these again are drawn up another pair of stockings, thick, coarse, rig-and-furrow as we call them in Scotland, and above all this were drawn a pair of long, well-greased, and liquored boots, reaching half-way up the thigh, and altogether impervious to wet. However comfortable this costume may be in bad weather in-board, it is clear enough that any culprit so swathed would stand a poor chance of being saved were he to fall overboard. The wind now veered round and round, and baffled, and checked us off, so that it was the sixth night after we had taken our departure from Harwich before we saw Heligoland light. We then bore away for Cuxhaven, and I now knew for the first time that we had a government emissary of some kind or another on board, although he had hitherto confined himself strictly to the captain’s cabin.

  All at once it came on to blow from the north-east, and we were again driven back among the English fishing-boats. The weather was thick as buttermilk, so we had to keep the bell constantly ringing, as we could not see the jib-boom end from the forecastle. Every now and then we heard a small, hard, clanking tinkle, from the fishing-boats, as if an old pot had been struck instead of a bell, and a faint hollo, “Fishing-smack,” as we shot past them in the fog, while we could scarcely see the vessels at all. The morning after this particular time to which I allude, was darker than any which had gone before it; absolutely you could not see the breadth of the ship from you; and as we had not taken the sun for five days, we had to grope our way almost entirely by the lead. I had the forenoon watch, during the whole of which we were amongst a little fleet of fishing-boats, although we could scarcely see them; but being unwilling to lose ground by lying to, we fired a gun every half hour, to give the small craft notice of our vicinity, that they might keep their bells agoing. Every three or four minutes the marine drum-boy, or some amateur performer—for most sailors would give a glass of grog any day to be allowed to beat a drum for five minutes on end—beat a short roll, and often as we drove along, under a reefed foresail, and close-reefed topsails, we could hear the answering tinkle before we saw the craft from which it proceeded; and when we did perceive her as we flew across her stern, we could only see it, and her mast, and one or two well-swathed, hardy fishermen, the whole of the little vessel forward being hid in a cloud.

  I had been invited this day to dine with the captain,—Mr Splinter, the first-lieutenant, being also of the party; the cloth had been withdrawn, and we had all had a glass or two of wine a-piece, when the fog settled down so thickly, although it was not more than five o’clock in the afternoon, that the captain desired that the lamp might be lit. It was done, and I was remarking the contrast between the dull, dusky, brown light, or rather the palpable London fog, that came through the skylight, and the bright yellow sparkle of the lamp, when the master came down the ladder. “We have shoaled our water to five fathoms, sir—shells and stones. Here, Wilson, bring in the lead.”

  The leadsman, in his pea-jacket and shag trowsers, with the rain-drop hanging to his nose, and a large knot in his cheek from a junk of tobacco therein stowed, with pale, wet visage, and whiskers sparkling with moisture, while his long black hair hung damp and lank over his fine forehead and the stand-up cape of his coat, immediately presented himself at the door, with the lead in his claws, an octagonal-shaped cone, like the weight of a window-sash, about eighteen inches long, and two inches diameter at the bottom, tapering away nearly to a point at top, where it was flattened, and a hole pierced for the line to be fastened to. At the lower end—the butt-end, as I would say—there was a hollow scooped out, and filled with grease, so that when the lead was cast, the quality of the soil, sand, shells, or mud, that came up adhering to this lard, indicated, along with the depth of water, our situation in the North Sea; and by this, indeed, we guided our course, in the absence of all opportunity of ascertaining our position by observations of the sun.

  The captain consulted the chart—”Sand and shells; why, you should have deeper water, master. Any of the fishing-boats near you?”

  “Not at present, sir; but we cannot be far off some of them.”

  “Well, let me know when you come near any of them.”

  A little after this, as became my situation, I rose and made my bow, and went on deck. By this time the night had fallen, and it was thicker than ever, so that, standing beside the man at the wheel, you could not see farther forward than the booms: yet it was not dark either—that is, it was moonlight, so that the haze, thick as it was, had that silver gauze-like appearance, as if it had been luminous in itself, that cannot be described to any who has not seen it. The gun had been fired just as I came on deck, but no responding tinkle gave notice of any vessel being in the neighbourhood. Ten minutes, it may have been a quarter of an hour, when a short roll of the
drum was beaten from the forecastle, where I was standing. At the moment I thought I heard a holla, but I could not be sure. Presently I saw a small light, with a misty halo surrounding it, just under the bowsprit,

  “Port your helm,” sang out the boatswain,—”hard-a-port, or we shall be over a fishing-boat!”

  A cry arose from beneath—a black object was for an instant distinguishable—and the next moment a crash was heard. The spritsail-yard rattled, and broke off sharp at the point where it crossed the bowsprit; and a heavy smashing thump against our bows told, in fearful language, that we had run her down. Three of the men and a boy hung on by the rigging of the bowsprit, and were brought safely on board; but two poor fellows perished with their boat. It appeared that they had broken their bell; and although they saw us coming, they had no better means than shouting, and showing a light, to advertise us of their vicinity.

  Next morning the wind once more chopped round, and the weather cleared, and in four-and- twenty hours thereafter we were off the mouth of the Elbe, with three miles of white foaming shoals between us and the land at Cuxhaven, roaring and hissing, as if ready to swallow us up. It was low water, and, as our object was to land the emissary at Cuxhaven, we had to wait, having no pilot for the port, although we had the signal flying for one all morning, until noon, when we ran in close to the green mound which constituted the rampart of the fort at the entrance. To our great surprise, when we hoisted our colours and pennant, and fired a gun to leeward, there was no flag hoisted in answer at the flag-staff, nor was there any indication of a single living soul on shore to welcome us. Mr Splinter and the captain were standing together at the gangway—”Why, sir,” said the former, “this silence somewhat surprises me: what say You, Cheragoux?” to the government emissary or messenger already mentioned, who was peering through the glass close by.

  “Why, mi lieutenant, I don’t certain dat all ish right on sore dere.”

  “No?” said Captain Deadeye; “why, what do you see?”

  “It ish not so mosh vat I shee, as vat I no shee, sir, dat trembles me. It cannot surely be possib dat de Prussian and Hanoverian troop have left de place, and dat dese dem Franceman ave advance so far as de Elbe autrefois, dat ish, once more?”

  “French!” said Deadeye: “poo, nonsense; no French here-abouts; none nearer than those cooped-up in Hamburgh with Davoust, take my word for it,”

  “I sall take your vord for anyting else in de large vorld, mi captain; but I see someting glance behind dat rampart, parapet you call, dat look dem like de shako of de infanterie légère of dat willain de Emperor Napoleon. Ah! I see de red-worsted epaulet of de grenadier also; sacre! vat is dat pof of vite smoke?”

  What it was we soon ascertained to our heavy cost, for the shot that had been fired at us from a long 32-pound gun, took effect right abaft the foremast, killing three men outright, and wounding two. Several other shots followed, but with less sure aim. Returning the fire was of no use, as our carronades could not have pitched their metal much more than half way; or, even if they had been long guns, they would merely have plumped the balls into the turf rampart, without hurting any one. So we wisely hauled off, and ran up the river with the young flood for about an hour, until we anchored close to the Hanoverian bank, near a gap in the dike, where we waited till the evening.

  As soon as the night fell, a boat with muffled oars was manned, to carry the messenger on shore, I was in it; Mr Treenail, the second-lieutenant, steering. We pulled in right for a breach in the dike, lately cut by the French, in order to inundate the neighbourhood; and as the Elbe at high water is hereabouts much higher than the surrounding country, we were soon sucked into the current, and had only to keep our oars in the water, pulling a stroke now and then to give the boat steerage way. As we shot through the gap into the smooth water beyond, we once more gave way, the boat’s head being kept in the direction of lights that we saw twinkling in the distance, apparently in some village beyond the inner embankment, when all at once we dashed in amongst thousands of wild geese, which rose with a clang, and a concert of quacking, screaming, and hissing, that was startling enough. We skimmed steadily on in the same direction—”Oars, men!” We were by this time close to a small cluster of houses, perched on the forced ground or embankment, and the messenger hailed in German.

  “Qui vive?” sang out a gruff voice; and we heard the clank of a musket, as if some one had cast it from his shoulder, and caught it in his hands, as he brought it down to the charge. Our passenger seemed a little taken aback; but he hailed again, still in German. “Parole,” replied the man. A pause. “The watchword, or I fire.” We had none to give.

  “Pull round, men,” said the lieutenant, with great quickness; pull the starboard oars; we are in the wrong box; back water the larboard. That’s it! give way, men.”

  A flash—crack went the sentry’s piece, and ping sang the ball over our heads. Another pause. Then a volley from a whole platoon. Again all was dark and silent. Presently a field-piece was fired, and several rockets were let off in our direction, by whose light we could see a whole company of French soldiers standing to their arms, with several cannon, but we were speedily out of the reach of their musketry. Several round shots were now fired, that hissed, ricochetting along the water close by us. Not a word was spoken in the boat all this time; we continued to pull for the opening in the dike, although, the current being strong against us, we made but little way; while the chance of being cut off by the Johnny Crapeaus getting round the top of the embankment, so as to command the gap before we could reach it, became every moment more alarming.

  The messenger was in great tribulation, and made several barefaced attempts to stow himself away under the stern sheets.

  The gallant fellows who composed the crew strained at their oars until everything cracked again; but as the flood made, the current against us increased, and we barely held our own. “Steer her out of the current, man,” said the lieutenant to the coxswain; the man put the tiller to port as he was ordered.

  “Vat you do soch a ting for, Mr Capitain Lieutenant?” said the emissary. “Oh! you not pershave you are rone in onder de igh bank! How you sall satisfy me no France infanterie légère dere, too, more as in de fort, eh? How you sall satisfy me, Mister Capitain Lieutenant, eh?”

  “Hold your blasted tongue, will you,” said Treenail, “and the infantry légère be damned simply. Mind your eye, my fine fellow, or I shall be much inclined to see whether you will be légère in the Elbe, or no. Hark!”

  We all pricked up our ears, and strained our eyes, while a bright, spitting, sparkling fire of musketry opened at the gap, but there was no ping pinging of the shot overhead.

  “They cannot be firing at us, sir,” said the coxswain; “none of them bullets are telling hereaway.”

  Presently a smart fire was returned in three distinct clusters from the water, and whereas the firing at first had only lit up the dark figures of the French soldiery, and the black outline of the bank on which they were posted, the flashes that answered them showed us three armed boats attempting to force the passage. In a minute the firing ceased; the measured splash of oars was heard, as boats approached us.

  “Who goes there?” sung out the lieutenant.

  “Torches,” was the answer.

  “All’s well, Torches,” rejoined Mr Treenail; and presently the jolly-boat, and launch, and cutter of the Torch, with twenty marines, and six-and-thirty seamen, all armed, were alongside.

  “What cheer, Treenail, my boy?” quoth Mr Splinter.

  “Why, not much; the French, who we were told had left the Elbe entirely, are still here, as well as at Cuxhaven, not in force certainly, but sufficiently strong to pepper us very decently in the outgoing.”

  “What, are any of the people hurt?”

  “No,” said the garrulous emissary. “No, not hurt, but some of us frightened leetle piece—ah, very mosh, je vous assure.”

  “Speak for yourself, Master Plenippo,” said Treenail. “But Splinter, my man, n
ow since the enemy have occupied the dike in front, how the deuce shall we get back into the river?—tell me that.”

  “Why,” said the senior-lieutenant, “we must go as we came.”

  And here the groans from two poor fellows who had been hit were heard from the bottom of the launch. The cutter was by this time close to us, on the larboard side, commanded by Mr Julius Caesar Tip, the senior midshipman, vulgarly called in the ship Bathos, from his rather unromantic name. Here also a low moaning evinced the precision of the Frenchmen’s fire.

  “Lord, Mr Treenail, a sharp brush that was.”

  “Hush!” quoth Treenail. At this moment three rockets hissed up from the dark sky, and for an instant the hull and rigging of the sloop of war at anchor in the river glanced in the blue-white glare, and vanished again, like a spectre, leaving us in more thick darkness than before.

  “Gemini! what is that, now?” quoth Tip again, as we distinctly heard the commixed rumbling and rattling sound of artillery, scampering along the dike.

  “The ship has sent up these rockets to warn us of our danger,” said Treenail. “What is to be done? Ah, Splinter, we are in a scrape—there they have brought up field-pieces, don’t you hear?”

  Splinter had heard it as well as his junior officer. “True enough, Treenail; so the sooner we make a dash through the opening the better.”

  “Agreed.”

  By some impulse peculiar to British sailors, the men were just about cheering, when their commanding officer’s voice controlled them. “Hark, my brave fellows, silence, as you value your lives.”

  So away we pulled, the tide being now nearly on the turn, and presently we were so near the opening that we could see the signal-lights in the rigging of the sloop of war. All was quiet on the dike.

  “Thank God, they have retreated, after all,” said Mr Treenail.

  “Whoo—o, whoo—o,” shouted a gruff voice from the shore.

  “There they are still,” said Splinter. “Marines, stand by; don’t throw away a shot. Men, pull like fury. So—give way, my lads; a minute of that strain will shoot us alongside of the old brig—that’s it—hurrah!”