by Roy Adkins
The actual funeral ceremony was simple and short, as the chaplain Edward Mangin described after conducting the burial at sea of the coxswain Thomas Flynn:
The body was brought at 10 o’clock in the forenoon, to the starboard gangway; sewed in a hammock, with a couple of 32 lb. shots at the feet, extended on a grating, and covered with a ship’s ensign. The crew and officers, bare-headed, surrounded it, and I read the funeral service. When I pronounced the words, ‘we commit his body to the deep’, a seaman standing by took off the colours, and turning the grating, launched poor Tom into the bosom of the German ocean [North Sea], into which he sunk sullenly and for ever. The multitude of stern looking men standing round; and preserving a profound silence; the splash of the corpse as it dropped; the untimely fate and fair character of the man … impressed me with very mournful feelings.98
Even if close to land, the seamen were still buried at sea. When the Lapwing was anchored at St Kitts in July 1798, one seaman’s death was documented by Aaron Thomas:
Peter Bird, a seaman aged twenty-three, departed this life. He had been ill of a flux about nine days … So I see this poor youth was boasting in his strength, but the Lord has told us of this folly, by taking one away from amongst us who has been in the ship more than 4 years, and during all that period, has never been in the sick list until nine days before his death … Bird is the first man that has died aboard, since I came into this ship. At daylight the body of Peter Bird was sewed up in his hammock with a ninepounders [cannonball], and put into the jolly boat; carried 2 cable length from the ship, and committed to the deep.99
However, when a woman died on board the frigate Hussar, within sight of Harwich, the crew thought Captain Wilkinson was inhumane to order her body to be cast overboard, as John Wetherell witnessed:
Our Corporal of Marines Richd Wright … had his wife on board, a fine young woman. She took sick and died on board. The boat was ordered to be manned next morning, her body put in a shell made by the ship’s joiner, taken out to sea and sunk, at the same time the ship lay within three miles of Harwich … This morning several of our married men’s wives left the ship and went on board the tender and landed in the evening at Harwich. They would not remain on board where such an unfeeling monster commanded.100
In 1799 Aaron Thomas was still in the West Indies and writing to one of his brothers in England: ‘Yet the dread of the hurricane’s month suddenly coming on, and the fever and fluxes which we are all so liable to here, makes me think it right in me to say, that if I make my earthly exit in this country, you will find my will, either at Mrs. Wainwright’s or at Thomson & Co in Basseterre in St Kitts.’101 In the entry for the end of September, he jotted in his journal, ‘This evening I was taken very ill – remained on board until the 22 October when I was obliged to go to sick quarters ashore at Basseterre St. Kitts.’102 He subsequently wrote: ‘I this day and last night for the first time felt the effects of severe flux – at 8pm felt better, this brings me to say that the lessening of a pain is a pleasure and that the diminishing of pleasure is pain.’103 This was his last journal entry, and on 13 December 1799, Aaron Thomas died in the hospital at St Kitts.
During battle there was no time for ceremonies or shrouds, and bodies were immediately thrown overboard. In April 1801, fourteen-year-old John Finlayson, who was a signal midshipman on board the St George, witnessed his first battle at Copenhagen. He was with several other seamen in a boat rowing to the Elephant, ‘when in a moment a spent shot, a twelve-pounder, struck the Sergeant [of Marines] in the back and knocked the breath out of him. He fell in the bottom of the boat and never either spoke or moved. This was a great shock to me. I scarcely knew what I said or did.’104 His lieutenant told him to check his pulse: ‘I tried the wrist, and pronounced him dead, quite dead. As this was no time to think about burying the dead as we should have wished, we threw the Sergeant overboard, wishing him a safe passage to the Other World.’105 The first battle Midshipman William Dillon experienced was the Glorious First of June, in 1794, and he lamented that ‘The number of men thrown overboard that were killed, without ceremony, and the sad wrecks around us taught those who, like myself, had not witnessed similar scenes that War was the greatest scourge of mankind.’106
It appears callous to have treated the dead in this way, but there was no room for sentimentality, and Sir Gilbert Blane was appalled by what he perceived to be the lack of hygiene on board French ships that the British captured, complaining that filthy water and worse ended up in the hold,
for the blood, the mangled limbs, and even whole bodies of men, were cast into the orlop, or hold, and lay there putrifying for some time. The common sailors among the French have a superstitious aversion to the throwing of bodies overboard immediately after they are killed, the friends of the deceased wishing to preserve their remains, in order to perform a religious ceremony over them when the hurry and danger of the day shall be over. When, therefore, the ballast, or other contents of the holds of these ships, came to be stirred, and the putrid effluvia thereby let loose, there was then a visible increase of sickness.107
Basil Hall asserted that crews wanted to dispose of bodies rapidly for superstitious reasons:
Independently of any personal interest, the sailors are always very desirous that no one should die on board; or rather, they have a great objection to the body of any one who has died remaining amongst them. This is a superstition easily accounted for amongst men whose entire lives are passed, as it were, on the very edge of the grave, and who have quite enough, as they suppose, to remind them of their mortality, without the actual presence of its effects. An idea prevails amongst them, that sharks will follow a ship for a whole voyage which has a corpse on board; and the loss of a mast, or the long duration of a foul wind or any other inconvenience, is sure to be ascribed to the same influence. Accordingly, when a man dies on board ship, there is an obvious anxiety amongst the crew to get rid of their late shipmate as speedily as possible.108
When the Victory was returning to England after the Battle of Trafalgar, Marine Lieutenant Robert Steele observed that the men were very uneasy: ‘In crossing the Bay of Biscay we had very bad weather, and the wind was constantly heading us; which the sailors ascribed to a corpse [Nelson’s] being on board, and some of them supposed that till the noble Admiral was buried (as they thought he ought to be) in his own empire, the Ocean, with due honours, we should never pass the chops of the Channel.’109
Henry Walsh is not likely to have been the only one disturbed by the fact that many seamen were buried at sea without any of their relations ever learning of their death: ‘There is thousands of worthy men buried in the boundless ocean unknown to any of their parents or relations, the thoughts of which often grieved my heart full sore.’110 Such burials were a particularly sad end for men who had been forced from their families by the press-gang.
Map of North America
TEN
AT LEISURE
Two evenings each week is devoted to amusement, then the Boatswain’s mates, with their pipes summons ‘All hands to play’. In a moment the scene is truly animating. The crew instantly distribute themselves, some dancing to a fiddle, others to a fife.
Observation of the soldier William Wheeler while a passenger in the Revenge in 18111
Except in times of danger, such as during bad weather or faced with imminent action, daily life for sailors was not a constant round of working, eating and sleeping. There were times specifically set aside for leisure activities, when they could relax, as Daniel Goodall remembered of the Temeraire in 1802:
Our Captain would pipe all hands to amusement – a certain mode, under proper regulation, of keeping Jack out of mischief, and in health and spirits. We had an excellent band on board, whose services were brought into constant requisition on such occasions, and regular ‘sets’ for dancing were formed with as much decorum, but with far more freedom, than in the stateliest ball-room – the officers not disdaining to set an example of sharing in the general amuse
ment. Those of the men who thought themselves not sufficiently qualified to join in the regular public ball, or who preferred a rollicking jig or hornpipe in presence of a more select circle, could find plenty of fiddlers amongst their shipmates, only too glad of the opportunity to display their skill in extracting sound from catgut.2
Music and dancing were always popular at various levels. Many officers preferred what would now be termed ‘classical’ music and ‘ballroom dancing’, and if they could afford it captains built up their own bands or small orchestras, deliberately taking on sailors who could play instruments. The pressed American seaman James Durand admitted that ‘I joined the musicians thinking it easier to play an instrument in the ship’s band than to do ship’s duty. There was a first rate instructor and for three weeks while we chased French privateers, my chief work was blowing on a flute. Gradually I gained some proficiency at it. The Captain now purchased new instruments equal to a full band. I learned the clarinet.’3 Samuel Leech felt that the band of the Macedonian was an asset to the ship:
The captain procured a fine band, composed of Frenchmen, Italians and Germans, taken by the Portuguese from a French vessel. These musicians consented to serve, on condition of being excused from fighting, and on a pledge of exemption from being flogged. They used to play to the captain during his dinner hour; the party to be amused usually consisting of the captain and one or two invited guests from the wardroom; except on Sundays, when he chose to honour the ward-room with his august presence. The band then played for the ward-room. They also played on deck whenever we entered or left a port. On the whole, their presence was an advantage to the crew, since their spirit-stirring strains served to spread an occasional cheerful influence over them.4
In foreign ports warships not only supplied military support for British diplomats, but often served as cultural ambassadors, providing entertainment for the local gentry. Dances on board ship were popular, and Elizabeth Ham recorded a guest’s view of such events when she was living in Guernsey in 1804:
Oh, these naval balls, they were so enjoyable! The measured sweep of the eighteen oared barge! A coach and six is nothing to it! Then being hoisted on deck enveloped in flags taken from the enemy, their capture aided, perhaps, by the two young heroes who always stand ready to unmuffle and hand you out of the chair. I never went on board a King’s Ship in my life without having each hand taken by a Navy Officer, which, by the by, they always take care to retain as long as they reasonably can.5
Sadly, not all these occasions were universally enjoyed, and after a ball held on board the Immortalité in the summer of 1802, some of the ladies who were invited complained to a midshipman ‘that the lieutenants – alas! for poor human nature! – were both tipsy, and so redolent of onions were your own messmates, that they were quite unapproachable’.6
Ready-made orchestras were extremely rare, but most ships contained quite a few amateur musicians, since most people on land created their own amusements, including singing, dancing and playing musical instruments. Most ships had at least one fiddle player, and frequent references are made to black fiddlers, who seem to have been particularly valued. On board HMS Gibraltar in 1811, one passenger observed that the seamen ‘never seemed to dance with any spirit unless they had an old Black to fiddle to them, of the name of Bond. He is a most curious fellow, and cannot play on his instrument unless it be accompanied by his voice or rather his throat, which makes a rumbling noise, growing louder and louder as the longer he fiddles.’7 Samuel Bond, from America, was a thirty-three-year-old gunner and probably a former slave.
In 1804, the Culloden was commanded by Captain Christopher Cole and was part of the fleet of Rear-Admiral Sir Edward Pellew. According to the seaman Robert Hay,
The Admiral and Captain Cole both well knew the advantages of cheerfulness in a ship’s crew, and embraced all opportunities of bringing it into play. In the evening the instrument of black Bob, the fiddler, was in almost constant requisition, giving spirit to the evolutions of those who were disposed to trip it a little on the light fantastic toe. Invigorating and enlivening games were going on in all quarters, and if there happened to be more dancers than could get conveniently within the sound of Bob’s fiddle, the Admiral’s band was ordered up.8
Pellew took pride in the orchestras that he formed and was ruthless in acquiring suitable musicians. When he was captain of the Indefatigable in 1795, he heard Joseph Emidy play the violin in an opera house at Lisbon and decided he was an ideal addition for his band. Many years later James Silk Buckingham became a music pupil of Emidy and was struck by the story of his life:
He was born in Guinea on the west coast of Africa, sold into slavery to some Portuguese traders, taken by them to the Brazils when quite a boy, and ultimately came to Lisbon with his owner or master. Here he manifested such a love for music, that he was supplied with a violin and a teacher; and in the course of three or four years he became sufficiently proficient to be admitted as one of the second violins in the orchestra of the opera at Lisbon. While thus employed, it happened that Sir Edward Pellew, in his frigate the Indefatigable, visited the Tagus, and, with some of his officers, attended the Opera. They had long wanted for the frigate a good violin player, to furnish music for the sailors’ dancing in their evening leisure, a recreation highly favourable to the preservation of their good spirits and contentment. Sir Edward, observing the energy with which the young negro plied his violin in the orchestra, conceived the idea of impressing him for the service.9
To Buckingham’s disgust, Pellew directed a press-gang from the Indefatigable to seize Emidy:
He accordingly instructed one of his lieutenants to take two or three of the boat’s crew, then waiting to convey the officers on board, and, watching the boy’s exit from the theatre, to kidnap him, violin and all, and take him off to the ship. This was done, and the next day the frigate sailed, so that all hope of his escape was in vain. In what degree of turpitude this differed from the original stealing [of ] the youth from his native land, and keeping him in slavery, these gallant officers, perhaps, never condescended to consider … yet all England was roused … to protest against the African slave trade, while peers and commoners, legislators and judges, not only winked at, but gravely defended, in the legislature and from the bench, the crime of man-stealing for the British Navy.10
Emidy now had to adapt his music to his new environment:
Poor Emidy was thus forced, against his will, to descend from the higher regions of the music in which he delighted – Glück, Haydn, Cimarosa, and Mozart, to desecrate his violin to hornpipes, jigs, and reels, which he loathed and detested: and being, moreover, the only negro on board, he had to mess by himself, and was looked down upon as an inferior being – except when playing to the sailors, when he was of course in high favour … [he] was only released by Sir Edward Pellew being appointed to the command of a line-of-battle ship, L’Impetueux, when he was permitted to leave in the harbour of Falmouth.11
Emidy served in the Royal Navy for nearly five years before being discharged a free man at Falmouth in 1799. He lived the rest of his life in Cornwall, becoming a virtuoso violin player, music teacher and celebrated composer, and his tombstone still stands in Kenwyn churchyard near Truro.
For many of the crew, dancing was what would now be called ‘country dances’, such as jigs and reels, and ones like the hornpipe were adapted by the seamen and effectively became sailors’ dances. Although a band was preferred, these dances only required a single instrument, usually a fiddle or flute, and so were easily arranged by a small group of seamen without needing the ship’s band. Despite most men being engaged in hard physical work every day, exercise such as dancing was regarded as beneficial for their health, something the surgeon Sampson Hardy noted in his medical journal for the Maidstone: ‘There also appeared a disposition in the people to intermittent fevers, the effects of which I could easily remark were in a great measure obviated by the salutory exercise of dancing which was encouraged in the ship’s company
every evening, Captain Mowbray kindly allotting the space under the half deck on the starboard side for that purpose.’12 A passenger on board HMS Gibraltar, previously unacquainted with the navy, noted that ‘of an evening the men generally amuse themselves by dancing on the main deck, and the boatswain’s mate summons them to this mode of diversion by piping “all hands to dance, hoy!” It is an entertaining spectacle to watch them on these occasions, for they dance in a manner quite peculiar to themselves, without paying much attention either to figure or step.’13
Other physical activities were also permitted, as James Scott in the Phaeton recalled:
In fine weather, when the retreat from quarters was beaten [at the end of the day], the band was ordered up for those who preferred the amusement of dancing. Buffet the bear, leap-frog, wrestling, &c. were pursued by others; in short, every one was at liberty to amuse himself as he thought fit, the quarter-deck being alone kept sacred. This temporary relaxation of the bonds of discipline was as much enjoyed by the captain and officers as by the crew themselves.14