29. CHAPTER XXIX.
I can not forbear a brief reflection upon the scene ending
the last chapter.
The ratanning of the young culprits, although significant of
the imperfect discipline of a French man-of-war, may also be
considered as in some measure characteristic of the nation.
In an American or English ship, a boy, when flogged, is
either lashed to the breech of a gun, or brought right up to the
gratings, the same way the men are. But as a general rule, he
is never punished beyond his strength. You seldom or never
draw a cry from the young rogue. He bites his tongue, and
stands up to it like a hero. If practicable (which is not always
the case), he makes a point of smiling under the operation.
And so far from his companions taking any compassion on him,
they always make merry over his misfortunes. Should he turn
baby and cry, they are pretty sure to give him afterward a sly
pounding in some dark corner.
This tough training produces its legitimate results.[13]
The
boy becomes, in time, a thorough-bred tar, equally ready to
strip and take a dozen on board his own ship, or, cutlass in
hand, dash pell-mell on board the enemy's. Whereas the
young Frenchman, as all the world knows, makes but an indifferent
seaman; and though, for the most part, he fights well
enough, some how or other he seldom fights well enough to beat.
How few sea-battles have the French ever won! But more:
how few ships have they ever carried by the board—that true
criterion of naval courage! But not a word against French
bravery—there is plenty of it; but not of the right sort. A
Yankee's, or an Englishman's is the downright Waterloo
“game.” The French fight better on land; and not being essentially
a maritime people, they ought to stay there. The
best of shipwrights, they are no sailors.
And this carries me back to the Reine Blanche, as noble a
specimen of what wood and iron can make, as ever floated.
She was a new ship: the present her maiden cruise. The greatest
pains having been taken in her construction, she was accounted
the “crack” craft in the French navy. She is one of
the heavy sixty-gun frigates now in vogue all over the world,
and which we Yankees were the first to introduce. In action,
these are the most murderous vessels ever lanched.
The model of the Reine Blanche has all that warlike comeliness
only to be seen in a fine fighting-ship. Still, there is a
good deal of French flummery about her—brass-plates and
other gewgaws, stuck on all over, like baubles on a handsome
woman.
Among other things, she carries a stern gallery resting on the
uplifted hands of two Caryatides, larger than life. You step
out upon this from the commodore's cabin. To behold the
rich hangings, and mirrors, and mahogany within, one is almost
prepared to see a bevy of ladies trip forth on the balcony for
an airing.
But come to tread the gun-deck, and all thoughts like these
are put to flight. Such batteries of thunderbolt hurlers! with
a sixty-eight-pounder or two thrown in as make-weights. On
the spar-deck, also, are carronades of enormous caliber.
Recently built, this vessel, of course, had the benefit of the
latest improvements. I was quite amazed to see on what high
principles of art, some exceedingly simple things were done.
But your Gaul is scientific about every thing; what other people
accomplish by a few hard knocks, he delights in achieving
by a complex arrangement of the pulley, lever, and screw.
What demi-semi-quavers in a French air! In exchanging
naval courtesies, I have known a French band play “Yankee
Doodle” with such a string of variations, that no one but a
“pretty 'cute” Yankee could tell what they were at.
In the French navy they have no marines; their men, taking
turns at carrying the musket, are sailors one moment, and
soldiers the next; a fellow running aloft in his line-frock to-day,
to-morrow stands sentry at the admiral's cabin-door. This is
fatal to any thing like proper sailor pride. To make a man a
seaman, he should be put to no other duty. Indeed, a thorough
tar is unfit for any thing else; and what is more, this fact is the
best evidence of his being a true sailor.
On board the Reine Blanche, they did not have enough to
eat; and what they did have, was not of the right sort. Instead
of letting the sailors file their teeth against the rim of a hard
sea-biscuit, they baked their bread daily in pitiful little rolls.
Then they had no “grog;” as a substitute, they drugged the
poor fellows with a thin, sour wine—the juice of a few
grapes, perhaps, to a pint of the juice of water-facets. Moreover,
the sailors asked for meat, and they gave them soup; a
rascally substitute, as they well knew.
Ever since leaving home, they had been on “short allowance.”
At the present time, those belonging to the boats—and
thus getting an occasional opportunity to run ashore—frequently
sold their rations of bread to some less fortunate shipmate for
sixfold its real value.
Another thing tending to promote dissatisfaction among the
crew was, their having such a devil of a fellow for a captain.
He was one of those horrid naval bores—a great disciplinarian.
In port, he kept them constantly exercising yards and sails,
and manœuvering with the boats; and at sea, they were forever
at quarters; running in and out the enormous guns, as if their
arms were made for nothing else. Then there was the admiral
aboard, also; and, no doubt,
he too had a paternal eye
over them.
In the ordinary routine of duty, we could not but be struck
with the listless, slovenly behavior of these men; there was
nothing of the national vivacity in their movements; nothing
of the quick precision perceptible on the deck of a thoroughly
disciplined armed vessel.
All this, however, when we came to know the reason, was
no matter of surprise; three fourths of them were pressed
men. Some old merchant sailors had been seized the very day
they landed from distant voyages; while the landsmen, of
whom there were many, had been driven down from the country
in herds, and so sent to sea.
At the time, I was quite amazed to hear of press-gangs in a
day of comparative peace; but the anomaly is accounted for
by the fact, that, of late, the French have been building up a
great military marine, to take the place of that which Nelson
gave to the waves of the sea at Trafalgar. But it is to be hoped,
that they are not building their ships for the people across the
channel to take. In case of a war, what a fluttering of French
ensigns there would be!
Though I say the French are no sailors, I am far from seeking
to underrate them as a people. They are an ingenious and
right gallant nation. And, as an American, I take pride in
asserting it.
