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CHAPTER III

We spoke of the old guardship, the “Princess,” in our last chapter. Many and many a time have we walked on her deck, until we thought that we ourselves might grow into a Nelson, a St. Vincent, or a Collingwood. Her captain, who used to take us on board with him, in the days of which we speak, was Colquitt – Captain Colquitt, of course, when afloat, but, on shore, among his friends, and he had many, Sam Colquitt, glorious Sam, pleasant Sam, clever Sam, up to anything, equal to anything, with a never-failing amount of fun and frolic, and an untiring fund of conversation, generally instructive, always agreeable, a giver and taker of a joke, full of anecdote, and the best teller of a good story we ever met with. We like to dwell upon his name. Much of the happiness of our boyhood sprung from our acquaintance with him. Beyond him, we recollect but the name of one of the crowd of faces which we used to see in the “Princess,” the purser’s clerk, named Vardy, a tall, fine looking fellow, some six feet two in height. And where are all the rest of them? How many survive? And where, and how, are those who do, supported?

Besides the “Princess,” and the tubs of tenders which came round for the impressed men, we had occasionally a livelier and more interesting kind of craft in the Mersey. A dashing sloop of war would now and then look in, after a cruise in the Channel, and occasionally would act as convoy to any fleet of vessels bent upon a long voyage. It was interesting to see the start of one of these accumulations of ships, under the care of their watchful guardian. There they lay in the river, all prepared to make sail whenever she made the signal, with all sorts of noises and confusion going on among their crews. In the midst of them she was at anchor, with everything made snug on board, lying like a duck on the water, with silence and order prevailing from one end of her to the other. Spying glasses are turned towards her, but there is no appearance of hurry or anxiety. The wind chops round, and is favourable for outward-bound vessels. Still all is quiet and motionless in the man-of-war. We are not nautical, recollect, and only speak in landsman’s phraseology. What we cannot accomplish we will not attempt. All eyes are now anxiously bent towards her, and the skippers of the merchantmen begin inwardly, and perhaps outwardly, some of them, to curse the caprice, or ignorance, or indolence of her captain; but, all in good time, gentlemen. Let him alone, if you please. He knows what he is about. He is only doubting whether the change of wind will hold. At last he is satisfied, and look! – a flash – a smoke – bang! It is the signal gun to make ready; another to weigh anchor – another to set sail – and away she goes, gracefully, like a hen followed by her chickens; or, to speak more appropriately, like a sheep-dog marshalling the flock. Sailing in convoy was certainly all equality and fraternity, but there was no liberty. The fast-sailing vessels were compelled to hoist no more canvass than would enable their slow companions to keep up with them. It was like the bed of Procrustes applied to sea affairs. And what fun it was to watch the crowd of vessels as they rounded the narrow channel by the Rock; such bumping and thumping, such fidgeting and signal-firing on the part of the guardian angel to check the fast ones, and stimulate the slow ones, and keep them all well together.

Nor must we forget here to mention another class of vessels, which made a very remarkable and prominent feature of the days which we are describing. We speak of the privateer. Liverpool was famous for this kind of craft. The fastest sailing vessels were, of course, selected for this service; and, as the men shipped on board of them were safe, in virtue of the letter of marque, from impressment, the most dashing and daring of the sailors came out of their hiding-holes to take service in them. On the day when such a vessel left the dock, the captain, or owner, generally gave a grand dinner to his friends, and it was a great treat to be of the party. While the good things were being discussed in the cabin, toasts given, speeches made, and all the rest of it, she continued to cruise in the river, with music playing, colours flying, the centre of attraction and admiration, “the observed of all observers,” as she dashed like a flying-fish through the water. And then the crew? The captain was always some brave, daring man, who had fought his way to his position. The officers were selected for the same qualities; and the men – what a reckless, dreadnaught, dare-devil collection of human beings, half-disciplined, but yet ready to obey every order, the more desperate the better. Your true privateer’s-man was a sort of “half-horse, half-alligator, with a streak of lightning” in his composition – something like a man-of-war’s man, but much more like a pirate – generally with a superabundance of whisker, as if he held, with Samson, that his strength was in the quantity of his hair. And how they would cheer, and be cheered, as we passed any other vessel in the river; and when the eating and drinking and speaking and toasting were over, and the boat was lowered, and the guests were in it, how they would cheer again, more lustily than ever, as the rope was cast off, and, as the landsmen were got rid of, put about their own vessel, with fortune and the world before them, and French West Indiamen and Spanish galleons in hope and prospect. Those were jolly days to some people, but we trust we may never see the like of them again. The dashing man-of-war, and the daring privateer, dazzled the eyes of the understanding, and kindled wild and fierce enthusiasm on all sides. The Park and Tower guns and the Extraordinary Gazette confirmed the madness, and kept up a constant fever of excitement. But count the cost. Lift up the veil, and peep at the hideous features of the demon of war. Look at the mouldering corruption beneath the whited sepulchre of glory! But no sermons, if you please.

And there were the old Dublin packets in those days, before steam had turned sailor. If you took a passage in one of them, and had a fair wind, and were lucky, you might hope to arrive in Dublin some time, but if the wind were against you, then, as the old coachman said of the railway smash, “Where were you?” You would be heard of eventually, when worn to a skeleton, and in a fit of indigestion from eating your shoe soles in the agony of starvation. And some of us used to get an annual voyage to Hilbre Island, an exploit which set us up as sailors for life. Occasionally visitors penetrated about as often to the one good house which was near the magazines. The Old Priory at Birkenhead was then “alone in its glory.” All Cheshire, indeed, was in those days a kind of Africa, inviting and daring the young Bruces and Mungo Parks of Liverpool to explore it. We considered it to abound in deserts and Great Saharas. To penetrate to Wallasey, or to Upton, was to reach Timbuctoo. Bidston and the Lighthouse were our Cairo and the Pyramids; and as to Leasowe Castle, we cared not to approach it, under especial guardianship of so many fairies, ghosts, and hobgoblins was it supposed to be. These things sound like so many fables at the present day, when our steamboats, bridging the river, carry us across by thousands every hour. But in those times, an occasional ferry-boat was the only communication between the Lancashire and Cheshire shores of the Mersey. Few loved to cross from the one to the other, except under the pressure of business or necessity. Many persons, indeed, going from Liverpool to Chester, would travel round by Warrington, rather than chance a rough passage across the river in a small dangerous-looking boat. But nous avons changé tout cela. The things which we have been telling only live in the memory of a very few old fellows like ourselves.

CHAPTER IV

But when the war, at the beginning of the century, was renewed with Napoleon, the preparations against him were not confined to the water. We had not only our guardship in the river, but the town itself was stoutly garrisoned against any enemy. We had always several regiments of regular soldiers or militia quartered here. But, besides these, O! what drumming and fifing and bugling and trumpeting there used to be among the regiments of our own raising; for old Liverpool did her duty well and nobly in those days of threatened invasion. Young and old, gentle and simple, high and lowly were all alike seized with a military fever and a patriotic glow, and hastened to don red coats and cocked hats, carry muskets, or wear swords by their sides. And some famous soldiers we had amongst us, and plenty of them. Let us see. There was Colonel Bolton’s regiment, consisting of as fine and well-disciplined a body of men as ever mounted guard in St. James’s or Buckingham Palace. In what awe we used to stand of the tall, upright, somewhat prim, and starched old colonel, as, mounted on his favourite white charger, he marched, band playing, colours flying, at the head of his men, round and round Mosslake fields, looking, both he and they, defiance at all the world in general, and Napoleon, and Ney, and Soult, and Lannes, and Davoust, and Murat, and all the rest of the frog-eaters in particular. And then there was the fine old major, called Joe Greaves among his familiars, who lived at the top of Mount Pleasant, and kept a glorious house, and welcomed everybody, and was welcome everywhere. A fine fellow was the major as ever we set eyes upon, and he was the father of as fine a family as ever sprung up, like olive branches, round any man’s table. He was always kind, affable, and good-natured, whenever we met him. Peace to his memory! And Sir Thomas Brancker, quiet citizen as he now looks, used to wear, to us, a most formidable aspect, when an officer in Bolton’s Invincibles. Occasionally he would act as adjutant to the regiment, and, if our memory does not fail us at this distance of time, we once saw him – we certainly saw some one achieve the feat – ride at a troublesome boy, who would intrude within the line of sentinels, and leap his horse clear over the head of the terrified urchin. We also recollect a Hurry and an Aspinall, officers in this regiment. There was also Colonel Williams’s regiment of volunteers, a fine body of men, and well ordered and officered. The colonel had seen some hard service, and heard real hostile bullets whistling abroad. He was a strict disciplinarian, and a good soldier. We need not attempt to describe him. He lived to so ripe an old age, and to the last took such an active part in our public affairs, that most of our readers must have his picture, in his white Russian ducks, fully impressed upon their memory. He was an ardent lover of his race and of his country, spared no labour in the cause of improvement and reform, and in earnestness, and sincerity, and integrity of purpose never was surpassed. Moreover, we had Colonel Earle’s regiment of Fusiliers; a company of Artillery, commanded by Major Brancker, the father of Sir Thomas; a Custom-house Corps; a Rifle Corps, second to none in the country; and Major Faulkner’s Light Horse, better mounted than any cavalry in the service. And the military infection spread so far that the very boys at the schools used to form themselves into regiments, and drum about the streets, with their little colours streaming in their front. And what reviews there were on the North Shore, and sham fights! And the waterside carts were all numbered, so as to be easily brought into use in case of an enemy appearing. Occasionally the soldiers were practised in them. Benches for seats were placed in them, and they would drive off as if for some distant place, to which a railway would now carry them like a flash of lightning. Once or twice there were sham alarms, raised in the night to try the activity and spirit of our volunteers; and O! what rattling of artillery, galloping of horsemen, beating of drums, and blowing of trumpets aroused the affrighted women and children from their beds, to look at the crowds of soldiers rushing through the streets to the several places of mustering for which they were bound. One of the most distinguished officers quartered amongst us in those bustling old times was Colonel Stuart, now the Marquis of Londonderry. A strange man is this said old marquis reported to be, and funny stories are told of him as ambassador at Vienna, and in various matters, political and diplomatic. But, nevertheless, a daring and gallant soldier was he in his youth; and, as a cavalry officer, in dash and skill, was reckoned, not only second, but almost equal, to Murat, the Marquis of Anglesea, and perhaps Jerome Buonaparte, whose desperate charges at Waterloo drew from his brother the exclamation, that if all had fought like him the day would have had a different issue. Well do we recollect Colonel Stuart, on his prancing Arabian horse, which he had brought with him from the Egyptian campaign; and a noble pair they looked as they dashed along. There was a rumour at the time, let us hope an idle one, that this steed of Araby was begged from him by a royal duke, and subsequently passed into a hackney coach. And how well do we recollect the encampment which was formed one summer, somewhere towards Litherland, and how the proud soldiers, living under tents, fancied that they were undergoing all the horrors and hardships of war in behalf of their beloved country. And what heroes we had in command of this military district. There was old General Benson, whose quarters were in Islington, a little of a martinet, and more of a prig, with a large slice of the pedant in things warlike – a regular old pig-tail, but reputed to be a good soldier. After him, we had a hero of another cut, figure, and appearance, General Fisher, whom it was glorious to behold. We will attempt to describe him. It was his custom to creep up Duke Street, where he was quartered, every morning before breakfast. He used to have on a pair of long, light blue pantaloons; slippers, down at the heels; a seedy coat, dear at three-halfpence for a scare-crow; a cocked hat to match, with much more grease than nap on it – we all hated Nap in those days – and a little feather, about two inches high, just peeping above it. And then the figure of fun arrayed in these habiliments. The general was a stout man, with rather a protuberant corporation. His cheeks bore the marks, it may be of many campaigns, but certainly of many vintages. He blushed port wine unceasingly. His nose, no small one, grew into something like a large bulbous root towards the extremity; and he wore a pig-tail, huge in its dimensions, both as to length, breadth, and thickness, even in those days of pig-tails. Such was the one-time champion of this district, as he might be seen creeping every morning through the streets, with his hands in his pantaloon pockets, not unlike an old pantaloon himself, and with a crowd of little boys admiring the war-like apparition, but strongly doubting whether it was St. George or the Dragon that stood before them.

CHAPTER V

We spoke, in our last chapter, of the false alarms by which the soldiers forming our garrison were once or twice called together in the night, to try their zeal and alacrity; and we said how terribly alarmed were the women and children on such occasions. But we can, as truly as proudly, add that their fears did not extend to our brave and gallant volunteers. They rushed to their gathering spots, wild and eager for the coming danger, and, we verily believe, were sorely disappointed when they found that the actual opportunity had not arrived for teaching the enemy how Englishmen could fight for their country, their king, their altars, hearths, and homes. Let us, however, be thankful that we were never subjected to the horrors of invasion, but that the bold front of our champions kept it and them at a distance. The worst of our military fever was, that, in imitation of the bad practice of real soldiers at that day, it led to several duels. One of them ended fatally, a member of one of the most respectable families in the town having fallen by the hand of another, with whom he had always previously been on the most intimate terms. It was supposed at the time that this sad affair was encouraged by some who should have made every exertion and used every effort to have prevented it, but did not.

We have already spoken of several of the general officers who commanded in this district at the time we speak of. There was one, however, who will occupy a larger space in our canvas than we can afford to give to any other. When our military enthusiasm was at its height, Prince William Frederick of Gloucester came down to take the command. It has always been said that “Liverpool loves a lord,” and there is some truth in the sarcasm. You may fancy, then, into what a fever of loyalty we were all thrown, young as well as old, by the presence of a prince of the blood royal amongst us, the veritable nephew of “the good old king,” George the Third. And then how that fever grew and inflamed into actual white heat when the Duke of Gloucester, the king’s brother and the father of the prince, arrived on a visit to his son. We remember him as if it were but yesterday; a fine, benevolent-looking old man, who was all smiles and kindness as he spoke to you. The prince himself was a tall, handsome, noble-looking young man, not too clever, as some of his intimates whispered, as they profanely called him “Silly Billy,” the name having been originally fastened upon him by his royal cousin, subsequently George the Fourth, of splendid and dissipated memory. But what of that? We did not want him to set the Mersey on fire, but to fight if fighting were to become necessary. And O! what gaieties, what parties, what festivities, what flirtations, we had in honour of his arrival and residence amongst us. Beauty was beauty in those days, and so the prince thought, and so did the train of gallant and glorious staff-officers who accompanied him. There was the magnificent Mrs. – , and the pretty Mrs. – , and the clever Mrs. – , and the splendid-looking Miss – . How other hearts beat, perhaps with jealousy, perhaps with spite, as the prince, at most of the gay parties, generally devoted himself, more or less, to one or other of these Lancashire witches. Occasionally, however, a fit of formality came over him, and then nothing could be so stupid as to have the honour of meeting him. The duke, his father, had not married a bit of German silver, but had followed the bent of his inclinations and united himself to an English lady of great beauty. This led to the passing of the Royal Marriage Act. To annoy the prince, under these circumstances, his cousins used to raise a question occasionally whether he should be called Highness or Royal Highness, although there was no doubt that the latter was his title. This made him ever and anon tenacious of the amount of honour and respect to be paid to him, and when the fit was upon him, he would push etiquette to the extreme, and keep the whole company standing in his presence, just as another prince does sometimes at the present day. But when he did relax, he could be a delightful companion. He possessed prodigious strength, and was very fond of displaying it at those times when he forgot his stiffness and starch. There was, however, one sad interruption to the worship and adoration with which he had hitherto been surrounded in Liverpool. The Prince of Wales (George the Fourth) and the Duke of Clarence (the sailor king) paid a visit to “the good old town.” As the stars twinkle not before the moon, and the moon herself pales before the brighter beams of the sun, so certain of our tuft-hunters here forgot the respect which was due and which they had long paid to the prince, in their anxiety to bow down and render homage to the new and passing visitors. We are not going to recount all the follies of the occasion. How the Duke of Clarence pushed a milk-pail from a poor girl’s head, in Water-street, and then astonished her with a guinea for her loss, and so forth. We shall hasten at once to a scene which took place at the Town Hall. A magnificent banquet was given there by the Mayor of the time being. The Prince of Wales, the Duke of Clarence, Prince William Frederick of Gloucester, the Earls of Derby and Sefton, with a crowd of military officers, were present. After dinner the usual toasts were proposed; then the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Clarence, each with three times three. At last it was Prince William’s turn, when, under the influence of some demon of mischief, the Mayor, instead of proposing his health, as usual, with all his titles and all the honours, foolishly consulted the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Clarence on the subject, asking in what form he should give the toast, and whether he should say Highness or Royal Highness. The answer of the Prince of Wales was said to be, “Certainly not Royal Highness, and without the honours,” while the Duke of Clarence more bluntly replied, “D – him, don’t give him at all.” The Mayor then rose and simply proposed, “The commander-in-chief of the District, Prince William Frederick of Gloucester.” It was drunk in solemn silence. The company all looked grave, as feeling that, under the influence of a higher idolatry, a gross insult had been offered to the late god of Liverpool adoration. Fierce glances were exchanged between the staff-officers and the other military men present. The prince himself writhed under the stroke, like a wounded tiger smarting under the lance of the hunter. Fire and brimstone and the devil himself flashed from his eyes, but he kept his seat. Presently the fearful and appalling silence was broken by the voice of the Mayor, calling out, as the next toast, “The lord-lieutenant of the county, with three times three,” the three times three omitted at the name of the commander-in-chief, being revived with that of the next toast. A thunderbolt falling into the midst of the party could not have caused more astonishment and excitement. There could be no mistake now. The insult was meant to be an insult, and nothing but an open, prominent, and most insulting insult. The words had hardly passed from the lips of the Mayor, when Prince William, glancing a signal to his staff, who had their eyes fixed upon him, rose from his seat and left the room, followed not only by them, but by the whole of the military officers of his command who were present, leaving the table almost deserted, the Mayor gaping in amazement, and the royal cousins astounded at the spirit which they had evoked, more, perhaps, in mischief than in wanton insolence. However that may have been, from that day forth there was an uncomfortable feeling between the people of Liverpool and Prince William. It is only just to the rest of the corporation and to the gentry of the place to state, that to a man they felt strongly that an unwarrantable insult had been offered to him. He was, we believe, persuaded of this, but he never could be cordial again. If he forgave, he could not forget, the slight and mortification to which he had been so publicly exposed.