The Doctor’s Specimen Jars

When we was in Halifax the Doctor purchased a large number of special jars for those fishes, livers, brains, lizards and such things that he keeps pickled in spirits. A sad waste of spirits it is too. He planned to collect many new things if we was sent to Bermuda. He left the Frenchman that is his mate and his man Vasserman to repack them in shavings and straw to protect them on the voyage.

I was on deck when they handed them aboard. As soon as I had one I knew it was too heavy by twice for what it should be.

“Whats in here?” I say to the Frenchman but he just says “jen say pa” like he does not speak good English, which he does, so I look at Vasserman- who is dumb- and he writes on a little paper pad he carries “doctors jars”.

“Too heavy Mate” I tell him, and they give each other a look, and the Frenchman tells me to just keep mum and I will see when they are stowed. So once we are below we get off by ourselves and they open a case. It’s the Doctor’s jars right enough, but each one is filled to the gills with pickled eggs. They told me that if I would keep their secret they would share them. I suppose they figured the Doctor would not have approved.

Where they got them I never knew, because so many would have cost a pretty penny. Pulled some manner of purser’s trick I reckon, probably the Frenchman because deceit is just part of their nature.

In any case they was good to their word and shared them equal and I was good to my word and never told another soul, and every jar was empty by the time the Doctor set foot on Bermuda.

Robert Watson aboard the HMS Acasta

in a letter to his wife, Dec., 1813

Lieutenant Marshall

MARSHALL.

Acasta Lieutenant under Capt. Beaver, 18th Nov. 1808.

George Edward Marshall is the son of an old Commander in the R.N., who lost his health on the coast of Africa, and was from that cause, as well as from the effect of wounds, obliged to retire from active service. His brother, Lieut. Thos. Marshall, R.M., was killed in the Repulse 74, Capt. Hon. Arthur Kaye Legge, at the passage of the Dardanells, in Feb. 1807.

This officer entered the Navy, 16 Feb. 1801, on board the Invincible 74, Capt. John Rennie, bearing the flag of Rear-Admiral Thos. Totty in Yarmouth Roads ; and became Midshipman, soon afterwards, of the Assistance 50, Capt. Rich. Lee, under whom he was wrecked, between Dunkerque and Gravelines, 29 March, 1802. During the five years which preceded his promotion to the rank of Lieutenant, Mr. Marshall, it appears, was employed on the Newfoundland and Channel stations in the Falcon sloop, Capt. Henry Manaton Ommanney, Goliath 74, Capt. Chas. Brisbane, and Phoenix and Tribune frigates, both commanded by Capt. Thos. Baker. In the Falcon, at the commencement of the war, he assisted in taking possession of the islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon ; and in the Phoenix he was present, as Master's Mate, in Sir Rich. Strachan's action, 4 Nov. 1805 ; on which occasion he was sent on board one of the prize-ships to aid in navigating her into port. While serving in the Tribune, we find him contributing, 29 April, 1807, to the destruction, by that ship and the Iris, of the greater part of a convoy of 30 vessels, passing from Ferrol to Bilboa under the protection of several gun-boats. He was also a participator in many boat affairs on the coast of France. On being promoted, as above, he joined the Neptune 98, Capt. Sir Thos. Williams, at the time in the Channel; and he was afterwards appointed—18 Nov. 1808, to the Acasta 40, Capt. Philip Beaver, under whom he served as First-Lieutenant at the capture of Martinique and the Saintes in 1809—25 June, 1810 (after seven months of half-pay), to the Amelia 38, Capt. Hon. Fred. Paul Irby, attached to the force in the Channel— 17 Aug. following, and 27 April, 1811, to the Hannibal'74.

Source: A NAVAL BIOGRAPHICAL DICTIONARY: COMPRISING THE LIFE AND SERVICES OF EVERY LIVING OFFICER IN HER MAJESTY'S NAVY, FROM THE RANK OF ADMIRAL OF THE FLEET TO THAT OF LIEUTENANT, INCLUSIVE. Compiled from Authentic and Family Documents. BY WILLIAM E. O'BYRNE, ESQ.
LONDON: JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, PUBLISHER TO THE ADMIRALTY. 1849.

The Floating Prison

The Floating Prison,
a book review by Tony Gerard 

A remarkable Account of Nine Years’ Captivity on the British Prison Hulks During the Napoleonic Wars by Louis Garneray

Louis Garneray first went to sea at the age of 13. Captured in 1806 he was to spend the rest of the war as prisoner until peace was concluded in 1814. The book is best viewed as a historically accurate novel. First published in France in 1851, Ganeray includes many details which are improbably, such as using direct quotes for almost all conversations. The editor, Richard Rose, does a tremendous job tracing the actual historic Louis Garnery, a difficult job after over two hundred years. His excellent footnotes allow the reader to follow what is most likely truth from outright fiction, which characters are fictitious creations to move the storyline along and which events are inspired by true events which happened to someone else. There are some sections of the book that are apparently directly plagiarized from other accounts at the time.

Throughout the book Garneray never misses a change to expound on the cruelty of the English and their indifference to the suffering of the French prisoners. No doubt life on the hulks was miserable, but oftentimes in this respect he outdoes other contemporary accounts.

Lest the reader think I’m being completely critical of the work let me say I highly recommend this book!

The novel like style make it an easy and fast read. The fact that Garneray skips the months of dreary monotony and moves from one interesting event directly to another keeps the reader’s interest. Even events which Garneray may not have directly experienced himself, such as a duel between two inmates with razors tied to sticks or the forced facial tattooing of a prisoner who betrayed his comrades, are usually based on historic fact.

Garneray’s details of daily life on the prison hulks, when compared to other lesser known accounts, have proven to be accurate. Even those aspects which a modern reader might believe to be fiction are collaborated by other sources. An example are the “rafales”, prisoners so addicted to gambling that they lived semi naked in the bowels of the hulk and formed their own sub society.

Garneray came from a family of painters, and while imprisoned he began painting himself. It allowed him to develop an income which improved his lot and afterward he became one of France’s premier maritime artists.  Another plus for the book is that it contains plenty of illustrations, both of Garneray’s work and others of the period, as well as being illustrated with woodcuts from the original 19^th century edition done from Garneray’s sketches.  Oddly Garneray has illustrated the dress of  English sailors in a  fashion later than the actual story.

“The Floating Prison” wasn’t Ganery’s only published work. He also wrote “Voyages, aventures et combats” of his time before his capture. I’m anxious to see if there is a translation available!

Purvis Lodge part VII

Part VII

The bulk of the work was nearly complete at Purvis Lodge. Sir James, the new owner, had sent half of the sailors back to the ship having completed the necessary tasks and improvements in even less time than he had thought, and he was sure to send them back to the ship with their pockets full of extra shillings for doing so. Less than a dozen men and boys from the Acasta were still on the property, they were in charge of the daily tasks and the care and running of the house. Mr. Higgins had even been moved into the kitchen proper.

One  afternoon, a party of the boys had been sent out to gather great baskets of kindling from the wilderness at the back of the property. They returned instead with a skinny milk cow lead with a length of rope.

Sir James met them at the back of the house, by the walled garden. He was in his banyon and had been pulling up weeds and dead growth for the last hour.

“What is the meaning of this?” Sir James called out from the little stone porch. 

“Sir. sir!” Mr. Thomas, the youngest of the boys cried excitedly and out of breath, “We found her in the woods back behind the pasture.”

Volunteer First Class Mr. Linden, who was the oldest boy of the lot at twelve, knuckled his forehead and continued, “We think she was one of the milk cows owned by the previous fellow, and she must’ve been left here. We found a few chickens too when we first arrived. The pasture wall has a great hole in it where a tree fell and we think she got out there and has been wandering the back side of the estate ever since.”

“Heavens, look at the poor beast!” exclaimed Sir James. 

In fact, Linden was correct, the poor, skinny milk cow had indeed been left in the pasture after the death of the last owner of Purvis Lodge. She was thin, scarred and filthy from her adventures in the wild.

“I’ve never owned a cow of my own before.” Sir James mused, “I find I scarcely know what to do with her.”

“She looks awful hungry sir.” Linden added, looking back at her with genuine affection.

“Indeed she does, I suppose she’s been forced to forage all this time. Let’s see to her feeding and watering.” the Captain ordered.

Linden spoke up again, “Me and the boys could make repairs in the pasture wall and she’d have a place to stay again sir.”

“Ah, a capital idea.” Sir James replied, “How long would the repairs take Mr. Linden?”

Linden looked at his group of boys, there were four of them, “I should say about two hours to clear the fallen tree and restack the stone sir.”

“Very good Mr. Linden then let’s be about it, it’s your party.” Sir James smiled.

“Aye sir, thank you sir.” he saluted and they all ran off down back toward the pasture, leaving the captain’s new cow tied to the gate of the garden wall.

Purvis Lodge part VI

Part VI

At midday a week later, Mr. Martin heard the familiar creak of the door of the ‘Plow’ as it admitted, what was hopefully, a customer. Business had been slow since the sailors from Purvis Lodge had stopped ordering beer by the barrel and visiting the tavern in the evenings. He was upstairs tending some cleaning and could not immediately attend the newcomer.

“I’ll be right down.” Martin called out.

“In your own time sir!” came the reply from downstairs, it was a large, booming man’s voice.

A moment later, Martin shuffled down the stairs, broom and rag in hand, to find the owner of the voice. He was seated at a table by the door and rose when Martin approached.

“You must be Mr. Martin?” exclaimed the newcomer thrusting out his hand for a shake.

Mr. Martin shook his hand and answered to the affirmative, looking the new gentleman up and down. He was clad in a naval captain’s uniform and epaulettes, and in Martin’s mind there could be no doubt as to the identity of the man.

“Are you the new master of Purvis Lodge sir?” he asked.

“I am sir! I am Captain Sir James Robert Rehme, only just moved in yesterday.”

“A pleasure to finally meet you sir” Martin gave a little bow and invited the captain to have a seat again.

“I understand you have been supplying my men up at the lodge with beer. Is that the case?” Sir James asked.

“Aye sir, I have.”

“Ah! God save you sir!” Sir James replied, “They have been about some thirsty work, and on board ship they are supplied with a quantity of beer daily. I was affeared they might mutiny if they didn’t find someone nearby to supply them. And you were paid adequately for the quantities they purchased?”

“Oh yes sir.”

“I have walked all the way here from the house in an attempt to familiarize myself with the lay of the land, as it were. I wonder if I might trouble you for some of that beer I’ve heard so much about?”

“I offer three kinds sir.” Martin already had an empty pitcher in hand, “Small beer, table beer and strong beer.”

“A pitcher of the strong if you please sir.”

Martin filled the pitcher and took it, along with a clean glass over to the captain’s table. Sir James drank it in great gulps, a man who was obviously very thirsty from his hike from the Lodge.

“And you brew this here?” Sir James asked, pausing from his glass.

“I do sir, I brew all my own beer.”

“I wonder,” began Sir James, pausing to have another sip, “I wonder if I might prevail upon you to submit a standing order of a barrel of this beer every other week to be delivered to the lodge?”

Purvis Lodge part V

Part V

A week later, Mr. Martin had the blacksmith and his two strapping apprentices, whose shop was located conveniently across the road from the Plow, help him to heave the fresh barrels of beer into his cart for his delivery out to Purvis Lodge. They were nearly done with their task when a big black carriage drawn by a handsome matching set of chestnuts passed them on the main road that ran through the middle of the village. It wasn’t one of the carriages anyone knew from nearby Haye-Park, it was of a newer manufacture that no one recognised. 

Martin and the blacksmiths craned their necks in an attempt to get a look at the occupants of the carriage, and everyone on the street outside the shops did the same, all eager to get a first glimpse of who must surely be the new tenant of Purvis Lodge. It was to no avail, the shades were drawn low enough to obscure any passengers who may have dwelt within.

Their disappointment was lessened when, shortly thereafter, two large wagons loaded with crates and furniture passed through. Each wagon’s cargo was piled as high as safety would allow, lashed down with ropes tied in the most seaman-like fashion, and riding escort along the sides of each, clutching the ropes as they went, were sailors, their braids trailing out behind them.

Scarcely had the dust settled before the speculation began afresh all over the village as to the identity of the new master of Purvis Lodge.

When, sometime later, Mr. Martin finally turned the now familiar corner up the drive, the front of the lodge was bristling with activity. The number of sailors about the place seemed to have doubled with the arrival of the furniture, and the wagons that towed it in were nearly empty now, their contents having been offloaded and positioned in the yard like a vast staging ground. All hands were busy about their appointed tasks, several opening the crates and boxes, some were watering and feeding the horses, over there was Nithercott, who looked to be paying the wagon-masters, several of the boys were coiling ropes into neat piles and stowing them in camp.

A party of sailors was wrestling with what looked to be a vast, dark wardrobe as Martin stopped his cart as close to Mr. Higgins’ kitchen as he could. His way was checked by the carriage, which was drawn right up beside the cookfire.

Martin made his way around it in an attempt to find Higgins, and sure enough, he was there by the fire, in as clean an apron as ever he could muster. He had a little silver tray with a cup of coffee and two hard boiled eggs, and was offering it to a young man in a crisp naval lieutenant’s uniform. The young lieutenant took the coffee and looked across it with disdain at the approaching Martin. Mr. Higgins muttered to the young gentleman from behind, and in way of reply, the lieutenant exclaimed, “Ah! The pub man.” and with a dismissive sweep of his hand he continued, “You may place the beer over there.”

“Begging your pardon sir,” Martin interjected, “I wonder if I might be allowed to borrow a few of your men to unload the barrels?”

The young lieutenant looked pained, “I am certain you would never intentionally give offence, but I am the son of the third Duke of Grafton. Lord William Fitzroy, only recently assigned to His Majesty’s Frigate Acasta.”

“Begging your pardon again my lord.” Martin gave a little nod of the head and immediately stopped making direct eye contact.

Lord Fitzroy turned to see what the sailors were about in an attempt to ascertain which ones were the least busy, then called out in a voice that was quite accustomed to making itself heard, “Philips, Miller, Thomas, Nithercott! Lay along to the horse cart there and fetch down those barrels! Lively now!”

The four men met Martin at the back of the cart and after they had gotten the first of the barrels down, Martin found himself beside Nithercott. 

“Is his Lordship the new master of Purvis Lodge?” he quietly inquired of the sailor as they heaved down the second barrel.

“Oh no sir,” Nithercott replied, but stopped when he looked over the barrel toward the young lieutenant and found him glowering at them as they worked. Nithercott no longer felt at his ease to answer any questions and they continued to work silently until the task was completed.

Purvis Lodge part IV

Part IV

When Mr. Martin arrived two days later, it was early morning, and the sailors were all down by the road singing and swinging scythes to cut the overgrown lawn. He stopped the horse cart in the shade of a copse of trees along the road and watched them, it being an exceptionally efficient operation. Ten men were spread out in a line, and would swing their scythes in unison near the end of each verse, 

Safe and sound and HOME again

Let the waters ROLL jack

Two men were by the old gate grinding the age and corrosion off several extra blades, and the youngest sailors, only boys really, were gathering the fresh cut grass in their arms in great bunches and carrying it up toward the house. 

One of the boys was gathering grass near him and Martin called out to him over the low stone wall, “Wherever did they find so many scythes?”

The toe-headed boy turned and squinted, the sun being full in his face, “On account they was in the ol’ barn sir.” he said.

Martin urged his horse onward and up the path to Purvis Lodge, stopping near Mr. Higgins’ outdoor kitchen once again with his cart full of beer. The sailors had all the empty barrels gathered there for him to take back to the Plow.

“Good morning Mr. Higgins.” Martin offered as he got down out of the cart, and for the life of him he thought he heard Higgins offer something to the effect of a reply he could nearly understand. 

Higgins brought Martin a cup of coffee and made, what Martin could only interpret as a friendly face. The old sailor spoke, and Martin only understood the final slurred word, which seemed to be “SIR”. Higgins’ statement had the intonation of a question about it, and the old fellow looked at him, eyebrows raised, expectant for an answer, but Martin found himself quite at a loss.

After a brief pause, each man looked about to see if they could find Nithercott, but he was nowhere to be seen. One of the boys arrived with a parcel of long grass from the front lawn under his arm and deposited it on an ever growing pile near the outdoor kitchen. Higgins motioned for the boy to come over and held on to the lad’s shirt collar as he spoke to him.

When the old fellow was done, the boy turned to Martin, knuckled his brow in way of a naval salute, and translated.

“Mr. Higgins’ compliments sir, and he thanks you for the beer…” Higgins corrected the youth by way of a nudge, “...for the fine beer sir, he also wishes to know if you would be agreeable to the men coming into the village a few at a time to take some of their meals at your establishment?”

“Oh!” replied Martin, “Oh yes certainly, I should be quite agreeable to that.”

“Oh thank you sir!” The lad cried spontaneously, “We shall be much obliged to you sir. We’ll be on our best manners and won’t break up the furniture or nothin’.”

Higgins shoved the lad back toward his duty, and the boy was halfway down the lawn when he called exuberantly back over his shoulder with a wave, “Thank you so very much sir!”

Over the course of the next few days, the sailors would wander into Stoke for the evening and have a meal at the Plow. It was never the entire group, usually around four or five of them, and never the same group twice, almost like small shore leave parties being allowed away from a ship. They were always well behaved, almost as if they were on duty. Martin noted that the only unpleasant one was old Higgins, but then surmised that perhaps he only seemed so due to his rough way of speech and the fact that no one outside of his group could understand him.