My intercourse with the admiral was about as friendly and flattering.  Pompey and I were on the poop.  I presented him with a piece of hide to gnaw, by way of pastime.  The admiral came on the poop, and seeing Pompey thus employed, asked who gave him that piece of hide?  The yeoman of the signals said it was me.  The admiral shook his long spy-glass at me, and said, “By G——­, sir, if ever you give Pompey a bit of hide again, I will flog you.”

This is all I have to say of the admiral, and all the admiral ever said to me.

Chapter VIII

  Since laws were made for every degree,
  I wonder we haven’t better company on Tyburn tree.

  “Beggar’s Opera.”

While I was on board of this ship two poor men were executed for mutiny.  The scene was far more solemn to me than anything I had ever beheld.  Indeed it was the first thing of the kind I had ever been present at.  When we hear of executions on shore, we are always prepared to read of some foul atrocious crime, some unprovoked and unmitigated offence against the laws of civilized society, which a just and merciful government cannot allow to pass unpunished.  With us at sea there are many shades of difference; but that which the law of our service considers a serious offence is often no more than an ebullition of local and temporary feeling, which in some cases might be curbed, and in others totally suppressed by timely firmness and conciliation.

The ships had been a long time at sea, the enemy did not appear—­and there was no chance either of bringing him to action, or of returning into port.  Indeed nothing can be more dull and monotonous than a blockading cruise “in the team,” as we call it; that is, the ships of the line stationed to watch an enemy.  The frigates have, in this respect, every advantage; they are always employed on shore, often in action, and the more men they have killed, the happier are the survivors.  Some melancholy ferment on board of the flag-ship I was in caused an open mutiny.  Of course it was very soon quelled; and the ringleaders having been tried by a court-martial, two of them were condemned to be hanged at the yard-arm of their own ship, and were ordered for execution the following day but one.

Our courts-martial are always arrayed in the most pompous manner, and certainly are calculated to strike the mind with awe—­even of a captain himself.  A gun is fired at eight o’clock in the morning from the ship where it is to be held, and a union flag is displayed at the mizen peak.  If the weather be fine, the ship is arranged with the greatest nicety; her decks are as white as snow—­her hammocks are stowed with care—­her ropes are taut—­her yards square—­her guns run out—­and a guard of marines, under the orders of a lieutenant, prepared to receive every member of the court with the honour due to his rank.  Before nine o’clock they are all assembled; the officers in their undress uniform, unless an admiral is to be tried.  The great cabin is prepared, with a long table covered with a green cloth.  Pens, ink, paper, prayer-books, and the Articles of War, are laid round to every member.  “Open the court,” says the president.