The first overt sign of trouble was the appearance of letters addressed to the leading petty officers of the different ships of the Mediterranean fleet.  These were detected by a captain, who held on to them, and sent to St. Vincent to ask if they should be delivered.  Careful to betray no sign of anxiety, the admiral’s reply was a general signal for a lieutenant from each ship to come to him; and by them word was sent that all letters should be delivered as addressed, unopened.  “Should any disturbance arise,” he added, “the commander-in-chief will know how to repress it.”

Disturbance soon did arise, and it is significant to note that it appeared in a ship which, by taking the ground when leaving Lisbon, had not shared in the Battle of St. Vincent.  In July, 1797, two seamen of the St. George had been condemned to death for an infamous crime.  Their shipmates presented a petition, framed in somewhat peremptory terms, for their liberation, on the ground that execution for such an offence would bring disgrace upon all.  The admiral refusing to pardon, the occasion was seized to bring mutiny to a head.  A plot to take possession of the ship was formed, but was betrayed to the captain.  The outburst began with a tumultuous assembling of the crew, evidently, however, mistrustful of their cause.  After vainly trying to restore order, the captain and first lieutenant rushed among them, each collaring a ringleader.  The rest fell back, weakened, as men of Anglo-Saxon traditions are apt to be, by the sense of law-breaking.  The culprits were secured, and at once taken to the flag-ship.  A courtmartial was ordered for the next day, Saturday; and as the prisoners were being taken to the court, St. Vincent, with a hard bluntness of speech which characterized him,—­a survival of the frank brutality of the past century,—­said, “My friends, I hope you are innocent, but if you are guilty make your peace with God; for, if you are condemned, and there is daylight to hang you, you will die this day.”

They were condemned; but the trial ended late, and the president of the court told them they should have Sunday to prepare.  “Sir,” said the earl, “when you passed sentence, your duty was done; you had no right to say that execution should be delayed;” and he fixed it for eight the next morning.  One of the junior admirals saw fit to address him a remonstrance upon what he termed a desecration of the Sabbath.  Nelson, on the contrary, approved.  “Had it been Christmas instead of Sunday,” wrote he, “I would have hanged them.  Who can tell what mischief would have been brewed over a Sunday’s grog?” Contrary to previous custom, their own shipmates, the partners and followers in their crime, were compelled to hang them, manning the rope by which the condemned were swayed to the yardarm.  The admiral, careful to produce impression, ordered that all the ships should hold divine service immediately upon the execution.  Accordingly, when the bell struck eight, the fatal gun was fired,