Young Tom Bowling - The Boys of the British Navy
Hutcheson John Conroy
English
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Below is a summary of Young Tom Bowling - The Boys of the British Navy
Young Tom Bowling
The Boys of the British Navy
By J.C. Hutcheson
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This book fills a gap about just how boy seamen were trained at the end
of the nineteenth century. From first to last it is very credible, and
also very readable. It was not very easy to transcribe, because the
boys we meet come from a variety of country places, and hence have a
variety of dialects. In particular one of the boys has a strong Irish
brogue, and another has an equally strong west Hampshire accent. It is
this boy, `Ugly', that comes to a very sad and noble end.
Our hero, Tom, is trained for a little over a year in "Saint Vincent",
after which he moves on to various postings in the Fleet. There is an
interesting period during which he is serving in a vessel that is taking
part in the British efforts to capture and punish slave-traders on the
African east coast.
It all rings true to me, because your reviewer has been in the Royal
Navy himself, and knows the way the Navy works.
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YOUNG TOM BOWLING
THE BOYS OF THE BRITISH NAVY
BY J.C. HUTCHESON
CHAPTER ONE.
FATHER AND I "ARGUE THE POINT."
"Hullo, father!" I sang out, when we had got a little way out from the
pontoon and opened the mouth of the harbour, noticing, as I looked over
my shoulder to see how we were steering, a string of flags being run up
aboard the old _Saint Vincent_. "They're signalling away like mad this
morning all over the shop! First, atop of the dockyard semaphore; and
then the flagship and the old _Victory_, both of 'em, blaze out in
bunting; while now the _Saint Vincent_ joins in at the game of `follow-
my-leader.' I wonder what's up?"
"Lor' bless you, Tom!" rejoined father, still steadily tugging on at his
stroke oar as we pursued our course towards the middle of the stream, so
that we might take advantage of the last of the flood, and allow the
gradually slackening tide, which was nearly at the turn, to drift us
down alongside the old _Victory_, whither we were bound to pick up a
fare for the shore--"nothing in pertickler's up anyways uncommon that I
sees, sonny; and as for the buntin' that you're making sich a fuss
about, why, they've hauled all that down, and pretty near unbent all the
signal flags, too, and stowed 'em away in their lockers by this time!"
"But, father," I persisted, "they don't always go on like this for
nothing, I know!"
"In coorse they don't, stoopid!" said he, giving the water an angry
splash as he reached forwards, the blade of his oar sending up a tidy
sprinkle across my face. "Why, where's your wits, Tom, this mornin'?"
"Where you put them, father," I replied with a laugh; "you know I'm your
son, and mother says I'm `a chip of the old block' whenever she's a bit
put out with me."
"None o' your imporence, Tom," said he, laughing too; for he and I were
the best of friends, and I don't think we ever had a serious difference
about anything since first I was able to toddle down to the Hard, a
little mite of four or five, to see him put off in his wherry, and
sometimes go out for a sail with him on the sly when mother wasn't
watching us, up to the time, as now, when I could help him with an oar.
"None o' your imporence, you young jackanapes. But touching that there
signallin', I'm surprised, sonny, you don't know by this time that when
the commander-in-chief up at Admiralty House, in the dockyard, wishes
for to communicate to some ship out at Spithead, he telegraphs from his
office to the semaphore, which h'ists his orders, and then every ship in
port's bound to repeat the signal till the craft he means it for runs up
her answering pennant, for to show us how she's took the signal in and
underconstubled it."
"Oh yes, father, I know that," said I, leading him on purposely. "But
what is the signal they've been so busy about this morning? I can't
make it out at all."
Father snorted indignantly.
"Tom Bowling, junior, I'm right down ashamed on you for a son o' mine!"
he said, digging away at his oar savagely, as if trying to dredge up
some of the silt from the bottom of the harbour. "You, turned fifteen
year old, and been back'ard and forrud 'twixt Hardway and the Gosport
shore for a matter of five years or more, and not for to know and read a
common signal like that, which you must 'a seed run up at the semaphore
or on board the _Dook_ a hundred times at least. Lor'! I'm jest
'shamed of you, that's what I be!"
"But that ain't telling me, father," I retorted, "what _is_ the signal.
You needn't make such a blooming mystery of it, like that chap we saw
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