We left Portsmouth in December 1839. It was bitter winter.
The day we sailed, such was the severity of the gale and
snowstorm, that we had to put back and anchor at St. Helens
in the Isle of Wight. The next night we were at sea. It
happened to be my middle watch. I had to turn out of my
hammock at twelve to walk the deck till four in the morning.
Walk! I could not stand. Blinded with snow, drenched by the
seas, frozen with cold, home sick and sea sick beyond
description, my opinion of the Royal Navy - as a profession -
was, in the course of these four hours, seriously subverted.
Long before the watch ended. I was reeling about more asleep
than awake; every now and then brought to my senses by
breaking my shins against the carronade slides; or, if I sat
down upon one of them to rest, by a playful whack with a
rope's end from one of the crusty old mates aforesaid, who
perhaps anticipated in my poor little personality the
arrogance of a possible commanding officer. Oh! those cruel
night watches! But the hard training must have been a useful
tonic too. One got accustomed to it by degrees; and hence,
indifferent to exposure, to bad food, to kicks and cuffs, to
calls of duty, to subordination, and to all that constitutes
discipline.

Luckily for me, the midshipman of my watch, Jack Johnson, was
a trump, and a smart officer to boot. He was six years older
than I, and, though thoroughly good-natured, was formidable
enough from his strength and determination to have his will
respected. He became my patron and protector. Rightly, or
wrongly I am afraid, he always took my part, made excuses for
me to the officer of our watch if I were caught napping under