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GENDER, DEVELOPMENT AND SOCIAL CHANGE
BODIES IN RESISTANCE
GENDER AND SEXUAL POLITICS IN THE
AGE OF NEOLIBERALISM
Series Editor
Wendy Harcourt
Associate Professor in Critical Development
and Feminist Studies
The International Institute of Social Studies
Erasmus University, The Hague, The Netherlands
Series Committee
Lydia Alpizar
Executive Director of the Association for Women’s Rights
in Development, São Paulo, Brazil
Srilatha Batliwala
India-based feminist activist and Scholar Associate
with the Association for Women’s Rights in Development
Bangalore, India
Yvonne Underhill-Sem
Associate Professor of Development Studies,
University of Auckland, New Zealand
The ‘Gender, Development and Social Change’ series brings together path-
breaking writing from gender scholars and activist researchers who are
engaged in development as a process of transformation and change. The
series pinpoints where gender and development analysis and practice are
creating major ‘change moments’. Multidisciplinary in scope, it features
some of the most important and innovative gender perspectives on devel-
opment knowledge, policy and social change. The distinctive feature of
the series is its dual nature: to publish both scholarly research on key issues
informing the gender and development agenda as well as featuring young
scholars and activists’ accounts of how gender analysis and practice are
shaping political and social development processes. The authors aim to
capture innovative thinking on a range of hot spot gender and develop-
ment debates from women’s lives on the margins to high level global poli-
tics. Each book pivots around a key ‘social change’ moment or process
conceptually envisaged from an intersectional, gender and rights based
approach to development.
Bodies in Resistance
Gender and Sexual Politics in the Age of
Neoliberalism
Editor
Wendy Harcourt
ISS Erasmus University Rotterdam
Rotterdam, The Netherlands
As with my first edited book that started the series, Women Reclaiming
Sustainable Livelihoods (2012), this collection is the product of good
conversations, innovative research, friendships and memorable encoun-
ters. In the case of Bodies in Resistance there were two key events at the
International Institute of Social Studies (ISS) of Erasmus University in The
Hague in 2013 (The Intercultural Dialogue on Sexuality, Reproductive
Health and Rights in Development: Going Beyond the Comfort Zone
[June] and Theories and Practice in Civic Innovation: Building Bridges
among Politics, Markets and Gender/Sexuality) that initiated the discus-
sions in this book.
The fruit of those discussions are now published three years later and
are still vitally relevant. Neoliberalism and the new developmentalism are
proving to be enduring, and the hopes for new forms of democracy con-
tinue to be sorely challenged. Abortion is an even more crucial issue with
the rise of fundamentalism in different parts of the world, and also in
early 2016 with the horrifying news of the zika virus transmitted by the
Aedes species of mosquito leading to the risk of thousands of pregnant
women having babies with microcephaly. The politics of the body as place,
combining health, environment and community responses, is growing in
importance in the wake of climate crisis. Feminist solidarity and social
justice movements are finding new challenges with the rise of anti-migrant
sentiment, the threat of the jihadist militant group “Islamic State” and
continuing gender-based violence in world conflicts. The volume’s detailed
examination of gender and sexual politics resonates with the sexual rights
v
vi SERIES EDITOR’S PREFACE TO BODIES IN RESISTANCE...
vii
CONTENTS
1 Introduction 1
Wendy Harcourt, Silke Heumann and Aniseh Asya
ix
x CONTENTS
Index 345
NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS
xiii
xiv NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS
Geni Gómez is a feminist activist and educator. She was born in Madrid
and visited Nicaragua for the first time in 1989. Adopted by the city
Matagalpa, she grew roots in these fertile grounds with its long tradition
of feminists with whom she has shared struggles, dreams, learnings, indig-
nation and rebelliousness. She is part of the feminist movement in
Nicaragua, through her participation in Grupo Venancia and the Women’s
Network from Matagalpa. After many years, she followed the Masters
Program in ‘Perspectives of Gender and Development’ at the Central
American University in Managua. That experience has opened up new
opportunities for reflections, dialogues and learning that have broadened
her perspective and given her new tools to contribute to the feminist
movement’s task of transforming inequalities.
Sara Vida Coumans is a Dutch national who was born in Nicaragua and
lived in the Philippines as a child. She has been a member of the youth-led
organizations CHOICE for Youth and Sexuality and the Youth Coalition
for Sexual and Reproductive Rights. She was involved in advocacy efforts
around the International Conference on Population and Development
(ICPD) Beyond 2014 review process and co-chaired the Bali Global Youth
Forum in 2012 with Rishita Nandagiri. Sara holds a Master’s in social
policy for development from the International Institute of Social Studies
(ISS) in the Netherlands with a specialization in children and youth stud-
ies, and she has explored contemporary Dutch debates about age and sex
work in her Master’s research. Sara currently works at Amnesty
International as International Youth Coordinator and is responsible for
designing and managing the global programme of youth engagement,
including supporting youth-led campaigning and strengthening the pro-
tection of young human rights defenders.
Manisha Desai is Associate Professor of Sociology and Women, Gender
and Sexuality Studies at the University of Connecticut. Her research and
teaching interests include gender and globalization, transnational femi-
nism and contemporary Indian society. Her most recent book is
Subaltern Movements in India: The Gendered Geography of Struggle against
Neoliberal Development (2016). Among her other books are Gender,
Family, and Law in a Globalizing Middle East and South Asia (co-edited
with Ken Cuno, 2010, Syracuse University Press) and Gender and the
Politics of Possibilities: Rethinking Globalization (2008). She is currently
completing a book on women and gender in a globalizing world for
Routledge’s Global Studies Series.
NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS xv
xxi
CHAPTER 1
Introduction
This book emerged out of a series of conversations that took place among
feminist activists and scholars from around the world when they met twice
at Erasmus University’s International Institute of Social Studies (ISS)
in 2013.1 The conversations revolved around the multiple challenges
imposed by changing and increasingly complex regimes of gendered
power (re)configured by the influences of what we broadly termed “neo-
liberalism”. We understood neoliberalism as “an ideology, and a political
and economic practice” (Carty and Mohanty 2015: 84) which threatens
to “dismantle progressive social and economic policies in a process of sub-
jugation, co-optation and delegitimation” (Naples 2013: 133).
In this context we discussed the diverse and innovative ways in which
people resist neoliberal political, economic and social forces, individually
or collectively, in public and in private. The participants shared how orga-
nizations and individuals mobilize to change understandings and practices
of embodiment, sexuality and gender from widely different contexts—
from Bangladesh to Brazil, with equally different approaches, from deco-
lonial and postcolonial perspectives to trans* feminism and queer politics
(CIRI 2013; SRI, iBMG & KNCV 2013). The institutional setting for he
volume is the ISS and, more specifically, the fledging research group of
authors have been invited to situate their work openly within the context
of their different structural, political and discursive contexts. By building
on the different conversations from the dialogues at the ISS, the volume
can be read as a set of collaborative “multilogues” between the different
authors throughout its different stages. In addition to the many single-
authored and co-authored chapters, the book includes personal stories,
conversations and interviews that record conversations among the authors
around specific contested issues in feminist theory and praxis, such as the
inclusion of generations and “queer” identities, masculinities and perspec-
tives into feminist engagements with social (in)justice.
The two parts of the book are structured around concepts which have a
long history in feminist theory and praxis, which we now turn to in order
to define how we have discussed those concepts by positioning the volume
in our collaborative rethinking, reclaiming, and repositioning of bodies.
The context in which we are looking at bodies in resistance is “the
age of neoliberalism”. We see this as a process of saturating democracy
with market values, but also as an attack on “the principles, practices, cul-
tures, subjects and institutions of democracy” (Brown 2015: 9). As Wendy
Brown underlines, neoliberalism is “a normative order of reason develop-
ment … into a widely and deeply disseminated governing rationality …
that is quietly undoing basic elements of democracy” (Brown 2015: 17).
The chapters in explore how people are resisting the different forms that
neoliberalism has taken, recognizing its global shape but also its inconsis-
tencies that allow for challenges, resistances and ultimately change.
WHY BODIES?
The book aims to reflect on key critical feminist terms, such as reproduc-
tion, redistribution, production, governance and patriarchy, within our
contextualized examination of sexualities and the governance of bodies
in and between the geopolitics of modern states. In making visible the
counter discourses to dominant economic and social policies, the collec-
tion highlights how such struggles are gendered and are gendering bodies.
This examination of embodied lives recognizes the personal, the private
and the state as sites of struggle. Writing these chapters (and engaging in
the dialogues that preceded and were produced alongside them) has pro-
vided the space for contributors to situate their realities and discourses in
relation to issues of bodies, gender and sexuality. We consider these sites of
struggle not as equivalents to each other but as tension-riddled responses
INTRODUCTION 5
WHY RESISTANCE?
In using the term “resistance” we are aware of the debates that it has gener-
ated in relation to the danger of reducing the notion of agency to resistance
(Mahmood 2001) and to the question of who has the authority to “judge”
what counts as resistance and what not (Mahmood 2001; Wedeen 1999).
This is not only about academic debates. Though the literature that we cite
is academic, the dilemma is very practical and real: it is about how to forge
social justice struggles and how a narrow idea of social justice (even with
the best of intentions) can produce more injustice and inequality.
From our own experiences as researchers and feminists, we understand
that power and resistance are both multiple and contradictory. There can-
not be a universal yardstick to qualify agency and resistance. What we
define as resistance depends on where we are positioned structurally, expe-
rientially and epistemologically. Resistance, then, cannot be reduced solely
to the conscious and organized political action of defiance but instead
describes an everyday practice that is shaped and motivated by people’s
attempts to find their own political, social and cultural positioning.
We are interested in the notion of resistance as a response to the predom-
inant definitions of gendered bodies. That is, we are particularly intrigued
by challenges that indirectly or directly undermine the oppressive effects/
disciplinary impacts of prevailing normative gender, and body discourses
and practices. In this understanding of resistance, not everyone deliberately
challenges, or sets out to challenge, an oppressive force; even actions that
are not meant to be liberating but undertaken as strategies for survival
qualify as acts of resistance. In the context of neoliberalism, we consider
acts that simply point to the power of neoliberal forces and the limitations
of the types of resistance possible to such forces to be forms of “resistance”.
These acts point out the contours of the conceptual system that oppresses
and confines individuals (Foucault 1970, 1972; Said 1979; Wedeen 1999).
The process of speaking to and challenging power has been especially
important to feminist critical thinkers who engage in the process of resig-
nifying constructs of women as found in Western academic and media
discourse by countering it with experiences in women’s accounts of their
own lives (Abu-Lughod 1993; Al-Ali and Pratt 2009; Mahmood 2005;
Petchesky 2005). In this vein, Bodies in Resistance aims to continue this
INTRODUCTION 7
This approach enables possibilities for change and resistance at the same
time as allowing for a much more fluid understanding of power and gen-
der that subverts apparent hierarchical givens.
WHY NEOLIBERALISM?
We use the term “neoliberalism” to ground the book to the historical
times in which we are living. We do not engage with it in great analytical
depth. We see neoliberalism as the dominant ideology of today’s phase of
capitalism that is undergoing critical challenges by feminists and others as
8 W. HARCOURT ET AL.
they question expansive and evasive economic growth at the cost of peo-
ples, environments and cultures. We write while being aware of cracks and
fissures in the neoliberal “order of things” as different people around the
world are rethinking mainstream neoliberal culture, economic and social
relations. In this way the book contributes to a critique of neoliberalism
and its extractive logic by offering embodied and gendered histories and
experiences that confront dominant transnational and global structures
and ideologies based on colonial, imperial, racial and heteronormative
gender power inequalities and asymmetries.4
We are interested in the possibilities that are emerging from critiques
that challenge capitalist interests. In this we are inspired by writers whose
focus is on how ordinary people, in particular women, are transforming
politics and economies in different locations. These experiences can be seen
as suggesting new possibilities for cultural, economic, environmental and
social relations. This type of scholarship decenters the neoliberal capitalist
economy and looks to other forms of economies where care, commons
and community predominate and the possibilities for non-heteronormative
relations emerge (Gibson-Graham 2006; Harcourt and Nelson 2015).
Another influence on our work is Chandra Talpede Mohanty. In an
essay with Linda Carty, she explores “the anatomies of dispossession and
violence in the age of neoliberalism” and maps out feminist responses
to neoliberalism, including the threat that “neoliberal states appropriate
gender discourses in their attempts to explain away or justify the erasure
of women’s rights” (2015: 9).
Our book resonates with Carty and Mohanty’s argument that as femi-
nists recognize the ways in which patriarchal globalization/neoliberalism
have impacted on women’s lives in tangible ways they have begun forge
transnational solidarities that are crucial to the anti-racist and anti-capital-
ist feminist struggles today (Carty and Mohanty 2015).
In these feminist visions of how to transform capitalism, women’s
mobilizing for change is seen as both an analytical and a political project
that works by connecting particular sites of resistance around women’s
care work, community livelihoods, body politics and engagement in alter-
natives to hegemonic development processes. These politics are about
resistance but also about the reappropriation, reconstruction and reinven-
tion of bodies, places and place-based practices, and the creation of new
possibilities of being-in-place and being-in-networks with other human
and non-human living beings (Harcourt 2013a, 2013b).
INTRODUCTION 9
Author: M. H. Barker
Language: English
OF
From the Swabs on the Shoulders down to the Swabs in the Head.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
Vol. I.
PHILADELPHIA:
E. L. CAREY & A. HART.
BALTIMORE:
CAREY, HART & Co.
BOSTON:
WILLIAM D. TICKNOR.
1835.
E. G. Dorsey, Printer,
12 Library Street.
TO
CAPTAIN MARRYATT, R. N.
AUTHOR OF
BY
PAGE
Greenwich Hospital, 9
Tom Brookes, 145
Daddy Davy, the Negro, 159
PREFACE.
Ay, there they stand! the veterans of the ocean, bidding defiance to
care and sorrow, full of mirth and jollity although they are moored in
tiers. They are critics too, deep critics; but they cannot fancy the
steam vessel with a chimney for a mast, and fifty yards of smoke for
a pendant. These are the men that Smollett pictured,—the Jack
Rattlins and the Tom Pipes of former years. Ay, those were rattling
days and piping times! There is no place upon earth, except
Greenwich, in which we can now meet with them, or find the
weather-roll or lee-lurch to perfection. They are all thorough-bred,
and a thorough-bred seaman is one of the drollest compounds in
existence; a mixture of all that is ludicrous and grave,—of undaunted
courage and silly fear. I do not mean the every-day sailor, but the
bold, daring, intrepid man-of-war’s man; he who in the heat of
action primed his wit and his gun together, without a fear of either
missing fire.
The real tar has a language peculiarly his own, and his figures of
speech are perfect stopper-knots to the understanding of a
landsman. If he speaks of his ship, his eloquence surpasses the
orations of a Demosthenes, and he revels in the luxuriance of
metaphor. The same powers of elocution, with precisely the same
terms, are applied to his wife, and it is a matter of doubt as to which
engrosses the greatest portion of his affection,—to him they are
both lady-ships. Hear him expatiate on his little barkey, as he calls
his wooden island, though she may carry a hundred-and-fifty guns
and a crew of a thousand men. “Oh! she’s the fleetest of the fleet;
sits on the water like a duck; stands under her canvass as stiff as a
crutch; and turns to windward like a witch!” Of his wife he observes,
“What a clean run from stem to starn! She carries her t’gall’nt sails
through every breeze, and in working hank for hank never misses
stays!” He will point to the bows of his ship, and swear she is as
sharp as a wedge, never stops at a sea, but goes smack through all.
He looks at his wife, admires her head-gear, and out-riggers, her
braces and bow-lines; compares her eyes to dolphin-strikers, boasts
of her fancy and fashion-pieces, and declares that she darts along
with all the grace of a bonnetta. When he parts with his wife to go
on a cruise, no tear moistens his cheek, no tremulous agitation does
discredit to his manhood: there is the honest pressure of the hand,
the fervent kiss, and then he claps on the topsail-halliards, or walks
round at the capstan to the lively sounds of music. But when he
quits his ship, the being he has rigged with his own fingers, that has
stood under him in many a dark and trying hour, whilst the wild
waves have dashed over them with relentless fury, then—then—the
scuppers of his heart are unplugged and overflow with the soft
droppings of sensibility. How often has he stood upon that deck and
eyed the swelling sails, lest the breezes of heaven should
“Visit their face too roughly!”
How many hours has he stood at that helm and watched her coming
up and falling off! and when the roaring billows have threatened to
ingulf her in the bubbling foam of the dark waters, he has eased her
to the sea with all the tender anxiety that a mother feels for her
first-born child. With what pride has he beheld her top the mountain
wave and climb the rolling swell, while every groan of labour that
she gave carried a taut strain upon his own heart-strings!
Place confidence in what he says, and he will use no deception;
doubt his word, and he will indulge you with some of the purest
rhodomontade that ingenious fancy can invent. He will swear that he
had a messmate who knew the man in the moon, and on one
occasion went hand-over-hand up a rainbow to pay him a visit. He
himself was once powder-monkey in the Volcano bomb, and he will
tell you a story of his falling asleep in the mortar at the
bombardment of Toulon, and his body being discharged from its
mouth instead of a carcass. With all the precision of an engineer, he
will describe his evolutions in the air when they fired him off, and the
manner in which he was saved from being dashed to pieces in his
fall. All this he repeats without a smile upon his countenance, and he
expects you to believe it: but you may soon balance the account, for
tell him what absurdity you will, he receives it with the utmost
credulity and is convinced of its truth. His courage is undoubted, for
he will stand on the deck undismayed amidst the blood and
slaughter of battle; yet on shore, he is seized with indescribable
apprehensions at the sight of a coffin. The wailings of distress find a
ready passport to his heart; but to disguise the real motives which
prompt immediate aid, he swears that the object of his charity does
not deserve a copper, yet gives a pound with only this provision,—
that the individual relieved does not bother him about gratitude. You
may know him from a thousand; for though in his dress
conspicuously neat, and his standing and running rigging in exact
order, yet they are arranged with a certain careless ease, as if he
had but just come down from reefing topsails. The truck at the
mast-head does not sit better than his tarpaulin hat, neither does
the shoe upon the pea of the anchor fit tighter than his long
quartered pumps. Grog is his ambrosia, his necktar; and he takes it
cold, without sugar, that he may have the full smack of the rum.
And these are the characters at Greenwich Hospital, who after
fighting the battles of their country are honoured with a palace. Oh,
it was a proud display of national gratitude to such brave defenders!
England has been compared to a huge marine animal, whose ports
were its mouths, and whose navy formed its claws. What then is
Greenwich but a receptacle for superannuated claws? I dearly love
to get amongst them,—nearly two thousand shattered emblems of
Britain’s triumphs,—the returned stores of our naval glory. Ay, there
they are with their snug little cabins, like turtles under their shells.
But let us enter the
Painted Wall,
formerly the refectory for the pensioners, but now devoted to the
commemoration of their gallant achievements. There are the
portraits of the heroes of the olden time, whose memorials cannot
perish; and there too is old Van Tromp, the Dutchman, who is
honoured with a distinguished place amongst the brave of England’s
pride.
Here the old blades are a cut above the common; the small iron-
bound officers who attend on visiters and point out the well-
remembered features of commanders long since numbered with the
dead.
“That ’ere, sir, on your right, is the battle of Trafflygar,” said a
short thickset man, apparently between sixty and seventy years of
age. His countenance was one of mild benevolence, and yet there
was a daring in his look that told at once a tale of unsubdued and
noble intrepidity; whilst the deep bronze upon his skin was finely
contrasted with the silky white locks that hung straggling on his
brow.—“That ’ere, sir, is the battle of Trafflygar, in which I had the
honour to be one.”
“Were you with Nelson?” inquired I.
“I was, your honour,” he replied, “and those were the proudest
days of my life. I was with him when he bore up out of the line off
Cape St. Vincent, and saved old Jarvis from disgrace. I was one of
the boarders, too, when we took the Saint Joseph,—there’s the
picture, there in the middle of the hall;—and I was with him in that
ship there,—the Victory,—though it arn’t a bit like her,—and
stationed on the quarter-deck at Trafflygar.”
This was spoken with such an air of triumph, that the old man’s
features were lighted up with animation; it called to his
remembrance scenes in which he had shared the glory of the day
and saved his country. His eye sparkled with delight, as if he again
saw the British ensign floating in the breeze as the proud signal for
conquest; or was labouring at the oar with his darling chief, like a
tutelar deity of old, guiding the boat through the yielding element,
and leading on to some daring and desperate enterprise.
“I don’t like the picture,” said I; “the perspective is bad, and the
ship is too long and flat; besides the colour is unnatural.”
“Why, as for the matter of the prospective, sir,” replied the
veteran, “that’s just what his present Majesty, God bless him!
obsarved when he came to look at it; and for the colour, says the
king, says he, ‘why the painter must have thought he’d been
cooking, for he’s shoved the Victory into the hottest of the fire and
done her brown;’ it was too bad, your honour, to singe her in that
’ere fashion, like a goose. Mayhap, your honour arn’t seen them
there paintings of the battle at a place they call Exeter Hall, in the
Strand. Now they are some-ut ship-shape, and the heat of the
engagement warms a fellow’s heart to look at. An ould tar of the
name of Huggins painted ’em, and I’m sure it’s right enough, for he’s
made the Victory hugging the enemy just as a bear would a baby. I
could stand and look at them pictures for hours, till I fancied myself
once more in the midst of it, measuring out fathoms of smoke and
giving ’em full weight of metal. The Victory has just fell aboard the
French Redhotable and the Golision, as they calls it, gives each of
’em a lust different ways that looked so natural-like, that I felt myself
getting a heel to port in the ould Victory as I looked at her. Then
there’s the gale o’wind arter the battle; why, blow my ould wig, but
you may feel the breeze and shake yourself from the spray. God
bless his Majesty!—for they are the king’s, your honour;—long may
he live to view ’em, and long may Huggins hug to windward under
royal favour! I went to see him,—not the king, your honour, but
Muster Huggins, and when he found I was ‘the Old Sailor,’ what gave
some account of the life of a man-of-war’s man in ‘Greenwich
Hospital,’ he whips out his old quid, flings it into the fire, and we
sported a fresh bit o’bacca on the strength of it.—That was a
welcome worthy a great man, and he could’nt ha’ done more for the
king, though I arn’t quite sure that his Majesty does chaw his pig-
tail.”
There certainly was ample scope for the remarks of my old
friend, and I could not but consider the picture a complete failure.
“And so you were at Trafalgar,” said I.
“Ay, and a glorious day it was, too, for Old England,” replied the
tar. “Never shall I forget the enthusiasm which animated every
breast, as we bore down to engage; it was indeed a noble sight, and
so your honour would have said, if you had but have seen the
winged giants of the deep as they marched majestically before the
breeze, all ready to hurl their thunders at the foe. But the best
scenes were at the quarters, where the bold captains of each gun
stood cool and undaunted, waiting for the word: but for the matter
o’ that, every soul, fore and aft, seemed to be actuated by one and
the same spirit. ‘Look there, Ben,’ said Sam Windsail, pointing out of
the port-hole at the Royal Sovereign, just entering into action, ‘look
there, my Briton; see how she moves along, like a Phœnix in the
midst of fire,—there’s a sight would do any body’s heart good. I’d
bet my grog, (and that’s the lick-sir of life) I say I’d bet my grog
agen a marine’s button, that old Colly’s having a desperate bowse at
his breeches; he’s clapping on a taut hand, I’ll be bound for him.’
Just then the Sovereign hauled up a little, and opened her fire.
‘Didn’t I say so,’ continued Sam; ‘look at that! my eyes but he makes
’em sheer agen! Well behaved my sons of thunder! The old gemman
knows the French are fond of dancing, so he’s giving them a few
balls and routs! Ay, ay, we shall be at it presently, never fear; our old
chap arn’t the boy to be long idle, but then, d’ye mind, he never
does things by halves; so he loves close quarters, and as he is rather
near with his cartridges, why he doesn’t like to throw a shot away.
Howsomever, he’ll go it directly, like a doctor’s written orders,—this
powder and these pills to be taken immediately,—eh, Ben? Next
comes funny-section, or flay-bottomy, as the surgeons call it:—my
eyes, there goes old Colly’s breeches agen, he’ll make a breach in
the enemy’s line directly; ay, he’s a right arnest sallymander.’ By this
time, your honour, we’d got within gun-shot, and the enemy opened
a tremendous fire upon the leading ships of our division, which
played up old Scratch upon the fokstle, poop, and main-deck; for as
we bore down nearly stem on, and there was but a light breeze,
they raked us fore and aft.
“But I should have told you, sir, that just before going into action,
the admiral walked round the quarters attended by the captain and,
I thinks, Mr. Quillem, the first leftenant, but I won’t be sure. The
gunner, Mr. Rivers, was along with ’em, I know, and a worthy old
gemman he was; his son, a midshipman, was stationed on the same
deck with us,—a fine spirited youth, with his light hair flowing about
his ears and his little laughing eyes,—up to all manner of mischief.
Well, round they came, and the hero seemed proud of his men; he
stopped occasionally to speak to one and to another, and his keen
eye saw in a moment if any thing wasn’t ship-shape. His
countenance was rather stern, but there was a look of confidence
that told us at once the day was our own;—nay, for the matter o’
that, Sam Windsail began to reckon what he should buy for Poll with
his prize-money.
“When they reached the quarters where young Rivers was
stationed, Nelson looked at the son and then at the father, as much
as to say, ‘he’s a fine youth, you ought to be proud of him,’ as no
doubt the old gemman was, for he knew his gallant boy would do
his duty. But still the tender solicitude of a parent’s heart is not to be
repressed, however it may be concealed; and as he followed the
admiral, his head was frequently turned back to take another look at
his child, and perhaps he thought ‘mayhap it may be the last.’ Well,
as I was saying before, the enemy’s balls began to rattle into us like
hail-stones through a gooseberry bush, and many a poor fellow was
laid low. ‘Arrah, bad manners to ’em, what do they mane by that?’
cried Tim Doyle, as a whole shoal of shot travelled in one another’s
wake, and swept the entire range of the deck. ‘Come, don’t be
skulking down there, Jack Noggin,’ continued Tim, ‘but lay hoult of
the tackle-fall.’ Jack never moved. ‘Och bother, don’t you mane to
get up?’ But poor Jack’s glass was run, his cable was parted; so we
launched his hull out at the port, stock and fluke.
“Mayhap you never saw a battle, sir. It is no child’s play, take my
word for it. But the worst time is just before engaging, when silence
reigns fore and aft, and a poor fellow douses his jacket without
knowing whether he shall ever clap his rigging on agen. Then it is
that home with all its sweet remembrances clings round the heart.
Parents, or wife, or children, become doubly dear, and the fond ties
of kindred are linked by stronger bonds. Howsomever, as soon as
the first shot is fired, and we get within a sort of shake-hands
distance of the enemy, every other thought gives way to a steady
discharge of duty.
“Well, d’ye see, close upon our quarter came the Trimmer-rare,
98, and as we hauled up a little, we brought our larboard broadside
to bear upon the great Spanish four-decker;—there, that’s she in the
picture showing her galleries, just by the Victory’s starn:—so we
brought our broadside to bear, and oh, if you had but have seen the
eager looks of the men as they pointed their guns, determined to
make every shot tell,—and a famous mark she was, too, looming out
of the water like Beachy-head in a fog. ‘Stand by,’ says Sam
Windsail, looking along the sight with the match in his hand; ‘stand
by, my boy; so, so,—elevate her breech a bit,—that will do. Now,
then, for the Santizzy-mama-Trinny-daddy, and I lay my life I knock
day-light through his ribs. Fire!’ and the barking irons gave mouth
with all their thunder. A few minutes afterward, and slap we poured
another raking broadside into the Spaniard, and then fell aboard a
French seventy-four.
“Well, there, d’ye see, we lay, rubbing together with the muzzles
of the lower deckers touching one another. When our guns were run
in for loading, the ports were instantly occupied by the small-arm
men, and several attempts were made to board the enemy. At this
time one of the Frenchmen kept thrusting at us with a boarding-
pike, and pricked Tim Doyle in the face. ‘Och, the divil’s cure to you,’
bawled Tim; ‘what do you mane by poking at me in that way. A
joke’s a joke, but poking a stick in a fellow’s eye is no joke, any how;
be aisey then, darlint, and mind your civility.’ As soon as we had
fired, in came the pike agen, and Tim got another taste of it. ‘Och
bother,’ said Tim, ‘if that’s your tratement of a neighbour, the divil
wouldn’t live next door to yes! But faith, I’ll make you come out o’
that, and may be you’ll be after just paying me a visit.’ So he catches
hold of a boat-hook that was triced up in a-midships, and watching
his opportunity, he hooked Johnny Crapeau by the collar and lugged
him out of one port-hole in at the other, without allowing him time to
bid his shipmates good-by. ‘Is it me you’d be poking at, ye
blackguard?’ said Tim, giving him a thump with his fist. ‘Is it Tim ye
wanted to spit like a cock-sparrow or a tom-tit? Arrah, swate bad
luck to yes,—sit down and make yer life aisey; by the powers there’ll
be a pair o’ ye presently.’ But Tim was disappointed, for they let
down the lower deck ports for fear we should board them through
the port-holes.
“Soon after, both ships dropped aboard the Trimmer-rare; and
then we ploughed up the Frenchman’s decks with our shot, whilst
she lay grinding and groaning in betwixt us. It was just now that
young Rivers was struck, and his leg knocked away; but his spirit
remained unsubdued, and as they took him down to the cock-pit, he
cheered with all his might, and shortly after the hero himself was
conveyed below. At first, the news of his being wounded seemed to
stagnate all hands, and each stood looking at the other in fearful
anxiety; but in a few minutes, resolution again returned, the shots
were rammed home with redoubled strength, though at times the
men would struggle with their feelings, and give vent to their grief
and indignation. At every opportunity inquiries were made, and
when the news of his death reached our quarters,—‘He’s gone!’ said
Sam, ‘his anchor’s a-weigh, and the blessed spirits are towing him to
immortality.’
“But who is there, your honour, that remembers Nelson now?
Even the car that carried his body to its last moorings has been
broken up as useless lumber, though I did hear that a gemman
offered two thousand guineas for it. Some parts are down in the
store-rooms, and some has been burnt for fire-wood. There’s his
picture and his statue to be sure, but I think they should have
spared the car. Nelson was strict to his duty, and made all hands
perform theirs; and when he punished one man, it was that he
might not have to punish twenty, and every soul fore and aft knew
what they had to do. The brave, the generous, the humane
Collingwood too,—there’s his picture, your honour, he is almost
forgotten. Collingwood detested flogging; and when any captain
came to him with a complaint of being short-handed through
desertion, he would stand and hitch up his breeches, saying, ‘Use
your men better, sir; use your men better, and then they wouldn’t
leave you. My men, sir, never run; because they know they cannot
get better treatment elsewhere.’ He was also an avowed enemy to
impressment, being well convinced that the British navy might be
manned with volunteers, if Jack’s peculiarities were only managed
with kindness. But they are gone, sir, they are gone, and their
authority is over; yet there are a few rough knots who can
remember them,—ay, and cherish the remembrance in their hearts.
“Mr. Rivers is still living,—and there he is, your honour,” said the
veteran, pointing to an active man in lieutenant’s uniform, who
flourished his wooden pin as he descended the stone steps; “there
he is, for he’s now lieutenant of the college, and has a fine family
just over the way there in the square. They ought to have made him
a commander, at any rate, for I’ve seen him unbuckle his wooden
leg and go aloft as quick as any topman in the ship; and there was
but few could beat him at dancing, for it was quite delightful to see
how he handled his timber support, and how the ladies and gemmen
sheered out of his way for fear of their toes. Ah, there he goes agen,
all life and spirit,—spinning his tough yarns and cracking his jokes,
as full of fun as ever;—he’s much prized by the governors, because
he takes all the trouble off their hands.”
“Is the portrait of Nelson considered a good likeness?” I inquired.
“My sight gets rather dim, sir,” replied the veteran; “but before
they put it up, when I could see it closer, I did not think it very like.
Lord Collingwood’s is by far the best.”
At this moment I felt somewhat of a mischievous inclination to
try the old man’s temper, and therefore remarked, “Ay, he looks
stern and scowling. Nelson was a brave man, no doubt, but then he
was tyrannical and cruel.”
The hoary tar turned round and stared me full in the face: a
storm was gathering in his heart, or rather, like a vessel taken aback
in a sudden squall, he stood perplexed as to which tack he should
stand on. But it was only for a moment, and as his features relaxed
their sternness he replied, “No matter, your honour,—no matter. You
have been generous and kind, and I’m no dog to bite the hand that
deals out bounty.”
This seemed to be uttered with the mingling emotions of
defiance and melancholy, and to urge him further, I continued,
—“But, my friend, what can you say of the treatment poor Caraccioli
experienced? You remember that, I suppose?”
“I do, indeed,” he replied. “Poor old man! how earnestly he
pleaded for the few short days which nature at the utmost would
have allowed him! But, sir,” added he, grasping my arm, “do you
know what it is to have a fiend at the helm, who when Humanity
cries ‘port!’ will clap it hard a-starboard in spite of you?—one who in
loveliness and fascination is like an angel of light, but whose heart
resembles an infernal machine, ready to explode whenever passion
touches the secret spring of vengeance?”
I had merely put the question to him by way of joke, little
expecting the result; but I had to listen to a tale of horror. “You give
a pretty picture, truly, old friend,” said I; “and pray who may this
fiend be?”
“A woman, your honour,—one full of smiles and sweetness; but
she could gaze with indifference on a deed of blood, and exult over
the victim her perfidy betrayed. It is a long story, sir, but I must tell
it you that you may not think Nelson was cruel or unjust. His
generous heart was deceived, and brought a stain upon the British
flag, which he afterwards washed out with his blood. Obedience is
the test of a seaman’s duty—to reverence his king, and to fight for
his country. This I have done, and therefore speak without fear,
though I know nothing of parliaments and politics.
“Well, your honour, it was at the time when there was a mutiny
among the people at Naples, and Prince Caraccioli was compelled to
join one of the parties against the court; but afterwards a sort of
amnesty, or damnification I think they call it, was passed by way of
pardon to the rebels, many of whom surrendered, but they were all
made prisoners and numbers of them were executed.
“Well, one day I was standing at the gangway getting the barge’s
sails ready, when a shore-boat came alongside full of people, who
were making a terrible noise. At last they brought a venerable old
man up the side; he was dressed as a peasant, and his arms were
pinioned so tight behind that he seemed to be suffering considerable
pain. As soon as they had all reached the deck, the rabble gathered
round him, some cursing, others buffeting, and one wretch,
unmindful of his gray hairs, spat upon him. This was too much to
see and not to speak about; the man was their prisoner and they
had him secure,—the very nature of his situation should have been
sufficient protection; so I gave the unmannerly fellow a tap with this
little fist,” holding up a hand like a sledge-hammer, “and sent him
flying into the boat again without the aid of a rope. ‘Well done, Ben!’
exclaimed a young midshipman, who is now a post-captain; ‘Well
done, my boy, I owe you a glass of grog for that; it was the best
summerset I ever saw in my life.’ ‘Thank you for your glass o’grog,
sir,’ said I, ‘you see I’ve made a tumbler already;’ and indeed, your
honour, he spun head over heels astonishingly clever. I was brought
up to the quarter-deck for it, to be sure, because they said I had
used the why-hit-armis; but I soon convinced them I had only used
my fist, and the young officer who saw the transaction stood my
friend, and so I got off.
“Well, there stood the old man as firm as the rock of Gibraltar;
not a single feature betraying the anguish he must have felt. His
face was turned away from the quarter-deck, and his head was
uncovered in the presence of his enemies. The Neapolitans still kept
up an incessant din, which brought the first-lieutenant to the gang-
way; he advanced behind the prisoner, and pushing aside the
abusive rabble, swore at them pretty fiercely for their inhumanity,
although at the same time seizing the old man roughly, he brought
him in his front. ‘What traitor have we here?’ exclaimed the
lieutenant; but checking himself on viewing the mild countenance of
the prisoner, he gazed more intently upon him. ‘Eh, no!—it surely
cannot be:—and yet it is!’—his hat was instantly removed with every
token of respect, as he continued—‘it is the prince!’
“The old man with calm dignity bowed his hoary head to the
salute, and at this moment Nelson himself, who had been disturbed
by the shouting of the captors, came from his cabin to the quarter-
deck, and advancing quickly to the scene, he called out in his hasty
way when vexed, ‘Am I to be eternally annoyed by the confusion
these fellows create! What is the matter here?’ But when his eye had
caught the time-and-toil worn features of the prisoner, he sprang
forward, and with his own hands commenced unbinding the cords.
‘Monsters,’ said he, ‘is it thus that age should be treated?—Cowards,
do you fear a weak and unarmed old man?—Honoured prince, I
grieve to see you degraded and injured by such baseness,—and
now,’ he added, as the last turn released his arms, ‘dear Caraccioli,
you are free!’ I thought a tear rolled down Nelson’s cheek as he cast
loose the lashings, which having finished, he took the prince’s hand
and they both walked aft together.
“They say the devil knows precisely the nick of time when the
most mischief is to be done, and so it happened now; for a certain
lady followed Nelson from the cabin, and approached him with her
usual bewitching smile. But oh! your honour, how was that smile
changed to the black scowl of a demon when she pierced the
disguise of the peasant, and recognised the prince, who on some
particular occasion had thwarted her views and treated her with
indignity. It had never been forgiven, and now—he was in her power.
Forcibly she grasped Nelson by the arm and led him from the deck.
“‘His doom is sealed,’ said one of the lieutenants, conversing in
an undertone with a brother officer, ‘no power on earth can save
him.’ ‘On earth,’ rejoined the other, ‘no, nor in the air, nor in the
ocean; for I suspect he will meet his death in the one, and find his
grave in the other.’ ‘Yet surely,’ said the surgeon, who came up, ‘the
admiral will remember his former friendship for the prince, who once
served under him. Every sympathetic feeling which is dear to a noble
mind must operate to avert his death.’ ‘All the virtues in your
medicine-chest, doctor,’ rejoined the first, ‘would not preserve him
many hours from destruction, unless you could pour an opiate on
the deadly malignity of ——,’ here he put his finger upon his lip, and
walked away.
“Well, your honour, the old man was given up to his bitter foes,
who went through the mockery of a court-martial,—for they
condemned him first and tried him afterwards. In vain he implored
for mercy; in vain he pleaded the proclamation, and pointed to his
hoary head; in vain he solicited the mediation of Nelson, for a
revengeful fury had possession of his better purposes, and damned
the rising tide of generosity in the hero’s soul; in vain he implored
the pardon and intercession of ——; but here I follow the example of
my officer, and lay my finger on my lip.
“The president of the court-martial was Caraccioli’s personal
enemy, and the poor old man was not allowed time to make a
defence; he was sentenced to be hung, and his body to be thrown
into the sea. I was near him, your honour, when he entreated Mr.
Parkinson, one of the lieutenants, to go to Nelson and implore that
he might be shot. Oh, if you had but have seen him grasp the
officer’s hand as he said, ‘I am an old man, sir, and I have no family
to leave behind to lament my death. Indeed I am not anxious to
prolong my life, for at the utmost my days would be but few; but the
disgrace of hanging,—to be exposed to the gaze of my enemies,—is
really dreadful to me!’
“But every attempt to obtain a mitigation or a change of the
sentence was unavailing, and at five o’clock that afternoon the brave
old man, the veteran prince, in his eightieth year, hung suspended
from the fore-yard-arm of a Neapolitan frigate he had once
commanded,—for he was an admiral, your honour. Never shall I
forget the burst of indignation with which the signal-gun was heard
by our crew, and a simultaneous execration was uttered fore and aft.
“Nelson walked the deck with unusual quickness; nay, he almost
ran, and every limb seemed violently agitated. He heard the half-
suppressed murmurs of the men, and a conviction of dishonour
seemed to be awakening in his mind. But oh, sir, where was pity,
where was feminine delicacy and feeling? The lady approached him
in the most seducing manner and attracted his attention: he stopped
short, looked at her for a moment with stern severity, and again
walked on. ‘What ails you, Bronté?’ said she; ‘you appear to be ill,’
and the witchery of her commanding look subdued the sternness of
his features;—he gazed upon her and was tranquil. ‘See!’ said she,
pointing out at the port to where the body of Caraccioli was still
writhing in convulsive agony, ‘see! his mortal struggles will soon be
over. Poor prince! I grieve we could not save him. But come, Bronté,
man the barge, and let us go and take a parting look at our old
friend.’ I shuddered, your honour, and actually looked down at her
feet to see if I could make out any thing like a cloven hoof. ‘The
devil!’ exclaimed a voice in a half-whisper behind me that made me
start, for I thought the speaker had certainly made the discovery;
but it was only one of the officers giving vent to his pious
indignation.
“Well, the barge was manned, and away we pulled with Nelson
and the lady round the ship where the unfortunate prince was
hanging. He had no cap upon his head, nor was his face covered;
but his white hair streamed in the breeze above the livid contortions
which the last death-pang had left upon his features. The
Neapolitans were shouting and insulting his memory; but they were
rank cowards, for the truly brave will never wreak their vengeance
on a dead enemy.
“Nelson and the lady conversed in whispers; but it was plain to
be seen his spirit was agonized, and his fair but frail companion was
employing every art to soothe him. She affected to weep, but there
was a glistening pleasure in her eyes as she looked at the corpse,
which had well nigh made the boat’s crew set all duty at defiance.
Nelson,—and no man was better acquainted with the characteristics
of a sailor,—saw this, and ordered to be pulled on board. She
upbraided him for what she called his weakness, but his soul was
stirred beyond the power of her influence to control his actions.
“The body of the prince was taken out to a considerable distance
in the bay, where it was thrown overboard with three heavy double-
headed shot lashed between the legs; and, as the lieutenant said,
‘he met his death in the air, and had his grave in the ocean.’
“About a fortnight after this, a pleasure party was made up by
the royal family and nobility for an excursion on the water, and the
barge, with Nelson and the lady, took the lead. It was a beautiful
sight to see the gilded galleys with their silken canopies and bright
pennons flashing in the sun, and reflecting their glittering beauties
on the smooth surface of the clear blue waters, whilst the measured
sweep of the oars kept time with the sweet sounds of music. Not a
cloud veiled the sky, scarcely a breath curled the transparent crest of
the gentle billow; all was gayety, and mirth, and laughter.
“After pulling for several miles about the bay, we were returning
towards the shore, when a curious-looking dark object,—something
like a ship’s buoy, appeared floating a-head of the barge. The
bowmen were ordered to lay-in their oars, and see what it was; so
the oars were laid in, and they stood ready with their boat-hooks,
the coxswain steering direct on to it. As soon as the barge was near
enough, the bowmen grappled it with their boat-hooks, but in an
instant their hold was loosened again, and ‘A dead body! a dead
body!’ was uttered in a suppressed tone by both. The boat held on
her way, and as the corpse passed astern, the face turned towards
the lady and showed the well-remembered countenance of poor
Caraccioli. Yes, as the officer had said, ‘the ocean had been his
grave;’ but that grave had given up its dead, and the lady seldom
smiled afterwards.
“Nelson hailed one of the cutters that were in attendance, and
directed that the body should be taken on board and receive the
funeral ceremonies suitable to the rank which the unfortunate prince
had held whilst living. The music ceased its joyous sounds for notes
of melancholy wailing, and the voice of mirth was changed to
lamentation and sadness.
“Years passed away, and Nelson fell in the hour of victory; but
the lady, ah! her end was terrible. The murdered prince was ever
present to her mind; and as she lay upon her death-bed, like a
stranded wreck that would never more spread canvass to the
breeze, her groans, her shrieks were still on Caraccioli. ‘I see him!’
she would cry, ‘there, there!—look at his white locks and his
straining eye-balls! England,—England is ungrateful, or this would
have been prevented! But I follow—I follow!’—and then she would
shriek with dismay and hide herself from sight. But she is gone, your
honour, to give in her dead-reckoning to the Judge of all. She died in
a foreign land, without one real friend to close her eyes; and she
was buried in a stranger’s grave, without one mourner to weep upon
the turf which covered her remains.”
Here the veteran ceased, and folding his arms, he held down his
head as if communing with his own heart and struggling to dispel
the visions which his narration had conjured up. I cautiously
refrained from disturbing him, till by a sudden gulp or sea-sigh, like
the expiring gale when at its last gasp, he gave indications of having
becalmed his feelings, and we moved onwards up the steps into the
body of the Hall, till we stood before the fine painting of the Battle
of the Nile, by G. Arnald.
“There, your honour,” exclaimed the veteran, whilst his eye
sparkled with glowing recollections, “look there, your honour; isn’t
that a sight to awaken old remembrances! It’s worth a hundred of
that yonder, which is neither ship-shape nor Bristol fashion, as I take
it, for an officer in boarding to be rigged out as if he was going to a
ball. Mayhap, howsomever, it may be all well enough for landsmen
and marines to look at, because it’s pretty; but the eye of a seaman
only glances at it with contempt.” The subject of his last
observations, was a painting of Nelson boarding the San Josef of
112 guns in the battle off St. Vincent. “I told you before I was with
him in both doos; but, Lord love your heart, it was another sort of a
concarn than that ’ere; for there warn’t no fighting on the quarter-
deck of the three-decker,—all the fighting were in the San Nickylas
as we boarded first. But here’s a pretty picture, your honour,”
pointing to a small but beautiful painting of the re-capture of the
Hermione frigate by Sir Edward Hamilton, “and it tells a tale too!
Well, thank God, I never sailed with a tyrannical captain! and there
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