The Vansittart family in those long-ago days were represented by some interesting scions.
“The Croc,” in many ways perhaps the most unique, was a remnant of a past generation who adapted surroundings to modern requirements, and was the terror of gouty old members who dined before four when “table money” came into force, consumed a loaf in a sixpenny bowl of soup, and drank their beer for nothing.
“Pop,” on the other hand, was of the highly-refined class, had a flat in Paris, and only occasionally flashed upon London immaculately clothed in ultra-fashionable attire. But the gem of the family was the dear old Admiral, who combined apparently the better points of “The Croc” and “Pop” in his own weather-beaten person. At the time I knew him he was in command of the _Sultan_, and had the reputation—in conjunction with Admiral Hornby—of being the highest authority on ironclads. But what brought him into notice was a combination of fearless seamanship and bluff loyalty whilst in command of the _Hector_ that convoyed the Prince of Wales from Canada. For days the weather had been rough till, coming up Channel, Vansittart hailed a fishing smack, and possessing himself of the pick of the last haul, bore down upon the _Serapis_. Attached to her yard-arm was a basket, and as the spars of the two frigates literally rattled against one another, down dropped the offering at the feet of the heir-apparent.
No greater exhibition of nerve and seamanship can well be conceived; had the manoeuvre resulted in accident no explanation would have satisfied “my lords,” for a nasty sea was running and sea room was advisable, however commendable the motive. It was an action worthy of association with Sir Harry Keppel sailing out of Portsmouth Harbour in sheer devilry with every stitch of canvas set, and showed Admiral Vansittart as in every way worthy of being bracketed with that grand old bluejacket of the past.
The man who commanded the _Galatea_ and afterwards the _Sultan_, was a very different person to the lieutenant of the _Racoon_, and genial and adventurous as he once was, the captain soon developed into a morose and unpopular commander.
On board the _Galatea_ was the pick of the Navy, whilst the social addenda associated with the supposed requirements of Royalty were represented by the present Lord Kilmorey, Eliot Yorke, Arthur Haig, and sprigs of nobility, “interest,” and nonentity. Of the two equerries Eliot Yorke’s forte may best be described as of the delicate type; so delicate, indeed, that it may be left to the imagination. Arthur Haig, on the other hand, was of the firm and reliable sort—a reasonable proportion of “suaviter” with a superabundance of the other thing. It was he whose daily duties included an epitome of the events of the day, intended for no eyes but those of the Queen, and carefully included in every “bag” that left the ship. Haig, in short, had been nominated by the Queen, and was the only man on board of whom the Prince had a wholesome dread. Eliot Yorke, on the other hand, was the selection of the Royal Alfred. Not that the Prince was without his appreciation of a practical joke, and when a fat old gentleman that had been specially invited to a farewell lunch at one of the foreign stations suddenly discovered that the ship was under way and a jump into the bumboat imperative, no laugh was heartier nor louder than that of the Royal joker.