The Honorable John Byron became a British vice-admiral and was also the grandfather of the poet, who transmuted some of the exploits of the midshipman of the _Wager_ into the pages of _Don Juan_. As one of the most famous fighting sailors of his era, Admiral Byron earned the nickname of “Foul Weather Jack,” because he contended so constantly with gales and head winds, and it is to this that Lord Byron refers in his “Epistles to Augusta”: A strange doom is thy father’s son’s, and past Recalling as it lies beyond redress, Reversed for him our grandsire’s fate of yore, He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. You will find that Stevenson mentions him in that same tribute to the English admirals: Most men of high destinies have high-sounding names. Pymn and Habakkuk may do pretty well, but they must not think to cope with the Cromwells and Isaiahs. And you could not find a better case in point than that of the English Admirals. Drake and Rooke and Hawke are picked names for men of execution. Frobisher, Rodney, Boscawen, Foul-Weather Jack Byron, are all good to catch the eye in a page of naval history. CHAPTER XII THE CRUISE OF THE _WAGER’S_ LONG-BOAT The story of the man-of-war _Wager_ was by no means finished when young Midshipman Byron rode into London and was welcomed as one risen from the dead. It will be recalled that about twenty of the crew persisted in the attempt to sail homeward by way of the Strait of Magellan. They had been at sea only a few days when the cutter, the smaller of their two boats, was knocked to pieces among the rocks, and the survivors were therefore jammed into the long-boat, which had room for no more than half of them. How they managed to stay afloat is a mystery that cannot be fathomed, with the gunwales only a few inches above water and scarcely any space to row or steer or handle sail. They quarreled continually, and “hardly ten testified any anxiety about the welfare of the voyage but rather seemed ripe for mutiny and destruction.” Eleven of the company soon preferred to quit this madhouse of a boat and to face a less turbulent death ashore, and at their own request they were landed on the coast of Patagonia. The long-boat, still overcrowded to a degree that meant incredible discomfort and danger, blundered on her course, with only the sun and stars for guidance. A little flour and some other stores had been taken from the wreck, and now occurred a curious manifestation of human selfishness, of the struggle for survival reduced to the lowest terms. The officers had endeavored to ration the food, share and share alike, but the ugly temper of the men made such prudent precautions impossible, and some obtained more provisions than others. The situation was described by one of them in these words: