Royal Navy L.S. & G.C., V.R., wide suspension (J. Jeffery, 1st Class Steward, H.M.S. Royal Oak, 24 Yrs.), edge nicks, nearly extremely fine £400-500

This lot was sold as part of a special collection, The Collection of Medals formed by the late Jack Deacon.

View
Collection

Ex Douglas-Morris Collection.

James Jeffrey was awarded his L.S. & G.C. Medal in December 1867, following a remarkably eventful career that witnessed his survival from shipwreck on three occasions, including the famous Birkenhead disaster. Such was the bravery shown by those aboard the latter vessel, that the King of Prussia ordered an account of their deeds to be read out to all his troops as a fine example of military discipline.

He joined the newly launched paddle sloop Thunderbolt as a Boy 1st Class in December 1842, and had been appointed a Purser’s Steward by the time of her loss off South Africa on 3 February 1847. She had just rounded Cape Recife to make her way into Algoa Bay, when she ran aground with ‘considerable violence.’ Within 10 minutes the engine room was virtually submerged and the ship was run ashore on a beach at the mouth of Blaken’s River, in order to save the crew. Here they remained until 24 May, living in a tented encampment, until it was clear any further salvage attempts would prove fruitless.

Unfortunately for Jeffery, this early experience of being shipwrecked on the coast of South Africa was to repeat itself in far more serious circumstances a little over five years later, when, as a Purser’s Steward, he found himself aboard the paddle troopship Birkenhead, also bound for Algoa Bay. On the 26 February 1852, just one day out of Cape Town, with some 500 Officers and men, 25 women, 31 children and 130 crew, the Birkenhead struck an uncharted rock off Danger Point in False Bay:

‘It was about twelve or fifteen minutes after she struck that the bow broke off. The men then all went up on the poop, and in about five more minutes the vessel broke in two, crosswise, just abaft the engine room, and the stern part immediately filled and went down. A few men jumped off just before she did so, but the greater number remained to the last, and so did every Officer belonging to the troops ... The survivors clung to some of the rigging of the main-mast, part of which was out of the water, and the others got hold of floating pieces of wood. I think there must have been about 200 on the drift wood. I was on a large piece along with five others, and we picked up nine or ten more [including Purser’s Steward Jeffery, who had travelled thus far on a table]. The swell carried the wood in the direction of Danger Point. As soon as it got to the weeds and breakers, finding that it would not support all that were on it, I jumped off and swam on shore; and when the others, and also those that were on some pieces of wood, reached the shore, we proceeded up country to try and find a habitation of any sort where we could find shelter ...’

So wrote Captain Edward Wright of the 91st Regiment, the senior surviving Officer. Although 40 or 50 of the men who remained clinging to the rigging were later picked up by a schooner, and all of the women and children just got off in time in the ship’s cutter, some nine Officers and 350 men were lost, in addition to nearly 90 of the crew, Commander Salmon among them - one of his last acts had been to entrust Jeffery with his gold pocket watch, which the latter duly delivered to his widow. Indeed Jeffery consistently appears in accounts of the disaster, The Unfortunate Ship, by J. Lennox Kerr, noting his continuing efforts to search for further survivors on the following day:

‘These two, Wright and Jeffery, then set out back towards Danger Point, to search for survivors. They worked along the shore and the cliffs all that day, finding two naked men whom they directed to the cove. They came upon a party of Dutch seal fishermen with a boat, and Wright asked these men to row along the coast, outside the belt of the seaweed, and search there. When the day ended, and Wright and Jeffery returned to Standford’s Cove for the night, the fishermen were there with two more men whom they had found clinging to wreckage, both of them having been almost 40 hours in the water. There were no others alive. Bodies had been seen among the seaweed, and Wright and Jeffery had found several on the shore itself. Most of the bodies were badly bruised and cut by rocks; some had been horribly torn by sharks ...’

These latter deeds would result in suitable approbation from Wright, who credited the Purser’s Steward with giving ‘all the assistance in his power’, although ‘much exhausted after having been in the water so long a time.’ Clearly soldier and sailor had struck up quite a friendship, the pair of them corresponding with one another over a year after the distaster. Jeffery replied to a letter from Captain Wright in May 1853, from aboard his new ship at Malta:

‘With much pleasure and thankfulness for your kind consideration for me, I take the liberty of addressing to you an answer which I hope you will condescend to receive from one who received so many little comforts from your hands at a time when so much in need - that glass of wine you had so much trouble to preserve for me, a covering for my naked feet while travelling round the rocks, and a number of other little things you no doubt think it a nonsense of me to mention; but at such a time and place, and in our deplorable situation, even now too horrible to think of, come feelings of the greatest love and respect ... My wife heard I was drowned by a letter from the Castor flagship. Rather a disagreeable note. She was surprised when she received a letter from me, but it was a very agreeable one ... I was very ill while on the passage to England - 33 days under the Surgeon’s hands, and they had no bed or blanket for me or any one else belonging to the Birkenhead ... I was often at the Captain’s widow’s, and I gave her the watch, which was the only thing saved from the Birkenhead belonging to Captain Salmond. I hope Dr. Bowen received his plate correct, as they took it from me, which I believe I informed you of, as well as those pieces of linen we had so much labour to bring with us ... I wish you every success on the battlefield, and good health, with a quick return from the Cape ...’

Jeffery added by way of a postcript that he was now ‘very nervous’ when at sea in rough weather, and that he desired a ‘situation on shore, if possible, and under Government.’ One year later, while still at sea as a Purser’s Steward, in the paddle frigate Tiger, his strained nerves were to be tested yet further, for, having participated in the Baltic operations and in the blockade of Sebastopol, his ship was detailed to cruise off Odessa on a dark, foggy night in May 1854. British Warship Losses In The Age of Sail takes up the story:

‘Only minutes after the report of seven fathoms, the ship went aground, gaps in the fog revealing that she was under a steep cliff. The engines were put astern, and the gaff mainsail, spanker and inner jib were set to try to free her, but she was held fast ... A Russian soldier appeared, who fired a musket at the ship before galloping off; soon after, more troops arrived and commenced firing at her. These were joined by two field guns which opened fire. The ship’s guns had been prepared for jettisoning, but the pivot gun was employed to return the fire. When another four field guns joined the enemy troops, and large numbers of infantry and cavalry were seen in the area, the resistance became futile. The Tiger was being hulled regularly, with fires being started and casualties mounting; Captain Giffard had his left leg shot away as he stood next to the gun. The Tiger struck her flag in surrender. Total casualties were five killed and three wounded, the dead including Captain Giffard, who died of his wounds at Odessa ...’

Quite what Jeffery made of all of this remains unrecorded, but he was back at sea aboard the Cornwallis a few weeks later, and, in October 1857, removed to the Urgent, in which ship he witnessed further action in the Second China War. In fact, he remained at sea for another decade, finally being pensioned ashore from the Royal Oak in December 1867.

‘James Jeffery, the Purser’s Steward of the Birkenhead, died in London shortly after the 50th anniversary [in 1903] ... Poor Jeffery! He was very old and infirm when the end came.’