Issue III
Contents
I
The Fleet in Being
II The Language
of the Sea
III Command
a King's Ship
I
The Fleet in Being
Whatever any
individual captain might think about his own particular problems of manning
his ship, having the vessel, large or small, ready at any given time to
fight enemy or weather with equal skill, the overall responsibility lay
very much at the admiral's elbow. To present a well-handled fleet
or squadron, with each captain willing and eager to obey the signals from
the flagship, was one thing. To know where and how to place those
much needed ships in time of war was something else entirely.
Communications, the ability to take despatches to the other ends of the
earth where they could be interpreted and seen in reality against any current
situation, were of paramount importance. A fast courier vessel might
sail with all speed from England for some vague rendezvous with a squadron
in the Caribbean, her young commander very conscious of the vital information
he was carrying. The moment his sails had dipped below the horizon
some new situation might arise, and his written despatches would become
instantly useless. But weeks, perhaps months later, when the admiral
or commodore of the isolated squadron or fleet received those same despatches,
he would be expected to act on them as he saw fit, even though events in
England had overridden them.
With all the blessings of hindsight we can only marvel that more mistakes
did not occur because of a slow passage or the inability of some captain
to make contact with his superior officer. As it was, there were
several occasions when vigorous action was taken against some ship or ships
only for the Navy to be informed later that those same 'enemies' had signed
a peace treaty some months before the guns began to fire. The reverse,
too, was not unknown.
Any admiral was well aware of this state of affairs as he climbed slowly
up the ladder of promotion and authority, and the ships and men under his
command grew accordingly.
Much of his ability to use his ships to best advantage depended on the
time it took to get them from one area to another, to ensure there was
some point in quitting his present position and not be faced with a wild
goose chase.
Knowing his individual captains, the condition and efficiency of each ship
under his flag, and a large portion of luck, all were part of an admiral's
mystique.
Even Nelson, who was well known for his risks in the face of his superiors,
must have been very conscious of the chance he was taking when he sailed
his fleet all the way from the Mediterranean across the Atlantic to Trinidad
in search of the French squadrons, only to discover the enemy nowhere in
sight. Back again across the Atlantic with little more than an idea
and Nelson's own supreme self-confidence and at last a close action with
the French. It must have mystified many of Nelson's contemporaries
and irritated some of his superiors who wished him taken down a peg, even
at the expense of a victory. Only Nelson would have fully appreciated
how narrow was the margin of success. Had he misjudged the enemy's
movements on the second occasion, it is very likely that another admiral
would have commanded the fleet at Trafalgar.
An admiral would be constantly reminded of the importance of spreading
the load of his ships. Not too thinly so that any single force might
be overwhelmed by an enemy. But again he must not pack them in such
a formidable force that vast sea areas were left unguarded. This
concern for overall coverage governed more than anything else the style
and design of the ships of war of the period.
|
First-rate
three decker (left) and Third-rate seventy-four
Ships were rated according to size and firepower. At the top of the
scale were the ships-of-the-line, powerful, heavily manned vessels which
could sail in the line of battle, take massive punishment if need be at
incredibly close range. Speed and agility had to be put aside in
their design. Stout oak timbers, every type of gun from the deadly
thirty-two pounder to the squat carronade, or 'Smasher' as it was aptly
nicknamed, and a full complement of seaman and marines to work the armament
and fight hand-to-hand when at last they had grappled with an enemy.
The most powerful of these three great ships was the first-rate, a three-decked
vessel of a hundred guns or more. A second-rate mounted ninety cannon
or more, and together these two types of ship were generally used as flagships
by the admirals who commanded their destinies.
By the mid-18th century the little fourth-rate, a two-decker of sixty guns
plus, had almost ceased to exist. It was considered too weak to face
the cruel battering in the line of battle, but too slow to work with smaller
vessels elsewhere. And so, until the end of the days of the sailing
Navy, the two-decker third-rate, known affectionately as the seventy-four
because of the number of guns she carried, became the backbone of the fleet.
Any admiral was grateful to have these fine, reliable and well-designed
ships under his control, and most of the great sea battles of the period
were fought by them.
The men who commanded such ships as a seventy-four could be expected to
perform miracles, should their admirals request them. Within their
stout timbered hulls they carried another world, around which the need
for efficiency and skill in battle were almost incidental. For there
lived a teeming mass of men, of all backgrounds and ages. Deck by
deck, mess by mess, the crammed conditions of the ship-of-the-line made
it impossible to be alone except within one's mind. It was once written
that the only two men who were always alone in a seventy-four were the
unfortunate prisoner locked in his tiny cell below the waterline, and the
captain who fretted and worried beyond the privacy of his cabin bulkhead.
But the other six hundred-odd souls had to manage as best they could.
And like all other ships of that time, they had to depend entirely upon
their own resources once they had quit the land. Weather and sea
took a heavy toll of cordage and canvas, and even without firing a shot
in anger the losses in life and limb were considerable.
There were no such luxuries as training depots, and men were plucked from
their trades ashore and thrust without fuss or favor into the everyday
business of running a ship of war. It is not surprising that many
such men failed to live very long. A fall from a swaying yard, high
above the deck in pitch darkness, meant a mercifully quick death one way
or the other. For even if a man missed the ship or some jutting spar
on his fall, it was unlikely he could swim and he would soon be swallowed
by the sea. Shortening sail in bitter conditions brought many such
accidents. Canvas, half-frozen perhaps in an Atlantic squall, had
to be fisted and punched by men working side by side on those vibrating
yards, their only support being the foot-ropes below each spar. Ruptures
were only too common, broken fingers more so.
A good captain took care to see that the new hands were selected as much
as possible in keeping with their original jobs ashore. A poacher
or light-footed thatcher would soon learn to work aloft if properly instructed.
Whereas an awkward farm worker who had done little more than lead a horse
or dig in a field would be more safely employed on deck. Bad or indifferent
captains soon paid the price for their stupidity, and it was eventually
noticed by their admiral whenever he watched the performance of his ships.
Every young lieutenant watched his captain and dreamed of his first
command. Most captains cast a glance at their flagship and pictured
themselves with flag-rank in the not too distant future. Admirals
had nowhere to go, except down, and were often harsh with captains who
threatened the fleet's efficiency, and by so doing, the admiral's own security.
To keep contact with his far-flung ships and squadrons, and retain an intelligent
link with the power of Admiralty, a flag officer depended on the speed
and agility of his frigates. They were classed as fifth and sixth-rates.
The former were of twenty-eight to thirty-eight guns, sometimes more, single-decked,
and with all the grace and feline beauty of a square-rigged ship.
The latter were the lowest rated vessels, of twenty to twenty-four guns,
and known as post-ships, being the smallest to be commanded by post-captains.
It is interesting to note that the latter's opposite number in the French
fleet was called a corvette, a name later to be included in the Royal Navy
in World War Two, when these sturdy little escort ships served with great
distinction in the Battle of the Atlantic.
|
Fifth-rate
frigate
Every admiral complained of a shortage of frigates. They were in
constant demand, and every ambitious young officer hoped to command one.
Unlike his admiral, the young frigate captain saw his ship as something
very personal. Once free of the fleet's apron strings, any such captain
had the real chance of striking an individual blow for his country, and
also of drawing attention to himself far more quickly than he could ever
do in company with other ships, or worse, serving aboard a heavier man-of-war.
Quite apart from self-advancement and catching the eye of his superior
officer, any successful frigate captain had the real chance of becoming
rich on prize-money. A frigate, especially a fifth rate, could outshoot
and outpace almost any other vessel afloat other than a ship-of-the-line,
and many a stealthy blockade-runner, her holds crammed with valuable stores
and war supplies, was made to strike her colours to a well-handled frigate.
Prize-money was shared amongst the ship's company and those of other vessels
taking even a remote part in the action, but on such isolated occasions
the lion's share went to the captain. It is understandable, therefore,
that frigate captains were loath to spend too much time in company with
the ships-of-the-line, massive, ponderous vessels which rarely made good
more than five knots average, when they could be more profitably employed
elsewhere.
Admirals, on the other hand, had a greater experience and wider vision
of affairs, and knew the vital need of such ships for carrying despatches
to other stations, prowling close inshore to spy on enemy harbours, and
-- almost the most important function -- searching for and shadowing a
hostile fleet until contact could be made with the pursuing admiral.
It was the little frigate Euralyus which was to bring the news that
the 'French were out' to Nelson, and to raise the final curtain on Trafalgar.
But if you served in a great ship-of-the-line as a young and fairly untried
lieutenant, how was it possible even to draw the merest glance which would
set you on the road to any real promotion, let alone command of a frigate?
Once again, luck could figure quite considerably in this field. If
a captain was fortunate in capturing several prizes, he would need to send
them back to safe ports, and for this he would require skeleton crews.
Just enough men to control the captured vessel's own company and prevent
their retaking the ship, and not so many that it would cripple his own
command by a severe shortage should he then be attacked.
It was common for the task of prize-master to be given to a very junior
officer. Sometimes it might be an officer who had taken a prominent
part in taking the prize in the first place. If an officer could
not be spared, a master's mate perhaps would be appointed. For him
it would mean almost certain promotion to commissioned rank once he had
sailed his charge beneath the guns of a friendly fortress.
A captain might now wish his own senior and experienced lieutenants to
be sent away as prize-masters. For one thing, it would seriously
impair the chain of command and general efficiency of his ship. For
another, there would be nobody to assume command should he fall in battle
or die of fever before joining other vessels. It is fair to say that
his senior lieutenants would not be all that keen to take charge of prizes
when there was a real possibility of promotion within their own hull.
The captain's death would bring a temporary command, but if properly handled
would also indicate the lieutenant's ability better than any written report.
Likewise, the next lieutenant in line for advancement would step into the
shoes of his senior, and so on.
For these and other reasons it was often the case that a very junior lieutenant
was appointed prize-master. Not perhaps because he was the best for
the job, but more for the reason he would be the least missed aboard his
own ship!
The laugh often went their way, however. Several such prize-masters
used their brief authority to capture other smaller prizes on passage to
home or base, or carried out little ventures of their own invention into
enemy waters.
Once back under the eye of some port admiral there was every chance of
a first real step towards that cherished frigate.
There were several other classes of vessel, much in demand, but unrated
like those previously mentioned. Of all these latter, the sloop-of-war
was the most popular. Like small frigates, square-rigged, and with
their fourteen to eighteen guns mounted on a single deck, they were indeed
maids of all work. Many of them had been bought from the merchant
service and were sturdily built, although unable to carry more than the
lightest cannon. But the sloops which had been specially constructed
for the Navy were veritable miniature fortresses. Fast and manoeuvrable,
they even mounted some of the heaviest naval cannon as bow-chasers, so
that they could pursue a heavier prey and cripple her at leisure with these
powerful weapons while still having the agility to keep close astern of
the enemy and avoid any sort of retaliation. During the American
Revolution they did invaluable work escorting troop transports, supply
ships and the like en route for the British forces on the mainland.
They were used with equal vigour amongst the teeming islands of the Caribbean
for winkling out privateers and pirates of a dozen nations. Carrying
despatches, taking senior officers on unexpected visits to squadrons and
harbours, keeping contact between the blockading forces during the Revolutionary
Wars, and many years later, long after the proud sea battles under sail
had dimmed in memory, they continued to do great service against the Black
Ivory trade, that odious and profitable traffic in slaves from Africa.
And there were many other types of vessel, almost too numerous for this
one small section.
Brigs and bomb-vessels, fireships and armed cutters, they all made up the
nerve ends and sinews which led eventually via the sloops and frigates
to those weather-beaten ships-of-the-line, and whichever admiral had hoisted
his flag above them. No matter what sort of ship, how new or old,
graceful or merely practical, all went to make an essential contribution
to the fleet in being.
RETURN
TO TOP
II
The Language of the Sea
For hundreds
of years this island of ours has above all else shown itself to be entirely
dependent upon the sea. Upon the availability of sea lanes for trade
and colonial advancement, for the comings and goings of countless necessities
which we too often take for granted, and in times of war for survival itself.
In the past we have often had cause to bless the barrier presented by the
English Channel, the 'moat', when misfortune or lack of preparedness have
left us no other defence. Such faith did Lord St. Vincent have during
the Napoleonic Wars that he was quoted as saying of the enemy, "I did not
say they could not come. I only said they could not come by sea."
A dry statement from one who had done so much to dominate the oceans with
our Navy.
From every port and estuary, down through the years, this country has seen
craft of all kinds set sail. Brigs and stately clippers, the fast-driven
packets and coastal fishing vessels, men-of-war and ships of peace, so
it is hardly surprising that the language of everyday usage is still filled
with memories of sail. For men went to sea early in life, some as
mere children. It took time, hardship and not a little cursing to
discover, let alone master all the complex workings of a deepwater sailing
ship. Miles of rigging, braces, stays, halliards and shrouds, each
having a set purpose, each needing constant care and inspection.
The vessel's hull itself, with all the havoc which could be created by
rot, grounding and collision. And, not least, by the guns by which
such men lived, and often died. They were as natural as the sight
of the sea's face each dawn, or the sounds of wind booming in canvass overhead.
We often say, not enough room to swing a cat. This was an
expression of scorn by captains of large ships for their more cramped colleagues.
Their boatswains had not even the space to wield their cat o' nine tails.
The
gilt on the gingerbread in those days referred to the fine gilding
on the carvings around a ship's stern. A mark of her captain's wealth,
and therefore his success at taking prizes. A good ship to volunteer
for. Gingerbread painted in cheap dockyard yellow too often meant
the vessel had a less eager commander. Taken aback or
all
aback described the plight of a ship trying to tack across the wind
and failing to pay off in either direction. It was as much a surprise
for her captain then as the expression implies today. There are many
old sailing terms in regular usage. Take the wind out of his sails,
by
and large, and even the slang for drunkenness,
three sheets to the
wind, were first heard on one deck or another. Gone by the board,
lost over the side, first rate already mentioned in this newsletter,
and not least, show a leg, the cry of a boatswain's mate in harbour
when he was trying to determine if a seaman was slumbering in his hammock
or if, as was likely, a woman of the town was still aboard, have all found
their firm places in our language. There are hundreds of terms, many
obvious, some less so. It is the language of the sea. From
whence we came. Upon which we depend.
RETURN
TO TOP
III
Command a King's Ship
 In
March, 1784 His Majesty's Frigate Undine of thirty-two guns weighed
anchor at Spithead to begin a voyage to India and far beyond.
Like most of his ship's company, Captain Richard Bolitho was glad to be
leaving the land. Despite all the difficulties of preparing his new
command for sea and a long and demanding passage, the vague wording of
his orders, the fact that many of his company were little better than rogues,
he had become sickened by the immediate aftermath of war. England,
like much of Europe, was reeling from the cost and the ravages of war.
And whereas the rich and powerful had changed their lives very little,
the streets and seaports were thronged with the tattered remnants from
a dozen hard campaigns. Men who had fought with honour begged for
bread in the streets of London. Ships which had become legends in
the line of battle rotted in every estuary and inlet.
To Bolitho the Undine meant more than a mere command. She
was an escape from disillusionment, a challenge and a new hope. Her
company was ill matched and the sweepings from prison-hulks and the debtor's
jail. But Bolitho had his own brand of faith, and he was accompanied
by his firm friends, Thomas Herrick and John Allday. He was soon
to need both of them more than ever before.
For he was to learn that signatures on proud documents did not necessarily
mean a lasting peace, and as his ship spread her sails beneath blazing
sun and raging storms alike he was made to use all the skill and determination
which had given him his first command during the war. As the old
enemies manoeuvred for advantages under the guise of lasting peace, the
real truth and the thunder of the guns were never far from the only King's
ship available, and from the man who commanded her.
Author's
Note
During
my travels around this country and abroad, giving talks and doing research
for the next Bolitho stories, time and time again I have been questioned
about the possibility of forming a Richard Bolitho Association. Your
views on this are of course great value to me, and I would be glad to hear
any ideas you may have.
--Alexander
Kent
GO
TO ISSUE IV
RETURN
TO TOP
|