Issue IV
Contents
I
Between Decks
II A Decisive
Year
III Signal
-- Close Action!
I
Between Decks
During the
closing years of the eighteenth century, when the war against France and
her allies had reached a new height, there was still little change in the
general appearance and equipment of the fleet. The heavy units in
any squadron, the great three-deckers or first-rates, and the more prevalent
seventy-fours, made up the line of battle whenever required. Faster,
more manoeuvrable ships, ranging from frigates to sloops and brigs, were
as much if not more in demand than ever. With vast sea distances
to patrol, and a communications system to the ends of the earth, any captain,
no matter how junior, was expected to perform feats of navigation which
in today's world of radar and space satellites seem incredible.
Weapons, too, varied little from those which had made the pace in the last
great confrontation of the American Revolution and the battles against
the combined fleets of France and Spain. The short-ranged but deadly
carronade which had first made its appearance in 1779 had barely changed,
and no new weapons of any real significance had been invented. The
heaviest, and by far the most popular weapon, was the thirty-two pounder,
or 'long nine' as it was nicknamed, being nine feet in length, was used
in most of the lower batteries of ships- of-the-line. It had a crew
of fifteen men, and at close range could penetrate three feet of solid
oak. As the extreme reach of such cannon was only one and a half
miles, rapid fire was generally found to be more important than individual
accuracy. A fully skilled crew could fire three rounds every two
minutes, despite all the demands of manhandling three tons of wood and
metal under the most desperate circumstances.
Above deck the sail plan had barely altered from the time when Admiral
Rodney had won the Battle of the Saintes in 1782 and thereby restored some
of the nation's pride after the setbacks of the American Revolution.
It was generally held throughout the fleet during the Napoleonic Wars that
the French ships were better built and more able to withstand punishment
during close action. A view further enforced by the several heavy
ships seized as prizes from the enemy and put into service in our own squadrons.
Nevertheless, the British continued to win battles, usually against odds,
and while much of the enemy's naval strength stayed bottled up by continuous
blockade in all weathers, our own men became expert, perhaps because of
their forced times at sea.
But as year followed year, and the growing might of France probed from
the Atlantic to the Eastern Mediterranean, another thing which had changed
little, and which brought anxiety to politician and sea officer alike,
was the shortage of men to serve the fleet. First-rate or bomb-ketch,
frigate or schooner, the need to preserve a full complement, to work the
sails and complicated rigging, to manage and fire the guns, and when required
to fight at arm's length with cutlass and boarding pike, was paramount.
Providing their hulls could be protected from rot, and as free of weed
and growth as possible in the various conditions faced, ships lived a long
time. They needed stores and fresh water, powder and shot, canvas
and hemp, but apart from the chain pumps to keep even the leakiest bilge
clear of water, they were free of mechanical breakdown and the need for
refit and regular overhaul in a dockyard unlike ships in succeeding centuries.
Because of this they spent lengthy periods at sea, many on commissions
in all parts of the world. Somebody who had volunteered as a ship's
boy, a mere child of twelve or so, could find himself a seasoned able seaman
before he saw his home again. A man snatched up by the dreaded press-gangs,
or taken from the hulks or Assize courts to serve his country rather than
face prison or worse, would discover that no matter what his trade or calling
might have been, a sailor he had become.
To the casual onlooker a ship of the line breaking from its anchorage and
beating out to sea, or one just visible hull-down on the horizon with all
sails set and beautiful in the sun's path, was something rather special,
but beyond that, completely unknown. She represented security and
pride, and at any sort of distance held a touch of romance which is never
far from any seafaring nation. Little thought was given for the harsh
discipline, the backbreaking drills required to make men overcome their
fear of heights, to work above the deck in the shrouds and on the vibrating
yards. Or for the times when these same men had to stand by their
guns and watch the oncoming menace of an enemy, when but for this same
rigid discipline they might turn and run.
The sailor had long been a figure of romance and mystery. Few ordinary
folk, apart from the military, travelled more than a dozen or so miles
from their villages and farms. The sight of a homecoming ship, her
company tanned, swaggering seamen in their blue coats and brass buttons,
their pigtails and tattoos, was enough to get the hearts beating, the ale
flowing. In seaports and harbours it was common to catch sight of
an officer in cocked hat and white breeches, with sword on hip and probably
a lady on his arm. Nothing then to show the inner problems of the
fleet's greatest need.
Men
For this and
other reasons, the world between decks of a large fighting ship, a seventy-four
for instance, became as much like an overcrowded town as it did a home
for those more used to better things.
It was possible for men to work with older hands, to take their places
when eventually they were discharges because of age or health, or when
they were killed or crippled in action.
In every ship between decks there was a backbone of professional men without
whom the vessel would be as helpless as if she had been denied a keel.
A man-o'-war had to depend on the inner resources for everything.
Every sail, and there were many, had to be replaced or repaired, the scraps
saved for anything from patches to spare hammocks.
The sailmaker and his mates were always busy, for no ship was spared losses
from storm-force gales which ripped canvas from yards even before the breathless
watch below could be called to reef and so to save the sailmaker more hard
work.
The same sailmaker had many other talents. He could make clothing
for the seamen, rough, wide-legged trousers and jackets, for which they
paid in rum or tobacco. He could be called aft, to the great cabin,
and be expected to produce a canvas carpet for his captain's quarters,
the finished article picked out in black and white squares to give the
austere deck a look of home.
Likewise the cooper. With his own band of mates he had to fight a
constant battle against rotting or rancid casks, repairing and replacing
with whatever wood came his way. He was well aware that it was prudent
to stay a friend of the ship's carpenter who with the boatswain were two
of the most important warrant officers in any vessel. The carpenter
had to service the hull, attend to leaks which were caused more by stress
of weather than by cannon shot, plug holes after a fight, and keep an eye
on every piece of gear from spars to boats, gangways to cabin furniture.
The boatswain, responsible for rigging and sails, anchors and cables, was
the key man between seamen and quarterdeck, twixt company and first lieutenant,
who in turn was answerable to the captain.
A lifeline of inter-dependence, a chain of command.
Master's mates, midshipmen and petty officers. Marine sergeants and
corporals, quartermasters and boatswain's mates, all seemed very aloof
and remote to the newly joined men, and upon their skill, their patience,
or lack of them, could depend the whole ship's company.
In spite of the demanding conditions in civilian life ashore, to many of
those going into a King's ship, be they volunteers or pressed men, their
new world must have seemed confusing and not a little terrifying.
Guns made up the staff of any fighting ship. Sail drill, and the
endless work on rigging and canvas, splicing and sewing, tarring and caulking
were all vital. But their real purpose was to carry a floating platform
to anywhere in the world as their lordships demanded, and once there to
use these weapons with authority.
This one hard fact was never allowed to escape the ship's company.
The bulk of the seamen had their messes between each pair of guns, so that
when they lowered their tables from the deckhead and consumed their spartan
meals of salt beef or pork, iron-hard biscuit and a mug of rum or wine,
the guns were there with them. When they turned out of their hammocks,
and each man was allowed only twenty inches between his and the next one,
the black-tethered muzzles were an ever-present reminder of their function.
To make or reef sails in all weathers, to work the guns, to steer and splice,
none was achieved without some pain and hardship, and yet the ordinary
'jack' was still able to amuse himself. Hornpipes during the evenings,
fishing and competition between messes in intricate rope and scrimshaw
work filled in much of their off-watch hours. The more artistic made
delicate snuff boxes from scraps of wood, and some which are still on display
in maritime museums were created from chunks of salt beef from casks so
old that the surface of the shot-hard meat gleams like polished mahogany.
Apart from the hard core of
seasoned warrant officers and their mates, there were others who stood
out from the mass which made up the ship's company. Men like the
captain's personal coxswain and the members of his barge crew were such
as these. Surprisingly enough, they were seen more often by visitors
and casual onlookers than the bulk of the company, and in the eyes of their
captain often came to represent not only his ship but his own standard
of efficiency.
It was common for a captain
to purchase, even design a uniform for his barge crew, and to supply special
buttons and other adornments for his coxswain and personal servant.
It was a saying in the Navy until recent years that a ship could be judged
by the smartness and turnout of her boats' crews.
In the eighteenth century,
this was even more so, and while most of the ships' companies dressed in
rough issue clothing from the purser's store, or purchased cloth from their
meagre pay and had it made up by the ubiquitous sailmaker, the various
barge crews presented a fine spectacle as they vied with each other to
ply back and forth between ships and shore.
It is true to say that after
the first year or so of war the Navy was forced more and more to use the
press-gangs for recruitment.
There were, during those times,
many who were exempt from service, and as in all wars, there were those
who abused their rank or privilege to avoid risking their own skins.
Any captain in search of fresh
hands would find his way blocked by many such exemptions. Seamen
of the East India Company, licensed watermen, and those who ferried stores
up the winding canals, the very sort who would have been welcomed witharms in any King's ship were amongst those so protected.
Harassed lieutenants sent ashore
in search of men would rarely dare to return empty-handed. To make
up their number they would sometimes seize a man too old, or a child so
young that the party of sailors would be chased by an irate populace back
to the safety of their longboat.
Boarding house crimps were
another source. A whisper to an officer of the press-gang, a quick
handful of coins, and the seafarers, imagining themselves quite safe in
a lodging house or inn, would awake to the cry, 'Stand, in the King's name!'
Unfair, brutal, it possibly
was. But there was no proper census, no real way of spreading just
recruitment around the land and in towns far from the sea and its needs.
Because many ships originally
commissioned in Plymouth or Portsmouth, at the Nore or in Scottish seaports,
their companies brought their own traditions and superstitions with them
and gave separate characters and personalities to their floating homes.
Even as late as the last war there was real competition between Pompey
ships and those from Guz (Portsmouth and Devonport). Many of the
traditions, too, came from ones originally quite detached from maritime
life. Even the custom of Crossing the Line Ceremony, shared today
amongst passengers of cruise liners, and which is said to have originated
with the Carthaginians when they sacrificed to their gods on passing 'the
limits of navigation', may have begun much earlier as religious rites for
a safe harvest ashore.
Men torn from the arms of their
loved ones by the press, never knowing how their families were going to
fend for themselves, or whether they would ever meet again. Others
who faced deportation or the degrading existence of a debtors' prison.
Criminals, and those hiding from some attempted felony, old seamen who
had sworn never to return to any ship but had found that the land had rejected
them. The boys from villages and farms, urged on by the local girls
to show their daring. Volunteers who had lost friends in the war,
or who hoped to make their way in a naval career. Country folk and
townsmen, fishermen and ostlers. Once crammed inside the great oak
hull they had to be of one company, no matter how rough the union might
be.
Some were taken by force, others
followed the drum of a recruiting party or 'listened' round-eyed to a poster
which a captain had had printed at his own expense to invite volunteers
to his command. Unfortunately much depended on the man who read the
proud words to the crowd. Most of the lower orders could not read
or write, so a badly delivered oration could deprive a captain of quite
a few hands.
And there were those who went
to their beds peacefully, or fell into a drunken sleep in some alehouse
or inn. These unfortunates might awake sick and dazed in a ship already
standing out to sea, their heads half cracked by a cudgel.
However they came, no matter
what they hoped to gain or avoid, they became part of the ship. And
when at last the drums rolled and they hurried grim-faced to quarters,
to tear down screens and run out their guns, they knew the full meaning
of being one company.
As the guns roared and hurled
themselves inboard on their tackles, and the crews yelled for more powder
and shot in a world of earsplitting noise and choking gunsmoke, they stood
together and did their best. Men fell and died, others were dragged
wounded to the surgeon on the orlop deck below.
But the firing went on until
the enemy's flag had struck and above the din came the cheers. From
ordinary men who had suddenly become British seamen.
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II
A Decisive Year
After five
long years of war 1798d on a note of uncertainty, and yet left neither
Britain nor her main enemy, France, in doubt that it was to be one of vital
importance.
Militarily speaking, Britain had done little but reinforce her overseas
possessions and garrisons and dig deep into the nation's treasury to equip
and man her army at home. It was generally accepted that this was
to be the war which would settle things once and for all, but, unlike previous
conflicts, there was the added horror of a peoples' revolution, the beheading
of a king and his queen and all the bloodshed of the Terror which followed.
As was too often the case, our own Navy was taken for granted. The
fleet which stood astride the 'Moat', as the English Channel was trustingly
named, was more than a match for any insolent, would-be invader.
Especially a French invader.
Indeed, there was much to back up this belief. The victories against
the King's enemies at sea were numerous and inspiring. Howe's triumph
over the French in 1794, the Glorious First of June, and Jervis' splendid
victory at St. Vincent in 1797, quite apart from single ship and frigate
actions, added to the belief that the Navy would stop anything which an
enemy might attempt.
The experts knew well enough that a war could not be won by staying put
behind the fleet and the island's natural defences, any more than by blockading
the enemy's ports and patrolling the trade routes in search of valuable
convoys and essential war supplies. They were necessary tactics,
part of the larger pattern, but none was final.
Perhaps the British ability to beat enemy ships at sea, often to win against
impressive odds, gave both Parliament and public an over-confidence which
within the fleet was seen as criminal neglect.
For the ships which made up the relentless blockade on every major enemy
port were in a sad way. Between the wars many had lain idle, rotting
even, while the harbours and fishing villages around our coasts were thronged
with men who had been cast aside by an ungrateful nation. A nation
whose own security had been saved by the very same veterans.
Tacking up and down in all conditions, the weatherbeaten ships kept watch
over every important anchorage. Brest and Cherbourg, Lorient and
Nantes, it made no difference as far as the ships' companies were concerned.
They existed on foul food and in discomfort which would kill many men today.
Wearing ship, tacking back and forth across French estuaries and inlets,
knowing all the while that their enemies lay protected and unreached by
weather under the guns of their shore batteries.
There were some senior officers within the fleet who either did not appreciate
the value of their men, or who were such tyrants they did not care.
The newer breed of sea officer had yet to assert himself, and most were
so concerned with their part in the war that they did not fully appreciate
what was happening where it was least expected, in England.
In 1797 two mutinies broke out in the fleet. The first at Spithead
and a few smaller commands, rocked the nation to its heels. Admiral
Howe, 'Black Dick' as he was affectionately known on the lower deck, was
quick to se the trend of events and acted accordingly.
A seaman's pay was a mere pittance, and what he did actually earn could
be lost in mysterious debts and payments to his purser. His living
standards and conditions of service were abysmal, and there were plenty
of officers willing to give testimony to the fact. Others saw the
seamen's plea for justice as wilful rebellion and demanded hangings by
the hundred, and enough savage punishment to deter anyone in the future.
Lord Howe did his best for the seamen, and after the removal of a few known
martinets from authority the men returned to duty.
Elsewhere, however, the lesson of Spithead had been studied, and when the
next and far greater mutiny broke out at the Nore, the country was appalled
by its completeness. Professional agitators and lower deck lawyers
found ready ground for their speeches and revolutionary disruption.
The Medway was blockaded and guns trained on nearby towns. The army
marched to guard the approaches, and admirals hurried back and forth between
London and the mutineers' councils in an effort to seek a compromise.
At sea, Duncan defeated the Dutch at the Battle of Camperdown, and elsewhere
the blockade continued. Across the Channel the French watched the
unrest in their enemy's fleet and tried to plan for a quick invasion.
But the British ability, need even, for compromise brought the mutiny to
an uneasy end. Some of the leaders were hanged, others flogged.
A few officers were taken from their ships, and better conditions promised
for the future. The ordinary British seaman had shaken the nation
from King to farm worker with his brief display of independence and power.
And so, at the beginning of 1798, both main antagonists stood facing each
other once again.
Napoleon Bonaparte was just twenty-nine, and although under the control
of the Directory, he was seen as a man of individual talent and superior
military ability.
Unlike many of his countrymen, he had little respect for the British Navy,
a fault for which he was to pay dearly.
As a soldier he had much to
back up his confidence, and that of his proud army.
He had watched the Royalist
coup fail in Toulon, even though it was backed by British sea-power under
Lord Hood, and he had used his own exertions to make the victory final.
He had organised a devastating campaign against the Austrian forces in
Italy, and had forced the Treaty of Campo Formio in 1797. The Ancient
Republic of Venice had been wiped out in favour of Austria, and in exchange
Austria had handed her Dutch interests to France. France had taken
the islands of the Adriatic, while throughout the Mediterranean she had
made her name feared, so that even those who wished to favour Britain were
afraid to do so.
Napoleon could see only one
effective enemy in the whole of Europe: Britain.
With his usual stamina and
sense of timing, Napoleon set about preparing for the next stage of his
campaign. He was a land animal, and used the French fleet as transport
for his army rather than as a weapon. Again, it was to act against
him.
While he made visits to the
Channel ports, just to give spies and agents the impression he was still
considering a sea invasion of England's south coast, the preparations at
Toulon and neighboring ports gathered momentum.
By the spring the French had
mustered a force of some thirty-five thousand men, three-hundred transports,
and a fleet to protect them under Admiral de Brueys, the best officer in
their navy. With all the necessary stores and weapons, horse, fodder
and equipment, this great colossus poised on the edge of the Mediterranean
and awaited the signal.
Even by today's standards it
was impressive, especially as Napoleon's gaze was firmly fixed on Egypt,
which to him meant one thing, the gateway to India and the East Indies,
and all the trade and possessions France had lost in the previous war.
The British, on the other hand,
were uncertain as to the French intentions. Denied of bases, our
fleet had not penetrated the Mediterranean in strength for months, and
apart from rumour, knew little of Bonaparte's movements.
It was decided to send a British
squadron to investigate, and Jervis, now the Earl of St. Vincent because
of his great victory, chose a young rear admiral, Horatio Nelson, for the
task.
To break out of Toulon and
seize Malta, and possibly the Kingdom of Sicily. To steer west and
force the Strait of Gilbraltar and join up with the combined fleets of
France and Spain and thence onto England. Ireland, too, was considered,
as the French had already attempted an invasion of that unhappy island
earlier in the war.
And of course there was Egypt.
But what a decision for a fleet
commander. Nelson was thirty-nine at the time, and still suffering
badly from the loss of his arm the previous year at Teneriffe. But
his strength came from the men about him, his Band of Brothers as he called
them, young captains who had grown to know and respect his qualities of
leadership and accept his tantrums when things did not go to his liking
with a kind of love.
Many of these captains were
to distinguish themselves later, and had already blazed a trail of endurance
and courage which had done much to restore the Navy's morale. Men
like Saumarez and Foley, Berry and Troubridge, and of course not forgetting
the one who was perhaps to be the best remembered, Captain Thomas Hardy,
who walked the deck with Nelson at Trafalgar seven years later.
Nelson was beset by misfortune
at the start, mostly from perverse and savage weather. His own flagship
was dismasted, his frigates, due to a misunderstanding, quit the squadron
and returned to Gibraltar, and to top it all, the French fleet sailed from
Toulon. The very gales which had driven the British away and dismasted
their flagship were favourable to de Brueys and his armada, which within
days had vanished into the Mediterranean as if it had never been.
It was a terrible dilemma for
Nelson. To sail west on the understanding that the enemy was indeed
making for the Atlantic? To steer for the eastern Mediterranean and
thereby allow the French to escape and attack England in strength?
Or to do nothing?
Meanwhile, the elusive French
fleet sailed on towards Egypt, joining with other vessels which had been
sheltering in the Greek islands and awaiting the moment to attack.
After one abortive cruise along
the Egyptian coast, and discovering Alexandria to be empty of French shipping,
Nelson returned fretting to Sicily. Unbeknown to him, he had passed
the French fleet in the night, and when at last he received information
of the enemy's movements to the south-east, Bonaparte's army was already
ashore, his ships anchored outside Alexandria in Aboukir Bay.
De Brueys had no doubt that
the British would eventually arrive. He took no chances. His
fleet was superior in size and quality to the one which Nelson commanded,
and contained the largest man-o'-war in the world at that time, de Bruey's
massive one hundred and twenty gun flagship, L'Orient. He
anchored his ships in one long line, and to further reinforce it had each
linked to the next by stout cables. He then waited to see what would
happen.
Characteristically, Nelson's
first reaction at being told the French were at Alexandria was one of happiness.
The doubt and frustration were over. He knew well enough of the danger
and the great odds against his ships attacking a prepared and anchored
enemy.
He remarked, unabashed, 'By
this time tomorrow I shall have gained a Peerage or Westminster Abbey.'
The action began at half-past
six, just prior to sunset. It raged all through the night, the fierceness
of the battle only faltering when the giant L'Orient took fire and
exploded, the sound of the blast being heard many miles away.
Near five o'clock in the morning
the firing ceased, some of the gun crews so dazed and exhausted they could
hardly stand and fight.
Of all the French fleet which
had joined in the battle the previous evening only two had survived destruction
or capture, and they had slipped out to sea, the British ships too crippled
to give chase.
The whole Bay of Aboukir was
covered with dead bodies, mangled, wounded and scorched.
'Victory,' said Nelson, 'is
not a name strong enough for such a scene.'
But victory it was. The
French army was marooned, and Bonaparte's hopes of an Indian Empire smashed.
He had lost his fleet and some five thousand men, nearly six times as many
as his enemy.
The Mediterranean was an English
lake again, Egypt and Malta became ours.
The Battle of the Nile taught
several lessons. That properly led, and treated with the humanity
they deserved, the Navy could still surprise even its most ardent believers.
Later to be overshadowed by
Trafalgar, the Nile was Nelson's greatest fight, and his example was to
encourage one more step to make the life of a seaman something free of
fear and to give it back its pride.
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III
Signal -- Close Action!
 In
January 1798 as Richard Bolitho hoists his broad pendant for the first
time as commodore of a small squadron, he realises from the start that
his new command is not an easy one.
His orders are to take all
steps to discover the French intentions in the Mediterranean and report
back to his admiral. The enemy are said to be on the move again,
but to where? West to the Atlantic, or to seize Malta and the Kingdom
of Sicily? Or further to the south-east, to the making of a French
dream and the capture of Egypt?
In Toulon and neighboring ports
a French armada is almost ready, poised to break past the British patrols
at the first right moment. It is a heavy responsibility for the commodore,
and one which will cost his country dearly should he make a wrong decision.
But he discovers that there
is much more to hoisting his own flag than the planning of strategy.
Within his small squadron there are men no less dangerous than the enemy.
He is unable to show favour even to old and dear friends, and is forced
more and more on to his own resources.
He has to use everything at
his disposal to seek out the information he needs. From daring exploits
on hostile territory to facing bloody broadsides inwater where his
broad pennant rallies the little squadron but also invites constant attack
from the enemy.
It is a far greater step from
captain to commanding the destinies of several ships and their companies
than he had ever imagined, and no easier to decide who lives and dies merely
because he flies his flag above the end result.
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