Men-of-War Read online

  As you see, the men had at the most four hours of sleep one night and seven the next, with what they might snatch during the day. But in any emergency, such as reducing sail in dirty weather or tacking ship, or the least hint of action, all hands would be called and the watch below tumbled up, perhaps with no sleep at all.

  This was an ordinary ship’s day; but on others the routine changed, particularly on Thursdays and Sundays. On Thursdays hammocks were piped up at 4 a.m.; the hands spent the morning washing their clothes and the afternoon making and mending them. On Sundays hammocks were piped up at six bells and breakfast was at seven bells; then the ship and everything in her was brought to a high state of perfection, the men washed, shaved and put on their clean good clothes; they combed and plaited one another’s pigtails, and at five bells in the morning watch they were mustered by divisions, the lieutenant of each division inspecting them as they stood in lines, toeing one particular seam on the deck. Then the captain, having inspected them too, went right round the ship with the first lieutenant to see that everything, including the cook’s great coppers, was spotless. It usually was, but if he found anything dirty or out of order, then there would be the very devil to pay. After the captain’s inspection there was a service on the quarterdeck, conducted by the chaplain if the ship carried one and by the captain if she did not. Some captains would preach a sermon, but others merely read out the Articles of War.

  Then the men were piped to dinner, which might include such delights as figgy-dowdy, made by putting ship’s biscuits into a canvas bag, pounding them with a marlinspike, adding bits of fat, figs and raisins, and boiling the whole in a cloth. Until supper-time they were as free as the work of the ship allowed. If they were in company with other ships or in port they would often go ship-visiting; or the liberty-men might be allowed on shore, especially in such places as Malta or Gibraltar, where it was easy to catch them if they tried to desert. After supper they were mustered, each man passing in front of the captain as his name was called and checked off on the ship’s books: and when the muster was over it was time for quarters again.

  Some ships had special days for punishment; others might punish all round the week. It always took place at six bells in the forenoon watch. The boatswain’s mates piped ‘All hands to witness punishment’ and the men flocked aft, where the Marines were drawn up with their muskets on the poop and all the officers were present in formal dress, wearing their swords. The master-at-arms brought his charges before the captain and the misconduct of which they were accused (usually drunkenness) was publicly stated. If the man had anything to say for himself he might do so, and if any of his particular officers saw fit they might put in a word for him. Having considered the case, the captain gave his decision – acquittal, reprimand or punishment. This might be extra duties or stoppage of grog, but often it was flogging. ‘Strip,’ the captain would say, and the seaman’s shirt came off. ‘Seize him up,’ and the quartermasters tied his hands to a grating rigged for the purpose upright against the break of the poop, reporting, ‘Seized up, sir.’ Then the captain read the Articles of War that covered the offence, he and all the others taking off their hats as he did so. He said, ‘Do your duty,’ and a boatswain’s mate, taking the cat-of-ninetails out of a red baize bag, laid on the number of strokes awarded. Some hands screamed, but the regular man-of-war’s man would take a dozen in silence.

  It was a vile, barbarous business by our standards, and an ugly one even by the more brutal standards of the time – no women were allowed to witness it. Many captains, Nelson and Collingwood among them, hated flogging, and there were ships that kept excellent taut discipline without bringing the cat out of the bag for months on end; but there were other captains, such as the infamous Pigot of the Hermione whose crew eventually hacked him to pieces off the Spanish Main, who rigged the grating almost every day and whose sentences, instead of Collingwood’s six, nine or at the most twelve strokes, actually ran into the hundreds.

  These men were despised by their fellow-officers, not only for being inhuman brutes but for being inefficient brutes into the bargain. A happy ship was the only excellent fighting-machine – a ship whose well-trained, well-led crew would follow their officers anywhere, a ship that would fight like a tiger when she came into action.

  Action was the goal of every sea-officer; and when it came, how a ship sprang to life! The drum beat to quarters, the men raced to their familiar stations and cast loose their guns, the officers’ cabins disappeared, the thin bulkheads, the furniture and all lumber vanishing into the hold to give a clear sweep fore and aft, the decks were wetted and sanded against fire. Damp cloth screens appeared around the hatches; in the magazines the gunner and his mates served out powder to the boys with their cartridge-cases; the yards were secured with chains; the galley fires were put out; and all this happened in a matter of minutes.

  If it was a fleet action the captain and his first lieutenant on the quarterdeck would have their eyes on the admiral or the repeating frigates almost as much as on the enemy, for it was of the first importance to follow the admiral’s signals. The traditional fleet action was begun with both sides manoeuvring for the weather-gage – that is, trying to gain a position to windward of the enemy so as to have the advantage of forcing an engagement at the right moment. Then the two fleets would form their line of battle, usually with about four hundred yards between the ships in each line to allow for change of course; and the idea was that each captain should engage his opposite number on the other side. The Fighting Instructions insisted that the battle-line should be rigidly maintained, and any captain who strayed from it was liable to be court-martialled: he must keep his station, and, since those who were not next to the admiral in this straight line could not see his signals because of the sails of the next ahead or astern, they had to watch the frigates (which always lay outside the line) whose duty it was to repeat the flagship’s orders.

  But these battles rarely led to a decisive result, and in 1782 in the West Indies, Rodney disobeyed the Instructions, broke the French line and captured the enemy flagship and five others. In the war that began in 1793 nearly all the great fleet actions disregarded official tactics. “Never mind manoeuvres,” said Nelson. “Always go at them.” This he did at Saint Vincent, the Nile and Trafalgar, just as Duncan did at Camperdown: after the first formal approach the fleet action quickly became a wild free-for-all in which better gunnery and seamanship won the day. At St Vincent, for example, Sir John Jervis, with Nelson under his orders and fifteen ships of the line, took on a Spanish fleet of 27, including seven first rates, captured four and beat the rest into a cocked hat.

  Another and more frequent sort of action was that fought between frigates, sometimes in small squadrons but more often as single ships; and in these everything depended on the captain – he fought his ship alone. One of the finest was the battle between HMS Amethyst, 36, and the French Thétis, 40. Late on a November evening in 1808, close in with the coast of Brittany, Captain Seymour caught sight of the Thétis slipping out of Lorient with an east-north-east wind, bound for Martinique. He at once wore in chase, and by cracking on sail he came up with her by about 9 p.m., although she was a flyer. The Thétis, running a good nine knots, suddenly shortened sail and luffed up, turning to rake the Amethyst with all her broadside guns. The Amethyst was having none of that: she swerved violently to port and then, the moment the French broadside was fired, to starboard, shooting up into the wind just abreast of the Thétis. And now began a furious cannonade, both ships battering one another at close range as fast as they could load and fire. The Thétis, as well as her extra guns, had 100 soldiers aboard, and they joined in with their musketry: the din was prodigious. After half an hour, when the Amethyst was a little ahead, the Thétis tried to cross under her stern and rake her, but there was not room and she ran her bowsprit into the Amethyst’s rigging amidships: in a few moments they fell apart, and still running before the wind they continued to hammer one another like furies. After another hal
f hour of this the Amethyst forged ahead, put her helm hard a-starboard, crossed the Thétis’ hawse and raked her, the whole broadside sweeping the Frenchman’s deck from stem to stern. Again they ran side by side, lighting up the night with their incessant fire; but at 10.20 the Amethyst’s mizenmast came down, smashing the wheel and sprawling over her quarterdeck. The Thétis shot ahead, meaning to cross and rake the Amethyst in her turn. But before she could do so, her own mizen went by the board. Once more the frigates were side by side, each hammering the other with a murderous fire. At 11 the Thétis had had enough: she steered straight for the Amethyst to board her. Captain Seymour saw that they would collide bow to bow and that the rebound would bring their quarters together. He gave the order not to fire. The ships struck, sprang apart, and then just before the Frenchman’s quarter swung against the Amethyst he cried ‘Fire!’ and the whole broadside tore into the Thétis’ boarders as they stood ready to spring from her quarterdeck. She could only reply with 4 guns, and a moment later the ships were locked together, the Amethyst’s best bower anchor hooked into the Thétis’ deck. So they lay for another hour and more, their guns still blazing furiously. The Thétis was set alight in many places, her fire gradually slackened, and at twenty minutes after midnight Captain Seymour called ‘Boarders away!’, leapt aboard with his men and carried her at the point of the sword. A little later the Frenchman’s two remaining masts fell over the side. Her hull was terribly shattered, and in her very courageous resistance she had lost 135 killed, including her captain, and 102 wounded. The Amethyst lost 19 killed and 51 wounded.

  The comparative strength of the two frigates:

  Amethyst

  Thétis

  Broadside guns

  21

  22

  broadside weight of metal

  467 lb

  524 lb

  crew

  261

  436 (counting the 106 soldiers)

  size

  1046 tons

  1090 tons

  The rewards of victory were very great. The successful sea-officer enjoyed an honour, glory and popularity that no other man could earn. And after the great fleet actions the admirals were given peerages, huge presents of money and pensions of thousands a year; the victorious frigate-captain was made a baronet; first lieutenants were promoted commander and some midshipmen were given their commissions; but apart from public praise the rewards did not usually go much lower than that. For tangible advantages the ship’s company looked to something else – to prize-money.

  Whenever a man-of-war captured an enemy ship and brought her home she was first condemned as lawful prize and then sold. The proceedings were shared thus:

  before 1808

  after 1808

  Captain

  3/8

  2/8

  Lieutenants, master, captain of Marines, equal shares of

  1/8

  1/8

  Marine lieutenants, surgeon, purser, boatswain, gunner, carpenter, master’s mates, chaplain, equal shares of

  1/8

  1/8

  Midshipmen, lower warrant officers, gunner’s, boatswain’s and carpenter’s mates, Marine sergeants, equal shares of

  1/8

  4/8

  Everybody else, equal shares of

  2/8

  Before 1808 the captain had to give one of his eighths to the flag-officers under whose orders he served: after 1808, one third of what he received. If he were not under an admiral he kept it all in both cases.

  From the point of view of mere lucre, leaving honour and glory aside, it was not very profitable to take an enemy man-of-war: she was usually shockingly battered by the time she surrendered, and in any case she carried nothing but a cargo of cannon-balls and guns. To be sure, there was head-money of five pounds for every member of her crew, but real wealth, real splendid wealth, came only from the merchant or the treasure ship, laden with silk and spice, or, even more to the point, with gold and silver. An East-Indiaman was worth a fortune, and a ship from the Guinea coast, laden with gold-dust and elephants’ teeth, meant dignified ease for life.

  Back in 1743, when Anson, having rounded the Horn, having survived incredible hardships, and having sailed right across the Pacific, took the great Manilla galleon, he found 1,313,842 pieces of eight aboard her, to say nothing of the unminted silver. He brought it home, and 32 wagons were needed to carry it to the Tower of London: even a boatswain’s mate had well over a thousand guineas for his share, while Anson, an admiral and a peer of the realm, was a very wealthy man.

  And in 1762, when it became clear that a war with Spain was inevitable, cruisers were sent out: two of them, the Active, 28, and the Favourite, 20, had information of a register ship from Lima to Cadiz. As Beatson, the contemporary historian, says, they ‘had the good fortune to get sight of her on the 21st of May, and immediately gave chase. In a few hours they were close along-side, when Captain Sawyer hailed them whence they came; and, on being answered from Lima, he desired them to strike, for that hostilities were commenced between Great Britain and Spain. This was a piece of news they were not prepared for; but after a little hesitation, they submitted. Possession was then taken of the vessel, the Hermione, which was by far the richest prize made during the war; the cargo and ship, etc., amounting to £544,648 1s. 6d.’

  This splendid cake was cut up thus:

  In 1804 much the same thing happened again: the Spaniards sent their treasure across the ocean, and off Cadiz there were four frigates of the Royal Navy waiting for it. It must be admitted that England had not formally declared war, but they took it just the same. This time there was a fight, the Spanish ships being frigates of their navy, and in the course of it one most unfortunately blew up. The other three struck, and they were found to be carrying 5,810,000 pieces of eight. However, the Admiralty in an odd fit of conscience, decided that this was not lawful prize (although the frigates had been ordered to go and take it) and that the money, apart from a small proportion, should go to the Crown; so in the end the poor captains had to content themselves with a mere £15,000 apiece. Still, seeing that the captain of a sixth rate then earned just over £100 a year, they had made 150 years’ pay in a morning, just as the seamen of the Active had made 36 years’ in an afternoon; and in any case, there might always be another Hermione round the next headland.

  There never was another Hermione; but splendid prizes were still to be made, and the very real possibility of a fortune lying just over the horizon, to be won by a bold stroke, a few hours’ fierce action, added a certain charm to the sailor’s hard and dangerous life at sea.

  Songs

  The beautiful working-songs and shanties of the merchant ships had no place in the Royal Navy, which was a silent service. But even so, there was music aboard a man-of-war: when the grog was served out the ship’s fifer or fiddler played ‘Nancy Dawson’, or ‘Sally in our Alley’; when the men were drummed to quarters it was to the tune of ‘Heart of Oak’; and when the anchor was being weighed the fiddler sat on the capstan and struck up ‘Drops of Brandy’. And then of course there were the songs and ballads the sailors sang, particularly on a Saturday night at sea. Here is one of the most popular of them:

  Farewell and adieu to you fine Spanish ladies,

  Farewell and adieu all you ladies of Spain,

  For we’ve received orders to sail for old England

  And perhaps we shall never more see you again.

  We’ll rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors,

  We’ll range and we’ll roam over all the salt seas,

  Until we strike soundings in the Channel of old England –

  From Ushant to Scilly ’tis thirty-five leagues.

  We hove our ship to when the wind was sou’west, boys,

  We hove our ship to for to strike soundings clear,

  Then we filled our main-tops’l and bore right away, boys,

  And right up the Channel our course we did steer.

  We’ll rant and we’ll roar, et
c.

  The first land we made is known as the Dodman,

  Next Ram Head near Plymouth, Start, Portland and Wight;

  We sailèd past Beachy, past Fairley and Dungeness,

  And then bore away for the South Foreland light.

  We’ll rant and we’ll roar, etc.

  Then the signal is made for the Grand Fleet to anchor

  All all in the Downs that night for to meet,

  So stand by your stoppers, see clear your shank-painters,

  Haul all your clew-garnets, stick out tacks and sheets.

  We’ll rant and we’ll roar, etc.

  Now let every man toss off a full bumper,

  Now let every man toss off a full bowl,

  For we will be jolly and drown melancholy

  In a health to each jovial and true-hearted soul.

  We’ll rant and we’ll roar, etc.

  And here is part of a home-made ballad, one of the many composed and sung by sailors:

  I’ll tell you of a fight, boys, and how it did begin.

  It was in Gibraltar Gut, which is nigh unto Apes’ Hill;

  It was three privateers that belonged unto Spain

  Who thought our British courage for to stain.

  I’ll tell you, brother sailors: it was on a calm day,

  Then one of the privateers they boarded us straightaway:

  They hove in their powder-flasks and their stink-pots,

  But we repaid them with our small shot.