by Roy Adkins
one of his shot struck the upper part of the quarter deck bulwark, on the larboard side, killed one man and wounded nine. One or two shots passed so close to the Captain [Gambier] that I thought he was hit. He clapped both hands upon his thighs with some emotion: then, recovering himself, he took out of his pocket a piece of biscuit, and began eating it as if nothing had happened. He had evidently been shook by the wind of the shot. He had on a cocked hat, and kept walking the deck, cheering up the seamen with the greatest coolness.50
Three days later in the midst of the Glorious First of June battle, Dillon himself experienced a similar shock: ‘Two of the men were blown down from the wind of a shot from the ship we were engaging, and I was carried away with them by the shock. I thought myself killed, as I became senseless, being jammed between these men.’51 After the battle, he went to see the surgeon:
I enquired the fate of the two men I had sent him from my quarters. He told me they were both killed! One of them was without the slightest mark of a wound on any part of his body: the other had a bruise across his loins, supposed to have been occasioned by his having come in contact with the bitts in his fall. It is therefore clear that they were killed by the wind of a shot. Few persons will believe that the wind of a shot can take away life. But here was proof that it could, and the Surgeon was a witness to its having happened.52
The most damage was done by broadsides, where all the cannons along one side of a ship were fired at once, or in rapid sequence. On board the Foudroyant at the Battle of St Vincent, Midshipman George Parsons observed that ‘not, through the whole of that glorious and unprecedented victory, did I hear such a fatal broadside as was poured in the Foudroyant by the Guillaume Tell.’53 This was the start of the encounter between the two ships, and the broadside, Parsons thought,
resembled a volcanic eruption, crashing, tearing, and splintering everything in its destructive course. ‘Hard up,’ said our chief, ‘set the jib, and sheet home the fore-top-gallant sail’ (for we had shot past the enemy like a flash of lightning). ‘The jib-boom is gone, and the fore-topmast is badly wounded,’ roared the forecastle officer; ‘look out for the topmast – stand from under!’ Down it came on the larboard gangway, crushing some to pieces under its enormous weight.54
Such broadsides caused so much damage to a ship that they often decided the outcome of a battle. For the seamen in most battles, though, it was more a question of endurance than anything else. Samuel Leech vividly recorded the encounter between the United States and his ship, the Macedonian. A fierce fight took place that eventually ended with the Macedonian’s surrender:
The battle went on. Our men kept cheering with all their might. I cheered with them, though I confess I scarcely knew what for … we kept on our shouting and firing. Our men fought like tigers. Some of them pulled off their jackets and vests; while some, still more determined, had taken off their shirts, and, with nothing but a handkerchief tied round the waistbands of their trowsers, fought like heroes … I also observed a boy, named Cooper, stationed at a gun some distance from the magazine. He came to and fro on the full run, and appeared to be as ‘merry as a cricket’. The third lieutenant cheered him along, occasionally by saying, ‘Well done, my boy, you are worth your weight in gold.’ I have often been asked what were my feelings during this fight. I felt pretty much as I suppose every one does at such a time. That men are without thought when they stand amid the dying and the dead, is too absurd an idea to be entertained for a moment.55
Cheering throughout the fighting also had a more practical use, in the view of Midshipman William Millard, who was at the 1801 Battle of Copenhagen: ‘When the carnage was greatest he [an army lieutenant] encouraged his men by applauding their conduct, and frequently began a huzza, which is of more importance than might generally be imagined; for the men have no other communication throughout the ship; but when a shout is set up, it runs from deck to deck, and they know that their comrades are, some of them, alive and in good spirits.’56 It was unacceptable to display fear, Leech remarked:
We all appeared cheerful, but I know that many a serious thought ran through my mind: still, what could we do but keep up a semblance, at least, of animation? To run from our quarters would have been certain death from the hands of our own officers; to give way to gloom, or to show fear, would do no good, and might brand us with the name of cowards, and ensure certain defeat. Our only true philosophy, therefore, was to make the best of our situation, by fighting bravely and cheerfully.57
Nevertheless, fear and signs of panic were at times revealed, and Midshipman Dillon of the Defence recorded one rare instance: ‘A volley of shot assailed the poop, cut away the main brace, and made sad havoc there. Some of the men could not help showing symptoms of alarm: which the Captain [Gambier] noticing, he instantly went up, and, calling the seamen together, led them to set the brace to rights.’58 During the summer of 1805 the landsman George Price of the Speedy, now promoted to ordinary seaman, described to his brother the various actions in which they were involved with the French in the English Channel – this was a time of heightened fear when the French were preparing to invade. On 21 July he wrote: ‘I have the honor to say that Speedy led the van and [was] greatly applauded by our captain and all the squadron. Our captain is pleased to tell us there is not a coward in the ship. But you may depend upon it there is a number in the ship that would wish to be out of it. But for my part I am determined to do as much as another. But at the same time I don’t like it.’59 A month later he wrote again to his brother, obviously fearful of losing his life, but saying that they were all in the highest spirits. Only a week later he deserted the ship.
In order to prevent the seamen from deserting their posts in battle, the marines were posted at strategic points, although some of them helped out with firing the guns. If opposing ships came close enough, the marines joined in the fighting with small arms, mainly muskets and grenades, and boarders armed with swords, axes and pistols would attempt to cross over to the enemy ship and continue with hand-to-hand fighting. Boarding another ship was a risky strategy because there were too many uncertainties. If the enemy crew was larger than expected, or better trained, more resolute or just lucky, an attempt at boarding might end not only in a confused retreat, but also defeat, with the enemy taking the opportunity to gain the initiative. Usually boarding was only considered as a last resort, or when an enemy ship had ceased firing, but refused to surrender.
During the Battle of Trafalgar, James Spratt, a forty-six-year-old master’s mate in the Defiance, was in charge of the boarding party. He had been responsible for training the men under his command, and as the cannonfire from the French ship Aigle petered out, he urged his captain, Philip Durham, to give the order to board. Later, Spratt described the situation:
Being within pistol shot, about this time the wind had died away and a dead calm ensued … both ships boats being shot through and rendered useless and no prospect of closing with the enemy, I asked my Captain leave to board by swimming, as I well knew 50 or 60 of the boarders who I taught for some years could swim like sharks. This request he received with astonishment saying I was too prompt, but finally consented, so I gave the word ‘All you, my brave fellows, who can swim follow me’. I plunged over board from the starboard gang way with my cutlass between my teeth and my tomahawk under my belt and swam to the stern of L’Aigle where by the assistance of her rudder chains I got into her gunroom stern port alone.60
To his consternation, nobody followed:
My men, in the loud clamour of a general engagement not hearing what I said, or misunderstood me, did not follow, so I fought my way under God’s guidance through a host of gallant French, all prepared with arms in hand, and through all decks until I got on her poop … I now showed myself to our ships crew … and gave them a cheer, with my hat on the point of my cutlass. Our ship at this moment contrived to sheer alongside, and now came the tug of war, both ships lashed side by side … A division of my boarders flew to my support, and a timely one indeed, for I wa
s that moment attacked by 3 grenadiers with fixed bayonets.61
In grappling with them, Spratt fell from the poop deck to the quarterdeck and was surrounded by Frenchmen:
I found myself now in a desperate conflict on the French quarter deck. The first division of boarders being nearly cut up were just reinforced by a fresh division which soon cleared the quarter deck of every soul but one officer, who had done his duty well as long as was in his power, and trying to escape below, was seized by two of our men with uplifted tomahawks. He cried for quarter and threw himself at my feet, and I was obliged to throw myself on him and cover his body to save him from our men … when a grenadier from the starboard gangway with fixed bayonet thought to run me through, but I parried his thrust with my blade. He then retired a little, levelling his piece [musket] at my breast, which I struck downwards with my trusty old friend the cutlass, so that the ball, which would otherwise have passed through my body shivered and shattered the bone of my right leg.62
Calling out for help, Spratt was rescued and carried back to the Defiance, and eventually the French ship was taken.
Once a losing ship was incapable of continuing to fight effectively, the captain usually surrendered, and after the Glorious First of June, several French ships were captured, along with their crews. William Dillon’s ship, the Defence, took some of the prisoners:
The next day we received 56 Frenchmen from the Northumberland, with a few officers … Some of their seamen, very fine powerful men, tried hard to be received as volunteers on board the Defence. There was no end to their praises of our conduct and of our victory. But their offers were not accepted. Strange to say, all the foreigners we had on board had deserted their guns, except one. As this fact had been ascertained, there was no desire to add to their number by allowing the Frenchmen mentioned to form part of our crew. This conduct of the foreigners made a lasting impression on my mind, never to employ them in any ship I might command. Consequently, when I rose in the Service, my first object in taking the command of any ship of war was to get rid of all of them that happened to be serving on board.63
Dillon was extremely prejudiced against the lower classes in general, and found it easy to extend this to the foreigners among their ranks. Nevertheless, he was sympathetic when he encountered several of the French seamen a few months later at Chatham, where they were held on board the notorious prison hulks in the River Medway:
During this severe frost [ January 1795], one of the hulks lying here, in which the prisoners of war were confined, required some assistance to set her moorings to rights, and I was sent on that duty. To my astonishment I there met many of the French seamen that we had captured in the Thetis. They recognized me, and in the most cheerful manner offered to lend a hand in the work going on. I could not help feeling for them, poor fellows, but they bore their captivity with a lightness of heart peculiar to that nation.64
Despite all the propaganda and the undoubted superiority of the British sailors over the vast majority of the crews of their Continental enemies, British ships were sometimes forced to surrender. Lieutenant George Vernon Jackson had to surrender to the French off Guadeloupe in 1809. Outnumbered by four French ships against his own, it was not long before the captain was badly wounded and Jackson had to help him below. Soon after, as Jackson recalled, ‘I returned to my post and saw the gunroom steward coming towards me. He said that we had struck. To satisfy myself as to the fact, I went to the quarter-deck ladder, where I was met by a salute of bayonets and the exclamation, “En bas …”’65 Jackson was landed at Brest, a prisoner-of-war.
Much worse than being forced to surrender was the prospect of a ship blowing up. Once a fire started in a ship, the abundance of combustible material plus the presence of so much gunpowder ensured that if it was not extinguished immediately it would rapidly become uncontrollable. At Trafalgar, the French ship Algésiras caught fire, as Lieutenant Frederick Hoffman in the Tonnant witnessed:
Our severe contest with the French admiral [in the Algésiras] lasted more than half-an-hour, our sides grinding so much against each other that we were obliged to fire the lower deck guns without running them out. At length both ships caught fire before the chest-trees, and our firemen, with all the coolness and courage so inherent in British seamen, got the engine and played [water] on both ships, and finally extinguished the flames, although two of them were severely wounded in doing so.66
Once a fire took hold, it was only a matter of time before it reached the powder magazines and the ship blew up. At the Battle of the Nile, the French flagship L’Orient caught fire, which caused panic on the British side. From HMS Swiftsure, the chaplain Cooper Willyams witnessed what happened next:
Several of the [French] officers and men seeing the impracticability of extinguishing the fire, which had now extended itself along the upper decks, and was flaming up the masts, jumped overboard; some supporting themselves on spars and pieces of wreck, others swimming with all their might to escape the dreaded catastrophe. Shot flying in all directions dashed many of them to pieces; others were picked up by the boats of the fleet, or dragged into the lower ports of the nearest ships: the British sailors humanely stretched forth their hands to save a fallen enemy, though the battle at that moment raged with uncontrolled fury. The Swiftsure, that was anchored within half-pistol-shot of the larboard bow of l’Orient, saved the lives of the commissary, first lieutenant, and ten men, who were drawn out of the water into the lower deck ports during the hottest part of the action.67
There was now the fear that the fire could spread from ship to ship, as Midshipman Theophilus Lee, also of the Swiftsure, related:
Every moment the dreadful explosion was expected – the least noise could now be heard, where the din of war before raged with such uncontrollable violence, – till at last an awful and terrific glare of light blinding the very sight, showed the L’Orient blowing up, with an astounding crash, paralyzing all around her, by which near a thousand brave spirits were hastened into eternity. A large ignited beam fell into the foretop of the Swiftsure, and set it on fire, but the flames were soon extinguished; other and heavier pieces bounding against the sides or into the chains, and some even upon decks and booms, but all being speedily prevented from doing mischief, by the active measures employed; the greater portion, as anticipated, passing clear over the mast heads, and falling in the sea a considerable way beyond the tremendous explosion, however it shook the ship more than the whole battle. It was like an earthquake, the air rushing along the decks and below with inconceivable violence, and creating a tremulous motion in the ship, which existed for some minutes, and was awfully grand.68
Fire and explosion, though rare since seamen were always alert to fire spreading through a ship, were the main causes of a ship being destroyed in battle. It was unusual for a ship to sink because even when full of holes, many wooden ships continued to float, and the loss of their masts through cannonfire was an advantage since it lowered the centre of gravity. Many more ships were lost through storms, lightning strikes and running on to rocks than were sunk during battles. In this respect the French Vengeur du Peuple was unlucky. After the Glorious First of June battle, this ship had a huge hole in the stern and started to take in water rapidly. Midshipman William Parker described what happened next in a letter to his father. The ship, he said,
was so much disabled that she could not live much longer upon the water, but gave a dreadful reel and lay down upon her broadside. We were afraid to send any boats to help them, because they would have sunk her by too many poor souls getting into her at once. You could plainly perceive the poor wretches climbing over to windward and crying most dreadfully. She then righted a little, and then her head went down gradually, and she sunk. She after that rose again a little and then sunk, so that no more was seen of her. Oh, my dear father! when you consider of five or six hundred souls destroyed in that shocking manner, it will make your very heart relent. Our own men, even, were a great many of them in tears and groaning … I really think it
would have rent the hardest of hearts.69
Altogether, one hundred and fifty men were saved from the French ship.
Once a battle was over, it was necessary to clean up the ship and carry out essential repairs. James Scott recorded the scene on board the French ship Guerrière, which his own ship, the Blanche, had captured:
The blood-stained planks of the quarter-deck bore ample testimony to the accuracy of our fire, but on descending to the main-deck a scene of slaughter presented itself which converted our feelings of triumph into those of horror and dismay. The disfigured and mangled bodies of our gallant foes were scattered in many a heap around. The main-deck was slippery with blood and gore … At one gun on the main-deck every man was killed or wounded, one of our cannon-shot having taken the upper part of the muzzle of the gun, when in the act of running it out, and, splitting the upper half to pieces as far as the trunnions, it acted with the destructive effects of a shell, destroying gun and men at a blow. The immediate vicinity of the useless piece sufficiently marked the sanguinary effects of this well-told shot, which were confirmed by one of the wounded Frenchmen quartered at the gun.70
William Dillon said that after the Glorious First of June, many of the ships started to do repairs: ‘But the ship that astonished us all by her extraordinary exertions was the Queen. She had lost her main mast. This was replaced in a most able manner before the evening of this day: all her sides were scrubbed, her paintwork looking as clean as if nothing had happened – a good proof of what can be done with good discipline and management.’71 When a battle between two ships had been fierce, it was often difficult to tell from their condition which side had won. When George Watson arrived at Lissa in 1811, he saw the French ship Rivoli, which had just been captured by the Victorious. He was sent on board both ships to help unload some stores:
