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The epitaph on Byng’s tombstone read: ‘To the perpetual disgrace of public Justice… The Honourable John Byng, Admiral of the Blue, fell a martyr to political persecution… at a time when courage and loyalty were insufficient guarantees of the honour and lives of naval officers.’
PICKLE’S POSTMAN NEARLY PIPPED AT THE POST
It took over two weeks for the Admiralty to receive the news of Britain’s great victory at the Battle of Trafalgar – and the tragic death of Horatio Nelson on board HMS Victory.
Admiral Collingwood, who took over as commander-in-chief, wrote his dispatches on the morning of the day after the battle, but owing to a storm and the immediate needs of the fleet it was four days before he was able to send them.
On 26 October 1805 Collingwood summoned Lieutenant John Lapenotiere, in command of the schooner Pickle, the fastest vessel then at his disposal, and ordered him to sail to Plymouth with the dispatches and with all haste proceed to the Admiralty. If there were difficulties he was to make the first port he could and then go on to London.
Being the bearer of official news of victory was a much-coveted role, as there would inevitably be promotion and financial reward. But in carrying out his duties, Lapenotiere was nearly frustrated by the actions of another naval officer.
En route back to England HM sloop Nautilus was sighted and Lapenotiere told her commander John Sykes the momentous news. Sykes immediately sailed for Lisbon to inform the British consul, then unknown to Lapenotiere he headed directly for London. An unofficial race for glory had begun!
On 4 November Lapenotiere was forced by weather conditions to land at the Cornish port of Falmouth. He hired a chaise for the first stage of his overland dash, improvising a broomstick for a flagpole on which he flew a Union Jack above a tattered tricolore. Not long after, Sykes landed at Plymouth, further along the coast, and he too hired a carriage.
Lapenotiere’s journey of 425 km took 21 changes of horses and carriages and his expenses amounted to £46 19s. 1d. – nearly half of his annual salary.
Finally the coach clattered into the Admiralty courtyard at 1 a.m. in the morning of 6 November, 36 hours after Lapenotiere had left Falmouth. It was a neck and neck ‘race’ to the very end as Lapenotiere entered the vestibule of the Admiralty less than one hour before Sykes. Most of the officials had long since retired for the night but William Marsden, secretary to the Navy Board, was on his way to his private apartments having just finished work in the board room. Lapenotiere handed over the dispatches with the simple words, ‘Sir, we have gained a great victory. But we have lost Lord Nelson.’
Lapenotiere was later presented to King George, who bade him accept a token and presented him with the closest thing to hand, a silver cruet.
Pickle’s captain became inextricably linked with the death of Nelson for ever, while Sykes is now nothing more than a historical footnote.
George III.
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SLUSH FUND – in the political sphere, a special account for fighting elections circumventing the usual process of auditing. DERIVATION: one of the perks of being a sea cook in the Royal Navy was the slush, the fat skimmed off the cooking liquor as salted meat was boiled in vast copper vats. This murky fluid was solidified and then sold to be used for lubricating rigging aloft.
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DUEL OVER A DOG
James Macnamara built a reputation as an intrepid naval officer, but it was not so much his seamanship or courage that ensured his name is remembered but his Newfoundland dog. On 6 April 1803 Macnamara fought a duel at Primrose Hill, London, with Colonel Robert Montgomery, a Life Guard officer, who also owned a dog of the same breed. The quarrel arose after a fight between the two animals in Hyde Park earlier in the day. In the duel, fought with pistols, both men were wounded, Montgomery mortally. At the ensuing trial for manslaughter, Macnamara’s defence was that the provocation and insult came from Montgomery. He called a number of famous naval figures including Viscount Hood and Admiral Nelson, who testified that Macnamara was ‘the reverse of quarrelsome’. The jury deliberated for 20 minutes, then returned a verdict of not guilty.
‘IF I WERE NOT THE RUSSIAN TSAR …’
Peter the Great was the founder of the Russian navy and the first tsar ever to venture outside his country’s borders. From a very young age he was keen on ships and sailing, and he developed an abiding and very much hands-on interest in shipbuilding.
In 1697 the young tsar began his ‘Grand Embassy’, a fact-finding mission to look into ways of modernising his country. After studying shipbuilding in Holland Peter made it known to King William III that he now wished to see something of England’s maritime capability. When Tsar Peter arrived in England in 1698, the king provided a number of attendants to accompany him and arranged for him to have every assistance, as well as excellent accommodation.
Peter was given the use of Sayes Court, a fine house adjacent to Deptford royal shipyard; conveniently its back gate led directly into the yard. The tsar loved to watch the craftsmen at their operations and would pick up tools and work alongside them himself. Often he wore the dress of a common shipwright as he roamed about the shipyard, although with his height of just over 2 m he was hardly inconspicuous.
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Peter not Great as a Tenant
The owner of Sayes Court, the diarist John Evelyn, was initially delighted to have such a famous tenant, but was later incensed at the damage Peter and his companions caused to his property. Furnishings were ruined and many of the fine paintings had been used as shooting targets. What particularly appalled Evelyn, a keen gardener, was the harm done to his fine holly hedges by a riotous game in which Peter and his friends were raced around the grounds in wheelbarrows. Eventually the King’s Surveyor recommended that Evelyn be paid £350 in compensation.
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When Peter visited the dockyard at Portsmouth the king arranged for the fleet to put to sea and staged the first-ever mock battle in the Channel in his honour. Peter was so delighted that he said: ‘If I were not the Russian tsar I would have wished to be an English admiral.’
While in Portsmouth he asked to see the arrangements used for hanging sailors who had been given a death sentence. There was nobody scheduled for execution at the time, so Peter offered one of his own men for a demonstration. The offer was politely declined.
When the time came for Peter to return to Russia the king presented him with Royal Transport, a lavishly furnished yacht armed with 24 guns. The tsar set off with a number of English naval craftsmen whom he had engaged to help him build up his own navy.
Peter’s deep connection with shipbuilding and the sea continued throughout his life. He became a competent marine architect and shipwright; some said he was the best in Russia. One of the first major projects in his new imperial capital at St Petersburg was the construction of an Admiralty building, where he would spend at least one or two hours every day.
Tsar Peter had courage to match his physical stature. In November 1724, aged 52, he leapt into freezing water and worked tirelessly through the night to rescue 20 sailors from a ship that had been grounded. Shortly afterwards he contracted a fever and died.
THAT WAS THE YEAR THAT WAS!
Come, cheer up, my lads! ’Tis to glory we steer
To add something more to this wonderful year…
Heart of oak are our ships
Jolly tars are our men…
We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again
Annus mirabilis, 1759, during the Seven Years’ War, was possibly the most significant year in British history since 1066. It was immortalised by the playwright David Garrick in ‘Heart of Oak’.
In August Admiral Boscawen engaged the French fleet at Lagos, off the southern coast of Portugal. After his flagship was disabled he shifted his command to another ship. When the boat taking him there was hit by a round shot and a strake was stove in, Boscawen calmly plugged the hole with his wig. He continued the chase all night and captured
three French ships and destroyed two, returning to Spithead with his prizes and 2,000 prisoners. The victory prevented France from sending an invasion force from Brest.
On the other side of the globe, Quebec, the key to the conquest of upper Canada, was captured by Wolfe and Admiral Saunders in the autumn. The superb charts of the area produced by James Cook enabled the fleet to bring formidably sized ships up the St Lawrence River. Seamen landed guns ashore and hauled them up to an area overlooking the city. While Wolfe took Quebec, the fleet lay off the city, denying supplies and reinforcements to the defenders.
In November Admiral Edward Hawke caught up with Admiral Conflan’s fleet at Quiberon Bay, where they planned to embark an army of 20,000 men and invade England. Hawke hoisted the signal for ‘general chase’. His ships crowded on sail to pursue the enemy into the bay as darkness was falling, using the French ships as markers to try to keep clear of the treacherous rocks in the shallow waters of the bay. Hawke’s master urgently warned him of the peril ahead, to which Hawke replied, ‘You have done your duty in pointing out to me the danger. Now lay me alongside the enemy flagship.’
The French did not believe the British would follow them on to a lee shore, but they did. In a fierce action, the French lost seven ships of the line with 2,500 men dead. Two British ships ran aground and were wrecked, but it was a decisive strategic victory which once again averted the threat of invasion.
This glorious year, which became known as ‘the year of victories’, also saw a keel laid in Chatham Dockyard for a new warship called Victory – and the first birthday of the man who would lead her at Trafalgar.
In May 1759 James Cook surveyed the approaches to Quebec. The work, done within range of the French guns, often had to be carried out at night.
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BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP BLUE SEA – having two equally undesirable alternatives. DERIVATION: part of maintenance of a wooden ship was the application of hot pitch to the devil, a seam between the waterways, the timber fashioning which ran along the side of the ship from the bow to the stern. The task involved being swung out precariously in a bosun’s chair over the rolling sea.
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A BRAVE MAN’S SWORD
Admiral Adam Duncan and Admiral Jan de Winter were both over 1.9 m tall and proportionately well built – and their physical size matched their prowess as sea warriors.
The two Goliaths faced each other at the Battle of Camperdown in 1797. A furious engagement, echoing the fights of the seventeenth-century Dutch wars, was maintained by both sides until De Winter’s flagship was overwhelmed. Admiral Duncan refused to accept his sword in surrender saying, ‘I would much rather take a brave man’s hand than his sword.’
De Winter was conveyed to England and treated with great courtesy by his captors. When Duncan heard that De Winter’s wife had suffered a stroke he quickly arranged for his repatriation. In accordance with the ancient customs of parole and exchange De Winter gave his word never to fight the English again and left the sea for diplomacy. However, after the Peace of Amiens Napoleon abolished this gentlemanly code of behaviour and De Winter returned to the sea.
Admiral Jan de Winter. He died in 1812 and was buried in the Panthéon, Paris.
THE L’ORIENT COFFIN
One of the most unusual battle trophies of all time must be the coffin made from the wreckage of the French flagship L’Orient that blew up at the Battle of the Nile in 1798. It was presented to Nelson by Captain Hallowell of HMS Swiftsure on 23 May 1799. Hallowell had retrieved a large section of her mainmast and instructed his carpenter to fashion it into the macabre gift. Nothing was used in its construction that had not come from L’Orient and an accompanying note certified to this fact. It is not clear why Hallowell had this coffin made in the first place, nor why he waited ten months before he sent it to Nelson. The two were friends who had seen service together, and perhaps Hallowell feared the effect of all the praise showered on Nelson after his celebrated victory at the Nile.
A covering letter sent with the coffin stated: ‘My Lord, herewith I send you a coffin made of part of the L’Orient’s mainmast that when you are tired of this life you may be buried in one of your own trophies – may that period be far distant is the sincere wish of your obedient servant.’
While his officers were appalled, Nelson was amused and for some time he had the coffin standing upright against the bulkhead of his cabin, behind the chair he sat on for dinner. Subsequently it accompanied him as part of his luggage during his long overland journey home to England with Emma and William Hamilton in 1800. In London it was stored with Nelson’s agents, Messrs Marsh, Page and Creed. During a brief period of leave in the autumn of 1805, just before the Battle of Trafalgar, Nelson visited them and instructed that the certificate of authenticity be engraved on the lid, adding, ‘I think it is highly probable that I may want it on my return.’ Was this cryptic comment a presentiment of his early death?
‘OLD JARVIE’
John Jervis, who was to become Admiral of the Fleet and Earl St Vincent during the Napoleonic Wars, joined the navy at 13 with no money apart from his pay. His father would not honour a draft of £20 he had drawn on him, but Jervis paid back the debt, shilling by shilling over three years. This left him so poor that he could not afford to pay his mess expenses, so he did not eat with other midshipmen or associate with them in any way, except for official duties. Instead, he made friends with the lower ranks and developed a deep knowledge of their ways.
Throughout his 73 years in the navy ‘Old Jarvie’ was much loved by common seamen. His nickname reflected his aggressive, rather bull-like appearance; a ‘jarvie’ was a hackney driver inured to plying his trade in all weathers.
The sailors appreciated his taut but fair discipline; almost alone of all the captains he never exceeded the maximum sentence allowed of one dozen lashes. His concern for the health of his crews was legendary, he instigated well-equipped sick bays, and a special hospital ship kept company with the fleet to care for the severely sick and wounded.
On occasion individual kindnesses further endeared him to the sailors. In one famous incident Petty Officer Roger Odell playfully jumped off the foreyard fully clothed to go swimming – forgetting he had his entire life savings of £70 in his pocket. Back aboard Odell broke into tears on finding his pounds reduced to pulp. Jervis admonished the man for crying, but said he was a fine seaman and replaced the money from his own pocket.
Jervis loathed waste and inefficiency. It was said he knew the exact quantity of stores on each ship down to the last box of nails and ball of twine and would audit a ship’s stores without notice. He did much to reduce the corruption within the navy. Jervis was also fanatic about sail drill and gunnery practice in all weather.
‘Old Jarvie’ was not always popular with the officers or their wives. When he was appointed to the command of the Channel Fleet he put a stop to the easy-going regimen whereby captains could spend a good deal of their time ashore at social functions. The story is told of one lady at a dinner party giving as a toast, ‘May his next glass of wine choke the wretch!’
His devotion to the navy and belief in its supremacy was summed up by his statement in the House of Lords when the threat of invasion from France was at its height: ‘I do not say, my Lords, that the French will not come. I say only they will not come by sea.’
Earl St Vincent, naval hero of rigorous self-sufficiency and professionalism.
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KNOW THE ROPES – have skill and experience. DERIVATION: it took years to understand the function of, and be able to locate and control, the multitude of ropes (or lines, as most of them were known to mariners) in a man-of-war. This ability was considered so important that a skilled seaman’s discharge papers were marked ‘knows the ropes’.
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ALL DOWN TO BISCUITS AND A BOULDER
HMS Pique, a frigate designed by the famed naval architect Sir William Symonds, left Quebec in September 1835. As she sailed out of the mouth of th
e St Lawrence River a thick fog descended. The ship hit a reef and was battered relentlessly against the rocks all night. In the morning her captain Henry Rous finally freed her by jettisoning 20 cannon and a large quantity of water to lighten the ship.
As soon as she got into deep sea a gale blew up and she began to take in water badly. To add to her troubles Pique’s rudder was carried away and the only way she could be steered was by trimming sails and trailing hawsers. A temporary rudder was eventually fitted, but this too was soon swept off. Unable to go about on the right tack for England she eventually managed to signal a passing French brig who obliged by heaving her bodily around.
Pique was now taking in 1 m of water an hour and the pumps were manned day and night. Deep below in the bowels of the ship the carpenter worked tirelessly to plug what leaks he could.
The gale continued throughout the whole voyage, and when Pique finally limped into Portsmouth a dockyard inspector said he had ‘never seen any ship enter port in such a state’. She was found to have virtually no keel left, and in some places the torn floor timbers were wafer thin. A large hole was discovered to have been plugged by a sack of ship’s biscuits swollen with the sea water, and a huge rock 4 m in circumference was snapped off in the hull, stopping up a monstrous cavity midships.
Stockwin's Maritime Miscellany Page 5
