After one of the finest victories in naval history, when he was on his way home with five captured battleships and the enemy’s admiral as a prisoner, Admiral Rodney wrote: “I will say that three of my captains were brave and gallant men who did their utmost to destroy the enemy. Nothing on earth will persuade me to go further.” Sixteen years later Nelson was beginning an announcement of the Battle of the Nile with the words: “I had the happiness to command a band of brothers.” Between these two statements a moral revolution had taken place in the British Navy, a revolution brought about by Nelson, but lost sight of in the halo of brilliance surrounding his strategic and tactical achievements. Briefly, it consisted in this, that he sank the commander in the leader and the friend. The ship captains of 1798 were not vastly better than those of 1782; indeed, many of them were the same men. The difference between Nelson’s warm appreciation of his subordinates and Rodney’s damning with faint praise was the difference between two traditions; and the tradition that Nelson introduced—the tradition that drilled cooperation is better than blind obedience—has persisted in the British Navy and spread to every other fleet of the world.
The outward sign of this inward change is the break Nelson made in what may be called the “court-martial tradition.” For a century before his time nearly every British naval battle of importance had been followed by a court-martial. If the battle were a British defeat an admiral was brought to court; if it had been a British victory, one or more captains were called upon to explain their conduct. In most of the latter cases the faults were, to say the utmost, venial, and in many it is difficult to find any fault at all.
Of course in a case like that of the unfortunate Byng, when an important possession is lost because an admiral has turned tail after losing a skirmish, a court-martial is a perfectly natural result. So also when a captain loses his ship. It is not to such instances we refer, but to the habit, deep- rooted in the British Navy, of holding courts-martial on incidents that at this distance look trivial. This habit was ended by Nelson, though in every one of his battles he had reasons as good as the admirals who preceded him for holding courts.
The unfortunate tradition seems to have had its beginnings in two causes. One was the English Revolution. Before and long after this event every naval officer was a politician; promotions and appointments went out from Whitehall and the aspiring, post-captain must spend a certain amount of time at court if he was to hope for a ship. Even as late as 1781 a change in the ministry brought about not only new appointments to the command of important fleets, but changes in many of the ship commands as well. Out of this combination of the sea captain and the courtier grew the impression that captains were not wholly to be trusted. They might (like Lestock) hang back while a political enemy was taking a beating from an enemy of the country.
The second and proximate cause was a battle in which the captains (whether for political or other motives) failed in the most disgraceful manner to support their admiral: the celebrated combat between Benbow and Du Casse in 1702, which cost the former his life. Whether or not Du Casse wrote the famous letter ending with, “As for those cowardly captains who deserted you, hang them up, for by God, they deserve it,” the Admiralty took the advice. Benbow’s last act was to file charges against Captains Kirby, Hudson, Constable, and Wade. Kirby and Wade were found guilty of cowardice and shot; Hudson died; and Constable, guilty of disobedience and neglect, was cashiered and imprisoned.
In this case there could be no question of the justice of the court-martial or its verdict. But the precedent had been set, and a distrust of the honor and intelligence of sea captains became a tradition. Both the Walpoles allude to it in their letters. In the very next sea battle, we find the admiral making charges against his captains, this time without so much justification, and for a century afterward every British admiral who won a battle had one of his captains tried.
The battle was that off Velez Malaga in 1704. It is rightly counted a British victory. The French lost some ships and the English won Gibraltar, but Rooke, the British commander, had several of his captains brought to trial and two dismissed their ships. The offense was that after maintaining close action for a time they had hauled out of range. The reason was that the English service of supply, not so good then as now, had not provided these ships with enough ammunition. They remained in action while their powder lasted, then, lacking any means of offense, drew off.
Four years later Admiral Wager was attacking the Spanish treasure fleet off Cartagena. His victory was singularly complete for those days. Only one of the five Spanish ships escaped. But Captain Bridges of the Kingston and Captain Windsor of the Portland were found guilty of not bearing down, and dismissed. The Kingston and Portland (both 44’s) had been the ships that drove the Spanish flagship (a 64) aground and burnt her.
From this time to 1740 England was at peace. In that year the War of the Austrian Succession opened, and through all the naval battles of this and the following Seven Years’ War, the precedent of holding a court-martial after a battle held undiminished.
The first one followed Admiral Knowles’ unsuccessful attack on Puerto Cabello in 1743. The Norwich, 50, was at the tail of the British line. Her cables were shot away, and there being no breeze, she drifted out of action. Her captain, Gregory, was dismissed the service.
Matthews’ celebrated action off Toulon was the next battle. If not a defeat for the British fleet, this was certainly little more than a drawn battle, and it is perhaps only natural that courts-martial followed. But even Mahan, who is concerned with matters of strategy and tactics rather than morale, is astonished at their number. Everybody knows the story. Matthews accused his rear admiral, Lestock, and six of his captains, of lagging; Lestock filed counter-accusations against Matthews and five captains. Lestock, who happened to be on the right side of the political fence, got off; Matthews and seven captains were condemned, the admiral for breaking the line to attack the enemy, the captains for not following him out of the line when he broke it, “a decision which smacks more of the Irish bull than the Irish love of fighting,” as Mahan sapiently remarks.
The next fleet action was that between Hawke and L’Etenduere—the most complete naval victory till Nelson’s time. Nevertheless it was followed by the usual court- martial. Captain Fox of the Kent was tried for disobedience of orders. His excuse was that he had mistaken the signal for close action for one to come to the aid of the admiral; neither this nor the fact that he had fought his ship gallantly could save him. He was dismissed, and “he was judged by many to have been treated with no small severity,” says a contemporary account. It is worthy of note, in passing, that Nelson made fewer signals than any admiral of sailing-ship days. It was one of the means by which he effected the moral revolution.
In the next year (1748) Admiral Knowles fought a battle off Havana. Usual victory, usual court-martial. Captain Holmes of the Lenox was the subject. He had been conducting a convoy when the battle loomed up to leeward, and hastened to join in. Knowles brought charges against him for leaving his convoy, but it is pleasing to record that Holmes, whose gallant conduct made the victory possible, was acquitted.
Byng’s battle was the next, but as this was a British defeat, and the court-martial was perfectly justified, it hardly enters the scope of this article.
With Pocock’s first two battles with d’Ache off the Coromandel coast the case was different. In the first action Pocock formed a line of bearing and came down to attack the French fleet, which lay to leeward. The Cumberland, third British ship from the end of the line, was exceedingly sluggish and so foul that she had to be laid up after the battle. She could not keep station with the van, and held up the two ships behind her, the Weymouth and Newcastle. The captains of all three were court-martialed; Brereton of the Cumberland lost a year’s seniority, Vincent of the Weymouth was dismissed his ship, and Legge of the Newcastle dismissed the service.
After the second battle (in which the case was similar) there was another court. The Weymouth lost her foreyard and the Elizabeth her fore topmast at the first broadside. Both fell away out of action, but their captains were acquitted in the courts-martial that followed.
Boscawen’s action with De la Clue in 1759 produced the next accusations by an admiral against his captains. A French ship, the Ocean, had gone aground, and the Intrepid was ordered to attack her. Captain Pratten of the Intrepid faced a court-martial for not doing it. The court, however, found his excuse that he had lost some spars and was anchored on a lee shore with a heavy sea running, valid.
In November of the same year came the battle of Quiberon Bay. During the night and battle Hawke signaled for his fleet to anchor. The signal for anchoring was then two guns fired to windward. With a battle going on, it is extremely unlikely that anybody paid any attention to Hawke’s two guns. Nevertheless Captain Speake of the Resolution and Captain O’Brien of the Essex, whose ships went on shore, were court-martialled—not for the loss of the ships, but for disobedience. Both trials resulted in acquittals.
This concludes the tale of the battles of the Seven Years’ War. Only two of them were not followed by courts-martial, despite the fact that after the Byng affair every fight was a British victory. In the next war, that of American Independence, there were two admirals who never called for courts-martial on their captains. These two were Hood and Hughes. Hood never fought a general fleet action, and Hughes lost so many officers in his desperate fights with Suffren that whether he wanted to court-martial them or not, he didn’t have time. It is noteworthy, however, that Suffren, the victor in these fights, sent some of his captains home and suspended others.
Leaving India out of it, the court-martial tradition remained as strong as ever. Byron’s pell-mell attack on D’Estaing off Granada was followed by a court on Cornwallis of the Lion, one of the British ships that got isolated and mauled in the beginning of the battle. As no record of the court remains and Cornwallis continued in his command, it is likely that he was acquitted. Keppel’s action off Ushant was followed by a court-martial of the admiral (which is outside our province) as well as one on Captain Brereton of the Duke. Brereton, whose physician swore he had been confined to his cabin with a high fever and had drunk nothing but tamarind-water (whatever that is), was found guilty of drunkenness and dismissed the service.
Rodney’s battle with Guichen brought a court-martial on Captain Bateman of the Yarmouth. The Sandwich, Yarmouth’s next ahead, had beaten her opponent out of the line, and the Yarmouth’s opponent moved up to engage the Sandwich. Bateman, with that fanatical devotion to the line which then characterized British captains, luffed up out of action to preserve his station. The record of this court is also missing. The next court-martial followed Suffren’s coup de main on the British fleet as it lay in the harbor of Porto Praya. When Johnstone, the British commander, got his ships out of harbor in pursuit, Captain Sutton of the Isis signaled that his ship had lost some spars, was making a good deal of water, and that he was unable to keep station. Johnstone promptly put him under arrest, but he was also acquitted.
The next battle was Rodney’s greatest victory, the one in which he broke the French naval power and captured De Grasse. It was after this that Rodney complained so bitterly of the conduct of his captains. The Admiralty, which was unfriendly to Rodney at the moment, found no grounds for court-martial in his indefinite but decidedly strong charges, but Rodney carried them into the journals of the day with such vehemence that two captains, Carkett of the Stirling Castle and Edwards of the Cornwall, challenged him to duels.
The wars of the French Revolution opened with the court-martial tradition in full force. After the glorious first of June, Captain Molloy of the Caesar (one of the three who had been complimented by Rodney in 1782) was dismissed for “not having done his utmost to bring his ship to close action.” The Caesar had been leading the line when a signal to tack was made. She came up in the wind with sails aback, Captain Molloy’s excuse being that his mizzen was shot through and his rudder so damaged by a shot that he was unable either to tack or carry a press of sail.
Camperdown was the next fleet action to bring a court-martial. Duncan, the British leader, signaled for his fleet to form on a line of bearing and come down to engage the Dutch, ship to ship. Some of the British ships were so old and crank that the line could not be formed, whereupon Duncan signaled for each to engage the ship nearest to her. Captain Williamson of the Agincourt was court-martialled for not having engaged his opponent. There was no question of his having been in action; it was merely that he had not fought with the correct Dutch ship. As to which ship he should have engaged the court-martial declared itself unable to pronounce; he had not engaged his proper opponent however, so they found him guilty, inflicting, says the only available record, “heavy penalties.”
But by the time Camperdown had been fought the new order of things was on its way. Camperdown took place in October; in February of the same year, the Battle of St. Vincent had been fought. It is different in only one way from those we have been considering, and the difference was that Nelson was the only man who could possibly have been court-martialled.
At 10:57 a.m. on that day Jervis had signaled to form line; at 11:26 he signaled that he meant to pass through the enemy’s line; at 12:15 p.m. he signaled to pass through the enemy’s line; and at 12:51 to engage in succession, preserving formation. Nelson, in the Captain, answered every one of these signals, and with the repeat pennant on the last still at his masthead, left the line and tacked around to cut off the two sections of the Spanish fleet which were trying to join. Now here was a clear case. Nelson had left the line, exactly like Matthews; he had engaged the wrong opponent, exactly like Williamson, and if Fox could plead he had mistaken the admiral's signal, Nelson had disobeyed orders with no possibility of misapprehension.
There must have been a terrible stewing at Portsmouth over it. But neither Admiral Jervis nor the Admiralty at home could bring themselves to try the man who had turned a doubtful battle into a stunning victory and who had carried two enemy battleships by boarding.
There was no court-martial. The insubordinate commodore actually received a K.C.B. It was the first clear break in a hundred years’ tradition; the first time an English admiral had won a victory without sending some officer home under arrest.
And then Nelson got an independent command. One of the first things he did was to ruin the tradition of awful isolation that kept an admiral apart from his captains. He invited his captains to breakfast. He discussed the possibilities of battle with them, and went into the details of what he meant to do in case the French approached from this side or that. He invented an informal type of Kriegspiel, drawing diagrams of likely formations on the part of the enemy and what formations he meant to adopt to crush them. He let his captains see that he honestly believed them the finest body of men in the world and he repeatedly said, “That captain cannot be very wrong who lays his ship alongside the enemy.” No courts-martial like those on Williamson, Fox, or Holmes in this case!
It must have been immensely stimulating. It was also immensely valuable. When the day of battle did arrive, and Nelson’s fleet sailed into the estuary of the Nile where the French lay at anchor, every captain knew his place so well that hardly any signals were necessary; there was no chance for mistakes. But Troubridge of the Culloden did make a mistake; he ran his ship aground, smashed her rudder, and did not get off till the battle was all over—and then she had seven feet of water in her hold. Captain Sutton of the Isis had been court-martialled for far less than this. The Lords of the Admiralty waited Nelson’s charges against Troubridge. Instead they got “Poor Troubridge!” and the hope that Troubridge would not be left off the honors list for the battle which, after all, was only the end of a campaign in which poor Troubridge had done more than his share.
Now here is a remarkable change from the state of things under Matthews, or even under Rodney and Hawke. The latter two were great tacticians and strategists, no doubt, but they were nowhere near to approaching Nelson’s control of morale, and “in war,” says Napoleon, “the moral is superior to the material as four is to one.”
The changed state of affairs was noted once more at Copenhagen. Nelson’s own disobedience of Parker’s order for withdrawal has received abundant comment, but the action of the frigates has not. Captain H. Riou in the Amazon was the senior officer of this light squadron which was in rather too heavy company against the block-ships and forts of Copenhagen. When the signal to withdraw was made by Admiral Parker, the frigates drew out of action, headed by the Alcmene. Riou was killed and all the frigates were raked as they withdrew. Now the Amazon’s log says she withdrew only when deserted by the other frigates, not remarking on Parker’s signal at all. The Alcmene’s log and the Alcmene’s captain declare that the Amazon repeated the signal for withdrawal, whereupon the Alcmene left, the Amazon unaccountably lingering. Under the system in vogue before Nelson’s time, Captain Sam Sutton of the Alcmene would have at least faced a court of inquiry. But under Nelson there was only sympathy for Riou’s loss and congratulations and honors for all the other captains. “I have the happiness to command a band of brothers.”
After Trafalgar there was an even clearer case for a court-martial, and the fact that none was held is the clearest possible indication of how one man can break down a bad, old tradition and substitute for it a new and better one. The last scene of Nelson’s life has been so frequently reported that it is only necessary to remind any reader of naval history that almost his final words were, “Do you anchor, Hardy. Do not fail to anchor.” He said it not once, but several times, and earlier in the day he had signaled the rest of the fleet to prepare to anchor after the battle.
Hardy did not anchor. Neither did Collingwood, on whom the command devolved, and as a result most of the captured ships were lost or escaped in the storm following the battle. How far the dead hand of a deceased commander’s order is binding on his subordinates is not clear, but Nelson certainly gave the order while still living and it does not appear from the signal log of the Victory that Hardy ever signaled to anchor. His failure to do so resulted in obvious loss and had the Benbow tradition still ruled would probably have resulted in a court-martial.
Nothing more clearly marks the acceptance of the new tradition than this. Hardy was a brave, intelligent, and honest man who had done well in his effort to destroy the enemy. This was all that Nelson asked, and all that has been asked since in any navy.
That the Nelson rather than the court- martial tradition still rules is obvious from even a cursory examination of the battles of the World War. At Jutland, the Warspite, her steering gear out of order by reason of a shell, left the line and circled around thrice. This was the exact reason for which Captain Molloy of the Caesar had been tried, found guilty, and dismissed; but nobody thought of court-martialing the captain of the Warspite. At Coronel, the slow old Canopus could not get up in time for the battle, and Cradock was crushed. This was the exact reason (minus the British defeat) why Brereton of the Cumberland had lost a year’s seniority by sentence of a court-martial; but there was no suggestion of a court to try the captain of the Canopus.
The change, great though it is in practice, is only one of viewpoint. Nelson looked upon his captains as honest and able men devoted to the cause; the eighteenth century looked upon them as more or less scoundrelly individuals who could only be brought to do their best through fear of punishment.