Trafalgar

by Nicholas Best

  It was a grave situation. Not enough had been done, and nothing was ready yet. No matter how confident Britain’s leaders appeared in public, they all suspected privately that the French might well be marching up the Mall within a week of coming ashore. The British were under no illusion as to what would happen if Napoleon did capture London. Caricaturist James Gillray had caught the public mood with his cartoon of a guillotine outside St James’s Palace. So had a newspaper article, with its gloomy forecast of the likely outcome once the Grand Army had taken the city:

  London, 10th Thermidor

  General Bonaparte made his public entrance into the Capital over London Bridge, upon a charger from His Britannic Majesty’s stables at Hanover, preceded by a detachment of Mamelukes. He stopped upon the bridge a few seconds to survey the number of ships in the river; and beckoning to one of his Aides-de-Camp, ordered the French flag to be hoisted above the English – the English sailors on board who attempted to resist the execution of this order were bayoneted and thrown overboard.

  When he came to the Bank, he smiled with complaisance upon a detachment of French grenadiers who had been sent to load all the bullion in wagons . . . From the Bank the First Consul proceeded in grand procession along Cheapside, St Paul’s, Ludgate-hill, Fleet-street, and the Strand, to St James’s Palace. He there held a grand Circle, which was attended by all his Officers, whose congratulations he received upon his entrance into the Capital of these once proud islanders . . .

  11th Thermidor

  Bonaparte, at five o’clock in the morning, reviewed the French troops on the Esplanade at the Horse Guards . . .

  12th, 13th, 14th Thermidor

  LONDON PILLAGED. The doors of private houses forced. Bands of drunken soldiers dragging wives and daughters from the arms of husbands and fathers. Many husbands who had the temerity to resist, butchered in the presence of their children. Flames seen in a hundred different places . . . churches broken open and the church-plate plundered . . .

  16th Thermidor

  A plot discovered by Fouché against the First Consul, and three hundred, supposed to be implicated, sent to the Tower . . . Lords Nelson, St Vincent, and Melville, Messrs Addington, Pitt, Sheridan, Grey, twenty Peers and Commoners tried by the Military Tribunals for having been concerned in the insurrection against France, and sentenced to be shot. Sentence was immediately carried into execution in Hyde Park.

  Would it ever happen? Of course it would. Napoleon was a ruthless man. Joseph Fouché was his Minister of Police, a charmless revolutionary who had attended the massacres at Lyons with a pair of human ears dangling from each side of his hat. Between them they would eliminate all opposition within a few days of their arrival. Nobody would be safe with the French loose in the town. The Terror would have come to London.

  But it hadn’t come yet. Perhaps English ears would never dangle from Fouché’s hat. The feeling among military men was that London might actually be the best place to stop Napoleon. He would have to take the capital house by house and street by street, and that would not be easy – Londoners would fight him every yard of the way. Greenwich, Southwark and Lambeth formed the likely battleground. The battle would continue day after day, night after night, for as long as it took. Hundreds of houses would be burned to the ground, if need be, and thousands of people would die, but nothing would be surrendered willingly. The British were too fond of their freedom to give it up without a struggle.

  The hope was that Napoleon would find the price of victory too high, if he had to lose half his army in the process. With luck, he just might turn tail and flee instead, hurrying his troops back to the coast while he still could. Or he might even do what he had done in Egypt – flee himself and leave them to find their own way home. Napoleon was a formidable commander, but he was not invincible. There was still a chance for the British, in the generals’ sober assessment. They were not beaten yet.

  CHAPTER 5

  LORD MELVILLE AT

  THE ADMIRALTY

  In his office next door to the Horse Guards, the First Lord of the Admiralty was contemplating the same problems as the Duke of York, but from a naval perspective. He too was short of public money, trying to do too much with too little. He was worried that if the French invaded, the Royal Navy might be spread too thinly to stop them.

  Like its neighbouring buildings, the Admiralty has changed little in 250 years. It was here that Captain Cook returned from the South Seas in the 1770s, bringing improbable stories of kangaroos and other discoveries. Here, too, that a messenger arrived from Falmouth in 1781, bearing the less welcome news that Lord Cornwallis had surrendered to the American rebels at a place called Yorktown. The news should have been taken straight to Downing Street, but instead had travelled halfway round London first, being passed from one cabinet minister’s house to the next because none of them wanted to be the one to tell the Prime Minister. He reacted as if he had been shot when they did finally break it to him.

  But that was all in the past now and the British were fighting a new war against a much more formidable opponent. It was the First Lord’s job to ensure that not a single French soldier set foot on British soil during the coming crisis. For a man who knew next to nothing about the sea, this was a daunting task.

  Lord Melville had never served in the navy. He was a Scottish lawyer who had entered Parliament in 1774 and had been in government on and off ever since. He had twice been Treasurer of the Navy and had served also as Secretary of State for War, but his record at both was dismal. Melville was a politician to his fingertips and a masterly fixer, but he was not a fighting man. He had no practical experience of warfare and no aptitude, either. His list of failures was long, particularly as Secretary for War. Disasters attributable to his ineptitude had been suffered in the West Indies, the East Indies, the Netherlands, India, Ireland and the Mediterranean. He was not greatly admired by those who had to serve under him. They reckoned his interference did more harm than good.

  Melville had become a peer during the Addington administration, but his closest ally in politics was William Pitt. The Prime Minister had appointed him to the Admiralty in May 1804, with a brief to restore the fleet to its former glory and put it on a war footing as quickly as possible. Melville’s predecessor in the job, Lord St Vincent, had been rather too complacent about the Royal Navy’s state of readiness for Pitt’s liking. ‘I do not say the French cannot come,’ St Vincent had airily announced one day. ‘I only say they cannot come by sea.’ He had said that before Napoleon built his invasion fleet. Melville’s job was to make certain that St Vincent’s words came true.

  The fleet was in an appalling state when he inherited it, partly as a result of well-intentioned reforms by his predecessor. St Vincent had set out to tackle corruption among the navy’s suppliers, but had succeeded only in alienating them. Shipbuilders and dockyard workers alike had withdrawn their cooperation. Even more seriously, so had the timber suppliers who provided the navy with its raw material. The ships were built of oak because nothing resisted a cannon ball better than a stout piece of oak. Timber merchants all over the country understood this and had banded together to force the price up, knowing the navy couldn’t go elsewhere. Appeals to their patriotism had fallen on deaf ears. If there was going to be a war, they might as well make a profit out of it.

  It was not only oak that was in short supply. Pine for the masts had to be imported either from the United States or, more often, the Baltic. There was a severe shortage too of compass timber – naturally curved pieces of wood essential for the construction of the hull. And even if there had been enough wood, it needed to be seasoned for at least three years before it could be used. The Royal Navy’s policy of keeping three years’ supply in hand had been allowed to lapse after the Peace of Amiens. Stocks had dwindled to a mere nine months’ worth – little short of disastrous after the resumption of hostilities, when Britain needed more ships than ever. At Sheerness dockyard, they had run out of wood altogether.

  The effect on th
e navy had been catastrophic. Some of its ships were floating death traps. Older vessels were waterlogged and riddled with dry rot. Newer ones had been built of green timber that was still warping as it aged. Many had been patched with wood cannibalised from other ships. Their frames were braced internally and their hulls sheathed with additional planking. Carpenters were kept busy throughout the fleet, filling in the holes and praying their work would keep the ships afloat. An inspection of one vessel at this time was typical of many:

  We began by discovering slight defects in the ship, and the farther we went in the examination the more important they appeared until at last she was discovered to be so completely rotten as to be unfit for sea. We have been sailing for the last six months with only a copper sheet between us and eternity.

  But timber was not the navy’s only problem. The manpower shortage was just as serious. The navy was always chronically in need of seamen. Conditions afloat were so unpleasant that volunteers never came forward in sufficient numbers, although there had been a surge during the invasion scare. The shortfall was made up of ‘quota’ men, mostly miscreants sentenced to join the navy as an alternative to prison, and pressed men, who had been conscripted against their will. They deserted in droves whenever they had the chance. Sometimes whole crews vanished in foreign ports, leaving their officers stranded. The navy responded by refusing to allow them ashore and discouraging them from learning to swim. Now and again, it even pressed foreign nationals into service, hauling them off the streets or from other ships. There were many hundreds of Americans in the Royal Navy. There were even a few French.

  The Americans were probably the largest group of foreigners. Most were volunteers, but some had been kidnapped by the navy and were outraged at their treatment. Others were not American at all, but British sailors claiming US citizenship in order to avoid their obligations. The Royal Navy asserted its right to impress any sailor of British origin found aboard an American vessel. The Americans disagreed, insisting that the neutrality of their ships should be respected. The matter was taken seriously on both sides. It was shaping up to be a major bone of contention between the two governments.

  The British view was summed up by James Monroe, the US ambassador in London. Reporting back to Washington, he noted that:

  If the British should consent to make our commercial navy a floating asylum for all the British seamen who, tempted by higher wages, should quit their service for ours, the effect on their maritime strength, on which Great Britain depends, might be fatal . . . they might be deprived, to an extent impossible to calculate, of their only means of security.

  In short, British sailors might be safer and better paid working for Yankee merchantmen, but the Royal Navy needed them in time of war and it wouldn’t think twice about seizing them whenever it could.

  The issue rankled with Americans, particularly French-leaning Republicans, but they were not yet disposed to come to blows about it. The two governments were on friendly terms. The British had privately congratulated the Americans on the Louisiana Purchase, although they were less happy about the invasion fleet that Napoleon was building with the proceeds. President Jefferson in turn was hoping for an alliance with the British, implying formal approval of the Purchase and support for the United States’ territorial ambitions in Florida. In the view of some, it would be like the old days again if the two peoples fought the French side by side, as they had in the past.

  For the moment, however, the Royal Navy needed manpower and would continue to seize men from American ships. It had Lord Melville’s full backing, because there was really no alternative if the navy was to keep its ships at sea. The navy had to take men wherever it could find them.

  And the ships were at sea – almost all of them. The majority were long overdue for a return to base and a refit, but could not be spared from duty. The British were at war all over the world. The immediate threat came from France’s Channel ports, but the French were active too in the West Indies and capable of threatening British trade routes via South Africa to India. The Mediterranean had to be policed as well, to keep the French fleet there firmly tied down. The Royal Navy was stretched to full capacity, in ships full of worm holes, manned by underpaid crews who in most cases were only there because they had to be. It was not a recipe for success, with an invasion imminent.

  These were the problems faced by Lord Melville when he arrived at the Admiralty. His primary task as the new First Lord was to build more ships and restore the fleet without delay. To this end, he had quietly postponed Lord St Vincent’s attempts at reform and had come to terms with the dockyards and the navy’s timber suppliers. Reform would have to wait for another time. Nothing mattered now except getting new ships built and repairing old ones so that they could return to service. Melville had no talent for warfare, but he knew how to make things happen on the home front. A new building programme was under way and the fleet was being rapidly expanded. It would take time, perhaps a year or so, but Melville was confident of meeting the challenge that Pitt had set him. He would do everything that had been asked of him – always assuming, of course, that the French did not invade before he had got the job done.

  Melville was heavily dependent on his admirals for an assessment of the invasion threat. They were taking it very seriously, particularly after the reports of Napoleon at Boulogne. The Royal Navy had between fifteen and twenty ships off Boulogne that August, most of them anchored ten miles to the north-west. A detachment of five or six ships operated up front, cruising the harbour mouth just beyond reach of the French guns. It was this detachment, under Captain Edward Owen, that had witnessed Napoleon’s visit to review his troops. They had seen the unusual activity on shore and guessed that something must be up. It did not take a genius to work out what.

  But when would Napoleon come? And where? The navy had no better idea than the army. The English coastline was just as long and undefended on the seaward side as the land. Wherever Napoleon did come, the navy would be there to try to prevent it, but so much depended on the wind and the tide, elements beyond anyone’s control. The prospect of a huge invasion fleet crossing the Channel was just as much a nightmare for the Royal Navy as it was for the army.

  In Lord Nelson’s view, the shortest route across the Channel was the most likely. He had told the Admiralty so in 1801:

  Supposing London the object of surprise, I am of opinion that the enemy’s object ought to be the getting on shore as speedily as possible, for the dangers of navigation of forty-eight hours appear to me an insurmountable objection to the rowing from Boulogne to the coast of Essex. It is therefore most probable that from Boulogne, Calais and even Havre, the enemy will try to land in Sussex, or the lower part of Kent; and from Dunkirk, Ostend and other ports of Flanders to land on the coast of Essex or Suffolk.

  Nelson estimated that the French could row the Channel in twelve hours, if the sea remained calm. He was in no doubt as to how the Royal Navy should react: ‘If a breeze springs up, our ships are to deal destruction; no delicacy can be observed on this great occasion.’

  The one advantage the British did have was their knowledge of the invasion’s starting point. They had seen the barges at Boulogne and the other ports and had made a guess at their numbers. In theory, therefore, it should have been easy to prevent the invasion from happening. All the navy had to do was gather its ships outside the invasion ports and wait for the barges to emerge.

  But that was easier said than done, because with all its other commitments the navy did not have enough ships for the task. And even if it had, a total blockade of the Channel ports was impossible for geographical reasons – wind and tide again, and shifting sands. Not even the Royal Navy could have managed it.

  The worst scenario of all, from the British point of view, would see the French battle fleet putting to sea as well – all of it, in one combined showing. At present, the French squadrons were widely dispersed, some in the Channel ports, others at Brest and Toulon, where the Royal Navy was making every eff
ort to keep them blockaded. But if the Brest and Toulon fleets fought their way out, making common cause for the Channel, the Royal Navy might find itself outnumbered on its own doorstep. The consequences did not bear thinking about.

  British strategy, therefore, was to keep the French blockaded wherever they were. Ships were usually allowed into French ports, but not out again. They were left bottled up in harbour, reluctant to face the Royal Navy on the open sea. It was vital for the British to keep the French fleet divided, unable to join forces in the Channel.

  So far the strategy was working well, but it was extremely demanding of ships and manpower. Until Lord Melville’s building programme bore fruit, the navy was desperately short of the vessels it needed for the job. The shortage made itself felt in all sorts of ways, not least the leaky British warships prowling the Channel opposite the invasion ports. Until the problem was solved, as Lord Melville was uncomfortably aware, there could be no guarantee that the bulk of Napoleon’s armada would not successfully make it to England, if and when the invasion was launched.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE NAVY’S THREE LINES OF DEFENCE

  While Lord Melville sat at his desk, the Royal Navy was patrolling the English Channel, well aware of the difficulties it faced, but determined that the French would never set foot ashore while it still had ships to stop them.

  The navy had prepared three lines of defence against a French invasion. The first was the blockade, a permanent patrol of frigates and gunships operating the length of the French and Dutch coasts, so close to the enemy that at Boulogne its sailors could read the signals from the telegraph station on the cliff next to Napoleon’s pavilion. The patrols were there to prevent any enemy ships from putting to sea – even ordinary fishing boats. The task was difficult, but the patrols were largely successful, forcing most shipping to keep close inshore, under the protection of the shore batteries. Any stray fishermen the British captured were closely interrogated about the situation on land. The patrols also took soundings, measuring the constantly shifting sandbanks and observing the layout of the invasion fleet, keeping a sharp eye on everything that was happening on shore.