During warm nights in the Tropics, your hammock is as a stew-pan; where you stew and stew, till you can almost hear yourself hiss. . . .
One extremely warm night, during a calm, when it was so hot that only a skeleton could keep cool (from the free current of air through its bones) . . . I lowered myself gently to the deck. Let me see now, thought I, whether my ingenuity cannot devise some method whereby I can have room to breathe and sleep at the same time. I have it. I will lower my hammock underneath all these others; and then—upon that separate and independent level, at least, I shall have the whole berth deck to myself. Accordingly, I lowered away my pallet to the desired point . . . about three inches from the deck—and crawled into it again. But alas! this arrangement had made such a sweeping semicircle of my hammock, that while my head and feet were at par, the small of my back was settling down indefinitely. I felt as if some gigantic archer had hold of me for a bow.
But there was another plan left. I triced up my hammock with all my strength, so as to bring it wholly above the tiers of pallets around me . . . but alas! it was much worse than before. My luckless hammock was stiff and straight as a board; and there I was—laid out in it, with my nose against the ceiling, like a dead man’s against the lid of his coffin.
When not in use, the hammocks were rolled up and stored in netting triced to the overhead. An early instruction to officers provided guidance for the supervision of this daily ritual: “Nothing adds more to the smart and favorable appearance of a vessel of war than a neat stowage of hammocks. . . . In the stowage of the hammocks, the officer should stand on the opposite side of the deck, a position which will enable him to preserve a symmetrical line, and guide and direct the stower in his progress fore and aft the netting; they are also enjoined to be careful that the hammocks of the men be properly lashed up. Defaulters in this particular should be reported to the First Lieutenant. Seven turns at equal distance is the required number of turns with a hammock-lashing.”
Sustenance
Food, another necessity of life, was a constant concern for Sailors of the early Navy. Of the forty-four articles making up the Rules for the Regulation of the Navy of the United Colonies of North-America (the first “Navy Regulations,” written largely by founding father and future president John Adams), six pertained to the acquisition, stowage, inspection, and issuing of food. Article 17, for example, directs: “All ships furnished with fishing tackle, being in such places where fish is to be had, the Captain is to employ some of the company in fishing.” Article 22 requires: “The Captain is frequently to order the proper officer to inspect into the condition of the provisions, and if the bread proves damp to have it aired upon the quarter-deck or poop, and also to examine the flesh cask; and if any of the pickle be leaked out, to have new made and put in and the cask made tight and secure.”
The meals of the day were breakfast at 0800, dinner at noon, and supper at 1600. No other meals were served (“mid-rats” did not come along until much later), so a Sailor had nothing to eat from 1600 till 0800 (a full sixteen hours) unless he managed to stuff a biscuit in his shirt during supper.
The reefer would not be invented for a long time, so keeping food from spoiling was a challenge that severely limited what could be taken to sea for long periods. Meats were dried and preserved with a heavy coating of salt. When it was time to eat some of the beef, for example, it was removed from the barrel where it (hopefully) had been kept from the marauding rats, the salt chipped off as much as possible, and then immersed in water for a time to help cut the remaining salt and make the meat something close to chewable.
Food in general was called “tack” in the Sailor’s jargon. “Hardtack” was an ever-present, if not terribly appetizing, form of sustenance that is roughly similar to today’s dog biscuit (but harder). Made of flour, salt, and water—leavening was conspicuously absent—it could keep a man alive but not happy. As the cruise went on, the battle with small insects would gradually go the way of the weevil, and it became the habit of Sailors everywhere to tap their hardtack on the deck (or table if they were among the few who rated one) for a time before eating so that most of the unwanted vermin would fall out. Charles Nordhoff, who wrote from firsthand experience about life in the sailing Navy, recalled, “I have seen a biscuit literally crawl off the mess cloth.”
Sailors ate in messes consisting of eight to ten men. Typically, one representative of each mess would bring the food to his shipmates, who would gather together between two of the cannon and seat themselves on a tarp spread out on the deck. Melville described this process vividly.
The common seamen are divided into messes, put down on the purser’s books as Mess No. 1, Mess No. 2, Mess No. 3, etc. The members of each mess combine their rations of provisions, and breakfast, dine, and sup together in allotted intervals between the guns on the main deck. In undeviating rotation, the members of each mess (excepting the petty officers) take their turn in performing the functions of cook and steward. . . . It is the mess-cook’s business to have an eye to the general interests of his mess; to see that, when the combined allowances of beef, bread, etc. are served out by one of the master’s mates, the mess over which he presides receives its full share. Upon the berth-deck he has a chest, in which to keep his pots, pans, spoons, and small stores of sugar, molasses, tea, and flour.
But though entitled a cook, strictly speaking, the mess-cook is no cook at all; for the cooking for the crew is all done by a high and mighty functionary, officially called the “ship’s cook,” assisted by several deputies. . . .
From this it will be seen that, as far as cooking is concerned, a “cook of the mess” has very little to do. . . . Still, in some things, his office involves many annoyances. Twice a week, butter and cheese are served out—so much to each man—and the mess-cook has the sole charge of these delicacies. The great difficulty consists in so catering for the mess, concerning these luxuries, as to satisfy all. Some guzzlers are for devouring the butter at one meal, and finishing off the cheese the same day; others contend for saving it up till Banyan Day, when there is nothing but beef and bread; and others again, are for taking a very small bit of butter and cheese, by way of dessert, to each and every meal through the week. All this gives rise to endless disputes, debates, and altercations.
Discipline
Discipline in the old sailing Navy could be harsh. John Kilby described what he saw in his first moments aboard his new ship.
The first sight that was presented to our view was thirteen men stripped and tied upon the larboard [port] side of the quarterdeck. The boatswain’s mate commenced at the first nearest the gangway and gave him one dozen lashes with a cat-o’nine-tails. Thus he went on until he came to the coxswain, Robertson by name. (These men were the crew of the captain’s barge and Robertson was coxswain.) When the boatswain’s mate came to Robertson, the first lieutenant said: “As he is a bit of an officer, give him two dozen.” It was done.
Now it is necessary to let you know what they had been guilty of. They had carried the Captain on shore, and as soon as he was out of sight, they all left the barge and got drunk. When [the Captain] came down in order to go on board, not a man was to be found. [The Captain] had to and did hire a fishing boat to carry him on board.
Far more graphic versions of the practice of flogging have been recorded, but it takes little imagination to know that it was a barbaric form of discipline, and although it was a standard practice in all the navies of the day, it would be abolished in the U.S. Navy ten years before the American Civil War.
Lesser punishments were available and often administered without the prerequisite of a captain’s mast or other judicial proceeding. Even a Sailor guilty of no wrongdoing could expect to be encouraged to carry out his duties expeditiously by a petty officer not opposed to a swift kick or a blow from a knotted rope.
The regulations drawn up by John Adams included such things as: “If any shall be heard to swear, curse or blaspheme the name of God, the Captain is strictly enjoined to
punish them for every offence, by causing them to wear a wooden collar or some other shameful badge of distinction, for so long a time as he shall judge proper.”
Those same regulations limited a captain to ordering a maximum of twelve lashes for any offense (far less than the limits imposed in the Royal Navy), but there were few restrictions on a captain’s authority, and many could be quite creative in how they enforced discipline or solved personnel problems within their ships. For example, noting that seasickness was a serious problem among his crew, Captain Charles Biddle responded: “Knowing that exercise is an excellent remedy for sea sickness, and wishing to make the young men on board learn to go aloft whenever the weather was fair, I had the hand pump taken up to the head of the main top-mast and there lashed, and every one of them that wanted a drink of water was obliged to go up, bring the pump down, and after they had taken a drink carry it up again. For the first five or six days many of them would come up on deck, look wistfully at the pump, but rather than go aloft would go down again. However, they were soon reconciled to it and I believe it was a great service to them.”
A Special Kind of Commitment
Despite all the deprivations and harsh conditions, Sailors went to sea, committed to carrying out their duties, to fighting for those things they believed in, and even to giving their lives when and if the time came.
By the law of averages, most Sailors serve in times of peace. Even when war comes, many never see actual combat. This requires a special kind of commitment, for there is a disappointment, however perverse, in not being permitted to do what you train for. The Navy exists to defend the nation, and, while there are many kinds of operations that do not require the actual exchange of fire, in the end, a Sailor’s training, a Sailor’s routine, is ultimately aimed at supporting or participating in victory over the nation’s enemies. There can be great frustration in spending great quantities of time preparing for the moment of truth, simply to find that the moment never comes for you personally. There can be a sense of disappointment when others are called upon to do battle and your task is support. While it is obvious that who will play which role is largely a matter of chance, and it is equally obvious that both roles are vital to victory, it requires a strong sense of commitment to be ready for either.
For those few who indeed must face hostile fire, yet another kind of commitment is mandated. Courage conquers fear, but commitment counters confusion, fatigue, horror, and setback when the chaos of war changes your world forever. John Kilby was one of those Sailors who would be called upon in that moment of truth for that unique form of commitment, and it was his fate to serve with one of the most famous naval captains of all time during one of the greatest naval battles in history.
Kilby’s challenge began early in the Revolution when he served for a time as a privateer but had the misfortune of being captured by the British. Some of that spirit and sardonic humor that are often characteristic of Americans in grave circumstances show through in his brief description of what happened: “We were put on board the old Princess Amelia of ninety guns, then a guard-ship, where we lay two months. Then we were carried up to Hazel Hospital for trial and condemnation (a mock trial to be sure). After calling over all our names, the Judge rises up and pronounced sentence in these words, to wit: ‘You are all condemned for piracy on His Majesty’s high seas.’ (Here permit me to say I wish to know who gave him the high seas).”
Kilby would suffer as a prisoner of war for several years before being released as part of a prisoner exchange in 1779. Finding himself in the French city of Nantes along with a number of the other former prisoners, Kilby learned that an American warship was in the port city of l’Orient getting ready for sea. It was the Bonhomme Richard of forty guns, named in honor of Benjamin Franklin, who had long written a periodical known in Philadelphia as Poor Richard’s Almanac and translated into French as Les Maximes du Bonhomme Richard. They learned that the ship was commanded by John Paul Jones, a man whose reputation had already been established by the capture of many British ships and by the daring raid on Whitehaven on the west coast of England itself. Jones was hailed as a naval hero in America and condemned as a pirate in England. Kilby and his mates found this very appealing. “Thirty-three of us determined to get with Captain John Paul Jones,” Kilby later explained. “One reason why we came to this determination was, you know revenge is sometimes quite pleasant to men, and we then believed the said Jones would not disappoint us in our great wish and desire.”
John Kilby made the 108-mile trip to l’Orient and signed on with Jones as an “ordinary seaman.” He must have been somewhat disappointed when he first laid eyes on his new ship. She was a converted merchantman whose keel had passed over many miles of seawater. Her crew included Sailors from nine different nations, of whom merely about a third were American and many had far less experience than Kilby. Her armament was an odd mixture of cannons, some of which did not appear reliable.
To Sea
The old ship and her mongrel crew put to sea in August 1779 in company with several French ships and the American frigate Alliance, commanded by French captain Pierre Landais. Within a month, the small squadron had sailed around Ireland and Scotland, capturing, sinking, and destroying a number of British ships.
Jones soon promoted Kilby to “able seaman” and then to petty officer as a gunner’s mate. At one point during the cruise, the captain took aboard a British pilot as he ventured into a Scottish river. Jones had deliberately disguised Bonhomme Richard’s identity so that the pilot was unaware that he had boarded an American ship. With obvious pride (and a little taste of that revenge he sought), Kilby described the encounter: “Jones asked the pilot what was the news on the coast. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘very great and bad news! That rebel Paul Jones is expected to land every day.’ Jones asked him then what they thought of the rebel Jones, saying he wished he could come across him. ‘What!’ said he, ‘he is the greatest rebel and pirate that ever was and ought to be hanged.’ Jones then asked him if he knew whom he was talking to, and observed, ‘I am Paul Jones.’ The poor pilot dropped on his knees and begged for his life. Jones said ‘Get up! I won’t hurt a hair of your head, but you are my prisoner.’”
Her hold loaded with prisoners, Richard and the other ships in the little squadron arrived off Flamborough Head on the east coast of England in the late afternoon of 23 September 1779. Lookouts sang out, reporting first one, then another mast sprouting up from the flat line of the horizon. Though the light was beginning to fade, it was clear that they had encountered a convoy of some sort: rich pickings on the one hand, serious danger on the other. Convoys did not usually travel without escorts, even this close to the English shore. Before long, any hopes that this might be an exception were extinguished.
HMS Serapis
Looming up over the horizon were the three tall masts of a British frigate. It was HMS Serapis, rated at forty-four guns, and she was accompanied by the sloop of war Countess of Scarborough of twenty guns. The two warships came on quickly, moving into position to protect the merchant convoy. Although the other ships in Jones’s squadron began behaving erratically (the sole exception being Pallas, who moved in to fight the British sloop), Jones immediately maneuvered to engage Serapis.
From his station as quarter-gunner at one of Richard’s 18-pounder cannons on the lower deck, Kilby peered out through the gun port at the British frigate across the water, who grew larger every minute as the two ships closed upon one another. Serapis’s sails glowed faintly red in the gathering darkness as they caught the last vestiges of light from the sun now vanished over the horizon. Kilby recorded no emotion except perhaps a hint of pride as he recounted what he saw: “In order to protect that valuable convoy, as it was his duty, he (the enemy) hove to, hauled up his canvas and prepared for action. Side lanterns, of course, were up throughout the enemy’s ship and every man at quarters was plain to be seen. We were then but a very small distance from them and you may be sure that our ship was as well prepared for actio
n as it was in the power of man to have a ship.”
Kilby’s assessment of his ship’s readiness was no doubt accurate, but the American Sailors were not going to have an easy time of it. In his monumental biography of John Paul Jones, Admiral Samuel Eliot Morison described the two ships about to do battle.
HMS Serapis . . ., commanded by Captain Richard Pearson RN, was a new copper-bottomed frigate [which substantially increased her speed]. Rated at 44 guns, actually she had 50; a main battery of 20 eighteen-pounders on a lower gun deck (compared with Richard’s six of that caliber); 20 nine-pounders on an upper covered deck (compared with Richard’s 28 twelve-pounders), and 10 six-pounders on the quarterdeck (where Richard had 6 nine-pounders). . . . There is no doubt that Serapis was a newer, faster, and more nimble frigate than Richard; and in fire power, owing to her far greater number of eighteen-pounders, she was definitely superior.
Unremitting Fury
Despite these circumstances, Jones never flinched; Kilby and his mates were likewise committed to following their intrepid captain into battle. The moon was rising and the weather clear as the two ships moved across the now blackened waters, ever closer for the impending fight. The creaking of the rigging and an occasional luff in one of the sails were the only sounds to be heard until a voice drifted across the water from Serapis, demanding, “Tell me what ship that is directly or I will sink you.” Kilby recalled his captain’s response: “Jones then answered: ‘Sink and be damned!’ Both ships were within fifty yards of each other and at the words ‘sink and be damned,’ I fully believe no man living could tell which ship fired first, but so it was that each ship fired a broadside.”
A Sailor's History of the U.S. Navy Page 9