by Dudley Pope
John Wetherell, of Whitby, served his apprenticeship at sea in one of the collier brigs sailing between Newcastle and London, carrying to the capital the ‘sea coal’ needed for its hearths. He was then caught by a press-gang and taken on board the frigate Hussar, commanded by Wilkinson.
From his account it is clear that Wetherell hated Wilkinson; but better a biased witness than none at all, particularly when much of what he wrote about the Hussar bears out conclusions drawn from the Hermione’s log for the period of Wilkinson’s command. He portrays Wilkinson as a brutal man (who had apparently learnt nothing from the Hermionés fate) and describes several episodes which are, unfortunately, impossible to confirm or deny. On one occasion, when the frigate was with the Fleet off Brest, Wetherell says that several members of the crew were so oppressed by Wilkinson’s cruelty that they wrote a letter of petition to the admiral commanding the Fleet ‘beseeching his fatherly aid requesting his honour to snatch us from the paws of our tyrannical prosecution [sic]’.
About a week later, when the Hussar was at Plymouth, a fight between a young midshipman and a seaman resulted, according to Wetherell, in Admiral Sir Robert Calder coming on board to investigate. After hearing both sides of the story, says Wetherell, Sir Robert criticized Wilkinson in front of his crew for his behaviour, saying he had received a hint from Admiral Cornwallis ‘concerning your ship and crew’, and telling Wilkinson to ‘look back on the unfortunate Hermione’.
There are various other acts of cruelty described by Wetherell. The Hussar, under Wilkinson’s command was, finally wrecked and the survivors were taken prisoner. After Wilkinson was exchanged by the French there was the usual court of inquiry over the loss of the ship, but in the absence of witnesses it reached no conclusions. Nevertheless Wilkinson spent most of the rest of his life on half pay, indicating the Admiralty probably had reservations about him, although by stepping into dead men’s shoes he eventually became an admiral.
Having seen Wetherell’s account of Captain Wilkinson in 1803, we must put the clock back to 1794, when in the West Indies Wilkinson was appointed to the Hermione. From September that year, when he took over command, until early December, the frigate did not move more than a few score miles from Port au Prince. One can imagine Wilkinson’s relief when he was ordered to Jamaica, and on December 6 he wrote: ‘At anchor in Port Royal Harbour, refitting and taking on stores’. The ship stayed there until February 1, 1795, when she sailed back to Port au Prince once again and operated in that area for the rest of the year.
However, we are more concerned with what was happening in the Hermione than what was happening to her. Obviously no log can indicate in precise terms whether the men in a ship were contented or unhappy; but the crimes committed and punishment given can be important clues in the hands of someone who has read a large number of logs, since certain types of crimes were more prevalent in a discontented ship than those in one whose captain was stern but just. Frequent cases of ‘insolence’ and ‘neglect of duty’ are, curiously enough, usually more indicative of an unhappy ship than odd cases of ‘mutinous behaviour’. Seamen preferred a taut and just captain to someone who was free and easy—the latter unwittingly left them at the mercy of cruel officers.
Wilkinson’s logs therefore allow us to look back into the past and, to a certain degree, glimpse the kind of life led by the men in the Hermione for the last year he was in command. It is unfortunate that for the last half of 1796 the Master’s log is missing, since this would help confirm the punishment ordered by Wilkinson: there is every reason to suppose, from the curiously spasmodic way floggings were recorded, that Wilkinson did not note down every case in his own log. Nor was there any regulation requiring him to do so.
Since the floggings which Wilkinson listed are given in Appendix B on page 334, there is no need to go into them in detail, beyond noting that he ordered a total of 408 lashes between January 25 and October 12, and it appears strange that although three men received a total of five dozen lashes on April 27, apparently no one was flogged again, if the log is to be believed, until August 16, when three men were given a total of one hundred and eighty lashes.
Much of the trouble on board was due to drink, and while the idea of a drunken seaman collapsing in a besotted heap beside a gun, clawing at the deck in an effort to stop it spinning, is not an edifying one, it is understandable. Most of the Hermione’s crew had served on board for more than three years, and the majority had not been allowed on shore for leave for one moment since the day they had set foot on board and been ‘read in’.
Except for the weeks recently spent at Port Royal, when the ship was refitting and taking on stores—back-breaking work beginning before dawn and ending after dusk, often in the blazing sun—they had been cooped up in their tiny ship in fetid, damp heat. Their only amusement—if Captain Wilkinson allowed it, and not every captain did—was an occasional dance to the scraping of a fiddle. They were deprived of the company of other men, for ship to ship visiting was discouraged, and of women. For year after year the men were held in their wooden prison and, what is psychologically more important, they had no idea when—if ever—they would be free again. (Perhaps they were fortunate in not knowing the war was to continue, with only a few months’ break, for the next twenty years.)
It was in these conditions that a benevolent Government allowed each man in one of His Majesty’s ships of war a free issue of a quarter of a pint of rum in the morning (mixed with three gills of water), and another quarter of a pint (also mixed with three gills of water) in the evening. A man might—and often did—horde his morning tot and add it to the evening’s, using half a pint of rum to make himself more pot-valiant or mellow. Hoarding grog was forbidden by regulations which were largely ignored; indeed, a man’s tot was valid currency on board—the stake for a wager, payment for a good deed, or as a bribe. But over-indulgence meant a flogging, which was a severe type of punishment.
Although the cat-o’-nine tails was a terrible instrument of punishment, since the ship’s company was always mustered to watch a flogging one must assume that authority intended it should also be a deterrent—both to those flogged, and those who watched. In the Hermione under Wilkinson it appears to have been no deterrent; and under Pigot the more flogging there was, the more crimes there were committed on board.
An example of its failure as a deterrent was Walter St John. Wilkinson ordered him to be given two dozen lashes on April 27 for drunkenness and quarrelling, followed by three dozen lashes on August 16 for neglect of duty. Then on October 24, his back laced with scars, his shirt was once more stripped off and a muscular bosun’s mate laid on another couple of dozen lashes—this time for ‘neglect of duty and insolence’.
The almost inevitable progression can be clearly seen. His first crime, getting drunk and quarrelling, had earned him twenty-four lashes. If he had never been flogged before (there is no record of this being the case) and was a man of average sensitivity, when the scars on his back would be much less important than those which remained in his mind: he would have been humiliated and his pride damaged, if not destroyed, and he would probably bear a grudge. His only way of working off this grudge—without being openly mutinous, which was to risk death—would be to do his work slowly or badly (or both). This may have been the reason for the second flogging—thirty-six lashes for neglect of duty. But did those five dozen lashes so terrify or deter him that he did his work properly in the future? Apparently not, for fifty-nine days later he was punished yet again for neglect of duty, only this time it was aggravated by insolence, although he was fortunate to get only two dozen lashes. It had all started with drinking the grog which was issued to him free in over-large quantities. Would it have ended up, after seven dozen lashes, with mutinous conduct if Walter St John had not been transferred to another ship soon afterwards?
It is worth noting that although according to regulations captains could not order a man to be given more than a dozen lashes without asking the Commander-in-Chief, a numbe
r of captains ordered a great many more without seeking permission (which was often impossible because they were at sea) and never hesitated to enter the fact in the log, a copy of which had to be sent off to the Admiralty every three months. The Admiralty clearly did not enforce the regulation: indeed in 1806 the limit of a dozen was removed from the Regulations and Instructions.
For the last month of 1796 the Hermione spent most of her time at anchor in St Marc Bay, carrying out a partial self-refit. ‘Employed overhauling the topmast rigging… Sent a gang wooding’, the log records for the 13th, Wooding (which, as its name implies, was simply collecting firewood for the ship’s coppers) and watering were the only opportunities that the men had of setting foot on shore, and even then they were always working under the watchful eyes of Marine sentries, who stood with their muskets primed and bayonets fixed.
On December 27 Captain Wilkinson received orders to raid a village north of St Marc, whose inhabitants were proving troublesome. The log reports laconically: ‘At 8 a.m. run inshore and fired a broadside at Coridans Salt Pans. ½ past 9 a lieutenant and two master’s mates with the boats manned and armed went on shore and set fire to the village. Rowed along the shore and took possession of two boats and finding the enemy collecting very numerous they returned with the boats they had taken. Hoisted in the boats and tacked ship.’ By noon on New Year’s Eve the ship was back at anchor in St Marc Bay.
So the year 1796 passed. For Wilkinson and the Hermione’s crew it had been one of boredom: not a penny in prize money, and the only action had been the miserable raid on the village. Yet for most of the men the only thing that made up for the perils of yellow fever and the heat, was the chance of prize money.
On January 14 a cutter arrived with orders for Wilkinson from Sir Hyde Parker: a storeship was soon due and the Hermione, after taking on stores from her, was to sail for Cape Nicolas Mole, arriving not later than February 4.
The promised storeship duly arrived, and while Captain Pigot was facing a court of inquiry at the Mole over the Jesup episode, Captain Wilkinson noted in the Hermione’s log, ‘Received a quantity of Gunner’s, Carpenter’s and Boatswain’s stores…’
A few days later the Hermione sailed for the Mole, arriving on the afternoon of February 4. Wilkinson saw that the anchorage was crowded with heavily-laden merchantmen waiting to make up a convoy for England, while others, their paint worn and blistered and the rigging slack after a long Atlantic crossing, had obviously just arrived from England.
Wilkinson’s barge was lowered and soon he was on board the Queen, reporting to the Commander-in-Chief. Sir Hyde (who had of course received the report of the Pigot inquiry into the Jesup affair and was faced with the problem of the Success’s return to England) appears to have recalled the Hermione purposely to arrange for Wilkinson and Pigot to exchange ships. Since Wilkinson had spent two and a half fruitless years in the Hermione without finding a worthwhile prize, and probably realized that he could expect no patronage or advancement from Sir Hyde, it is unlikely he had any regrets at leaving both the ship and the West Indies in favour of the Channel.
It is clear that Philip Wilkinson’s major shortcoming was that his leadership was based on the Articles of War, not on his own personality, assurance and talent. A born leader had no need to use the Articles, save in exceptional circumstances. However, we must now move on to the man who inherited the Hermione, and made her name and his synonymous with sadistic cruelty.
4
IN FATHER’S LEE
* * *
IF NEPTUNE ever smiled on a young boy, he must have done so when Hugh Pigot stepped on board His Majesty’s ship Jupiter on Sunday, May 5, 1782, to start his naval career at the age of twelve and a half. His father, who had brought him to Plymouth, where the Jupiter lay at anchor in the Hamoaze, preceded him on board and on the quarterdeck was greeted by a Captain’s Guard. While a Marine officer bellowed ‘Present your arms’ to the neat scarlet-jacketed men, a band struck up a march and a large blue flag was broken out at the maintruck.
The individual details of this colourful ritual were no doubt lost on the boy, but its significance was not, for his father was Admiral Hugh Pigot, who was carrying with him an Admiralty Commission, immaculately inscribed in copperplate handwriting and embossed with a great seal, appointing him in time-honoured but melodious phrases, ‘Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty’s ships and vessels employed or to be employed at and about Jamaica and the Bahama Islands, etc.’
Pomp and ceremony, stirring marches and deferential salutes—these were the boy’s first glimpses of the Navy as he stood watching his father acknowledging all the honours due to an admiral with such an exalted appointment, and undoubtedly they were to condition his whole future attitude to the Navy. But before seeing how the boy fared at sea in the lee of his illustrious father, it is worth noting what traits he had inherited, for better or worse, from his family.
The most important among them were his father and two uncles, George and Robert, who were the sons of Richard Pigot, of Westminster, and his wife Frances. This trio, all of whom were to find fame and fortune, mostly by their own unaided efforts, were brought up without the discipline a wise father imposes during childhood, and the help, assurance and guidance he can offer to youth, because Richard Pigot died when only forty-seven years old.
George, in addition to being the eldest and the most turbulent, is the one who, as the narrative will later show, yields the most clues to the character of his nephew. In apprenticing him to the Honourable East India Company as a writer when he was seventeen years old, Frances Pigot had made a wise choice for her son, since India—in the form of ‘John Company’, as it was generally called—usually gave a generous reward to those of its employees who survived the natural hazards of service.
By the time George was thirty-two he was—with the help of a young lieutenant named Robert Clive—helping relieve the British garrison besieged at Trichinopoly by a native army of 8,000; at thirty-six he was Governor and Commander-in-Chief of Madras and father of the two daughters presented him by his mistress, who died shortly afterwards. But despite native revolts and French attacks, George Pigot’s main enemy was himself: his methods were autocratic and bullying and they made him many enemies among men with whom daily he had to work. He clearly loved power, and when it was given to him at the age of thirty-six he made bold decisions with no fear of the responsibility. But his judgment was poor and he frequently acted too hastily, seldom giving a thought for the consequences of his actions.
When the long war with France ended in 1763 George Pigot was forty-five and rich, so he returned to England, where—as became a rich nabob—he was created a baronet and became a Whig Member of Parliament. An Irish barony followed and he took the title of Baron Pigot of Patshull in the County of Dublin. He bought the Patshull estate in Staffordshire to go with it, reputedly paying Sir John Astley £100,000 for it. He also took another mistress, Mrs Catherine Hill, of Pepper Hill, Shropshire, who presented him with three sons in succession.
India was still a troubled continent, and by the time his third son was born Lord Pigot was on his way back to India. However, his Lordship’s twelve-year absence in England had not mellowed him; nor had his autocratic and bullying methods changed, and he was soon involved in quarrels. But he made a grave mistake in the course of one dispute, trifling in itself and too complicated to deal with here, by arresting a member of the Council and putting him in jail. He miscalculated the effect on the other members, some of whom imprisoned him and freed his former prisoner. Not unnaturally his Lordship’s activities caused a stir in England. Pigot had both friends and enemies among the General Court of the East India Company, which finally resolved that he should be restored to his position as Governor, but nevertheless his conduct on several occasions had been ‘reprehensible’, and that powers he had taken were not authorized by charter or warranted by any orders or instructions.
The court worked out a face-saving formula by which it restored him as Governor
by a commission dated June 10, 1777, and at the same time ordered him to give up the Governorship a week later. But Pigot’s enemies in Madras had kept him in prison while all the controversy was going on in London, and he fell ill, dying on May 11 at the age of fifty-eight.
Lord Pigot left the Patshull estate to his brother Robert, who inherited the baronetcy, but the Irish title lapsed, since his sons were illegitimate. The other tangible sign of wealth that his Lordship had found in India was the huge Pigot Diamond, weighing 188 grains and which he left to his two brothers and sister, who sold it by a lottery for £23,998.
While George had been in India, his second brother Robert, who was two years younger, was having a successful career in the Army. At the age of twenty-four he fought in his first battle, Fontenoy, and was to become a lieutenant-general. The third brother, Hugh, had in the meantime entered the Navy. Obtaining his first command, the fireship Vulcan, at the age of twenty-three, he was ‘made post’ by being given temporary command of the Centaur (for the rank went with the appointment). His first real command was the 44-gun Ludlow Castle. In the next few years he saw a good deal of active service: he was commanding the 60-gun York in the highly-successful assault on Louisberg in 1758; a few months later he commanded the Royal William under Admiral Sir Charles Saunders. But, with the end of the Seven Years War early in 1763, Captain Hugh Pigot went on shore. His turbulent brother George had just resigned as Governor of Madras and was on his way home. Hugh was then forty-two years old, and his wife Elizabeth had borne him two children, Isabella, who was then thirteen (and destined to be a friend of George IV and Mrs Fitzherbert), and Henry, a year younger. With the Navy being drastically reduced there was little chance of further employment, and he settled down to the life of a country gentleman.