by Deborah Lake
Drebbel produced three submersibles. Rumour later claimed that James I actually took a journey in one. This was probably an inspired piece of royalist propaganda. The shambling, uncouth, tobacco-loathing, honours-hawking, penny-pinching, buttocks-fondling James I and VI was no by-word for heroism. Reviled by many Scots because he left his own country to enjoy the luxury of the English throne, he inspired precisely the same emotion in many of his new subjects.
The Jacobean Navy took no interest in the Dutchman’s invention. No lucrative orders for wooden submarines came his way. Despite his achievements, Drebbel ended his days a poor man, the keeper of a tavern. His wife, Sophia, may have been responsible. She allegedly spent their money ‘entertaining sundry lovers’.
Drebbel spawned imitators. A number of craft, usually converted rowing boats that sank on command, entranced the public. On rare occasions, the boats returned to the surface, an even more fascinating achievement. In the century after Drebbel showed the way, inventors filed some fourteen or more patents in England for submersibles.
In 1747, one Nathaniel Symons developed a ballast tank. Water flowed into leather bags. The vessel sank. Strong hands wrung out the bags. The boat rose. It was a technological triumph, a small step on the road of progress.
War produces inventions. The severe unpleasantness between the American Colonies and the British government from 1775 to 1786 inspired an Irish emigrant, David Bushnell, a graduate of Yale. He decided to destroy the British fleet in Boston Harbour by underwater attack. George Washington declared that he was ‘of great mechanical powers, fertile in invention and a master of execution’. He undoubtedly made an impression. The parsimonious Washington personally financed Bushnell’s experiments.
The inventor named his underwater machine American Turtle. With no massive industrial base to support him, he nonetheless produced a watertight hull; propulsion that drove the submersible forwards, backwards, upwards and downwards; a steering system; variable ballast; a primitive breathing device; what modern military men call a weapons delivery system; and a two-bladed screw to drive it along.
Bushnell weighted Turtle with a lead-filled base to both stop it rolling wildly in rough water and to achieve neutral buoyancy. As an engineer, he could recite, without thinking hard, Archimedes’ great discovery. If the weight of a body submerged in water equals the weight of the water it displaces, it will tend neither to sink nor to rise. Neutral buoyancy – the principle that enables all submarines to work. By taking on water to make it heavier, developing negative buoyancy, the submarine goes down. Pumping out the same water produces positive buoyancy. The submarine rises.
Made of oak, American Turtle, a mere 7ft long and 4ft wide, looked like two vertical tortoiseshells joined together. Others considered that it resembled an enormous upright walnut. To make it watertight, Bushnell bound the machine with iron bands, then covered it with pitch.
The single operator perched upright on a seat akin to a bicycle saddle. With the hatch closed, he saw nothing. A judicious coating of phosphorescent fox-fire, more properly known to botanists as bioluminescent rhizomorphs, remedied the problem.
On top of Turtle, vents provided air when the hatch was clear of the surface. Two flaps closed as the vessel submerged. Once it was under water, the air supply lasted for about thirty minutes.
The crewman sat behind an oar that turned the screw to move the vessel. A similar oar above him gave extra control for descending or surfacing, as well as the ability to stay at a particular depth. Bushnell had thoughtfully provided a depth gauge of his own design. A foot-operated rudder took care of the steering. A compass told the operator in which direction he pedalled.
In early 1776, Bushnell decided that American Turtle was ready to annihilate the Royal Navy. Most of the British fleet had already sailed from rebellious Boston to a more welcoming Halifax in Nova Scotia. A few vessels, though, remained in New York Harbour.
Turtle moved to The Battery in Manhattan, where General Israel Putnam and 9,000 Continental soldiers stood guard. Ezra Bushnell, the inventor’s brother, could operate Turtle with nonchalant skill but he needed several weeks to adjust to the intricate tidal conditions between The Battery and Governor’s Island. Finally, David and Ezra were satisfied. Turtle was ready to destroy the British fleet.
The brothers chose HMS Eagle, the flagship of Lord Howe, the British commander, as their target. Putnam authorised the venture. Ezra fell sick with fever, but another Ezra stepped forward. Sergeant Ezra Lee of the Connecticut Militia volunteered to be the new operator.
Two months slipped by as Lee learned to master Turtle. Close to midnight on 6 September 1776, a rowing boat towed the submarine halfway to Staten Island. Lee lowered himself into the wooden submarine, fastened the hatch, and so became the first and only non-commissioned officer ever to command a United States submarine.
Lee pedalled. He kept going until he reached the 64-gun Eagle unobserved. In the dark, the one-third of the egg-shaped contraption above the water scarcely showed. Lee took in ballast and Turtle submerged. The sergeant inched forward until certain he was under Eagle. Ezra gently pumped out water until Turtle bumped against the flagship’s keel.
Bushnell’s ingenious weapons system came into play. In theory, an iron auger bit, worked from inside the vessel, fixed a screw to the enemy hull. A rope ran from the screw to a mine of Bushnell’s own design. When the submarine retired, the mine detached itself from Turtle. This started the clockwork of the tethered mine.
Lee drilled without success. Bushnell either forgot, or never knew, that England’s wooden walls were sheathed in copper. Where marine weeds did not penetrate, neither did a primitive corkscrew.
The sergeant surfaced, gulped air, tried again. More failure. At last, exhausted, sweating, aware that the tide was on the turn, he gave in. Lee dumped all his ballast water to pedal furiously for safety in the growing dawn. Turtle showed up starkly in the early light. An inquisitive British patrol set out from Governor’s Island to investigate the unusual shape in the water. Lee abandoned the 250lb burden of the mine. His aching thigh muscles, with less weight to move, pushed the Turtle towards safety.
The mine exploded.
Howe prudently moved his ships to lower New York Bay. The Royal Navy apparently took little notice of the new threat. No ships’ logs or reports to London mention the incident. But, whether myth, truth or simple exaggeration, naval warfare had changed. The submarine menace had arrived.
Turtle made two more attempts to sink a British ship. On one, tide and currents overcame willing muscles. On the other, in the calmer waters of the Connecticut river, the frigate HMS Cerberus escaped unscathed although a schooner close by blew up with the loss of several lives.
George Washington, as a mark of esteem, personally authorised Bushnell’s commission into the Continental Army’s Corps of Engineers. When the war ended, Bushnell went to France to sell his design. He returned, disillusioned, in 1795. Before he left, though, Bushnell published details of his invention. Another American, Robert Fulton, who lived in Paris, seized on the idea.
Fulton, an accomplished miniature painter, a builder of canals, designer of a rope-making machine and practical engineer, tackled the problems with skill and determination. As the infant Republic grappled with its new calendar, Fulton wrote to the French Directory on 22 Frimaire in Year 6 of the Republic, more easily recognised as 13 December 1797:
Considering the great importance of diminishing the power of the British Fleets, I have Contemplated the Construction of a Mechanical Nautulus: A Machine which flatters me with much hope of being Able to Annihilate their Navy; hence feeling confident that Practice will bring the Apparatus to perfection; The Magnitude of the object has excited in me an Ardent desire to Prove the experiment: For this Purpose, and to Avoid troubling you with the Investigation of a new Project, or the Expense of Carrying it into effect; I have Arranged a Company who are willing to bear the Expense, and undertake the Expedition on the following Conditions:
After which, the American got down to business. He wanted 400 livres, or £1,400, per gun for every destroyed ship that carried more than forty guns. For ships less than 40 tons, which carried less armament, he required 2,000 livres, or £6,000, per gun. No paper money accepted. Cargoes and property from every ship would pass to Fulton and his company. In a final flourish, he asked for letters of marque for all his men so that, if they were captured, an enemy would treat them as prisoners of war and not pirates.
The French haggled. As Fulton had not built a ‘Nautulus’, this was hardly surprising. In a further letter, the inventor shrewdly emphasised that the ‘destruction of the English Navy will ensure the independence of the seas and France, the nation which has the most natural resources and population, will alone and without a rival, hold the balance of power in Europe’.
Compelling words. If the ‘diving boat’ achieved this, it was worth consideration, especially as payment was strictly by results. The Minister of Marine, Vice-Admiral Eustache Bruix, appointed a committee to consider the pestering inventor’s idea. They duly produced a long and detailed report.
Fulton’s idea, they decided, was feasible and highly desirable. It was, they agreed, ‘a terrible means of destruction’, but one particularly suitable for France as the British had a much stronger navy. Even the entire destruction of both fleets would favour the French. The committee approved construction.
Fulton’s machine would hardly have looked totally out of place a century later. Roughly cigar-shaped with pointed bow and tapering stern, it showed off a conning tower that served as both hatch and periscope. It had a snorkel tube. The space between the double hull contained the water ballast. The submarine also had a forward diving plane and a vertical rudder. In a leap of technology, compressed air spat out the water ballast. Nautilus also pioneered the use of two propulsion systems, one for surface use and one for under water. Submerged, the boat relied on muscle power from her crew of three. A hand crank turned a four-bladed propeller. Above the waves, a sail provided the push.
In 1801, the craft sailed 70 miles in five days. The crew attempted to close on two English brigs. They made off as soon as the strange vessel appeared. Royal Navy captains knew about the ‘Mechanical Nautulus’. British spies kept the Lords of the Admiralty fully informed of developments in the enemy camp.
Fulton’s original design had an iron drill, like Turtle. By 1802, he had abandoned this idea. He also replaced the candles that lit the interior with a glass porthole which, he claimed, let in sufficient light to read a watch 25ft down.
General Napoleon Bonaparte, now modestly enjoying the title of First Consul of the Republic, showed keen interest in Fulton’s efforts. The American had, indeed, solved most of the problems associated with underwater craft.
Unfortunately for Fulton, Napoleon appointed a new Minister of Marine. The choleric Admiral Decrès wasted little time on Bonaparte’s fad. He flatly rejected the idea. France had not yielded the seas to England. The invention had no future in naval warfare, although it might be useful against pirates or Algerian corsairs.
A depressed Fulton decided to try his luck in England. He now had not only a working submarine to sell. He had his own brand of mines as well. Once more, he wrote to the highest in the country with his proposals and, helpfully, his scale of payment.
Again, a committee considered the ideas. His underwater craft met with rather less enthusiasm than it had in France. The politicians, though, liked his mines. These were a long way from black spheres with horns. Fulton’s largest creation was 18ft long, square-sectioned with wedge-shaped ends. It weighed 2 tons. All of his mines used clockwork detonators. Fastened to an enemy hull by a grapnel, they seemed an excellent way to attack the French invasion fleet at Boulogne.
A first attempt, in October 1804, failed. Only one of five bombs destroyed a target. A small pinnace and crew were blown to pieces. Despite the secrecy that surrounded the expedition, the news rapidly reached the popular press. Much indignation ensued. Not for the failure but for the underhand method. Public and Navy alike considered it unfair. It broke the rules of warfare.
A second attempt at Calais in December also achieved nothing.
Fulton, undismayed, badgered Pitt for action. The American, with some reason, believed that the Royal Navy deliberately hampered his efforts. Two public demonstrations that satisfactorily destroyed the targets persuaded the government to finance a third expedition.
Fulton met Admiral Lord St Vincent. He wanted to tell the admiral how mines would wipe out the French fleet. The acerbic naval officer gave him short shrift. ‘Pitt’, he told the inventor, ‘was the greatest fool that ever existed, to encourage a mode of war which they who commanded the seas did not want, and which, if successful, would deprive them of it.’ With those words, he set the official policy of the Royal Navy for decades to come.
Pitt, ever the pragmatic politician, considered it better to have Fulton on the British side than on the French. St Vincent, like practical military men throughout the ages, wasted no time on those who mouthed theory but were woefully short of experience.
The third expedition on 27 October 1805, once more against Boulogne, achieved nothing. Days later, news of Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar convulsed the whole of Britain. The invasion threat vanished. Fulton’s schemes withered.
He returned to America. Seven years later, rumours of his ‘submarine bombs’ during the War of 1812 ensured that British naval officers remained extremely wary of attack when anchored in harbour.
Four decades later, another inventor decided that the way to destroy enemy ships was from beneath the surface. In 1840, 18-year-old Wilhelm Sebastian Valentin Bauer, the son of a corporal in the Bavarian army, joined the military himself. A serious youth, he studied mathematics, chemistry and physics in his spare time.
In 1848, he volunteered to serve in the German Federation Corps in the First Schleswig-Holstein War against Denmark. Bauer ended up on the island of Alsen, where the Danes defended a vital bridge. The Germans wished to destroy it. The Danes, equally determined, preferred it intact. With a fine field of fire, Danish guns menaced anything that approached. The Bavarian, having watched cavorting seals around Alsen, decided that a submersible vessel would serve the purpose very well indeed. That could arrive undetected, plant explosives, and leave unchallenged. The problem was solved. All he had to do was to design a mechanical seal.
In 1849, the Germans and Denmark agreed peace terms, and the Bavarian volunteers returned home. Schleswig-Holstein continued to fight alone for independence. Bauer left the Bavarian army to sign for the Schleswig-Holstein service.
The Danes blockaded Kiel. Bauer produced plans for a submersible to attach mines to the besieging ships. He called his invention Der Brandtaucher, which satisfactorily translates as ‘Firediver’.
In return for thirty gold marks from the War Ministry, Bauer produced a working model, shaped roughly like the inspirational seals, in which an oversized clockwork motor drove a three-bladed screw to produce an impressive performance. A large lead weight on a threaded bar that ran almost the full length of the model boat controlled horizontal trim. Ballast tanks, operated by hand pumps, allowed Brandtaucher to submerge or surface. In the bow, a pair of leather gloves, operated from inside the submarine, allowed a man to fix mines to enemy hulls.
All Bauer needed for a full-size boat was money. The Schleswig-Holstein treasury had none to spare. An undaunted Bauer did what visionary inventors have always done: he appealed to the public. The citizens chipped in, as did the army who rather wanted to win the war. Despite everyone’s efforts, they failed to raise enough to build Brandtaucher as originally conceived.
The Schweffel und Howalt iron foundry, given the task of building Brandtaucher on a limited budget, cut corners. Thinner sheets than specified made up the metal hull. Loose weights replaced adjustable ones. Water ballast, once carefully contained in compartments, sloshed around the keel instead.
The finished vessel, 8m long, flat-sided, wei
ghed 30 tons. On the bright, moonlit night of 18 December 1850, Bauer, with Ingenieur Hest, Steurmann Wiedemann and Matrosen Witt and Thomsen, displayed Brandtaucher to a large and admiring crowd. The craft did not submerge, as there was no on-board ballast. Instead of clockwork, a large treadmill that would not have disgraced the local jail drove Brandtaucher across the bitterly cold water of Kiel Harbour.
The submarine ambled at a majestic 3 knots through drift ice. The crew panted to turn the treadmill at twenty revolutions per minute. The crowd cheered. The Danish spies among them made mental notes. News of Bauer’s invention swiftly reached the Danish fleet. Equally smartly, the Danish ships withdrew further out to sea.
During the next weeks, Bauer and his two seamen pedalled around Kiel Harbour to test the machine. The authorities became impatient. They wanted Brandtaucher to dive, destroy Danish ships and return in triumph. Wars are, after all, for winning.
On 1 February 1851, Brandtaucher eased her way into the harbour. With the hatch firmly closed, Bauer prepared to dive. He opened the ballast valves. Water gurgled in. The loose weights slid towards the tail. Everything not nailed down slid towards the stern. The flat iron plates buckled under the strain. Rivets popped. The North Sea sieved in through the seams.
After fifty-four seconds of terror, Brandtaucher hit the seabed, sterndown, at an angle of 34 degrees. The treadmill had broken free. The pumps could not cope. In the darkness, the three men heard only the ominous trickling of water as it flowed into the hull.
Bauer was a remarkable man. He did not panic. Self-taught in physics, he knew they could escape. He needed only to persuade his companions to encourage the water to come in. The external and internal pressures would equalise as the hull filled. When they matched, the crew could open the hatch to escape. Whether sweet reason or the brutally large spanner that Bauer meaningfully waved convinced Witt and Thomsen, the inventor got his way. They opened the valves. Water rushed in. The air compressed. The hatch opened. The three intrepid adventurers hurtled to the surface in a bubble of air.