“Frankly, sir,” said Delancey, “I can’t take the Invention seriously as a privateer. Letters of Marque will give Mr Williams a good excuse for putting to sea without convoy but this vessel would be useless as a private man-of-war. She has heavy guns and a small crew. If she intercepted a French merchantman, her prey would be smashed and crippled and Williams would lack the men to bring her into port. A privateer is something entirely different, needing small-calibre guns and a swarm of men.”
Delancey was henceforth to divide his time between London and Chatham, now watching the repair of the Vengeance and now attending the theatre with Fiona. All the talk was of war and the Delanceys were actually present when the King himself announced the outbreak from his box at Drury Lane. It was the Command Performance and all present rose to applaud Addington’s decision to make war on France. Poor Fiona wept as the carriage rolled back to St James’s Square. “You’ll go to sea, darling, and I shall be left in Guernsey to wonder whether you’ll be wounded or drowned.”
“Not in the first instance,” Delancey replied. “When the Vengeance sails for Guernsey—and that, I hear, is to be her immediate destination—you shall come with me. If we are to sink on the way we shall thus go down together!”
“Stop teasing me! I’ll sail with you but will be sick all the way, I expect.”
“You’ll have more room for it than you had in the Starling, and anyway, I can tell you a sure remedy. All you need do is to go and sit under a tree. Nor will you run any risk again of being wrecked on the shell beach. It will take young Le Page many years to live that down! As for the Vengeance, you must admit that she looks better since she came out of dry dock. Confess now, you were shocked when you saw her in the hands of the shipwright, presenting a scene of chaos. But since she was painted and now she is rigged she begins to look the part. Buff and white and a touch of gold, with a frowning figurehead and red gunports, you must admit that we are entitled to feel proud of her. There are better frigates, I’ll allow, but this is the one I’ve been given and I must do the best with what I have. Cheer up, dearest, you married a man whose trade is war. You made the right decision—it would be absurd, as you must admit, for you to have married anyone else—but there are certain drawbacks, as I have to admit. If I stay ashore, I am penniless and everyone thinks me a coward. If I go to sea I am separated from the most wonderful girl in the world. There is my dilemma but I don’t really have a choice. I must go to war as soon as Vengeance is manned and ready for sea.”
Chapter Eight
THE “INVENTION”
WHEN THE frigate Vengeance finally left Chatham, mooring at the Nore, Delancey was faced with the problem of manning her. All he had at this stage were his officers, some of them temporary, his warrant-officers, his midshipmen, his boys or second-class volunteers, and his detachment of marines. There were over a hundred more men to recruit and all the other men-of-war were equally seeking what they might devour. With the actual outbreak of war, however, press warrants were issued and the press gangs became active. The best seamen were removed from the merchantmen entering the river, some without information that the war had begun. The worst were those sent down the river by the London magistrates, having been given the choice between prison or the Navy. Although the manning problem was difficult enough it would certainly become worse as the war went on. Delancey’s two lieutenants (apart from old Harrison) were constantly out with the boats or ashore in Sheerness but the process of manning went slowly and the men press-ganged were, many of them, without sea experience. After weeks of effort Delancey at last had a crew of sorts and was able to sail. It was at this point that Fiona came down from London by coach and joined her husband’s ship for what would be her first voyage in a man-of-war.
It was a fine morning when Vengeance finally sailed and Fiona was found a corner of the quarterdeck where she would be out of everyone’s way. Harrison had charge of the deck and it was he who gave the order “All hands make sail!” There was hectic activity as the seamen ran to take up their positions. “Away aloft!” sent many of them up the shrouds. After which came the order “Man the topsail sheets!” and “Let fall!” To Fiona the scene was one of furious confusion but she wondered at the rapidity with which the sails were set and sheeted home. But no speed in action could satisfy the boatswain or his mates, who called the men lazy lubbers; using different terms, however, when they thought that she was out of earshot. Harrison presently apologised to her for all the shouting. “We have too many landsmen aboard,” he explained, “and what we do is under the eyes of the other ships. We don’t want to earn a reputation for slackness.”
The frigate was presently out in the Thames estuary, heeling gently before a sou’-westerly breeze. Soon afterwards came the order to exercise the great guns and Fiona watched while the cannon were loaded and the matches, crowbars, handspikes, and spunge staves were laid beside each gun. Then followed the order for silence and further orders in the sequence:
“Cast off tackles and breechings.”
“Take out the tompion.”
“Take off the apron.”
“Unstop the touch-hole.”
“Handle the priming wire.”
“Prick the cartridge.”
“Prime.”
“Cover the vent.”
“Aim.”
Instead of firing the guns the seamen then repeated the whole exercise while Mr Harrison timed it with his stopwatch.
”Dreadful!” he moaned. “Shocking!” said the boatswain, and the exercise continued.
On that day Delancey dined alone with Fiona and she expressed her surprise at the examples she had seen of naval routine.
“What I can’t understand, dearest, is the way each action, however trivial, has to be at the word of command. We have to do some of the same things on the stage and we even use some of the same words, as when we strike some property in the wings or lower the curtain. But everyone knows what has to be done. We don’t have to shout all the time!”
“It may seem silly, love, but there are some facts you need to know. It is not true that everyone knows what has to be done. Many of the men you see were working ashore a week ago, one as a workman in a brewery, another as an errand boy. You then have to realise that these commands as affecting the cannon will not be used in battle, nor would they be heard if we shouted them. Our aim is to make people learn a certain sequence in what they do, learn it until the actions become automatic. They have to be done, remember, under the enemy’s fire. As for actions being trivial, they are anything but that. Take, for example, the order, ‘Take out the tompion’—”
“That bit I understood. The tompion is a sort of cork thrust into the cannon’s muzzle. You take it out as you might uncork a bottle.”
“Quite right. But what is it for?”
“To keep the gun clean?”
“Well, to keep it dry, mostly. Now, suppose you left it in and fired the gun, what would happen?”
“You would lose the tompion.”
“You would more likely burst the gun and kill most of the gun’s crew. Then take the order ‘Cover the vent.’ What would happen if the vent were left uncovered?”
“The powder might get damp?”
“So the gun wouldn’t fire. Or else it would fire by accident before men were ready. We have to depend upon a lot of men who are new to the sea, many of them fairly stupid. Then we have so to drill them that they will carry out the correct sequence even when the orders are inaudible, the gun deck full of smoke, and the noise deafening. Nor is it enough for the majority of them to do what they have been taught. They work as a team and rely upon each other, so that every single one of them must do his part correctly—one to remove the tompion and another to cover the vent. Their lives—and all our lives—depend on doing it correctly.”
“And it’s the same, I suppose, with the sails?”
“Just the same. You may think that we are all mad to repeat the drill, stop-watch in hand. But the day may come when we are headin
g for the rocks and our lives depend on the speed with which we can put the ship about!”
“Like that time when Le Page nearly put the Starling on the shell beach?”
“Exactly! I am forgetting that you have been at sea before—that you were a cabin boy when first I saw you and still a cabin boy years afterwards!”
“You would have thought that I should be more than my master’s mate by now.”
“But you are. You are a goddess, remember?”
“You think I might serve as a figurehead? I hate the one we have.”
“So do I, love, but we can do nothing about it. All the seamen believe that altering or replacing a figurehead will bring bad luck. They may be right for all I know. I had to pay for the gold leaf myself and hoped that it would improve her. It has made her, if anything, worse. We see little of her, luckily, so long as we remain on board.”
The voyage continued and Delancey had his officers and midshipmen to dine with him on the following day, noting the looks of dumb admiration they directed at Fiona. He realised at the same time that he could not have his wife on board except on such a short voyage as this. It was wonderful to have her near him, wonderful to think that she would be there when he finally turned in, but her presence was bad for him and worse, he thought, for everyone else. He could order no flogging, for example, while she was on board, and the men knew it. In the ordinary way he always hoped to avoid punishing men except by reproof or loss of privilege. That was his rule with a disciplined crew but it could not be his practice during the first month of the commission. The men must come to realise that orders are to be obeyed and that covert insolence—even to the youngest of the young gentlemen—will never be overlooked. He knew by now who the troublemakers were and all five of them, but for Fiona, would have been brought to the gangway by now. Nor was he certain that her presence was good for his own sense of duty. He hated to disturb her sleep but how could he avoid it? On two occasions he had stayed below when he would, as a single man, have been on deck in a flash. It had not mattered but the day might come when it could matter a great deal. He loved Fiona more than anyone in the world but the time was coming when they must part. It was almost her cue to go ashore.
Anchoring at St Peter Port on 9 August 1803, Delancey expected to pay his respects to Sir James Saumarez, under whose flag he was to serve, but was unable to do so. For one thing, Saumarez was not there. For another, the Guernsey division of his squadron had been placed under the command of Commodore Clinton, whose business it was to keep the French coast under close observation. He was a handsome and well-bred officer with a gallant record but only moderate intelligence. He had a temporary headquarters ashore and explained that his ships were deployed between Cherbourg and Granville.
“We shall probably raid the French coast this autumn so as to gain intelligence but we hardly expect them to attempt anything much this year. If the French try to invade England it will be in the summer of 1804. Until then our work will be routine but we have had one item of intelligence that remains something of a puzzle. We captured a French brig last month. The master was a stubborn sort of character but as she was out of Granville we tried to make him talk. In the end my interrogator got him drunk and he was eventually forthcoming on the subject of a mystery vessel called the Nautilus. She is nearing completion at Granville and would seem to be some sort of explosion vessel. She is being built under cover, though, and we don’t think our man had actually seen her. Their security precautions have been elaborate and we don’t think he was doing more than repeating the local rumours. To judge from his drunken mutterings the Nautilus is Bonaparte’s trump card, the ace in the pack. But this fellow’s French was difficult to follow even when he was sober—and by then he would tell us nothing more. We had a local man to help us, for it is a Norman French that people speak here, but we are very uncertain whether we understood him aright. It may all amount to nothing but I should like to tell the Admiral what the French idea is.”
”It happens, sir, that I can tell you something about it. I was recently in Scotland watching an experimental steam-vessel on the Forth and Clyde Canal, the Charlotte Dundas. Another visitor on the same day was an American, Mr Fulton, who has also built a steam-vessel and who is the designer of the Nautilus.”
“Is he, by God? I heard something about the Charlotte Dundas but that scheme really depended on the Duke of Bridgwater, who has since died. So the Nautilus is another steam-vessel?”
“No, sir. She is a craft designed to travel under the surface of the water.”
“Your Mr Fulton must be a lunatic!”
“He appeared to be sane, sir, and I understand that the Nautilus has been on trials without disaster.”
“Propelled by what, for heaven’s sake? By a steam-engine?”
“No, sir, by a hand-propelled screw.”
“And what is that?”
“Well sir. Imagine a small windmill, with sails about a foot long. It will revolve in the wind. Well, if you reverse the process in a dead calm, revolving the sails with a crank handle, you will produce an artificial breeze, a type of fan. Do the same thing under water and you can propel a vessel very much as with a pair of oars, with speed and range limited by the human strength that can be applied. I suppose the crew to number perhaps two or three. I should judge it to be quite feasible.”
“But what purpose is served? Supposing I approach your frigate under water and unobserved, what do I do next?”
“I understand, sir, that you would attach an explosive below the waterline of the target ship, set the fuse for, say, half an hour, and beat a speedy retreat.”
“But how, for God’s sake? How could you even see what you were doing?”
”I have no idea, sir. These are problems which Mr Fulton claims to have solved.”
“He must be out of his mind. Anyway, I am grateful for the information. I can’t see the Nautilus as a threat to our naval supremacy.”
“Nor can I, sir. I incline to take the steamship more seriously. It could be of material use in enabling the French flotilla to leave harbour under conditions of a flat calm.”
“I see what you mean. But this invasion, if and when they attempt it, will never happen in this vicinity. The short sea passage is opposite Calais and Boulogne. It has to be in the narrows, allowing the craft a quick turnabout and so back for another load.”
“So there are no invasion craft at Granville?”
“Not as far as we know. There are gunboats but they will probably go to Boulogne before the invasion attempt is made. I can’t see, for that matter, what the Nautilus is doing at Granville. It is not a port of any importance. Perhaps the idea is to base this crazy vessel in a place we are unlikely to attack. It remains to see what Sir James thinks about it. He may decide to raid Granville and see what the French are doing there. It may be better to do that than do nothing.”
When Sir James Saumarez appeared his flag was flown in the frigate Cerberus (32) and he had left the remainder of his squadron at St Helier, Jersey. The purpose of his visit, as Delancey learnt from Clinton, was to hold a conference with Sir John Doyle, the Lieutenant-Governor. Rather to his surprise, Delancey was one of those summoned to Government House, along with Clinton, Captain Selby (flag captain), and Doyle’s chief of staff. The Lieutenant-Governor lived in a house on the landward side of the town but so placed as to overlook the harbour, affording a view beyond towards the islands of Herm and Sark. On this day it was also possible to glimpse the coast of France in the far distance. All this sunlit scene could be viewed from the bay windows of the room into which the visitors were shown. Sir John’s writing desk was so placed as to afford him a view of this potential battlefield. He could see each ship in the anchorage and see whatever craft might be approaching.
When all were seated round the table Sir James explained that the French were developing a secret weapon at Granville. Captain Delancey had reported that it was a vessel capable of travelling below the surface and delivering an explosive device at
some point below the waterline. It was the invention of an American, a Mr Fulton, who appeared to be working for the French Ministry of Marine. The question they had to consider was whether a raid on Granville would be justified, and what form such a raid should take.
“Why didn’t Fulton offer his invention to us?” asked Selby.
“He did,” replied Delancey. “The Navy Board rejected it.”
“Which suggests,” said Sir John Doyle, “that Fulton’s invention is of no great value.”
“That is a possible conclusion,” said the Admiral, “but Fulton may have improved upon his original design. The French, at least, appear to be interested. The ideal plan would be to inspect the vessel and then destroy her, and this would mean a conjunct expedition. Could you, Sir John, provide us with the troops—say, in battalion strength?”
“No, Admiral, I could not. My orders are to hold Guernsey, for which the present garrison is only barely sufficient. Now if I lose men in a raid on Granville, I may be thought to have endangered the place I have been ordered to defend.”
”I feared you would say that! In that case we can do no more than bombard the place. Two bomb vessels have been ordered to join me and we may be able to achieve something on our own.”
Soon afterwards the other officers were told to withdraw, leaving Sir John and Sir James together. “I know what’s happening,” said Selby. “The Admiral is trying to make the Governor change his mind. I’d bet ten guineas that he won’t succeed. What do you think of the bombardment plan, Delancey?”
“The target is insufficiently defined. For all we know, the Nautilus may be a mile inland. We have no recent intelligence about Granville, or none that I have seen. It would seem from the chart that we shall be firing at extreme range and aiming at nothing in particular.”
“What would you do then?” asked Clinton.
“I should spend a few evenings at various quayside taverns and talk to any smuggler who has recently been in Granville.”
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