The Corps, they were not given the title of Royal Marines until 1802, were recruited and trained in three separate divisions— Plymouth, Portsmouth and the Nore. Once aboard ship, and they were carried in almost every class of rated vessel from three-decker, ship of the line to fourth- and fifth-rate frigates, they were held apart from the great mass of the company.
By the average seaman a marine was regarded with a mixture of amusement and tolerance. While the marines went about their own affairs, drilling and training at their weapons, the seamen worked the ship, aloft or below, and in every sort of weather.
Because their training was largely military, the marines’ part in handling the ship was minimal. When required they would move aft to the mizzen-mast, the least complicated in any square-rigged ship as far as sail plan and rigging was concerned, and work with the rest of the after-guard. That title too represented something else to the rest of the ship’s company. The marines, through their officers and N.C.O.’s, stood between the quarter-deck and forecastle in a loyal red block. If a hint of mutiny lingered in the air, or some hot-headed lower deck lawyer thought the moment was ripe to rouse some protest against a captain’s authority, there was always the scarlet-coated marine, the bullock, to make a change of heart more acceptable.
But in battle, which was often in those troubled times, the marines really emerged as a vital part of the Service, and earned the respect and no little awe of all who served alongside them.
As the young marine drummer boys beat to quarters and the ship prepared to fight whatever enemy had been sighted on the horizon, the red coats fanned out throughout the vessel like parts of an intricate pattern.
They climbed aloft to the three fighting-tops, on fore, main and mizzen, where their best marksmen or sharpshooters made ready to fire on the enemy’s quarterdeck and mark down as many of her officers as possible in the shortest time. Some of their companions manned the deadly swivel-guns, small pieces loaded with tightly-packed canister, which at the right moment would rake the other vessel’s decks with a murderous hail. These weapons were nervously nicknamed “daisy-cutters,” and badly handled could kill as many friends as enemies.
Once cleared for action a ship of the line, with one deck above the other, was open from forward to aft. But provided an enemy was prevented from crossing the stern and pouring a full broadside through the poop and smashing down guns and crews from end to end, the men who worked the heavier weapons on the middle or lower decks were protected by the massive hull timbers. On the upper deck, and particularly aft where the bulk of marines took up their stations, there was no such protection. On quarterdeck and poop alike the marines got what cover they could from the bulwarks and the packed piles of hammocks in the nettings.
It was at close quarters, with an enemy almost alongside, that the true value of drills and tough discipline came to the fore. With the sergeant calling out the timing, or beating it on the deck with a half-pike, the marines went through the lethal business of aiming, loading and firing their long muskets through the smoke and din of battle. No matter what was happening about them they were never expected to break. As old friends fell dying they closed the ranks, as the cannon roared and spars and severed rigging crashed amongst them they aimed and fired, reloaded and stood up to the nettings for the next fusillade.
A less admirable job was that of hatchway sentry. At every hatch and companion a marine was posted to prevent terrified men from running below in the midst of a battle. It is easy today to understand the fears of men, many facing gunfire for the first time, being driven from their stations by the sounds and sights around them. We can imagine their terror changing to hatred at the sight of a red coat and levelled bayonet, but did anyone ever consider that sentry’s feelings as he stood alone, a red target for every enemy marksman?
When two ships eventually ground together, and the grapnels were thrown across to hold them fast until a victory was settled one way or the other, the gory business of hand to hand fighting began. There again was a marked contrast between seamen and marines.
While the former, led and urged on by their lieutenants and midshipmen, hacked and slashed their way across the narrow strip of water and through the boarding nets to leap on to the enemy’s deck, the marines stayed as a unit. As cutlasses and hangers rang and clanged, and the air was rent by curses and screams, the marines would cross to the other ship and form a tight square, sorting and dividing the enemy’s defences so that their companions from the main boarding party could quell them into submission. If, on the other hand, the tide of battle turned against them and a retreat was sounded, the marines would be the last to leave, not out of pride, but to allow the seamen to work their ship free of the enemy’s embrace to fight another day.
One of the remarkable features concerning the marine’s daily life was the way he managed to keep up the standard and smartness of his kit, and all in the cramped confines of his mess.
Apart from his weapons, he had to look after his red coat and white breeches, cross-belts and gaiters, so that at all times he would stand out as what he was. Keeping watch over the captain’s quarters, attending to the irksome duties of ship’s police, all went to form part of his everyday routine.
There was little change in the uniform until 1802, when the title of Royal Marines was given to the Corps. Then the silver buttons and facings changed over to gold, and the “round hat” of glazed leather completely replaced the old style cocked hat.
At the Battle of Trafalgar the Royal Marines were praised for their stubborn gallantry, not least by their French adversaries. On board the flagship, H. M. S. Victory, Captain Adair of the marines had already fallen when a French marksman felled Vice-Admiral Nelson. The marines had suffered terrible losses throughout the battle, so it was somehow fitting that under Captain Hardy’s orders it was they who carried the little admiral below.
There have been countless stories told of their deeds and achievements, so many exploits to add to their battle honours that it is impossible to know where their legend begins.
I think that Rudyard Kipling summed them up better than most in his lines:
There isn’t a job on top o’ the earth the beggar don’t know, or do,
You can leave ’im at night on a bald man’s ’ead to paddle ’is own canoe;
’E’s a sort of bloomin’ cosmopolouse—soldier an’ sailor too.
Darkening Sea Page 34