Friday, 4 November 2016

SMS Iltis – a gunboat, a pope and a confrontation in the Pacific

In the first two decades of the new German Empire, after its proclamation in 1870, and before Germany embarked on construction of the world's second-largest navy in the world, German naval units were active in some very unexpected places. This was in support of efforts to establish colonies overseas and to protect German commercial interests in the Far East. In reading about this I stumbled on the story of the small gunboat SMS Iltis (1880) which was to have a very active career which included such a surprising event as a confrontation between Germany and Spain that was only solved by Papal intervention.
SMS Iltis: memorial illustration from 1896
Commissioned in 1880, the Iltis was a typical small gunboat of a type common in many navies of the time and suited to interventions in remote colonial areas. Of 560 tons and 155 ft overall she had a single 142 hp engine that gave her a maximum speed of eight knots. Considered to be a good sea boat, the Iltis carried a barquentine rig – a significant advantage when operating far from coaling stations. To minimise drag when under sail her propeller could be hoisted. She was more than adequately armed for what was expected of her – two 125 mm and two 87mm breech-loaders, supplemented by two 37 mm revolvers (essentially like overgrown hand guns). Her crew was 85. 
The Iltis’s first assignment was to Germany’s “East Asia Station” and she was to remain in eastern waters for almost five years. As Germany had no naval base in the Far East the Iltis seems to have mainly operated out of the British possession of Hong Kong.
Germany had come late to acquisition of colonies but considered them essential as much for prestige reasons as for economic purposes. With major portions of the globe already occupied by other colonial powers, Germany found herself seeking opportunities in some unlikely places, not least in New Guinea and in island groups in the Pacific. Small gunboats such as the Iltis were important tools in this process.
In the early 1880s German ambitions focussed on creation of the colony of New Guinea. This consisted not only of the northeastern part of the vast island of New Guinea but of the nearby islands of the Bismarck Archipelago and the North Solomon Islands. No other nation body protested the acquisition of these areas but the situation was different as regards the Carolines, a widely scattered archipelago of tiny islands to the north of New Guinea. The Carolines had been claimed by the Spanish in the 17th Century and known as Las Nuevas Filipinas. Though in theory governed from Manila in the Spanish colony of the Philippines there was no attempt to settle the Carolines and missionary efforts had been resisted by the Micronesian inhabitants. Spain formally reasserted her rights in 1875. A decade later Germany, now an ascendant and growing power, decided to seize the islands – and this is when the Iltis played her part.
In early August 1885 the Iltis, then at Shanghai, was instructed to proceed to the Carolines, hoist the German flag there, and present the Spaniards, and the world, with a fait accompli. Putting in at Hong Kong to take on coal, information was received that two Spanish ships were en route for the same purpose. Speed was now of the essence and by hard driving the Iltis reached Yap, in the Western Carolines, by the 25th of the month. Wasting no time, her captain, KptLt Hofmeier, went ashore immediately, raised the black-white-red German flag and formally claimed the islands. The Spanish had lost the race.
The scene was now set for an international confrontation, one in which the weak Spanish Empire would certainly come off badly if it came to war. Spain did not back down however and took a step which might have seemed normal several centuries earlier, but which was unexpected in the late nineteenth century – they appealed to the Pope.
This was a master-stroke. In the early years of the new German Empire the anti-Catholic Kulturkampf (Culture War), a series of restrictions on the role of the Church initiated by the chancellor, Otto von Bismarck, had led to fraught relations with the papacy. Leo XIII, who had succeeded to the papal throne in 1878, was however eager to end the struggle and this was in Germany’s interest as well, given the large percentage of its population that was Catholic.  
Contemporary cartoon: Bismarck and Pope Leo XIII
play out the Kulturkampf
Submission of the Carolines issue for arbitration was a gesture of reconciliation and when Leo ruled in Spain’s favour Germany accepted the decision without protest and evacuated the islands. She was however awarded face-saving trading and plantation rights. The Spanish did indeed settle the islands from 1886 onwards but their tenure was to be brief. In 1899, in the aftermath of the Spanish-American War, and its loss of the Philippines, Spain sold the islands to Germany. This tenure was also to be brief – Japan was to occupy them at the start of WW1 and they were to see bitter fighting in WW2. Today they are divided between the Federated States of Micronesia in the east and Palau in the west.
The Iltis returned to Germany in 1886 for a complete refit. She sailed back to the Far East the following year. For the next decade she was engaged in an endless and busy round of trade protection and flag-showing assignments in China, Korea and Japan. In 1891 she cooperated with French, British and American gunboats on the Yangtse to protect western interests during widespread unrest. Four years later, during the Sino-Japanese War, she was to rescue Chinese survivors from a transport sunk off Korea by the Japanese. Thereafter she steamed to Formosa – now Taiwan – where Chinese forces were resisting Japanese invaders, unsuccessfully, once more to provide protection for German lives and property. In the process the Iltis was to fire her guns in what might have been the only time she did so in anger, hitting a fortified Chinese position with three shells.
SMS Iltis on the reef - with her ensign still lying
The Iltis’s days were now numbered. On 23rd June 1896 she was caught in a typhoon off the Chinese coast. Her engine strained at full power to keep her off the reefs of a lee shore but the effort was unavailing and she struck around midnight.  The engine room was immediately filled with water and the boiler fire was extinguished, leaving the vessel wholly helpless. She broke amidships into two parts, initially held together by rigging. Some in the forward section managed to hold on – it remained lodged on the reef – but all but two of those on the after part died when it tore free and capsized.  The survivors, eleven out of eighty-eight on board, were finally rescued by local villagers. The captain and all the officers died.

Iltis Memorial - Shanghai
The loss of the Iltis caused considerable shock in Germany, the more so since the new Kaiser, Wilhelm II, was volubly “naval minded” and the empire was now embarked on creation of a large navy. Memorials to the crew were erected on the Bund in Shanghai (is it still there?) and in Kiel in Germany. The Iltis of 1880 had provided sterling service over hundreds of thousands of miles steaming and sailing and had provided invaluable training for the officers and men of the growing navy. 

The name Iltis was to be kept alive by a new – and much more sophisticated – gunboat launched in 1898, which was also to see active service in the Far East, in the Boxer Rising in 1900 and in the defence of Tsingtao in 1914. But that’s another story!
SMS Iltis II - 1898


Britannia’s Amazon by Antoine Vanner

This latest novel runs in parallel in time with the action of the earlier Britannia’s Spartan, and concentrates on the adventures of Nicholas Dawlish’s wife Florence while she is at home in Britain while he and his cruiser are in Korean waters. Dedicated to the welfare of seaman’s families, and especially to those of her husband’s crew, Florence intends to spend the months of separation caring for them. But a chance encounter is to plunge her into the maelstrom of vice, cruelty and espionage that is the corrupt underside of complacent Late-Victorian society. And if Florence is to survive - and to save innocent victims- she must face evil head-on, deal with conflicts of loyalty and employ guile as her most powerful weapon.


This volume also includes the long short-story Britannia’s Eye, which casts a new light on Nicholas Dawlish’s relationship with his uncle, an invalided naval officer who made him his heir. But Nicholas was never to know - or even guess - the truth about what his uncle had really been…

Britannia's Amazon - available in paperback and Kindle formats


US and rest of world: Click here to purchase on Amazon.com


UK: Click here to buy on Amazon.co.uk

Tuesday, 1 November 2016

Captain Trollope and the Carronades – Part 1: HMS Rainbow

Carronade on slide mounting
Carronades – large-calibre, short-range cannon throwing very heavy shot – were a game-changing weapon when introduced in the 1780s (Clickhere for the article “HMS Flora 1780:the Carronade's arrival” posted on 15th December 2015). Their light weight allowed them to be mounted on smaller craft that would be incapable of carrying larger “long guns”, thereby giving such vessels an offensive capability wholly disproportionate to their size. They were to prove no less valuable on larger vessels, especially for raking the decks of enemy vessels at close quarters with grapeshot.

Henry Trollope
One notable British officer of the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars period was to gain a reputation as “carronade crazy” and, though his career was to be a long and successful one, he is best remembered for two spectacular actions in which his use these weapons proved decisive.  Henry Trollope (1756-1839) had entered the Royal Navy at 14. In 1781, having seen extensive action in the American War of Independence, he achieved the coveted rank of “post captain” at the young age of 25. His first command was the frigate HMS Rainbow. Though the war was by then in its final stages, active hostilities between Britain and France were still in full swing and 1782 found Trollope on patrol off the northern coast of Brittany.

As Trollope commanded her, HMS Rainbow was an experiment - a 35-year old 44-gun frigate that had been re-armed entirely with carronades. She now carried a total of 48 of them – 20 68-pounders on her main-deck, 22 42-pounders on her upper deck, 4 32-pounders on her quarter-deck, and 2 32-pounders on her forecastle. This gave her a “weight of metal” – the total discharged in a single broadside of 1238 pounds. This compared with a broadside weight of metal of only 318 pounds if she were to be armed as a conventional frigate mounting only long guns. It should also be noted that the largest guns carried by line-of-battle ships was the 32-pounder long gun.  The disadvantage was however that Rainbow would have to come to very close range with an enemy before she could loosen her enormous firepower and during the approach she would be vulnerable to fire from conventional weapons. In a worst case, a skilful enemy commander might be able to manoeuvre nimbly so as to stay outside Rainbow’s range and batter her into submission with long-range fire. In 1782 however, with the carronade still a novelty, and the possibility of any frigate being entirely armed with them was a remote one, thereby giving Rainbow the potential for surprise.

Hébé’s sister Prosperine (seen here as HMS Amelia, following capture in 1785)
Painting by John Christian Schetky (1778 – 1874)
On 4th September 1782, off the Isle du Bas, Rainbow sighted a French frigate which was escorting a small convoy from Saint-Malo to Brest. Trollope immediately ordered a chase. The enemy proved to be the Hébé and her armament was typical for a French or British frigate of the period – 28 18-pounders and 12 8-pounders. The French commander, the Chevalier de Vigney, could reasonably expect an evenly matched contest and – unwisely – allowed Trollope’s vessel to close. It was only when Rainbow opened fire with her bow-chasers, and when several large shots struck the Hébé, was it apparent that something unusual was involved. The French vessel returned fire without great effect and both ships then manoeuvred for advantage for the next hour and a half – Trollope obviously concerned about keeping the range short. He finally got into position to launch a single devastating broadside that was some four times heavier than the French could respond with. This was enough to decide the duel. The Hébé’s foremast was brought down by a single 68-pound shot, her steering was disabled, and her second captain and four men killed. No one was hurt on board the Rainbow. The Chevalier de Vigney struck his colours without offering further resistance, convinced that another two or three of Rainbow’s broadsides would have sunk his frigate.

As Trollope’s prize, Hébé was purchased into the Royal Navy. Her hull-form was regarded as outstanding and she subsequently served as an inspiration for future British frigate designs. She retained her own name initially – as was the custom with captured warships – but she was renamed HMS Blonde in 1805, serving a further five years thereafter. Rainbow’s useful life was nearing an end and she was demoted to harbour service from 1784 until her disposal in 1802. 

Trollope’s career was however only taking off and in 1795 he was to fight an even more remarkable action in which carronades were again to prove a critical factor. A later post will tell about it.


Britannia’s Reach by Antoine Vanner

"Britannia’s Reach is not just political or military alone. What higher interest can there be than consolidation of Britain’s commercial interests?” So says one of the key figures in this novel, which details a murderous war launched by a British-owned company  to reassert control of its cattle-raising investment in Paraguay, following a revolt by its workers.

This story of desperate riverine combat brings historic naval fiction into the age of Fighting Steam.



Friday, 28 October 2016

HMS Nymphe versus Cléopâtre 1793

Guest Blog by Geri Walton
Geri Walton
It is my pleasure to host historian Geri Walton on my blog today. Geri is a specialist on the late 18th century. I find her splendidly researched website a huge source of delight and you can find out more about her and her work at the end of this article. She has chosen as her subject today one of the most notable actions fought by that paladin of the Age of Fighting Sail, Edward Pellew. We’ve met him on previous blogs (Rescue against all odds: Pellew and the Dutton 1796, posted 29th January 2016 and HMS Indefatigable vs. Droits de l’Homme 1797, posted 16th May 2014, both of which can be found via the sidebar) but now we encounter him at the very outset of the Revolutionary War in 1793. This was the start of two decades almost continuous conflict between Britain and France in which Pellew was to advance, deservedly, to the first rank of commanders. Over then to Geri! 
Beating the French: HMS Nymphe versus Cléopâtre
 In 1793, during the French Revolutionary Wars, one of the most celebrated naval encounters that occurred was between a British frigate (HMS Nymphe) and the French frigate (Cléopâtre). It all began a month earlier, when the Cléopâtre and another frigate called the Sémillante, were successfully raiding British shipping merchants in the English Channel and Eastern Atlantic. To stop the raids, the British ordered the HMS Nymphe, and the 36-gun HMS Venus into action.
Edward Pellew (1757-1833)
Consummate naval commander
(Courtesy of Wikipedia)
On June 17, the 32-gun Nymphe was cruising off the Devon Coast at daybreak. It was captained
by Edward Pellew and was carrying 240 men, with at least half of the crew inexperienced. It seems that because the press gangs had swept Portsmouth clean of seaman, Pellew's crew consisted of 32 marines, 80 Cornish tin-miners, and the remainder of the men were acquired from merchant vessels Pellew was escorting. It was while commanding this less than stellar crew that Pellew noticed a strange sail in the distance and decided to investigate.
Pellew quickly discovered the strange sail was the French frigate Cléopâtre. It was a 32-gun frigate, designed by Jacques-Noël Sané with a coppered hull, and it was carrying 320 men. As it was one of the French frigates that had been conducting raids against the British, Pellew gave chase. Initially, the Cléopâtre, which was captained by Lieutenant de Vaisseau Jean Mullon, fled, but realizing the Nymphe possessed the advantage and was bound to overtake them, Mullon turned the Cléopâtre and headed towards the Nymphe.
At a little before six the two frigates passed each other within hail, and as they did both crews cheered loudly. It was heady experience for the British and French crews as each side was filled with the hope of victory. The French Captain Mullon waved his hat and exclaimed, "Vive la Nation!" He then turned and addressed his crew, holding the red cap of liberty, which he waved before them. At the end of his speech, the crew "renewed their cheers and the cap was given to a sailor, who ran it up the main rigging and screwed it on the mast head."
Pellew observed this and as he was holding his own hat in his hand, he raised it to his head, which was a "preconcerted signal for the Nymphe's artillery to open." Thus, at 6:15 "a furious action commenced." The Nymphe opened fire with a broadside shot against the starboard quarter of the Cléopâtre, and then the ships were "yard-arm and yard-arm; the sails and rigging being completely intermixed." This resulted in the men in the tops assailing one another because of their closeness.
Despite the two vessels being closely matched, it quickly became evident that the French frigate was taking the worst of it. Soon after the "Cléopâtre's mizen-mast was shot away; and in a quarter of an hour afterwards her wheel." This made her ungovernable and "in consequences of this double disaster she fell on board her opponent." Part of the Nymphe's crew then rushed onto the "Cléopâtre's forecastle, and another party...board[ed] through the main deck ports…fighting their way along the gangways to the quarter-deck." It took ten minutes before the Cléopâtre's colors were struck.

Drawing of the action by Nicholas Pocock (1740 - 1821)
Though a preliminary sketch for a later work, this conveys the excitement of the action superbly
(Courtesy of Wikipedia)
The duration of the battle was a short fifty-five minutes, and even though the British Nymphe may have won, it was damaged. The Nymph's "fore and main-mast were much damaged and her main and mizen stays shot away; as was the greater part of her sails, shrouds, and running rigging." As for the Cléopâtre, besides losing her mizzen-mast and wheel, she also suffered damage to her sails, rigging, and hull. Each side also lost men: The killed and wounded on board the Cléopâtre was sixty-three compared to fifty on the Nymphe.
Israel Pellew  (1758-1832)
in later life
(Courtesy of Wikipedia)
The Nymphe limped home and arrived at Portsmouth with her prize on the 21st of June. On the 29th, Captain Pellew and his brother, Commander Israel Pellew (who happened to be on board the Nymphe at the time), were introduced by the Earl of Chatham to King George III. The King conferred knighthood upon Edward Pellew and Israel Pellew was granted the rank of post-captain. In addition, "the Cléopâtre was purchased by [the] government; and, under the name of Oiseau (there being a Cléopâtre already in the service) became a cruising 36-gun frigate in the British Navy."
As for Mullon, he was mortally wounded during the engagement and cut nearly "in two by a round shot. During his short death agony he recollected that he had in his pocket the list of coast signals in use in the French navy, and not wishing it to fall into the hands of the enemy, he took out what he considered to be the paper; but by mistake he had laid his hands on his commission and died in the act of biting it to pieces." Thus, as the Pellew brothers were being lauded, Mullon was laid to rest on English soil in the Portsmouth churchyard. The following inscription was written on his coffin:
CITOYEN MULLON
Slain in battle with La Nymphe,
18th June, 1793,
Aged 42 years.

As to the Cléopâtre she went on to serve in the Royal Navy, commissioned as the HMS Oiseau in September 1793. In June 1794, she seized fourteen French ships from a twenty-five vessel convoy. She also served in the Indian Ocean and captured three French frigates in January 1800 off the Atlantic coast in north-western Spain. She began to serve as a prison hulk at Portsmouth in June 1806, and, in 1812, she was lent to the Transport Board and fell under the command of John Bayby Harrison in 1814. After being put in ordinary in 1815, she was sold to a Mr. Rundle in 1816 for £1500, and he broke her up after buying her on September 18.

References:
"Capture of a French Frigate," in Kent Gazette, 25 June 1793
"Naval History of Great Britain," in Lancaster Gazette, 2 February 1822
"Romance of the Sea," in Dundee Courier, 5 October 1877
Winfield, Rif, British Warships in the Age of Sail 1793–1817, 2008

About Geri Walton:

Geri Walton has long been interested in history and fascinated by the stories of people from the 1700 and 1800s. This led her to get a degree in History and resulted in her website, http://www.geriwalton.com/, which offers unique history stories from the 1700 and 1800s.

Her first book, Marie Antoinette’s Confidante: The Rise and Fall of the Princesse de Lamballe, was published last month. It looks at the relationship between Marie Antoinette and the Princesse de Lamballe, her closest confidante. Click here for more information.

You can find Geri on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/geri.walton), Twitter (@18thCand19thC), Google Plus (https://plus.google.com/u/0/117631667933120811735/posts/p/pub), Instagram (@18thcand19thc), and Pinterest (https://www.pinterest.com/geriwalton9/).


Tuesday, 25 October 2016

Prize Money - Frigates, Treasure and Jane Austen

HMS Pomone - frigate,
archetypal prize taker 
In naval fiction set in the Age of Fighting Sail, prize money, accruing from the capture of enemy shipping which would subsequently be sold to third parties or bought by the Admiralty, is rightly shown as an important driver for Royal Navy officers and crew alike. For most on the lower deck it represented the only opportunity of their lives to earn a sum substantial enough to set themselves up in some comfort – typically by purchase of a tavern or other small business. For the officers it could mean the difference between an old age spent in respectable near-penury and acquisition of a fortune that would secure significant property for themselves and their families. The navy differed from the army in that an officer did not need to purchase his commission (a practice that continued up to the 1870s). Younger sons from wealthy families, who due to the law of primogeniture were likely to inherit little or nothing, or sons from poor but respectable backgrounds – such as Nelson – could however enter the navy at a young age and hope to rise through competence and luck.

Contemporary view of how
the prize money was often spent!
The allocation of prize money followed a fixed formula, and some who benefitted from it might not be directly involved in the capture of the enemy vessel. The total value of the prize was divided into eight parts which were assigned as follows:

One part to the admiral or commander-in-chief who signed the ship's written orders (but if the orders came directly from the Admiralty in London, then this went to the captain);

Two parts (i.e. one quarter) went to the captain or commander;

One part was divided among the lieutenants, sailing master, and captain of marines;

One part was divided among the wardroom warrant officers (surgeon, purser, and chaplain), standing warrant officers (carpenter, boatswain, and gunner), the lieutenant of marines, and the master's mates;

One part was divided among the junior warrant and petty officers, their mates, sergeants of marines, captain's clerk, surgeon's mates, and midshipmen;

Two parts (i.e. one quarter) were divided among the crew, with able and specialist seamen receiving larger shares than ordinary seamen, landsmen, and boys.

Frigate and sloop commands were much sought after for the opportunities they gave for capturing prizes but many crews were to find themselves dogged by bad luck for years. When fortune was favourable however, the rewards could be immense. In one such case, in 1799, the officers and crews of four British frigates were lucky enough to encounter two Spanish warships some 200 miles west of the northern Spanish coast. They were initially sighted on 15th October by HMS Naiad.  Her commander, Captain Pierrepoint, gave chase.  They subsequently proved to be the frigates Santa Brigida and Thetis, which were headed to Spain from Vera Cruz in Mexico.  

The fact that the two frigates, which outgunned Naiad by two to one, should decide to run from her rather than to fight was indicative that whatever they carried was of great value. Pierrepoint followed them doggedly through the night and early in the following morning, another ship was seen in the south-west. It proved to be the British frigate HMS Ethalion and soon afterwards two more frigates, HMS Alcmène and HMS Triton, also appeared. In the hope of escape the Spanish vessels parted company and steered away on different courses, each were pursued by two British frigates. The odds had turned decisively against the Spanish. Overhauled, they chose to strike their colours rather than fight it out.

The sailor's return after Anson's voyage. Note the
 wagons in the background carrying the prizes
The value of prizes was enormous since much of their cargoes proved to be specie – gold and silver coinage. The treasure was landed and Plymouth and loaded on sixty-three artillery waggons. Escorted by soldiers, armed seamen and marines, with bands playing and watched by a huge crowd, it began its journey to the vaults of the Bank of England in London. In the final distribution each British captain was awarded £40,000 (probably worth at least a million today, though such comparisons can only be very approximate). Each lieutenant received £5,000 pounds, each warrant officer more than £2000 pounds. The midshipmen – in many cases young boys the start of their careers, were each given £800. Those who received most of all, by the standards of their own expectations, were the seamen and marines, each being awarded £182 pounds. To put this into context it is worth noting that a domestic servant could be had for £10 per year while a private soldier in the army was paid a shilling a day, some £18 pounds a year, though deductions were to reduce this significantly in practice.

Paid-off seaman celebrating - cartoon by Cruikshank
It is likely that much of the prize money was dissipated in wine, women and brief high-living ashore. Cartoonists of the time depicted seamen squandering money with wild abandon. Many of the officers were more likely however to set themselves up as land-owning country gentry. Although these men were in the front line of the nation’s defence or more than two decades in the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars, those whom they protected were often not just grossly ungrateful but resentful of such success. The novelist Jane Austen had two brothers in naval service in this period – both rose in their later careers to be admirals – and she makes a Royal Navy captain her hero in her last published novel, Persuasion, as well as portraying other officers sympathetically. With brilliant irony she describes the mean-minded prejudice endured by such officers – as her brothers may have experienced – from stay-at-homes resentful of their hard-earned prize money. 

Here is a snobbish landowner speaking in Persuasion – this passage deserves to be repeated in full:

Quote:

(Referring to the Navy) Sir Walter's remark was, soon afterwards-- "The profession has its utility, but I should be sorry to see any friend of mine belonging to it."

"Indeed!" was the reply, and with a look of surprise.

Admiral Baldwin's appearance shocks
Sir Walter and Sir Basil
"Yes; it is in two points offensive to me; I have two strong grounds of objection to it. First, as being the means of bringing persons of obscure birth into undue distinction, and raising men to honours which their fathers and grandfathers never dreamt of; and secondly, as it cuts up a man's youth and vigour most horribly; a sailor grows old sooner than any other man. I have observed it all my life. A man is in greater danger in the navy of being insulted by the rise of one whose father, his father might have disdained to speak to, and of becoming prematurely an object of disgust himself, than in any other line. One day last spring, in town, I was in company with two men, striking instances of what I am talking of; Lord St. Ives, whose father we all know to have been a country curate, without bread to eat; I was to give place to Lord St. Ives, and a certain Admiral Baldwin, the most deplorable-looking personage you can imagine; his face the colour of mahogany, rough and rugged to the last degree; all lines and wrinkles, nine grey hairs of a side, and nothing but a dab of powder at top. 'In the name of heaven, who is that old fellow?' said I to a friend of mine who was standing near, (Sir Basil Morley). 'Old fellow!' cried Sir Basil, 'it is Admiral Baldwin. What do you take his age to be?' 'Sixty,' said I, 'or perhaps sixty-two.' 'Forty,' replied Sir Basil, 'forty, and no more.' Picture to yourselves my amazement; I shall not easily forget Admiral Baldwin. I never saw quite so wretched an example of what a sea-faring life can do; but to a degree, I know it is the same with them all: they are all knocked about, and exposed to every climate, and every weather, till they are not fit to be seen. It is a pity they are not knocked on the head at once, before they reach Admiral Baldwin's age."

Unquote

So much for gratitude for deliverance from Bonaparte!

Britannia’s Spartan - and the Taku Forts, 1859 


The Anglo-French assault at the Taku Forts in Northern China – and the highly irregular but welcome intervention of the neutral United States Navy – was one of the most dramatic incidents of the mid-nineteenth century. It also led to the only defeat of the Royal Navy between the end of the Napoleonic Wars and the outbreak of World War 1.

A remark of the American commander at the height of the battle - "Blood is thicker than water" - has entered the English language.

The Taku Forts attack is described in detail in the opening of Britannia's Spartan.

Friday, 21 October 2016

The salvaging and afterlife of minelayer UC-5

A blog on Tuesday 3 November 2015 described the horrific sinking of the hospital ship Anglia close to English south-coast in 1915. She was a victim of a submarine-laid mine, a weapon that was to prove a deadly menace during World War 1. Such mines not only inflicted direct losses it but were also effective in restricting or closing harbour approaches and shipping lanes for long periods once their presence was detected. The German submarine responsible for the Anglia was the small UC-5, a craft specially designed for minelaying. Her operational career was a short one – from late July 1915 until April 1916, a mere none months – but in this time she was responsible for sinking a total of 29 ships, with a total gross tonnage of 36,288 tons. Few warships have ever been so cost-effective in terms of investment needed to sink a ton of shipping.

Artist's impression of Anglia's final plunge, November 17th 1915
The fifteen submarines of the UC I class displaced 168 tons on the surface and were a mere 111-feet long. Single-shafted, with a 90-hp diesel, and a 175-hp electric motor, they were slow – 6.5 knots on the surface and 5.5 knots submerged – and this was hardly a disadvantage since it enhanced the stealth with which their operations must be conducted. With a crew of 15, they carried no torpedoes and their purpose was to drop the twelve 39-inch diameter mines that they carried in six tubes inclined slightly off vertical. Their short range was not a disadvantage when they operated along the British coast from bases in Belgium.  

Contemporary cutaway drawing of UC-5. Note mines in inclined tubes ahead of the conning tower.
UC-5 was to be the first of these German vessels to pass safely through the British defences – including minefields – that protected the Dover Straits and to reach the wider waters of the English Channel beyond. It was here that UC-5’s mines were to claim the Anglia as well as many other victims. It was however further north, on the approaches to the British base at Harwich, from which light forces operated in the Southern North Sea, that the UC-5’s luck ran out. The attraction of the area was obvious – twelve mines laid in the approaches to Harwich would have had a high likelihood of claiming a warship victim. The complication was however shallow water offshore – the Shipwash Shoal lay some twelve miles to the north-east of Harwich and it was across this that the UC-5’s commander, Oberleutant Ulrich Mohrbutte intended to make his approach. It was in the course of doing so on April 27th 1916 that the UC-5 grounded as the tide dropped.

Unable to break free, and with a clear possibility of capture, Mohrbutter ordered charts and papers to be destroyed and for scuttling charges to be put in place. He sent a radio signal to the German base at Zeebrugge to give news of his plight and this was picked up by the British. The Royal Navy destroyer Firedrake was accordingly sent to investigate, arriving in early afternoon. As she approached the stranded submarine – her own draught was shallower – the German crew were seen to be standing on the deck and holding up their hands. When Firedrake drew still nearer, the Germans jumped into the water and were soon picked up by boats dropped by the destroyer.

It was thought that the entire German crew had been rescued when one last man was seen emerging from below, shouting and waving his hands frantically, and then jumping overboard. He was picked up and shortly afterwards several explosions racked the stranded submarine, and brown smoke poured from her conning-tower. The scuttling charges had been fired. The craft settled on the shoal beneath but the mines on board – all twelve – did not explode.

UC-5 in British hands, afloat after salvage and repair
Once satisfied that no further explosions were likely, Firedrake’s Torpedo-Lieutenant Quentin Paterson and two other officers went across. Even though damaged the UC-5 was a valuable prize, the first German U-boat to be captured virtually intact and one that was likely to reveal significant technical information. She was however sufficiently holed to make flotation at high tide and towing to Harwich impossible. Measures were accordingly put in hand to mobilise divers and salvage equipment to recover her. Before these arrived Paterson made a full examination that revealed that though ten of the mines were still secure in their tubes, two had been dropped – as part of the scuttling procedure – and now lay loose at the bottom of the tubes and resting on the sand beneath. The danger was that movement of the submarine’s hull could be enough to detonate them. All salvage efforts had therefore to be delayed until the mines were made safe.

Lieutenant Paterson himself, together with two others, one a diver, undertook this very hazardous work. The ten mines still in the tubes were disarmed by the removal of the acid detonation tubes from the contact horns but it was impossible to do this with the lower mines, which therefore remained active. It was found that the two projecting mines could not be drawn back into the tubes, nor could they be disarmed, so they were secured where they were with cables in such a way as to ensure that they could not drop further. The danger remained however of them being detonated by the hull bumping on the sand when it was time to move it.

UC-5 being transported in sections through Central Park, New York
Responsibility for the salvage was assigned to Commodore Sir Frederic William Young (1859-1927), a naval-reserve officer who in civilian life was the nation’s, and perhaps the world’s, best respected salvage expert. Working now in the open sea, in the middle of a war zone, and with the two unexploded mines a constant danger, the recovery of the UC-5 was to prove one of his greatest challenges. The UC-5 was by now sinking ever deeper into the sand as the tides washed around her. A lighter was brought alongside and the hull was lashed to it at four places with heavy cables – passing these under the hull by water-jetting must have been a terrifying ordeal for the divers who did so. The first attempt at lifting as the tide rose (and as the lighter was deballasted) ended in failure. The cables parted and the hull dropped back on the seabed, luckily without setting off the mines. The process had to start over, this time with yet heavier cables and a larger lighter to which the UC-5’s hull was secured at low water. The lighter's side tanks nearer the submarine were pumped dry and her outer tanks were filled with water so as to act as a counterweight. This time the UC-5 was raised safely. She was towed into Harwich and placed in a floating dock in which the two projecting mines were safely removed. The entire operation had taken 27 days.

UC-5 in Central Park in 1918 - a focus for sale of War Bonds
 The UC-5 was to have a strange afterlife. Examined meticulously to understand her working, she was subsequently patched up and taken to London where she was put on display – an amazing sight since submarines represented cutting-edge technology and the vast majority of the population had never seen one. When the United States entered the war a year later the submarine was cut into sections and sent to New York. She was reassembled in Central Park and there also she became an object of wonder, all the more so since it was outrage at German unrestricted submarine warfare that had drawn the United States into the conflict. 

And the heroes of this epic? Paterson was awarded the DSC (Distinguished Service Cross) and his diver the CSM (Conspicuous Gallantry Medal). They were hard earned.

Britannia’s Shark by Antoine Vanner


The dawn of the Submarine Age ...

1881 and the power of the British Empire seems unchallengeable.

But now a group of revolutionaries threaten the economic basis of that power. Their weapon is the invention of a naïve genius, their sense of grievance is implacable and their leader is already proven in the crucible of war. Protected by powerful political and business interests, conventional British military or naval power cannot touch them. A daring act of piracy draws the ambitious British naval officer, Nicholas Dawlish, and his wife into this deadly maelstrom. Amid the wealth and squalor of America’s Gilded Age, and on a fever-ridden island ruled by savage tyranny success – and survival –will demand making some very strange alliances...





Friday, 14 October 2016

Guest Blog by Richard Abbott: South-West England’s Gigs

I’m honoured today to welcome back the novelist Richard Abbott as a guest blogger. You can out more about him at the end of this article. When he last appeared here (on 1st March 2016) he brought us back to the period of the earliest civilisations but on this occasion he tells us about some beautiful traditional boats – many specimens of which are almost two centuries old – which are still in active use, and participating in in well-contested competitions, in the South West of England.
Over to Richard!
The Gig – an elegant and durable link to a past age
Antoine has kindly given me space today to talk about gigs and their use in south-west England, specifically the Scilly Isles and Cornwall. So far as I am aware these have never been used in war, but their history is no less exciting or varied for that.
Gig Lyonnesse on St Agnes
First, what is a gig in this context? Picture something that looks roughly like a clinker-built rowing eight. Keel to gunwale depth is around two feet, and once crewed, the waterline is almost exactly at the mid-point. At 32' long, just under 5' beam, but with elm planks only 1/4" thick, the boat is light enough that the crew can pick her up and carry her into the water. Many years of experience mean that a gig has been built robustly enough to take on the Atlantic swell, despite the apparent flimsiness.
Like an eight, each oarsman has a single oar, and they sit to row alternately port and starboard facing the cox'n. But curiously, they have only six rowers, reflecting part of their history. A mast and lugsail could be fitted if desired, though in commercial practice this was rarely done. They are fast, tough little boats, and at one stage played a crucial role in the economic livelihood of the islands. Today they have retired from commercial use, but have found a new lease of life in competitive sport. The annual world gig racing championship is held on Scilly every April/May. In 2016 it attracted more than 150 boats from many different countries.
Some of the 3000+ rowers in the 2016 races (ITV West Country)
We can trace the history of the gig back to 1666 at least, when vessels from St Mary's were involved in rescuing the crew of the Royal Oak, wrecked out at what is now the Bishop Rock lighthouse. We have no reason to suppose there were not earlier vessels of essentially the same pattern. All modern gigs are based on the lines of an early 19th century design by William Peters. They had two principal uses, the main one being to get local pilots out to incoming ships as quickly as possible. Whoever got there first got the contract, hence the need for speed. Scilly was one of the major landmarks for vessels inbound from the western trade routes, but the seas are treacherous here, with countless rocks and reefs. Even with modern navigation aids they are hazardous: how much more so in former days? So families or village groups would aim to spot new arrivals as early as possible, and get out to them as quickly as possible.
The St Agnes gig, Shah
The other use, more humanitarian than commercial, was as a kind of early lifeboat system. Gig crews over the years have saved a great many lives by going out - frequently in horrendous weather - to rescue crews and passengers suffering shipwreck. Cargo could also be brought back, and an 1887 rescue of 450 cattle from the Castleford involved lashing the animals' heads and horns to the sides of the gigs Gipsy and O&M, and towing them to a handy nearby island! Such rescues were fearfully dangerous acts, and the churches on Bryher, St Agnes and elsewhere remember many who never returned.
Now, gigs came to the attention of the revenue authorities, who suspected that they had a third use – for smuggling. Certainly they would have been capable of it, with their proven seagoing capability. Even the Cornish coast was within a day from the Scilly Isles for a good crew - the 40-odd mile trip to Penzance typically takes under 10 hours, and Newquay was within comfortable reach. Gigs could easily make the 250-mile round trip to France’s Breton coast by staying out at sea for a day or so, and were robust enough to cope. Bonnet (of which more later) rode out a thirty-hour storm on one such trip by keeping head to wind until conditions improved. A good crew can sustain speeds of around 7 knots, but speeds of nearly 10 knots have been recorded over a measured mile with racing crews rowing at 40 strokes per minute. But therein lay a problem – an eight-oared gig was faster than the customs cutters of the time. This was clearly unacceptable, so a law was passed in 1829 limiting the crew to no more than six oars per boat.
Time passed, and both piloting and rescue ceased to be the responsibility of the islanders. The last recorded pilotage was in December 1938, when the Bryher boat Gipsy went out from St Agnes. As for rescue, the last known one was of the Panamanian steamship Mando in 1955. For a time, it seemed possible that gigs in the traditional sense would die out. Some of the older craft were laid up in storage, others suffered the usual fate of wooden boats which are not constantly cared for.
Bonnet pulling ahead of Golden Eagle

Then competitive racing emerged, giving a new lease of life to the design. Informal races had been part of gig culture for a long time: now it has become organised. Inter-island men's, women's and mixed races take place weekly during the tourist season, quite apart from the challengers coming from further afield. And here, the robust nature of the vessels is once again proved. Bonnet still races today - she was built in 1830 and had a long and busy working life. She is heavier than her modern siblings, but if there's a bit of a sea this might not be a disadvantage. Back in August, I saw her beat a dozen other boats to win her race. The Cornish gig Newquay was built back in 1812, and is claimed to be the oldest ship afloat which is still being used for broadly the same purpose as when she was made. Appropriately, she is owned by the Newquay Rowing Club, who also look after Dove (1820) and Treffry (1838) - all still racing.
So, this brings us to Antoine's own protagonist, the naval officer Nicholas Dawlish, and the timeline set out for his life. Bonnet had been working for 15 years when Dawlish was born in December 1845, and for over fifty years at the time of Britannia's Spartan. There's a fair chance that Newquay was built before Dawlish’s father was born. On the assumption that Dawlish passed the Scillies at some stage during early career - and it would be wildly improbable if he had not had cause to see them at close quarters - he would have seen gigs in active commercial use. I wonder, with his eye for design, if he took the time to appreciate their blend of speed, strength and elegance?
Finally, for those who want to look at videos, this video has the 2016 men's final and lots of links to other clips:
  https://youtu.be/cCPqIJ50ziY

About Richard Abbott

Richard lives in London, England. He writes historical fiction set in the ancient Middle East - Egypt, Canaan and Israel - and also science fiction about our solar system in the fairly near future. Research in progress for the next historical novel, which will explore the Late Bronze Age tin trade between the British Isles and the eastern Mediterranean. It is provisionally called A Storm of Wind, and is at an early stage.
His novel The Flame Before Us covers, in part, another bronze age group for whom the Mediterranean was important – The Sea Peoples, who settled in the coastline along from Gaza after a tumultuous approach disrupting cities from the Hittite realm down to the borders of Egypt.
When not writing words or computer code, he enjoys spending time with family, walking, and wildlife, ideally combining all three pursuits in the English Lake District. He is the author of In a Milk and Honeyed Land, Scenes From a Life, The Flame Before Us - and most recently Far from the Spaceports. He can be found at his website http://www.kephrath.com, his Amazon Page http://amzn.to/2ege45m or blog http://richardabbott.datascenesdev.com/blog/
Click here for more information on Richard's latest novel - just published: Timing