The Project Gutenberg eBook, The British Navy Book, by Cyril Field

Uniform with this volume

THE BRITISH ARMY BOOK

By PAUL DANBY and
Lieut.-Col. CYRIL FIELD, R.M.L.I.

———————

"It is full of great deeds sure to fire the imagination of any boy."—Times.

"Gives a better and more readable account of our army than any book we can think of."—Graphic.

"A most stirring, as well as informative book."—Scotsman.

"A glorious story, told in fine racy style."—Sheffield Daily Telegraph.

———————

LONDON: BLACKIE & SON. Ltd., 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.

"BRITAIN'S SURE SHIELD"

The
British Navy Book

BY
Lieut.-Col. and Brevet Col.
CYRIL FIELD, R.M.L.I.
With Full-page Illustrations in Colour and in
Black-and-White and Numerous
Illustrations in the Text
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY

Contents

Illustrations

Publishers' Note

Just as this book was about to go to press an Admiralty Order was issued forbidding the publication of any text or illustrations likely to prove of service to the enemy. Proofs of The British Navy Book were submitted to the Admiralty, with the result that the book has been approved. Acting in accordance with instructions from the Lords Commissioners, we have substituted other illustrations for those more recent ships previously chosen to represent the Great War by sea.

BLACKIE & SON, Limited.

THE BRITISH NAVY BOOK

PROLOGUE

The Command of the Seas

(A.D. 1915)

"It may truly be said that the Command of the Sea is an Abridgement or a Quintessence of an Universal Monarchy."

Sir Francis Bacon.

It is a grey morning out on the North Sea, with but little wind. There is no swell, but considerable movement on the surface of the waters, with here and there an occasional tossing of the white manes of the sea-horses. Swimming majestically through the sea comes one of our monster slate-grey battle-cruisers. She is "stripped to a gantline", and in complete and instant readiness for action. The red cross of St. George flutters bravely at her fore-topmast head, for she is the flagship of the squadron of three or four towering grey ships that are following in her wake. Aft flies the well-known White Ensign, the "meteor flag of England" blazing in the corner. Far away on either bow, but dimly discernible on the wide horizon, are the shadows of other smaller ships, the light cruisers, which are moving ahead and on the flanks of the squadron like cavalry covering the advance of an army. On board is an almost Sabbath-day stillness, save for the wash of the sea, the dull steady whirr of the giant turbines far down below the armour deck, the periodical clang of the ship's bell, marking the flight of time. Now and again comes a whiff of cooking from the galley. As the day advances the light grows stronger; gleams of sunshine send the purple shadows of masts and rigging dancing fitfully over the wide deck, which is practically deserted. There is the marine sentry over the life-buoy aft, look-outs aloft and at various corners of the superstructures, and the figures of the officer of the watch, signalmen and others are seen in movement up in the triangular platform dignified by the name of the "fore-bridge". Who would imagine that there are seven or eight hundred souls on board, seamen, marines, stokers, and many other ratings of whose existence and duties the "man in the street" is profoundly ignorant?

Photo. Cribb, Southsea

But look inside this massive gun-hood, from which protrude forty feet of two sleek grey monster cannon, each of which is capable of hurling 850 pounds of steel and high explosive a distance of a dozen miles. Grouped round their guns in various attitudes are the bluejackets forming their crews. They are tanned and weather-beaten fellows, but there is a strained and tired look about their eyes. Here in the confined spaces of their turret they have eaten, slept, and whiled away the watches as best they might for many, many hours. They have not had the discomforts of their khaki-clad brethren in their sodden trenches, nor listened to the constant hiss of hostile bullets and the howl and crash of "Jack Johnsons" at unexpected moments. But if they have been immune from these constant and manifest dangers, they have had none of their excitements. They have had the temptation to boredom, and the less exciting but always present peril of the dastardly German system of mine-laying in the open sea. Some are writing letters to chums, to sweethearts, and to wives. Others are killing time with the light literature that has been sent to the ship in bundles by the many friends of the fleet on shore. In one corner is a midshipman writing up his "log", and beside him sits the lieutenant in charge of the turret reading for the fourth time a much-folded letter he has taken from an inner pocket.

Look into the next turret and you will see a similar scene, the only difference being that in this case the guns' crews and their officer are marines, wearing red-striped trousers and "Brodrick" caps—the latter not unlike those of the seamen, but with the corps badge in brass on a semicircular scarlet patch in front, instead of a ribband with the ship's name. In the casemates housing the smaller guns in the superstructures and on the deck below are similar though smaller groups. All are waiting—waiting.

We wend our way below. The clerks and writers are working in their offices, the cooks are busy at their galleys. Men must eat and accounts must be kept though the ship should be blown out of existence in the next ten minutes. We enter a narrow lift and are shot down to the lower regions, where the sweating stokers handle rake and shovel, the artificers and engine-room staff ply oil-can and spanner, and the engineer officers study gauges and dials of all sorts and kinds. There is more life down here than up above. Work is going on that needs constant watching and attention. On our return journey to "the upper air" we glance in at the wireless room. As we do so comes the loud crackle of the electric spark. The operator is acknowledging a signal. A message has come in from a scouting cruiser. "The enemy are out. Five big cruisers, heading north-west." Another Scarborough Raid perhaps.

The ship wakes up, she is alive. The engine-room gongs clang down in her depths. A few signal flags flutter aloft. The admiral is signalling to his squadron to alter course to head off the enemy, and to increase speed by so many revolutions. The big ship gathers way. Her consorts follow in the curve of her foaming wake, and with every big gun trained forward the lithe grey leviathans tear over the watery plain in search of their quarry.

An hour passes. Nothing is seen but the scouting cruisers and a minute speck in the remote spaces of the sky, which someone thinks is a sea-plane, but which may well be a grey gull in the middle distance. Presently, however, a growing darkness along the north-eastern horizon becomes recognizable as smoke—the smoke of many furnaces. Against its growing blackness one of our distant light cruisers shows for a moment as a white ship. Black smoke is pouring from her funnels also, and amidst it all is a sudden violet-white flash.

After an age comes the dull "thud" of her cannon. Now she turns away to port. There are more vivid flashes and the "thudding" of her guns grows continuous. Soon answering flashes sparkle from amidst the smoke-pall on the horizon, and first one then another nebulous outline of a warship disintegrates itself. Flashes break from their sides also, and the noise of the firing swells into a steady roll of sound rising and falling on the wind. We again increase speed. Black smoke billows from our funnels, the bow wave rises higher, and now and again a cloud of spray swishes over our decks. Then "Cra—ash!" The fore-turret has spoken. The ship trembles from stem to stern. We are striking in to the assistance of our scouting cruiser. Through the glasses appears what looks like an iceberg towering over the enemy's nearest cruiser. We've missed her.

But the spotting officer is busy in the control-platform aloft, passing down corrections for transmission to the various gun-stations, and when a second explosion roars from the starboard turret, the enemy's cruiser, after disappearing for some seconds in a black and inky cloud of smoke, bursts into flames. Her consort and our scouting vessel draw farther and farther away to the northward, fighting fiercely. We continue driving through the tumbling waters, till, with a slight freshening of the wind, the black smoke we are approaching thins off into nothingness, and we see far down on the horizon four or five separate columns of smoke. With a good glass we can distinguish masts and funnels as if lightly sketched in pencil. They have sighted us at the same time, and seem to melt together into one indistinct mass. They are altering course, turning their backs to us and heading for the east.

The engine-room gongs clang again, more revolutions are demanded and are forthcoming, and our four big battle-cruisers rush in pursuit with renewed energy. A distant humming sound increases quickly to a loud hissing and roaring—a noise which may be compared to that of a monster engine letting off steam—and an enormous projectile, passing well over our heads, plunges into the sea on the starboard beam of our following ship, the splash rising as high as the mastheads. Others follow fast. The rearmost ship loses her mainmast, and now the enemy's gunners reduce their elevation and slap their big shells into the sea just ahead of us.

Our own guns are not idle. One after another gives tongue with a volume of noise and a concussion that no words can describe. The pen is powerless to bring before the imagination such a cataclysm of sound. On a sudden, amidst the crashing of the guns and the continuous dull booming of the enemy's in the distance, there is a different and a rending explosion somewhere forward. We have at last been hit. Down on the forecastle all is smoke, blackness, torn iron plates and girders. From the midst of the chaos comes the shriek of a man calling on his Maker, and piteous groanings. Soon the dull red of fire blushes through the smoke, and a rush of bluejackets and marines with fire-hoses spouting white streams of water engages this dread enemy and succeeds in subduing it.

Stretcher-men appear on the scene and remove the wounded, but there is more than one serge-clad figure that lies heedless of fire or water, friend or foe. These are they who have fought their last fight and have laid down their lives and all that they had for their country.

Inside the turrets the aspect of affairs is very different from what we saw a short time ago. The gun-layers are standing at their sights, the guns' crews are working levers to and fro, the big breech-blocks are swinging on one side, the huge pointed projectiles rising on their hydraulic hoists till they come in line with the bore of the gun. Another lever is pulled, and the rammer-head, hitherto somewhat in the background of the turret, advances towards the gun, impelled by what looks not unlike a monster bicycle chain crawling up from below, and stiffening itself as it advances along a horizontal trough of steel. The rammer-head meets the base of the big shell and drives it resistlessly and with no apparent effort into the gun. It retires; the charges of explosive, divided into sections and carried in cylinders which come in turn in line with the breech, are then one after the other pushed into place by the indefatigable rammer-head, the breech-block is swung to, turned and locked, and the gun is ready to fire again.

We are now in full view of the enemy's squadron, which consists of five large armoured cruisers. Two of these are in a bad way. One on our starboard bow has lost two out of her three funnels as well as a mast. She is barely moving through the water, and has a strong list to port, which is so pronounced as to prevent her elevating her guns, whose projectiles all strike the water short of us, though we are at comparatively close range. Only two or three of her larger pieces are able to fire at all, and these but at intervals. Her foremost turret is nothing but a chaos of broken metal from the midst of which a pair of mutilated cannon point forlornly skyward.

The midships turret nearest to us is in hardly better case. Her superstructures look like the ruins of a town after an earthquake, and several large holes gape in her sides. A dense black smoke sweeps upwards from the midst of the wreckage. About half a mile ahead of her a consort is also stationary and on fire, the flames driving away in sheets to leeward. The ship that followed us as second in the line is very badly damaged also, and is just discernible on the horizon astern under a pall of smoke. These casualties leave us evenly matched—three to three—with plenty of fight left in us, but with the volume and efficiency of our fire considerably reduced. Our own funnels are still standing, but riddled like collanders, the fore-bridge has been swept away, and with it our dear old skipper; but his place has been ably filled by the commander, who is fighting the ship from the conning-tower, which still stands. Both squadrons—the German in line ahead, ours in bow and quarter line—are heading due east, but, just as we are abreast the badly damaged cruiser to which I have referred, the enemy begins edging away to the north-east. We fail to see the significance of this manœuvre at first, and the admiral, who, though rather badly hurt by the fall of the fore-bridge, is still in the conning-tower with the commander, may have visions of "crossing their T" astern, when there is a sudden shout from aloft. A man is leaning over and gesticulating wildly from the control-platform and pointing towards our starboard bow. There, not far from the burning enemy ship, the glass shows three pairs of what look like black cricket-stumps. Simultaneously there is a gleam in the sea alongside, like the white of a shark's belly when he turns to seize his prey. The deadly torpedo had missed us by a couple of feet.

We instantly turn sharply to port, signalling our consorts to do the same, and all head northwards at our best speed. This brings the enemy's line, which had been turning more and more to port, on a parallel course, and all three ships at once concentrate on us—the nearest ship. We get a worse hammering in the five minutes that follow than we have sustained during the action. The after turret is jammed, one of the guns in the starboard turret loses its muzzle, and fire breaks out in two places amidships, and can only be got under with the most strenuous efforts and great loss of life.

LEARNING TO FIGHT ZEPPELINS
Gunnery practice on a British war-ship against an aerial target. It is a difficult matter to get "war conditions", as the ordinary target, such as a towed kite, is easier to hit than an aeroplane.

Things are looking ugly. The submarines still follow astern, but are not near enough to risk a shot. We cannot steam any faster, and we are baulking the fire of our friends. We slow down, risking the submarines, to allow our consorts to get ahead of us and enable us to meet the three enemy ships on equal terms. There are many anxious looks astern while this manœuvre is in execution. The periscopes of our submarine foes are still discernible, but beyond them is a fast-growing smoke-cloud from which presently emerge the lithe black hulls of our "X" destroyer flotilla. Apparently the submarines do not observe their approach; their periscopes are steadily fixed on our ship, reckoning every yard they gain on us. But the destroyers see them, and presently we see also a warning signal from the enemy flagship. But it is too late. Before the Unterseeische Böte can dive out of harm's way three or four destroyers sweep over them and ram them at the speed of an express train. Slowing down, they circle right and left and open fire. What at we cannot see. Presently up pops a grey lump some way astern. The light guns on the superstructure give tongue so quickly that one has hardly time to recognize it as the conning-tower of a submarine before it is literally blown to pieces.

For the first time during the fight a cheer rings out fore and aft. Almost at once the little guns begin banging away again. This time their long muzzles are nosing about in the air. What are they firing at? "There they are!" cries someone, pointing to the south-east, where two big amorphous monsters have appeared high up in the clouds. Zeppelins, right enough; and the bang, bang, bang of the lighter artillery rises in crescendo from every ship and destroyer till the air echoes like Vulcan's forge. Up come the pair of enormous sausages at a high rate of speed, and as they pass over our destroyer flotilla they begin dropping their bombs. Dull concussions thud apparently on the ship's bottom; fountains of white water spout all round the small craft.

But none are hit. The leading "gas-bag" is heading straight for us. She has probably spotted our damaged condition, and reckons us an easy prey. But our gunners are getting closer to her every shot, and presently she turns slowly to starboard, dropping a futile bomb as she goes. She now presents a fine broadside target as big as a Dreadnought, another shot gets home somewhere, and she makes off in the direction she came with her nose down, tail in air, and a pronounced list to port. Her consort turns too, and scuttles off at top speed. She hopes to "live to fight another day" over some peaceful English village where there are no nasty, disagreeable quick-firing guns, shrapnel-shell, and other unkind greetings from those she would destroy.

The day is drawing to a close. We are heading homewards in tow of a consort. Low down under the tawny sunset that dim purple line is the coast of "Old England"—the motherland we are engaged in defending from the assault of the most unscrupulous enemy she has ever encountered. The wind has fallen, the waves are hardly more than ripples, and evening is closing down with a soothing hush over land and sea. We have cleared up after the smashing and racket of the battle as far as possible, but we can hardly crawl along, and are bound to go into dockyard hands for some weeks at any rate.

"Are we downhearted?" "No!" For we have given much better than the best efforts of the Huns could give. Two of their ships are at the bottom, with most of their crews; though, thanks to the exertions and humanity of our gallant seamen, a considerable number of them have been saved from a watery grave. To this bag may be added three if not four submarines and a badly damaged Zeppelin, so we are not ill-satisfied with the day's work. We have just passed several "tall ships" on their way out to relieve us on patrol, and as we begin to get under the land there is a whirring up aloft in the gathering dusk, and a dozen sea-planes, like a flight of wild-ducks, come swooping seaward and make towards the Channel.

Where are they off to? Are they patrolling, or are they bent on a raid on the enemy's magazines, hangars, and gun positions? We do not know, but our ignorance does not worry us. We know the kind of man that is flying down there towards the southern horizon, and are quite satisfied that he will "make a good job" of whatever he has in hand. Just as the sun dips, out comes a destroyer from the shadow of the land to pilot us through the mine-field, and so we are brought "into the harbour where we would be". We have plenty of hard work before us—some of it very sad work. There are our poor wounded shipmates down below in the sick-bay who have to be taken ashore to hospital, and there are the last honours to be paid to those other gallant comrades and shipmates who have "fought the good fight" and are now making their last voyage en route for that promised land where "there shall be no more sea".

And now let us consider how this guardian fleet and the men who man it came into being. In the following pages my object will be not so much to describe well-known sea-fights as to give a series of pictures of the sailor and of the navy at different stages of "our island story".

CHAPTER I

A Lesson from Cæsar

"Storm and sea were Britain's bulwarks,
Long ere Britons won their name;
Mightier far than pikes and halberds
Wind and wave upheld her fame;
Storm and sea are Britain's brothers,
Keep, with her, their sleepless guard;
Britain's sons, before all others,
Share with them their watch and ward.
Chorus—
"'Forward! On!' the sea-king's war-word
Ages back—to do or die.[1]
'Ne'er a track but points us forward!'[2]
Ages on—our lines reply."
E. H. H. In Officers' Training Corps and Naval
Cadets' Magazine, March, 1913.

Whenever we want to find out anything about the early history of Great Britain, we have, almost invariably, to turn to the writings of our old friend Julius Cæsar. In attempting to trace the beginnings of the Royal Navy, that magnificent organization "whereon", point out the Articles of War, "under the good Providence of God, the Wealth, Safety, and Strength of the Kingdom chiefly depend", we have to conform to the same rule, and consult this authority. From Cæsar's De Bello Gallico we learn that in his time the Ancient Britons made use of boats with a wooden frame, supporting wicker-work instead of planking, and rendered watertight by a covering of skins—just such boats, in fact, though probably larger—as, under the name of "coracles", are used to this day on the Wye and some other rivers and estuaries.

The portability and rapid construction of these boats commended them to Cæsar's military eye, and later on, in one of his Continental wars, he ordered his soldiers to make some light boats in imitation of those he had seen in Britain, in order to carry his army across a river. But, though Cæsar especially mentions these vessels, he does not say that the British of his day had no other or larger vessels. Though they made use of hides and wicker, they must have known something of wooden vessels. There is no doubt that they or their ancestors had large "dug-outs", hollowed from huge trunks of trees in the same way as Robinson Crusoe constructed his famous boat. We know this because many of these have been discovered buried in the mud of our rivers. One of them, found in the bed of the Rother in 1822, was 60 feet in length and 5 feet wide. Others have been found in Lincolnshire, Scotland, and Sussex, though none of them was nearly as long as the Rother boat. We must remember, too, that the Phœnicians had traded to Cornwall for tin, probably for centuries, and the Britons must have been familiar with their comparatively advanced types of shipbuilding.

But many writers on naval matters are of the opinion that our British ancestors, whose coracles are described by Cæsar, had, even at that time, really stout and formidable ships. The reason is this. The Veneti, a race who inhabited western Brittany, and the country at the mouth of the Loire, were a kindred race, and when attacked by Cæsar received assistance from Britain. Now the strength of the Veneti seems to have been in their ships, which gave the Roman galleys considerable trouble, and it seems more than likely that the British assistance they received came in the form of a squadron of similar vessels.

According to Cæsar, the ships of the Veneti "were built and fitted out in this manner: their bottoms were somewhat flatter than ours, the better to adapt them to the shallows, and to sustain without danger the ebbing of the tide. Their prows were very high and erect, as likewise their sterns, to bear the hugeness of the waves and the violence of the tempests. The hull of the vessel was entirely of oak, to withstand the shocks and assaults of that stormy ocean. The benches of the rowers were made of strong beams about a foot wide, and were fastened with iron bolts an inch in thickness. Instead of cables they used chains of iron, and for their sails, utilized skins and a sort of thin, pliable leather, either because they had no canvas and did not know how to make sailcloth or, more probably, because they thought that canvas sails were not so suitable to stand the violence of the tempests, the fury and rage of the winds, and to propel ships of such bulk and burden". It is evident that these ships were for that period quite up to date. They were strongly built and iron-bolted, and had already discarded hempen cables for iron ones.

Above all, they were specially constructed to battle with the heavy weather of the Bay of Biscay and the North Sea, and to take refuge from its fury in the rivers and creeks of the western coasts of Europe. The Roman galleys, relying principally on their oars, and therefore comparatively long and light, were not so seaworthy in Northern waters, and the same difference, in construction, between the ships of the Mediterranean and those of the Northern nations may be traced right down to comparatively modern ages. One gets very bad weather in the Mediterranean at times, notwithstanding its traditional blue skies and sapphire seas, but the big Atlantic rollers are absent.

These ships of the Veneti proved a tough morsel for our old school acquaintance, but his generalship was equal to the task of overcoming them in the end. As he says, "in agility and a ready command of oars, we had the advantage", for the Veneti trusted entirely to their sails. But, against that, the beaks of the Roman galleys could make no impression on the stout timber of the enemy's ships, they were at a special disadvantage in bad weather, and the bulwarks of the Venetan ships towered so high above their heads, even when they erected their fighting-towers, that the Roman soldiers could not hurl their darts on board them, while the Venetan enemy showered their missiles down upon their heads. For the same reason they found it almost impossible to grapple with and make fast to the big ships, and so carry them by boarding. However, "there are more ways than one of killing a cat", and so the Venetans found to their cost. For the Romans, fastening sharp hooks or sickles to the end of long poles, pulled alongside, hooked them over the halyards of their yards and sails, and, rowing away for all they were worth, contrived to cut them through, when down came the yards, and the Venetan vessels became unmanageable. To make matters worse, when a flat calm fell they could not get away to their hiding-places on the coast, and the Romans obtained a complete victory—probably by boarding and fighting at close quarters, when their armour and discipline would tell heavily in their favour. It is interesting to note, by the way, that, according to Vegetius, a fifteenth-century writer on naval and military matters, they painted their scouting-vessels blue, masts, sails, and all, and dressed their crews in the same colour. He adds that Pompey, after defeating Cæsar, called himself "The Son of Neptune", and "affected to wear the blue or marine colour". As for the Veneti, we may, perhaps, regard them as the original "Bluejackets", Veneti being the plural of the Latin venetus, "bluish", "sea-coloured".

Ancient Roman Tile found at Dover
The letters stamped into this tile, and others like it found elsewhere, are considered to stand for "Classiarii Britannici", i.e. "British troops trained for sea-warfare".

We have now to pass over a gap of several hundred years, during which time there is little or no information available about the ships belonging to these islands, the greater part of which, as a matter of fact, had become a province of the Roman Empire. There seems to have been a "Classis Britannici", or British squadron, but this was entirely a Roman organization, and had as much to do with the north of France—or Gaul—as Britain. The remains of an old ship—just the keel and lower ribs—which were not long ago unearthed on the right bank of the Thames, just below Westminster Bridge, are considered likely to have belonged to a galley of this squadron, and we know that there was a legion of what we may term British Marines, who formed the fighting portion of the fleet. Tiles have been found at Dover and other known stations of the Romano-British Fleet which bear the following inscription: "C.L., B.R.", which the experts in such matters interpret as standing for "Classiarii Britannici"—that is to say, "British troops trained for sea-warfare". We are also told by Vegetius, the old writer I have already quoted, that the badge of these troops was a "circle", which, by the way, is a somewhat curious coincidence, since that of the Marines of our own day is a globe. These were the men who defended the shores of our island against the growing numbers of pirates from northern Europe, for the rowers of the Roman galleys were merely the machinery of propulsion, and were probably much less considered than the steam-engines of a modern battleship. These troops also manned part of the wall built from the North Sea to the Solway in the vain attempt to keep out the Picts and Scots, for traces of them are to be found at Bowness at its western end. The North Sea pirates, then generally referred to as Saxons, became such a menace that the East Coast received the name of "The Saxon Shore", and a "count" or high official was specially appointed to take charge of its defence.

Shield carried by the Soldiers of the "Legio Classis Britannici"
(From a coloured drawing in the Bodleian Library)
The centre of the shield is quartered red and white: the rim is white, and the remainder green.

In A.D. 410 the Romans, attacked by the northern nations in their own country, finally abandoned Britain. The British, who had been practically a subject race for nearly 400 years, could make no head against the fierce Picts and Scots, who at once took advantage of the withdrawal of the Roman garrison and swarmed into the North of England. In desperation, the British king, Vortigern, offered to buy the assistance of two Jutish or Saxon pirates—Hengist and Horsa—who were doing a little raiding on their own account on the southern coast. They drove off the northern invaders, in accordance with the bargain that was struck, but, returning home for more of their Danish and Saxon fellow-countrymen, came back and gradually got the country into their own hands. According to another theory, many colonies of Saxons had been established on the East Coast during the time of the Romans, and it was the special business of the "Count of the Saxon Shore" to rule over them. However this may have been, England became a Saxon country, the remnant of the Britons being driven into Wales and Cornwall.

Now the Scandinavian peoples were at this time the finest sailors in the world. The Jutes and Angles from Denmark and Schleswig-Holstein belonged to this race, the whole of which became known as "vikings"—that is to say, "the sons of the creeks", from the Scandinavian word vik, a bay, creek, or fiord. But though there must have been a strong Viking element among the Saxon conquerors of England—so much so that it became known as Angle-land, or England, from the Angles—yet the Saxons or English do not seem to have taken so enthusiastically to the sea as the Norwegians and Danes, and, except when special efforts to create fighting fleets were made by King Alfred and Edmund Ironside, were never able to prevent the incursions of their Danish and Norse kinsmen, who, in process of time, firmly established themselves in the country. After the Danes came the Norman Conquest, and during all this period there was little, if any, change in the types of the ships in which the northern nations fared the seas.

Noah's Ark, according to a MS. of A.D. 1000
Observe the fullness and apparent capacity of the hull of the dragon-ship on which the Ark proper is erected, and compare it with that of the Nydam ship on the opposite page.

What were these vessels like? As it happens, we really know more about them than we do of any between their time and the days of Henry VIII. For not only have we very definite details of them and their "gear" in the long "sagas" or historical and traditional poems which have come down to us, sculptured pictures of them in stone, engravings on rocks and upon arms and ornaments, but more than one of the actual Viking vessels have been dug out of the big burial-mounds where they had been hidden for centuries. For the Viking chieftain loved his ship: he lavished ornament and decoration upon it, and regarded it almost as a living thing. When, therefore, the time came for him to take the long last voyage, from which no man ever returns, it was quite natural that he should have wished to make it in the cherished "Dragon Ship" or "Long Serpent", which had so often borne him over the waves on his way to those hand-to-hand combats and harryings and plunderings in which his soul delighted. Sometimes a funeral pyre was erected on the ship herself, and with his favourite sword by his side, his shield and his helmet, the dead chieftain set out on his final voyage, his sons and followers watching the well-known long-ship sailing into the west till she, her sails, and her dead captain disappeared in clouds of fire and smoke under the sunset. Or, again, a dying sea-king would elect to be buried in his favourite ship in some spot overlooking the glassy fiord whence he had so often set out on his piratical exploits. The ship was run up on shore over the rollers which all Viking vessels carried to facilitate beaching, the body was laid amidships with his most treasured earthly possessions, a penthouse of timber was built over him, his favourite horses were killed and placed round the hull of the vessel, and the whole was buried in the depths of a huge mound, which was erected over it.

The most famous "finds" of this kind were at Gokstadt, in south Norway, in 1881, and at Nydam, in Schleswig, in 1863. In the latter case the ship does not seem to have been used as a sarcophagus, but with another, which had almost entirely rotted away, was found in a bog. Possibly if the huge oval mound now utilized as a cemetery at Inverness, and known as "Tom-na-hurich" ("The Hill of the Fairies"), were tunnelled into, another Viking ship might be brought to light. In the case of the Nydam ship, Roman coins found on board fix her date as being somewhere about A.D. 250. Both from these ships and fragments of others that have been found in various places it is abundantly evident that their builders were as skilled shipwrights as ever existed. Space does not allow us to go into details of their construction, but we may say at once that their finish was perfect, and that their lines were not only beautiful but wonderfully well adapted for contending with the stormy waters of the northern seas. Neither of them appears to have belonged to the largest type of Viking ships, which may be roughly divided into "Dragon Ships" or "Drakkars", "Eseneccas" or "Long Serpents", and "Skutas" or small swift scouting-vessels. It seems just possible, by the way, that our modern slang expression "skoot"—"get away quickly", "clear out"—may be derived from this word. We must try in the next chapter to understand what these Viking ships were like.

Broadside View of the Nydam Ship now in the Kiel Museum. Observe the horn-like rowlocks and the steer-board

CHAPTER II

Ancient War-ships

"Piracy was the exercise, the trade, the glory, and the virtue of the Scandinavian youth. Impatient of a bleak climate and narrow limits, they started from the banquet, grasped their arms, sounded their horn, ascended their ships, and explored every coast that promised either spoil or settlement." Gibbon.

"Outlaw and free thief,
My kinsfolk have left me,
And no kinsfolk need I
Till kinsfolk shall need me.
My sword is my father,
My shield is my mother,
My ship is my sister,
My horse is my brother."
Charles Kingsley.

If we take the dimensions of the actual Viking boats that have been unearthed, as I have related in the last chapter, we shall have an excellent foundation upon which to form an idea of the bigger and more important ones. Now the Gokstadt boat is nearly 80 feet long and 16 feet 6 inches wide at her greatest beam, and carried mast and sail. The Nydam ship is 75 feet in length, with a beam of 10 feet 6 inches, and had no mast. Both are very flat amidships, and have very fine or sharp ends, but it is evident that in proportion to her length the Gokstadt boat had a much greater beam.

A Viking Double-prowed "Long Serpent" or "Dragon-ship"

Observe the well-supported outer stem, the Dragon Head, the embroidered sail decorated with a variation of the "Swastika" design, which was much used by the Vikings on arms and ornaments; the vane at the masthead, the "shield-row" protecting the rowers, and the steersman guiding the ship by means of her "steer-board".

That was because she was a sailing-ship and the Nydam vessel was not. The latter may fairly be assumed to have been a "Skuta", and the Gokstadt ship a rather small "Serpent". Now in all the "sagas" that have come down to us the different war-ships which occupy so prominent a place in them are distinguished as to size by the number of oars they pulled. From the Nydam ship, which had fourteen oars a-side, we are thus able to judge the dimensions of famous Viking war-ships like the "Long Serpent" of King Olaf and others, if we allow for the slightly wider space between the rowers' benches necessitated by the greater length of the oars in the larger vessels. Of course, the whole length of the ship was not occupied by the benches. In the Nydam ship, for instance, they took up 46 feet of her length; the remaining 15 feet at each end were required for fighting- and steering-platforms, stowage of stores, &c. In this way it has been calculated that the "Long Serpent"—you must remember that this was a special "Long Serpent", and probably bigger than the usual run of the war-vessels so-called—was 180 feet long, while the still bigger ship belonging to our King Canute works out at no less than 300 feet in length. The beam or width it has not been found possible to estimate exactly, but my own opinion is that the lines, or contour, of these very much bigger ships were much deeper and fuller than in the smaller types.

There is an old manuscript in the Bodleian Library, at Oxford, dating from about A.D. 1000, in which appear three pictures of Noah's Ark (see p. 26). The house part of the design is frankly impossible—it would capsize the ship—but the hull in each case—the boat part—is not at all unlike the well-known Bayeux-tapestry ships, but of a better and more seaworthy shape, though in some of them the big dragon figure-head is unduly exaggerated. The space between the benches was called a "room", and the port and starboard portions of this were known as "half-rooms". The crew were all told off to these half-rooms as their stations, except those quartered forward and aft. Thus the "Long Serpent" had eight men to each "half-room", and from this item of information it has been estimated that she carried a crew of something between six and seven hundred men. Goodness knows how many King Canute's big "Dreadnought" carried.

Some of these Viking ships were very smartly decorated. Armorial bearings had not then been invented, but their sails were worked with the most beautiful emblematic and intricate embroidery, and were not infrequently made of velvet, though generally of a coarse woollen material called "vadmal." Some of the most elaborate ones were actually lined with fur. Not only the ships themselves, but also their sails, like the swords of their warriors, were given poetical sounding names: "The Cloth of the Wind", "The Beard of the Yard", and "The Tapestry of the Mast-head", are some of them. Along their gunwales, above the oars, which worked through holes in the ship's side, ran the "shield-row", composed of circular wooden shields or targets, with big shining bosses of brass or other metal in the middle. Each shield overlapped the next till it touched its boss, and so gave a double protection to the rowers. This was a very ancient custom, as shields were carried in this way by Phœnician ships as far back as 450 B.C. As a general rule, the Norsemen's shields were black and yellow, the Danes' red, and the Saxons' white with red or blue edges.

A "Dragon" Figure-head
There was a law that ships must not approach the land with their figure-heads in position with "gaping heads and yawning snouts."

It is rather curious that, with the exception of black, these colours are conspicuous in the flags of the corresponding nations of to-day. But the King of Norway presented our King Athelstan, in 931, with a ship fitted with a complete row of golden shields.

A whole chapter might be written about the figure-heads of the Viking ships, for they were much more than mere ornaments. They each had some special signification, and were certainly connected with a most extraordinary superstition which prevailed among the Scandinavian peoples. It is best explained by an example from the saga of which one Egil was the hero. Pursued by a king answering to the suggestive name of Blood-axe, he escaped from Norway and took ship to Iceland. Before he set sail over the North Sea he determined to take it out of his enemy, Blood-axe, by a species of what we may call "wireless" witchcraft. Landing on an islet, he erected what was known as a "Nithstang", a "contraption" considered very pleasing to the Norse gods. The idea probably had something in common with the "lifting up" of the brazen serpent in the Book of Numbers. His installation was a very simple one: a hazel pole with a horse's head stuck on the top. He stuck it up in a crevice of the rocks, saying that he did so "as a curse" on Blood-axe and his Queen. Then he turned it round so as to point to the mainland, and announced that he also "fired off" his curse at the "Guardian Spirits" of the country, who were to get no rest till they had hustled King Blood-axe out of it. Finally he inscribed his curse in Runic characters on the pole, and continued his voyage to Iceland as pleased with himself as a German hero who had dropped a floating mine in the track of passenger vessels.

A Dragon-head and a Representation of a "Nithstang". From a Saxon MS.

Now it appears that these same guardian spirits were extremely susceptible to this sort of "wireless", not only in Norway, but everywhere. And it also seems that—how or in what way I am unable to explain—the figure-heads of the Viking ships had much the same properties as the "Nithstangs". So it was that in Iceland, at any rate, there was a law that ships must remove their figure-heads before approaching the land, "and not approach it with gaping heads and yawning snouts", lest they might scare the guardian spirits of the land.[3] Having carried out this regulation, it was customary for the seamen to hoist a polished shield to the masthead and so flash the signal that the guardian spirits need not now be alarmed. That some connection existed between these "heads" and the "Nithstang" is further shown by a drawing in an old manuscript of that period, which depicts a human head set on a pole, which is fastened to a dragon figure-head. And again, in a wall-painting in the church of Tegelsmora in Upland, in which the famous King Olaf is seen waging a desperate battle with our old nursery friends the "Trolls", the bowsprit of his ship is adorned with the skull of an ox.

But we must leave the ships and come to their crews. To begin with, they were all "soldiers and sailors too"! They were equally at home on the battle-field ashore and in handling their cherished "long-ships" afloat. The Scandinavians believed that the soul of a warrior killed in battle went at once to Valhalla, which represented their idea of heaven.

There they confidently expected that the brave fighter would spend a happy eternity of fighting and feasting. It is said that their remote forefathers had brought this weird form of belief from the depths of Central Asia—but that must be a very old story. But fighting was the breath of their life. They revelled in it, though they did not despise the plunder which was generally the reward of victory. Many of these fierce warriors were subject to and even cultivated a species of madness, almost amounting to demoniacal possession, which induced them to tear off their clothes and hurl themselves almost naked into the fray, feeling endued with the strength of seven men.

These "Berserkers", as they were called from this custom, were doubtless most dangerous opponents in their "Berserk" fury. Nowadays it is generally accepted that the braver the man the more modest he is about his deeds of valour; the boaster is considered likely to be but a broken reed in the day of battle. But it was quite otherwise with the Viking warriors. They gloried in boasting aloud of their prowess, of the deeds they had done, and of those that they were ready to perform.

The tactics of the Vikings, if they failed to ram their opponents, was to lash the bows of as many friendly and hostile vessels together as possible, so as to form a floating battle-field. The fighting-platforms were not, apparently, raised above the bows, as later on in mediæval times. They were somewhere about the level of the gunwale, and when several ships were lashed together, all these platforms provided a battle-ground upon which the Berserker and his emulators could indulge in the furious hand-to-hand combats which were their delight. If they could do this they were probably more than pleased that they had failed to ram their enemy. I doubt if every ship was built with a ram, but, on the other hand, it is certain that some ships were specially built for use as rams, and even strengthened by iron plating. So that we see that the armour-clad is no new invention.

"Showing his Teeth"
Figure of a Berserker from a set of ancient chessmen found in the island of Lewis. The Berserkers always bit their "shield-rims" on going into battle.

In the larger "long-ships" a fighting-gangway ran along behind the shield-row, connecting the fore and after platforms. Beneath the latter, which was somewhat elevated so that the steersman could look ahead, was the sleeping-place for the commander of the ship. Other sleeping accommodation was provided under the foremost platform, while, if at anchor, those of the crew who were not on watch slept under awnings or tents, set up on framework which could be erected for the purpose in the centre of the vessel. The men slept in leather bags, which were equally useful either ashore or afloat. In short, these ancient war-vessels were so well and scientifically built, so well arranged and equipped, and so well manned that we cease to wonder at the long voyages they were able to perform by taking advantage of the summer months.

A WAR-GALLEY IN THE DAYS OF KING ALFRED

The Dragon or other figure-head has been unshipped, possibly because the galley is going into port.

There is not the slightest doubt that the Vikings discovered the continent of America long before Columbus did. They went by way of Iceland, and so were able to touch land more than once on their journey, but they got there all the same. They established a colony in Greenland about A.D. 985. From there they made several expeditions to the southward, and discovered a densely wooded country which is supposed to have been some portion of Nova Scotia. The climate of Greenland must have been very different from what it is at present, for the Viking colony lasted for 400 years, till, in the fifteenth century, an enormous mass of ice was swept down by the Arctic current, piled itself up along the coast, and entirely cut off the settlement—which at that time consisted of thirty villages with their churches and monasteries—from the rest of the world, so that before long every trace of it disappeared.

It seems possible that some of you may say: "This is all very interesting, but I thought we were going to read about the British Navy, and it seems to me that the Saxons and their ships represented the British navy of those days". That is a fair argument, but for my part I do not think that we can accept the Saxon Navy as the ancestor of the British Navy of to-day.

The Saxons were no seamen, and apparently but poor soldiers. When King Alfred built a navy of ships, which are stated to have been superior in every way to those of the Frisians, Scandinavians, and Danes, and by means of which he succeeded in securing more than one victory, he could not provide them with seamen. The Saxons were no good, and he had to hire Frisian pirates to man them. The Saxons fought well at Hastings, but, though there was a strong infusion of the Danish element by this time, they lost the battle through lack of discipline and military experience. It is difficult, therefore, to recognize in these Saxons the progenitors of men like Lieutenant Holbrook, who navigated his submarine through and under rows and rows of deadly mines, knowing that the least touch would bring annihilation, or of Private Pym of the Berkshires, who, alone and "on his own", rushed into a house held by a detachment of German soldiers and succeeded in killing the whole of them but three, who "made their escape".

No. For the ancestors of the British seamen and sailors of Elizabethan and modern times I think we should rather look to the Danes, who, it must be remembered, between 870 and the Norman Conquest, were not only continually invading England, but established themselves in a great part of it, especially in the east and north, and to those of the Conqueror's followers who traced their descent directly from the Northmen or Vikings. It is their spirit which has brought us victory both by land and by sea, but more especially by sea, and not the spirit of Alfred's Saxon subjects, who had to pay others to fight for them. Again, take such pre-eminent commanders as Drake and Nelson. Is not the former name one which takes us directly back to the "Draakers", the "Dragon-ships" of the Vikings, and has not Nelson a distinctly Danish sound about it?

The ships of King Alfred "were full-nigh twice as long as the others; some had sixty oars, and some had more; they were both swifter and steadier, and also higher, than the others. They were shapen neither like the Frisian nor the Danish; but so it seemed to him that they would be most efficient."

CHAPTER III

Fighting-ships of the Middle Ages

"With grisly sound off go the great guns
And heartily they crash in all at once,
And from the top down come the great stones;
In goes the grapnel so full of crooks,
Among the ropes run the shearing hooks;
And with the pole-axe presses one the other;
Behind the mast begins one to take cover
And out again, and overboard he driveth
His foe, whose side his spear-head riveth.
He rends the sail with hooks just like a scythe;
He brings the cup, and bids his mate be blithe;
He showers hard peas to make the hatches slippery.
With pots full of lime they rush together;
And thus the live-long day in fight they spend."
Description of a mediæval sea fight, Legend of Good Women
(modernized), fifteenth century.

William the Conqueror, like Cortez, the discoverer of Mexico at a later date, dispelled any thoughts of retreat that might have been lurking in the minds of his followers by destroying the ships which had brought them over. He had come to stay. Now the Normans, though of the same blood as the seafaring Vikings, who had sailed and fought their Dragon-ships to the very ends of the known earth, had been so long settled in France that they had adopted not only the French language, but French ideas, which were not, generally speaking, of a nautical nature.

Among these was the system of feudalism and knight-service. The very word for knight—chevalier in French—signified a horseman; and the Norman and other feudal knights of the eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries looked at war and politics from the point of view of a cavalier armed cap-à-pie seated in his war-saddle. As for ships and sailors, they were merely unpleasant means to necessary ends.[4] But if one wanted to go to fight and plunder and raid across Channel he had to submit himself and his followers to the cramped accommodation of a vessel of some kind, and to the care of the rough shipmaster and his crew—low but necessary persons, in the eyes of the mediæval knight, just as were the experienced "tarpawlins" in the estimate of the scented "gentleman-captains" in the days of the Restoration. So it came about that for some centuries England had no Royal Navy.

The king and his principal nobles had at times a few galleys or sailing-vessels of their own—almost, if not entirely, their personal property—and these they made use of for purposes of transportation or fighting when required; but during this period the maritime defence of the realm was carried out—on the whole inefficiently—on the hire system. The money for this purpose was forthcoming, since William revived a tax for defence purposes, called the "Heregeld", which had been not long before abolished by Edward the Confessor, on the pretext that by it "the people were manifoldly distressed". Had he not listened to the "little navyites" of his day, perhaps the Norman Invasion would not have succeeded. In addition to this, William placed the five principal ports commanding the narrowest part of the Channel on a special footing, under which, in return for certain privileges, they were to supply him or his successors with a fleet of fifty-two ships in cases of emergency. They could only be retained for fifteen days, however. These ports—Hastings, Romney, Hythe, Dover, and Sandwich—were then, and for ever afterwards known as the "Cinque Ports", though Dover is the only one which can still be regarded as a port at all. Rye, Winchelsea, and Pevensey also became "Cinque Ports" later on.

William's idea with regard to the Cinque Ports was probably not so much the general defence of the kingdom as the defence of his communications with Normandy. With their assistance he could be sure of always being able to move troops either way across Channel as his exigencies required. Thus, when in 1083 William, who was then in Normandy, heard rumours of the intention of the Kings of Denmark and Norway and the Count of Flanders to invade England with a great fleet, he hurried over-Channel with so great an army that "men wondered how this land could feed all that force". Without the assistance of the Cinque Ports he might have had some difficulty in doing this.

Although we really know a great deal about the ships of the Saxon and Danish periods of our history, we know comparatively little about those which were built between the Conquest and the accession of Henry VII. For, while we have had specimens of the actual Viking ships to work upon, we have for this long period, of over 400 years, little information beyond that afforded by the seals of maritime towns, the ships depicted by monkish chroniclers and romancists in their illuminated manuscripts, and in a few cases old stained-glass windows and decorative carvings.

Now, to begin with, it is obvious that in each of these cases the artist was cramped for space. He had to decide between the calls of accuracy and of decorative effect, and almost invariably he gave way to the latter.

In seals, especially, he was tempted to make the curves of the ship's hull run parallel to the circumference of the seal. In that which belonged to the master of the Sainte Catherine de Cayeux, which fought at Sluys in 1340, the exterior curve of the hull of the ship represented upon it is really concentric with the seal itself. In almost every other case—up to the fifteenth century at any rate—the hulls of the ships shown on seals of this description approximate to this shape, and, generally speaking, are of crescent form, with fighting-stages or "castles" at the bow and stern. There are a few exceptions, which are more likely to be correct, as their designers evidently made up their minds not to be led away from the truth.

In the rather fascinating pictures that appear in mediæval manuscripts, too, the monkish artists had to work in a small space, in which they wanted to put a great deal of ornamental and other detail. They probably knew little or nothing about nautical affairs into the bargain. In the result their ships present the same crescent-shaped hulls as those in the seals of the period, and give the impression of being very small affairs indeed, thanks to the large-sized nobles and men-at-arms with which they are densely packed.

Seal of Demizel, master of the barque Sainte Catherine de Cayeux, 1340
(From Histoire de la Marine Française, by kind permission of the author, Monsieur C. de la Ronière.)

An example of the impossible ship. Note how the engraver has made the keel exactly parallel to the circumference of the seal. It makes a handsome and effective seal, but can hardly be accepted as a picture of a ship of 1340.

The reason of this quaint method of representing ships and their crews or passengers is not far to seek. Who has not seen a child's first attempts to draw the human face in profile? He outlines the forehead, the nose, and chin, and puts in the back of the head easily and to his own satisfaction. Then he pauses and deliberates. The eyes are what he is puzzling over. He knows that, though everybody has one nose, one forehead, and one chin, he has two eyes. What about them? He may think that one eye looks most suitable, but still he doesn't like to leave the other one out. So, as often as not, he puts in a couple, one about the right place and the other somewhere towards the back of the head.

Wreck of the White Ship, 1120

Another example of the impossible-ship picture. There were said to be 300 souls on board! Observe the rudder, which proves the date of the original drawing to be much later than 1120—probably 100 or 150 years.

The tonsured artist argued very much on the same lines. If he painted a ship it was not a picture of a special ship. What he wanted to portray was the saint or hero of his manuscript—very often Alexander the Great—on a voyage or crossing a river. If he drew him on the same scale as his vessel he would be a mere dot or blob of paint. He wanted to show his face, his armour, robes, crown, halo, or what-not. So, though he could not help knowing that it was inaccurate, he drew him—and, generally speaking, his companions—on a scale about 500 per cent larger than that of the ship in which he was depicted as performing a most cramped and uncomfortable voyage.

We must not therefore accept these brilliantly coloured works of art as corroborative of the accuracy of the figures of ships appearing on the seals of Dover, Yarmouth, Poole, and other English and foreign ports, and in the fifteenth century of various noblemen who held the appointment of Admiral of England or France. But there are, nevertheless, a great many useful details to be learned from these sources of information. From seals we can trace the gradual evolution of the poop and forecastle from the early platforms or fighting-stages, the supersession of the steering-oar or "steer-board" by the rudder, the beginning of cabins, the progress of fighting-tops and action aloft. We see, too, the mode of wearing banners, streamers, and flags, and gain some idea of the gradual growth of sail-power, which culminated, we may say, in the sailing battleship of Trafalgar days.

If we consider the question of mediæval shipbuilding as a whole, we shall find it difficult to believe that the scientific methods of construction which distinguished the Viking ships, and the improvements on them which were made by Alfred the Great, had all been forgotten and thrown on one side, and that these fine specimens of the shipbuilder's art had been replaced by anything like the ridiculous little "cocked hats" that are supposed to represent the shipping of the British and other Northern nations between 1066 and 1450.

The sea-going ships of these peoples, intended especially for sailing, would naturally be considerably shorter and broader in the beam than the Viking class of ship, which relied principally on oars for propulsion, and was rather too long and narrow to sail well under ordinary conditions of weather. Moreover, though they carried a single sail, they were not intended to contend with heavy winter weather.

We have a description of the Mont-Joie, in which Louis IX of France sailed on his last crusade. She was built at Genoa, which then and for long after shared with Venice the distinction of being the birthplace of the largest and finest ships in the world. She is worth describing, for she was one of the precursors of the big Spanish and Genoese carracks that our fleets encountered off the coasts of France and Flanders from time to time during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and which stimulated us to buy or build big ships of our own.

The Mont-Joie was 80 feet long on the keel, but over all, measuring from the extremity of the forecastle to the highest point of the stern, she had a length of 120 feet. She is said to have been 26 feet deep amidships. Twelve feet above the keel was a deck running from right forward to right aft. Below this was the hold, where lay the ballast, and in which were stowed water, provisions, and various war materials. Six feet above the lower deck was another similar deck, which we may call the upper deck, while above this again a gallery or gangway, six or seven feet wide, ran along each side of the ship, between the fore and after castles. The ship's side rose 3½ feet above these fore and aft bridges and was pierced with loopholes for archery. In action the bulwarks would be heightened and further protected by shields or pavises.[5] Below the upper deck, aft, was situated the "paradis" (chambre de parade), or state cabin, which in this case was, of course, occupied by St. Louis himself.

There was other accommodation provided forward for the rest of the Mont-Joie's passengers, with the exception of the Queen, who occupied another "paradis" on the upper deck, immediately over the King's. These cabins were lighted by ports or scuttles cut in the sides of the ship. Forward there was further shelter provided under the forecastle, and both it and the after part of the ship were surmounted by a bellatorium, or fighting-platform, with bulwarks 4 feet in height. The ship was equipped with two tall masts raking forward and carrying large lateen sails. At the summit of each was a gabie or fighting-top. Altogether it will be seen at once that here was a real sea-going ship, very different from the open boats, manned by giants, of the seals and manuscripts illustrations.

It is not always easy to convey the impression of size by mere figures, but if we bear in mind that the famous old Victory, now lying in Portsmouth Harbour, and which many of us have seen at least once, is only about twice the length of those thirteenth-century ships, we shall be able to form some idea of their not unimportant dimensions.

Many of the mediæval ships were most gorgeously painted and decorated. When the French king Charles VI fitted out a great naval armament at Sluys, in 1386, for the invasion of England—which did not come off, by the way—Froissart tells us that "gold and silver were no more spared than though it had rained out of the clouds or been scooped out of the sea". One young noble covered his mast with gold-leaf. "They made banners, pennons, and standards of silk, so goodly that it was marvel to behold them; also they painted the masts of their ships from the one end to the other, glittering with gold and devices and arms: and specially it was shewed me", says old Froissart, "that the Lord Guy de la Tremouille garnished his ship richly; the paintings that were made cost more than ten thousand francs. Whatsoever any lord could devise for their pleasure was made on the ships: and the poor people of the realm paid for all; for the taxes were so great, to furnish this voyage, that they which were most rich sorrowed for it, and the poor fled for it."

Our own Henry V had rather "loud" tastes in his ship decoration. In the year 1400 he had a ship painted red, decorated with collars and garters of gold surrounding fleur-de-lis and leopards, as well as gilded leashes looped round white greyhounds with golden collars. All these were selections from the royal badges. Her mast was red also. The Good Pace of the Tower[6] was red too, but her upper works and stern were of a different colour, and she carried a gilded eagle with a crown in its mouth on her bowsprit.

The Trinity of the Tower was another red ship, elaborately adorned with coats of arms, while the Nicholas of the Tower was black, "powdered" with "Prince of Wales's Feathers", with quills and scrolls in gold. The King's own particular ship, the "cog" John, carried the royal crest, "the Lion standing on the Crown", at her masthead, besides other decorations. The Genoese in 1242 painted their war-ships white, spotted all over with red crosses, so Henry perhaps only followed the fashion after all; but, generally speaking, red was the favourite colour, though black at times ran it pretty close in favour as groundwork for various patterns of ornamentation.

But the continually growing decoration in the way of flags, standards, pennons, and streamers must by no means be overlooked. They were, perhaps, the most striking characteristic of the mediæval war-ship.

The standard or pennon of the owner or commander of the ship—and it must be remembered that he was in those days not a seaman, but always a soldier—was planted at the foremost corner of the poop or after-castle, on the starboard side. A ship called after a saint would have, in addition, the banner of that saint, and in the case of the Cinque Ports we may be sure that their arms, "three lions with half a galley in place of tail and hind legs", were displayed on some portion of the vessel. In royal ships there were other banners with the various royal badges, and there were hosts of streamers, pendants, and guidons as well. When fully "dressed", with all her flags flying, the mediæval war-ship must have made a brave display. Galleys, in addition, had a small staff with a pendant attached to the loom of every oar on such occasions.

Fifteenth-century Ship
(From a painting by Carpaccio)

Observe the capacious hull, the heavy mast, the way the sail is made fast in the middle as well as by the sheets at the corners, the crane for hoisting missiles to the top, and the darts ranged round it; also the way the main-yard is spliced in the middle.

Nor must we overlook the ornamental nature of the sails in the times of which we are writing. It was no uncommon thing for the whole of the big square mainsail of a "cog" to be decorated with the arms of her owner. This is clearly shown in the well-known manuscript Life of the Earl of Warwick, by John Rous. Generally sails, often themselves of the richest colouring and material, were adorned with badges or devices, but sometimes merely with stripes of different colours. Colour ran riot in the war-vessels of our mediæval ancestors—how different from the sombre grey war-paint of our modern Leviathans!

Ship of the latter half of the Fifteenth Century
(From an illuminated MS. of 1480)

Note the diminutive figure-head, the two shields amidships—probably placed there for decorative purposes, as the ship appears to be "dressed" with many pennons and streamers. The smallness of the tops is unusual, also the square port-hole and the double-gabled cabin.

The end of the fifteenth century saw the development of the carrack into the caravel, such a ship as the Sancta Maria, in which Columbus sailed to the West Indies in 1492. As her original plans were found in the dockyard at Cadiz, and a replica of the famous original was built from them by Spanish workmen in the arsenal of Carracas in 1892 for the Chicago Exhibition, which took place in the following year, we know exactly what she was like. She was just over 60 feet long on her keel, and had a length over all of 93 feet, with a beam of nearly 6 feet. She had a displacement of 233 tons when fully laden and equipped. She had three masts, but only the mainmast had a top-sail. The mizzen carried a lateen sail. She was considerably smaller than many ships of her day, but in general appearance and rig she approximated to the smaller ships of the Elizabethan epoch, and she and her class may well be considered as forming a connecting-link between the old single-masted "round ships" and the square-rigged, many-gunned line-of-battleship, which from the time of Henry VIII to Queen Victoria formed the mainstay of our battle fleets. There were, of course, many developments and improvements during this long period, but the type persisted throughout, just as did that of the modified Viking ship in mediæval ages.

So much for the ships of the Middle Ages. But before we go on to take stock of their crews it will be as well to attempt some description of the way they were fought. Nowadays the ship armed with the heaviest and longest-ranged guns—if her gunners know their work—seems to be able to "knock out" a slightly less powerfully gunned opponent before she can get in any effective reply. The present war has given us many illustrations of this fact. The Scharnhorst—a crack gunnery ship—with her heavier broadside, was able to sink the Good Hope with little or no damage to herself, and in her turn she was simply demolished by the heavy guns of the Inflexible and the Invincible off the Falkland Islands.

But in the Middle Ages there was nothing like this. All decisive fighting was practically hand to hand and man to man, except for the use of the ram by galleys and the exchange of arrows and stones at comparatively close quarters. But victory was only achieved, as a general rule, when the enemy's ship was boarded and her crew defeated in a bloody tussle, at the end of which no one but the victors remained alive, unless, perhaps, some knight or noble who was worth preserving for the value of his ransom. The military portion of the crew, the archers, men-at-arms, and their knightly leaders, carried the usual arms of their day. The seamen, who were in the minority, probably used knives, short swords, and spears, and made themselves very useful in hurling big stones, heavy javelins called "viretons", unslaked lime, and other disagreeable missiles from the "top-castles" at the head of the mast or masts.

We have already mentioned the fore and after fighting-stages, or, as they later on became, poops and forecastles, that were erected when a ship was going on the war-path. We may note, in passing, that in the earlier part of the period we are dealing with, these were so often and so generally required that "castle-building" afloat became a recognized trade, until, in the process of evolution, poops and forecastles became integral parts of the ship.

We may add that, in addition to the fore and after fighting-platforms, special fighting-towers were not infrequently erected, certainly in the Mediterranean, and we may therefore assume that they were not altogether unknown in Northern waters. These towers were generally built up round the mast, and provided with loopholes and battlements, and sometimes protected by iron plates or raw hides.

One account of mediæval war-galleys states that in some cases "a castle was erected of the width of the ship and some twenty feet in length; its platform being elevated sufficiently to allow of free passage under it and over the benches". King John introduced the famous Genoese cross-bowmen—who so signally failed to distinguish themselves at Crécy—into his navy. The reason most probably was that a cross-bow could be fired through a loophole by a man crouching under cover of the bulwarks or shield-row, whereas a long-bow could not be used in this way. Nevertheless the cross-bow did not succeed in ousting the long-bow in the British Navy, since, in 1456, in the course of a public disputation between the heralds of England and France as to the claim of the former country to the domination of the sea, the French herald claimed for his countrymen that they were more formidable afloat because they used the cross-bow. "Our arbalistiers", he asserted, "fire under cover or from the shelter of the fore and after castles; through little loopholes they strike their opponents without danger of being wounded themselves. Your English archers, on the other hand, cannot let fly their arrows except above-board and standing clear of cover; fear and the motion of the ship is likely to distract their aim." But there does not seem to have been much "fear" among the English archers, and as those that were in the habit of serving afloat doubtless had their "sea-legs", it must have taken a good deal to disconcert their aim, world-renowned for its deadliness.

Still, as we shall see in a later chapter, the cross-bow was a most formidable weapon afloat, and the French herald's argument was a sound one. In the place of artillery the ships of the earlier Middle Ages were provided with mangonels, trebuchets, espringalds and other mechanical instruments for hurling heavy projectiles, which, according to some authorities, were made or imported as the result of the experiences of Richard I and his crusading companions in the Mediterranean. Personally, I should say that they had been known long before that time. A contemporary chronicle of the siege of Paris by the Northmen in 885-7 mentions that, to cover the Danish stormers, "thousands of leaden balls, scattered like a thick hail in the air, fall upon the city, and powerful catapults thunder upon the forts which defend the bridge". The knowledge of the heavy war-machines of the Ancients had never died out. The catapult was the old Roman onager, and consisted of a long arm or beam, of which one end was thrust through the middle of a tightly-twisted bundle of hair-ropes, fibres, or sinews stretched across a solid frame. At the other end was either a sling or a spoon-shaped receptacle for the projectile. This end was drawn back by means of levers and winches against the twist of the bundle of sinews and held by a catch. On the catch being released, by pulling on a lanyard attached to a trigger, the long end of the beam was forced violently forward till it struck against a strongly-supported transverse baulk of timber arranged for the purpose. When this occurred the huge stone or other projectile flew on through the air and struck its target with tremendous force.

The trebuchet and the mangonel were very like the Roman ballista, and acted much in the same way as the catapult, except that the motive force was the fall of a heavy counterweight instead of tension. The springald, or espringald, was a large-sized steel cross-bow, mounted on a pivot, hurling heavy iron darts, with great force, which had considerable penetration. In the battle of Zierksee (1304) one of these heavy "garots", as they were called, struck the Orgueileuse of Bruges with such violence that it not only pierced the bulwarks of the forecastle, but took off the arm of one of the trumpeters who were sounding their silver trumpets, transfixed another, and finally embedded itself in the after castle.

One of the most formidable missiles hurled by the mangonels and such machines was the famous Greek fire, knowledge of which had been brought to Europe from the Crusades. Sometimes it was projected through "siphons" or tubes, of which no exact knowledge has come down to us. But it seems to have ignited the moment it came in contact with the air, and was spouted forth with the violence of water from a fire-hose. It destroyed everything that came in its way, and was inextinguishable by water. It could only be smothered by plenty of earth or sand, a material not generally available at sea. The mangonels threw it in barrels.

"This was the fashion of the Greek Fire," says De Joinville, the historian of Louis IX's first Crusade. "It came on as broad in front as a vinegar cask, and the tail of fire that trailed behind it was as big as a great spear; and it made such a noise as it came, that it sounded like the thunder of Heaven. It looked like a dragon in the air. Such a bright light did it cast, that one could see all over the camp as though it was day, by reason of the great mass of fire and the brilliance of the light that it shed. Thrice that night they hurled the Greek Fire at us, and four times shot it from the tourniquet[7] cross-bow. Every time that our holy King (St. Louis) heard that they were throwing Greek Fire at us, he draped his sheet round him, and stretched out his hands to our Lord, and said, weeping: 'Oh! fair Lord God, protect my people!'" Such was the terror inspired by this fearful mixture, whose chief ingredient is supposed to have been naphtha. It does not, however, appear to have been used to any considerable extent in Western Europe.

In the latter half of the period we are dealing with, cannon—big, little, and middle-sized—quite superseded the mangonel and other mechanical projectile-throwers. Few large guns were carried, and those mostly fixed rigidly on timber beds and fired over the ship's side—hence the term "gunwale", which we still use in boats, a "wale" meaning a band of timber. Small breech-loading guns were mounted in considerable numbers in the fore and after castles, some of these, generally known as "murderers", being mounted inboard in such a way as to fire at close quarters on any boarding-parties of the enemy who might succeed in gaining possession of the waist of the ship. Others were mounted aloft in the tops, just as they were in our own days until the tops were required for fire-control platforms. But I propose to give the quaint ancestors of our modern monster cannon and rapid-fire guns a chapter to themselves later on.

CHAPTER IV

Mariners of Other Days

"A shipman was ther . . .
All in a gown of faulding[8] to the knee,
A dagger hanging by a lace had he
About his neck under his arm adown;
The hot summer had made his hue all brown:
And certainly he was a good fellow;
Full many a draught of wine had he drawn
From Bordeaux-ward, while that the chapmen[9] sleep;
Of nice conscience took he no keep.
If that he fought and had the higher hand,
By water he sent them home to every land.[10]
. . . . . . . . . .
He knew well all the havens as they were
From Gothland to the Cape of Finisterre,
And every creek in Bretagne and in Spain:
His barge ycleped[11] was the Magdelaine."
Chaucer, Canterbury Tales.

We have yet to give some descriptions of one or two actual battles, but I think we will commence by trying to picture the seamen themselves.

What were these old "matlows"[12] like, and how were they raised? The second question is easily answered. As Lord Haldane has stated, compulsory service was never foreign to the English laws and constitution. But we may observe that it has never been carried out in the fair and impartial manner which is now universal on the Continent of Europe, where "duke's son, cook's son", and everybody else has to serve his country alike. No; ours has always been a kind of bullying system or want of system.

In the old days of the Cinque Ports, if more ships were required than they had to provide, their ships were just sent out to "commandeer" any suitable craft they could lay hands on. So with men. Certain places and counties had to provide a regulated quota of soldiers or sailors, or both. If they were voluntarily forthcoming, well and good; if not, the magistrates, the port-reeves, or bayliffs had authority to take as many as they required to make up the number by force, and made no bones about doing so. So while Jones got off free, Brown and Robinson were pressed. But it was all a matter of luck—at any rate ostensibly. That was the hardship of it, not only then, but in the later "press-gang days".

But, once caught, the mediæval seaman had little to complain of in the way of pay. That, no doubt, made up for a good deal of severe discomfort. A mariner or seaman in 1277 got 3d. a day—a penny more than an ordinary soldier[13]—and in 1370 it was raised to 4d. Now, if we bear in mind that it has been estimated that money at that time was worth something like fourteen times what it is to-day, we must admit that the seaman did not do so badly. The master of the ship at this time was called the "rector", and received 6d. a day, while his second in command got the same amount. There were no admirals then, but the senior sea officer of the fleet was termed "captain" and paid 12d. per diem. The knight who was in actual military command of a warship would draw 2s. a day if he was paid the same rate afloat as ashore.

Whether there was a regular scale of provisioning before John Redynge was appointed "Clerk of the Spicery" in 1496, to look after the victualling of both army and navy, I am unable to say, but it appears that the usual "sea-stock" laid in for a voyage in mediæval times consisted of bacon, salt meat, "Poor John" or salted herrings, flour, eggs, and poultry.

We have little information as to the personality, manners, and customs of the seamen of mediæval ages. In the earlier period they were pretty certainly more of the long-shore or fisherman class than deep-sea sailors. When not engaged in legitimate trading or warfare they generally took a hand at rank piracy. There was a saying about them that the British sailors were "good seamen, but better pirates"! Even the Cinque Ports, which provided the nearest approach to a national navy, achieved a most scandalous notoriety in this respect. But at the same time there is no doubt that the Normans, Basques, Flemings, French, and other seafarers were just as bad, though perhaps not quite so expert. It was the fashion afloat in those days.

We may gather some small idea of what seamen and sea-going were like in the Middle Ages from the pen of one Brother Felix Fabri, a Dominican of Ulm, who went from Venice to Jerusalem somewhere about 1480. Space forbids as long an extract as could be wished, for his experiences are both interesting and amusing. The seamen with whom he came in contact were not Englishmen, but "sea ways" are generally much the same all over the world. He and his fellow pilgrims chose their berths before starting, and had their names chalked over them. He gives many warnings, which those of us who have been to sea can well appreciate. To the would-be traveller he says: "Let him not sit on any ropes, lest the wind change of a sudden and he be thrown overboard". And "Let him beware of getting in the way of the crew, for however noble he may be, nay, were he a bishop, they will push against him and trample on him". "He should also be cautious where he sits down, lest he stick to his seat, for every place is covered with pitch, which becomes soft in the heat of the sun". Inadvertently to "steal the commander's paint" is a mishap which may easily overtake the unwary on board His Majesty's ships in these latter days.

The chronicler explains that the captain's authority is absolute; though ignorant of navigation, he commands what course the ship will take. He has under him a master-at-arms, a "caliph" or "ship's husband", and a "cometa" or "mate", who sets the crew in motion—like the commander in a modern man-of-war. "The mate's subordinates", says Brother Felix, "fear him as they would fear the devil." The crew—bar the wretched slaves who worked the oars, and of whose tortures "he shuddered to think"—consisted of "compani", nine in number, who were employed on all dangerous work aloft, and others termed "mariners", who, according to him, "sing while work is being carried on to those who do it". This sounds like a "soft job", but the "mariners" probably may be classed with the so-called "idlers" in our war-ships, who are anything but idle. There was a "scribe", with the duties of the purser on a mail steamer of our day, who "arranges disputes about berths, makes men pay their passage-money, and has many duties. He is, as a rule, hated by all alike." We must not omit mention of the pilot, or navigating officer, with whom were associated "certain cunning men, astrologers and soothsayers, who watch the signs of the stars and the sky". They have a chart, "an ell long and an ell broad, whereon the whole sea is drawn with thousands of lines". One of them was always on duty, watching the compass and chanting "a kind of sweet song, which shows that all is going well, and in the same tone he chants to him that holdeth the tiller of the rudder, to which quarter it ought to be moved".

The mention of "astrologers and soothsayers" reminds us that sailors have always had the reputation of being exceptionally superstitious. I doubt if this is still true—at any rate as regards the Royal Navy. Take the proverbial bad luck of sailing on a Friday. My own sea experience, which goes back for a good many years, is that Friday was a very favourite day for going to sea. We often left harbour on Fridays. I think it was because on Saturday we got a good clear day for cleaning up the ship, then came Sunday—a quiet day—so that everything and everybody was nicely settled down by Monday morning, and we could start fair on the weekly routine.

But from what we know of life in the Middle Ages it would have been indeed strange if seamen had not been superstitious. The wonders and dangers of the deep were very real and close in those days of cogs and galleys—veritably mere specks on the ocean. It is to be feared that seamen of later ages had not the same dread of going to sea in debt as De Joinville the Crusader,[14] or the expression "to pay with the fore-topsail" would never have arisen. Like Chaucer's seaman, some of them "of nice conscience took . . . no keep", and were very glad to escape their creditors by hoisting sail and putting to sea.

"Sailors have ever been superstitious," says a French writer on the Middle Ages;[15] "their credulous brains are the parents of all the fantastic beings and animals that they persuade themselves that they have seen in their wanderings, and with which they have peopled the mysterious depths of the ocean. The syrens of antiquity, the monsters of Scylla and Charybdis, have been far surpassed by modern legendary creations, such as the 'Kraken', a gigantic mass of pulp which attacked and dragged down the largest ships; the 'Bishop Fish', which, mitre on head, blessed and then devoured shipwrecked mariners; the 'Black Hand', which, even in the days of Columbus, was despicted as marking the entrance to the 'Sunless Ocean'; and the numerous troops of hideous demons, one of whom, in the sight of the whole French Fleet of Crusaders, on their way to attack the Island of Mitylene, in the reign of Louis XII, clutched and swallowed up a profligate sailor who had 'blasphemed and defied the Holy Virgin'."

Strange to say, the St. Elmo's light, or "corposant", was regarded as a heaven-sent vision prognosticating favour and protection. Knowing nothing of electricity, and being unaware that the gradual collection of the electric fluid into the weird luminous balls of light which, during thunderstorms, sometimes collect at mast-head or yard-arm, is supposed to render the ship less likely to be struck by lightning, one cannot help thinking it remarkable that this phenomenon, which certainly has quite a supernatural appearance, did not inspire more terror than confidence in the seamen of the Middle Ages. I remember two "corposants" appearing at the fore-top-mast head and at the yard-arm on board the old Nelson in a storm of thunder and wind, off the Australian coast. They remained—occasionally shifting their position a little—for some considerable time.

It was doubtless something of this kind which William, Earl of Salisbury, saw one night, in a hard gale of wind, on his way back from the Holy Land in 1222. The storm was so fierce that he gave up hope of life, and threw his money and richest apparel overboard. Suddenly, when the tempest was at its height, all hands saw "a mighty taper of wax burning brightly at the prow". They also thought they saw the figure of a celestial being standing beside it, screening it from the wind. The ship's company were at once reassured of ultimate safety, but the Earl was the most confident of all, because he felt certain that he was being repaid for his piety at the time of his initiation into the honour of knighthood, on which occasion he had brought a taper to the altar, and arranged for it to be lighted every day in honour of the Holy Virgin.

CHAPTER V

Some Mediæval Sea-fights

"The King's own galley, he called it Trenchthemer
That was first on way, and came the ship full near.
. . . . . . . . . . .
The ship cast hooks out, the galley to them to draw;
The King stood full stoutly, and many of them slew;
Wild-fire they cast, the King to confound;
. . . . . . . . . . .
The King abased him not but stalwartly fought.
. . . . . . . . . . .
The ship that was so great, it foundered in the flood;
They counted fifteen hundred Saracens that drownèd were,
Forty and six were selected, and were all that were saved there.
The sum could no man tell of gold that was therein
And other riches to sell, but all they might not win.
. . . . . . . . . . .
It sank soon in the sea, half might they not get.
Richard bade, 'Haul up your sails, may God us lead,
Our men at Acre lie, of help they have great need.'"
Peter of Langtoft (modernized), thirteenth-century poem.

One of the most interesting episodes of mediæval war afloat was the sinking of the great Turkish Dromon, off Beyrout, by King Richard I. After having effected the junction of his fleets off Messina, he had gone on to Cyprus, where fighting, and other matters with which we need not concern ourselves, had delayed him for some time. At length he and his "busses"[16] and galleys set out for Acre. The following day—6th June, 1191—the British fleet made the Syrian coast, near the Castle of Margat, and continued their way, pretty close under the land, for the town of Acre. About noon the day following, when near Beyrout, it was reported to the King, who led the fleet in his galley Trench-the-Mer, that an enormous ship was in sight. None of the English had ever seen such a leviathan. "A marvellous ship," says an old chronicler, "a ship than which, except Noah's ship, none greater was ever read of—the Queen of Ships!" It was a fine and beautiful summer morning, with but little wind. The strange ship showed no distinguishing colours, and was putting on as much sail as she possibly could; but she made little, if any, way at all:

"The weather was full soft, the wind held them still,
The sail was high aloft, they had no wind at will",

to quote an ancient poem dealing with the fight that ensued. The big ship was of great bulk, painted green on one side and yellow on the other, probably to render her inconspicuous against either a sandy or a green background, or at sea, when her green side was towards the enemy. But in spite of this curious colouring she is said to have presented a very beautiful appearance, and her decoration was considered "very elegant".

The vessel is stated to have carried 1500 men—an enormous complement—which included 7 Emirs and 80 chosen Turks, for the defence of Acre. She was equipped with bows, arrows, and other weapons, many jars filled with the dreaded Greek fire, and "200 most deadly serpents prepared for the destruction of Christians". Most historians consider that these "serpents" were some kind of firework used as a missile, since "serpentine" was an early name for one of the smallest-sized cannon. Personally, I do not see why we should not accept the word "serpents" in its everyday meaning. The adjective "deadly" is suggestive, and in one old account it is particularly stated that "the 200 serpents were drowned". There have been instances of hives of bees being hurled as missiles from war-engines, so why not baskets of deadly snakes? But it is more probable that these serpents—since none of them were expended in the battle that took place—were intended to have been introduced into the camps of the Crusaders after being landed at Acre.

As soon as the big Dromon—as she is generally called by old writers—was sighted, Richard dispatched Peter de Barris in his galley to find out who she was. The word Dromon, by the way, was used at that time to denote any exceptionally large ship; just as we use "Dreadnought" in a similar way. But the actual and original meaning of the word was not a big, but a fast, ship. The word is connected with speed and racing, and is of Greek origin. We use it in its proper sense now in hippodrome, velodrome, aerodrome, &c.

As De Barris pulled alongside the Dromon, she showed the French king's colours on a lance, and, on being hailed, stated that she was taking French Crusaders to Acre. Further interrogated, another story was tried. She was a Genoese, bound for Tyre. All this was suspicious enough, but in the meantime one of the men in the King's ship announced that he recognized her—he had seen her once at Beyrout—and was brought before Richard. "I will give my head to be cut off, or myself to be hanged," asserted this mariner, "if I do not prove that this is a Saracen ship. Let a galley be sent after them, and give them no salutation; their intention and trustworthiness will then be discovered." Richard adopted the suggestion. Another galley shot out from the fleet and surged up alongside the towering Dromon. There was no mistake this time. Down came whistling flights of arrows, while pots of Greek fire crashed into flame as they struck the galley. Off dashed Richard in the Trench-the-Mer to the rescue. "Follow me, and take them," he cried to the other galleys, "for if they escape, ye lose my love for ever; and if ye capture them all their goods shall be yours!" The Turk could not get away, she was practically becalmed, and the oar-propelled galleys of the Crusaders closed around her.

But the assailants were in the same predicament as were the Romans when they attacked the lofty ships of the Veneti. The sides of the Dromon towered far over their heads, and do what they would they could not get on board her. The Turks had thrown a grapnel and made fast to the King's galley at the very beginning of the fight. Greek fire and missiles of all kinds rained upon the heads of the English, fully exposed on the decks and benches of their low galleys. The apparent hopelessness of their situation began to affect the efforts of the Crusaders. Richard saw that "something must be done", and he rose to the occasion.

"Will ye now suffer that ship to get off untouched and uninjured?" he shouted. "Oh, shame! after so many triumphs do ye now give way to sloth and fear? Know that if this ship escape, every one of you shall be hung on the cross or put to extreme torture!"

That was his way of bestowing the cross—a wooden one, not an "iron" one! But it had its effect. The galley-men dived overboard, and, fastening ropes to the enemy's rudder, "steered her as they pleased". It is rather difficult to understand the precise advantage gained by his manœuvre, unless the wind had sprung up and the big Turkish vessel was gathering a good deal of way and dragging the whole press of galleys along with her, and that many were in danger of being swamped. However, after this they were able to climb up her sides by means of ropes, and a desperate hand-to-hand conflict took place on her decks. Here the martial prowess of the Crusaders had full play. Wielding their heavy trenchant swords, they drove the Saracens right forward into the bows of the ship; but just when they thought victory was in their grasp, up came a torrent of fresh assailants from below, and in such overwhelming numbers that the boarders were hurled back into their galleys.

Things were now very black indeed, but Richard once more showed his generalship. He ordered the whole of his galleys to cut loose from their elephantine enemy, to draw off and form line abreast with their bows towards the foe. Then, at his signal, down went the long oars with a great splash into the water, and, every rower putting his full strength into his stroke, the galleys roared through the sea at the big yellow and green Dromon. There was a series of rending crashes as the iron beaks of the galleys struck her sides, like sword-fish attacking a whale. The Crusaders backed their oars for all they knew, to get clear, and, staggering and rolling to her doom, the huge Saracen gradually foundered as the water poured in cataracts through the gaping holes in her sides. Only fifty-five of her crew were saved, being men whom the Crusaders considered would be useful to help them to make the military engines, for which, it would seem, the Saracens were renowned. The remainder who had escaped the swords of the English were "sent home by water", according to the custom of Chaucer's "schipman" at a later date. This cruel habit would seem to have died hard, for we find one of the English captains in the Armada fight regretting that they had not "made water-spaniels" of the crew of a captured Spaniard who were reported to be short of provisions.

We will now forge right ahead through a couple of hundred years, and take a glimpse at a sea-fight in the days of Richard II. The merchants of Flanders, La Rochelle, and some other places had agreed to sail together in considerable force for mutual protection to La Rochelle, in order to buy wine and other merchandise. The English had wind of this expedition and had every intention of catching them en route. But the Flemings contrived to elude them and get safely to their destination. There was nothing for it but to make another attempt, and cut them off on their return journey.

"The English navy", says Sir John Froissart, "lay at anchor before Margate at the Thames mouth, toward Sandwich, abiding their adventure, and specially abiding for the ships that were gone to La Rochelle; for they thought they would shortly return. And so they did. . . ."

When he saw he would have to fight, Sir John de Bucq, the commander of the Flemings, made ready his 700 cross-bowmen and his guns.

"The English ships approached," continues Froissart, "and they had certain galleys furnished with archers, and these came foremost rowing with oars, and gave the first assault. The archers shot fiercely, and lost much of their shot; for the Flemings covered them under the decks and would not appear, but drave ever forward with the wind: and when they were out of the English archer's shot, then they did let fly their bolts from the cross-bows, wherewith they hurted many.

"Then approached the great ships of England, the Earl of Arundel with his company, and the Bishop of Norwich with his; and so the other lords. They rushed in among the Flemings' ships, and them of La Rochelle: yet the Flemings and cross-bows defended themselves right valiantly, for their patron, Sir John de Bucq, did ever support them: he was in a great strong ship, where he had three guns shooting so great stones, that wheresoever they lighted they did great damage. And even as they fought they drew little and little towards Flanders; and some little ships, with their merchants, took the coasts of Flanders, and the low water, and thereby saved them, for the great ships could not follow them.

"Thus on the sea they had a hard battle, and ships broken and sunken on both sides; for out of the tops they cast down great bars of iron, sharpened so that they went through to the bottom. This was a hard battle and well fought, for it endured three whole tides; and when the day failed they withdrew from each other, and cast anchor, and there rested all night, and there dressed their hurt men: and when the flood came, they disanchored and drew up sails and returned again to battle.

"With the Englishmen was Peter du Bois of Ghent, with certain archers and mariners; he gave the Flemings much ado, for he had been a mariner, therefore he knew the art of the sea, and he was sore displeased that the Flemings and merchants endured so long. But always the Englishmen won advantage of the Flemings, and so came between Blankenburgh and Sluys, against Cadsand; there was the discomfiture, for the Flemings were not succoured by any creature; and also at that time there were no ships at Sluys, nor men of war. . . . By this discomfiture of Sir John de Bucq, as he came from La Rochelle, the Englishmen had great profit, specially of wine, for they had a nine thousand tuns of wine; whereby wine was the dearer all the year after in Flanders, Holland, and Brabant, and the better cheap in England, as it was reason. Such are the chances of this world; if one hath damage another hath profit."

There are one or two very interesting points in this account. One, of course, is the fact that there were three guns mounted on John de Bucq's ship, which evidently was exceptional at the time, or attention would not have been so particularly drawn to them. Moreover, they were not little guns, like those which were mounted in such numbers a few years later, but of some size, since they fired "great stones". But the most noteworthy point that emerges from the story of the fight is that not only were the cross-bowmen able to fire from under cover on the English without exposing themselves, but their bows had actually outranged the long-bows. Now we know that a long-bow in expert hands would kill at 400 yards, so that the effective range of the cross-bow must have been considerable.

CHAPTER VI

The Navy in Tudor Times

"The various ships that were built of yore,
And above them all, and strangest of all
Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall,
Whose picture was hanging on the wall,
With bows and stern raised high in air,
And balconies hanging here and there,
And signal lanterns and flags afloat,
And eight round towers, like those that frown
From some old castle, looking down
Upon the drawbridge and the moat."
"The Building of the Ship." Longfellow.

The Tudor period, to which this chapter is devoted, is noteworthy as witnessing the birth of the Royal Navy as a permanent national institution. Though we have accounts—probably to a great extent mythical—of the 3600 "very stout" ships of the Saxon King Edgar (A.D. 975), which are said to have been divided into three squadrons, cruising on the north, east, and west coasts of Great Britain; though Edward III, after the victory over the French at Sluys, was dubbed "King of the Sea"; and though Henry V got together the most formidable navy of his time, yet at none of these periods was there what we may term a navy of the realm. Indeed, for the two years, August, 1447, to August, 1449, there may be said to have been no navy at all, since during the whole of this time only £8, 9s. 7d. was expended upon what we now regard as our first line of defence.

At the death of Henry V, in 1422, the "Little Navy" disease broke out again, and nearly the whole of his fine fleet was sold. Things went from bad to worse, till the disgust and uneasiness of the nation found expression in a little work entitled The Libel of English Policie. The author, who is supposed to have been Bishop Adam de Molyns, exhorted the nation to "Keepe the Sea and namely the Narrow Sea", and also to secure both Dover and Calais. "Where bene our shippes", says he, "where bene our swerdes become?" He went on to point out how much our naval force had deteriorated since the time when Edward III had caused the famous Golden Noble to be struck, in which he is represented standing in a ship, sword in hand and shield on arm, and thus referred to the signification of the device:

"Four things our Noble sheweth unto me:
King, Ship and Sword and Power of the Sea".

That this appeal had some kind of effect is shown by the fact that in 1442 an order was issued "for to have upon the See continuelly, for the sesons of the yere fro Candlimes to Martymesse, viii Shippes with forstages; ye wiche Shippes, as it is thought, most have on with an other eche of hem cl men. Item, every grete Shippe most have attendyng opon hym a Barge and a Balynger." "Hym" strikes one, by the way, as a curious way to refer to a ship. These vessels with "iiii Spynes", which seem to have been what we might call dispatch vessels, were stationed, one at Bristol, two at Dartmouth, two in the Thames, one at Hull, and one at "the Newe Castell". The whole fleet combined was manned by 2160 men. It was a poor affair, but still it was better than nothing.

Then came the Wars of the Roses, which, naturally, diverted men's thoughts from the navy. That Edward IV, when he had established himself on the throne, had some idea of emulating the naval deeds of the third Edward may be suspected from his having issued a gold noble, which was evidently closely copied from the one we have already referred to. But nothing much was done either by him or by his successor, Richard Crookback, and it was left to Henry VII to reap the honour of being, to some extent, the founder of the Royal Navy of which we are all so proud. Though by some his son, "Bluff King Hal", may be regarded in this light, on account of the very formidable fleet which he raised and organized and the improvements which he is said to have made in its ships, yet I think we must admit that Henry VII laid the foundation-stone upon which his successor built.

He depended greatly on hired merchantmen—we do not despise this method of augmenting our navy even at the present day—but he resurrected the Royal Fleet. Though it was but a very small one, of only about a dozen ships, yet two of them, at any rate, were finer ships than any the British Navy had before possessed. These were the Regent and the Sovereign. While we had neglected our shipbuilding, to carry on war between ourselves, it had progressed abroad, especially in France, and there is little doubt that the Regent, built on the River Rother, was inspired by the French ship Columbe, which, perhaps, was the ship which had brought Henry to England. The Regent had four masts, the Sovereign three, and each of them was much more like some of the ships we are familiar with in pictures of the Spanish Armada fight than the old cogs of a few years previously, even in their most improved forms. The armament of the Regent consisted, it is said, of 225 "serpentines". The number is formidable, but not the weapons themselves. They were merely what might be called breech-loading wall-pieces, corresponding to Chinese "jingalls", and firing balls weighing from 4 to 6 ounces.

In a contemporary picture of the destruction of this ship in her action with the Marie la Cordelière in 1512, when both ships caught fire and blew up, the Regent is shown with very heavy guns firing through port-holes. Port-holes, by the way, are said to have been invented by Desharges, a Brest shipbuilder, in 1500. I am inclined to think that they were known at an earlier date—possibly Desharges invented port-lids. It is, of course, possible that these were cut in the Regent some time after her original construction, and heavier guns mounted in place of some of her serpentines. According to some writers this ship was originally christened the Great Harry, while the Sovereign was built out of the remains of an older ship called the Grace Dieu. As a very large and renowned Henri Grace à Dieu was launched in 1514, there has been a considerable amount of confusion between one ship and the other. But if the Regent was called the Great Harry, she had nothing whatever to do with the Henri, which is also sometimes referred to as the Harry Grace à Dieu.[17] As a matter of fact, the latter was built to replace the former, the loss of which was considered a national disaster, and so much so that an attempt was made to keep her fate a secret. "At the reverens of God", wrote Cardinal Wolsey, "kepe these tydyngs to yourselfe." There was probably another reason for the construction of an exceptionally fine ship, and that was the desire that the English should not be eclipsed by the Scots in this respect.

THE GREAT HARRY, THE FIRST BIG BATTLESHIP OF THE BRITISH NAVY

For, the year before the Regent was blown up, the King of Scotland, who was hand in glove with the French, had put afloat what a contemporary chronicler terms "ane verrie monstrous great schip". This was the famous Great Michael. Her constructor was Jaques Tarret, a Frenchman, and it has been written that "she was of so great stature and took so much timber, that except Falkland, she wasted all the woods of Fife, which were oak wood, with all the timber that was gotten out of Norway". She took "a year and a day to build", and we are given her dimensions, which compare favourably in point of size with many much later line-of-battle ships. "She was 12 score feet in length and 36 feet within the sides; she was 10 feet thick in the wall, and boarded on every side so slack and so thick that no cannon could go through her." It is rather difficult to understand what "slack" means in this context.

"This great ship", goes on the account, "cumbered Scotland to get her to sea." By the time she was afloat and fully equipped she was reckoned to have cost the King from thirty to forty thousand pounds. She carried a heavy battery, and if her cannon were as formidable as their names, they must have been most effective in action. "She bore many cannons, six on every side, with three great Bassils, two behind in her dock, and one before, with three hundred shot of small Artillerie, that is to say, Myand and Battered Falcon and Quarter Falcon, Slings, pestilent Serpentines and Double Dogs, with Hagtar and Culvering, Cross-bows and Hand-bows. She had three hundred mariners to sail her: she had six score of gunners to use her artillery, and had a thousand men of war by her, Captains, Skippers, and Quartermasters." A "basil" or "basilisk", it may be explained, was a gun throwing a ball of 200 pounds weight, a much heavier projectile than any used at Trafalgar.

Space forbids further details as to the "menagerie" of other pieces that armed the decks of the Great Michael, but you will find more about these and other old-fashioned cannon in another chapter. As soon as she was afloat the King had her fired at to test the resistance of her tremendously thick sides, but, says our old writer, "the cannon deired hir not"; that is to say, could not penetrate her. This is the oldest experiment of the kind of which we have any record. But the most remarkable thing about the Great Michael—at least to my mind—is her size. According to the old account from which I have quoted, which, by the way, was written by one Robert Lindsay of Pitscottie, she must have had almost the exact dimensions of the Duke of Wellington, one of the last and finest of our steam three-deckers. Now I have a perfect idea of her size, because I had the honour of serving on board her for a couple of years. She was in the "sere and yellow leaf" then, her masts had gone, her engines had disappeared, and she had a roof which made her look much more like Noah's Ark than a battleship, but I can remember her in all her glory when she carried the flag of the commander-in-chief at Portsmouth. I was only a boy then, but I recollect that her appearance was fine in the extreme. In reckoning the beam of the Great Michael we must remember to add 20 feet for the thickness of her sides, since Pitscottie only gives us her internal width. Having done this, I will put down the dimensions of the two ships for comparison—

Great Michael, length, 240 feet; beam, 56 feet.
Duke of Wellington, length, 240 feet, 7 inches; beam, 60 feet, 1 inch.

Now if Pitscottie's figures are correct, either the Michael must have been almost incredibly bigger than any ship of her day, or, as I have before suggested, the old war-ships of that and earlier centuries were in reality a good deal larger than contemporary representations and records of "tunnage" would lead us to expect.

The old Scots writer, however, offers to prove his figures; for he says: "If any man believe that this ship was not as we have shewn, let him pass to the place of Tullibardine, where he will find the length and breadth of her set with hawthorne: as for my author he was Captain Andrew Wood, principal Captain of hir, and Robert Bartone, who was made her Skipper".

Rough Diagram, showing Comparative Sizes of Famous Ships at Different Periods

The sizes of these ships can only be shown approximately, as in some cases only the length of the keel is known; in others a mean has to be taken between length of keel and length over-all; while in others the authority does not say where the length was measured. H.M.S. Queen Elizabeth—650 feet long, with a beam of 94 feet—is bigger than all the rest put together.Rough Diagram, showing Comparative Sizes of Famous Ships at Different Periods

The sizes of these ships can only be shown approximately, as in some cases only the length of the keel is known; in others a mean has to be taken between length of keel and length over-all; while in others the authority does not say where the length was measured. H.M.S. Queen Elizabeth—650 feet long, with a beam of 94 feet—is bigger than all the rest put together.

With regard to the plan of the vessel in hawthorns, I am indebted to Lady Strathallan for the following interesting items: Tullibardine Castle has quite disappeared. What little was left of it was used in the construction of farm buildings from 1830-40. The spot where the hawthorns were planted to show the dimensions of the Great Michael is still known, but there is nothing to mark it. When the great ship was built, the carpenter or "wright" of the castle went down to superintend the shipwrights. When he got home, as the people at the castle were very anxious to form some idea of the size of this "Dreadnought" of that period, he was given orders to have an excavation made of the exact size of the ship. The hawthorns were, it would appear, planted round the excavation, which was tilled with water and aquatic plants, and remained as an ornamental pond till about the time of the battle of Waterloo. In 1837 the shape of the vessel was distinctly perceptible, but three only remained of the hawthorn-trees that formerly surrounded it. Some time ago Lady Strathallan, anxious that this curious monument of antiquity should not disappear altogether, directed the forester to renew the hawthorn outline of the Great Michael. The trees were procured for the purpose, but the tenant of the farm on which it was situated objected that it would take up too much room in his field, so that the project was abandoned. It seems a thousand pities that something cannot, even now, be done to perpetuate this relic of the famous Scots man-of-war, which, year by year, is being rendered more and more indistinguishable by the plough. The field in which traces of the hollow may be looked for is situated 400 yards from the old parish chapel, which was restored a good many years ago and used as a burial vault.

The Great Michael did not long remain a Scots ship. The fleet of Scotland went to France in 1513, and in the following year she was bought by Louis XII for 40,000 francs, to replace the Cordelière, which, as you will remember, was blown up with the Regent. This brings us back to the Henri Grace à Dieu, which was built to replace the latter ship. But before we turn our attention to her we cannot but note the difference between the alleged cost of the Great Michael and that for which she was sold. The bargain does not seem worthy of the Scots reputation for "canniness". But we must bear in mind that a "pound Scots" was not at all the same thing as an English pound at that date. Ever since 1355 its value had been falling, till by 1603 it was only worth twenty pence instead of twenty shillings. It was, in fact, at the time of the sale, the kind of "silver pound" that the "chieftain to the Highlands bound" paid or promised the boatman if he would row Lord Ullin's daughter and himself "o'er the ferry". But even if we put it at about a tenth of a pound sterling in 1513, the bargain seems a poor one. Probably it was more of a political deal than anything else, comparable to the German sale of the Goeben to Turkey.

The Henri Grace à Dieu—I think we may as well call her the Henri for short, and save time and paper—is a ship about which we have the most extended information in some respects—those dealing with her decoration and equipment, for instance; but we are left entirely in the dark as to her size and measurements. The only dimensions I have been able to find are those indicated on a plan which, on very insufficient grounds, is claimed to be a copy of the official one on which she was built, and which is stated to be—or at any rate to have been within the last century—at Plymouth dockyard. So far this original has not been traced, and I may remark that anyone who knows anything about the Navy would not dream of referring to the dockyard in the western port except as "Devonport Dockyard". However, I give the dimensions for what they may be worth—not much, I think:

Length, 145 feet; beam, 35 feet 9 inches; tonnage, 839.

Now if this, by any chance, is anything like correct she must have been a very much smaller ship than the Great Michael, which is not very likely, since Henry VIII would naturally have wanted "to go one better". Moreover, she is generally credited as having been of at least a thousand tons displacement, and carried a battery little, if any, inferior in weight and numbers to that of the Michael.

She was heavily equipped with ordnance, very little of which is apparent in her pictures. According to her inventories she carried something like 185 guns of all sorts and sizes, but many of these must have been kept on shore as reserve stores. She is generally credited with carrying 14 heavy guns on the lower and 12 on the main deck, and 46 light cannon on her upper works. Some of the large and all the smaller ones were breech-loaders, and as most were provided with at least two "chambers" or breech-pieces, which contained the powder-charge and could be quickly substituted one for the other, we may almost call them "quick-firers". She was gorgeously decorated in the first place, and poop, waist, forecastle, and tops were hung with shields showing alternately the St. George's Cross, the Golden Fleur-de-Lis on a blue ground, and the Tudor Rose on a green and white ground. Her sails were woven with a decorative design in gold damask, and she carried a lion figure-head, but the lion was badly executed and a very tame one. Like all Tudor ships she flew a profusion of flags, standards, and immense streamers bearing the St. George's Cross, the fly or long-pointed end being half green and half white. These were the Tudor livery colours. The plain red-cross flag or "Jack" was well in evidence and generally carried on the fore masthead as well as among the smaller flags placed on poles at equal distances along the bulwarks. The royal standard was also carried, but not in every ship, and sometimes it appears "impaled" with the national red-cross flag—that is to say, the two were placed side by side on the same flag.

The national status of the Royal Navy was becoming recognized. Before this time, though the English "Jack" generally found a place somewhere on board an English ship, the banners and pennons of the nobles and knights on board were most in evidence. Now we see nothing but royal and national emblems. In the war with France in 1455 the ships of the squadron forming the "van" or leading portion of the fleet carried the St. George's Cross at the fore, those of the centre at the main, and the rear squadron at the mizzen.

In describing the Henri we have practically described all the "great shippes" of her class, of which there were a considerable number, though none were quite so large, or probably quite so elaborately decorated. Of course she was what we may call "a show ship", like the Royal James and Sovereign of the Seas of a later date.

But by 1546, if we may accept Anthony Anthony's Roll as correct, "timber colour" with scarlet masts and spars was uniform for all classes of ships.

But it is time we turned our attention to the men who manned them. The changes in this respect were quite as important as those we have noted in the ships themselves. To begin with, the nobles and gentry of the kingdom were beginning to wake up to the fact that war afloat offered them at least equal opportunities of distinction to those they had hitherto looked for in land warfare. Besides, they had now little or no chance of that at home, and there was no longer any land frontier over in France across which they could ride and raid and harry and fight as their fathers and grandfathers had so often done. Naval strategy was still confined to cross raiding, but ships were now better fighting-machines and were not merely used as platforms for hand-to-hand fighting and as transports; so that men of the class which had hitherto looked down on ships and sailors began to turn their eyes towards the sea.

Ships of the Time of Henry VIII
(From a Drawing of 1545)

Looking at the lofty hulls, the immense mainsails, and the nearness of the ports to the water-line, we can easily understand how a want of care wrecked the Mary Rose. The ship in the background on the right is apparently trying to reduce sail, and has had to lower her main-yard. Her mainsail is almost in the water, to the apparent danger of the ship.

This does not mean that they became seamen. No, they still remained and considered themselves soldiers, and did not trouble to learn any seamanship. That was still the special job of the master or skipper. But they recognized that the command of a fighting-ship was worth having. I may instance the Carew family.[18] At least three of them were serving in command of ships in the battle at Spithead in 1545. Sir George Carew lost his life when his ship, the Mary Rose, went down; his brother, Peter Carew, who had been a year or two before in command of a company of infantry in the English army in France, commanded a Venetian ship—probably hired—the Francisco Bardado; while their uncle, Sir Gawen Carew, commanded a third. As for the men, the seamen, thanks to more seaworthy vessels, had probably improved in their seamanship, while the navy was formed into a regularly-organized force consisting of "mariners, soldiers"—or, as we should call them now, marines—"and gunners". Every ship had her proper complement of each. Thus the Henri Grace à Dieu carried 260 seamen, 400 soldiers, and 40 gunners; the Mary Rose 180 seamen, 200 soldiers, and 20 gunners; the Peter Pomgranate 130 seamen, 150 soldiers, and 20 gunners; and so forth, according to size.

A SEA FIGHT IN TUDOR TIMES
Facsimile woodcut from "Holinshed's Chronicles"

Which particular battle this picture is supposed to represent cannot be stated, since old Holinshed uses it over and over again for almost every naval engagement to which he makes reference right back as far as the Conquest. That cannon were not then in existence does not appear to trouble him at all. But we may take it as fairly representative of an action at sea in the times in which the historian lived and wrote.

Though there are indications of a somewhat similar arrangement in earlier times, it would appear that the seamen were either paid by the king or hired with their ship, while the soldiers were paid by some noble or even bishop who had supplied them as a feudal obligation.

The pay does not seem to have been quite so liberal as in former times, but it was not bad if we allow for the difference in its value compared with that of to-day. In the Gabriel Royal, for instance, Sir William Trevellian, the captain—a soldier—got 1s. 6d. a day. The master and the rest of her company, officers, seamen, and soldiers, got 5s. a month (of twenty-eight days), but the master and other officers got in addition what were called "dead shares", in number from six to one-half. This means that the master got six men's pay besides his own—altogether 35s.—a month, and so on in proportion. The gunners got extra pay, called "rewards"—we might call it "efficiency pay"—varying from 5s. a month for the master gunner to 1s. 8d. for the private gunners.

The provision allowance was respectable—England was renowned for good feeding at this period. Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays each man had ½ pound of beef and ¼ pound of bacon for his dinner, and the same for supper. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays they had to be content with two herrings and 1/8 pound of cheese for each of these meals, while on Fridays or "ffishe days beynge ffastinge dayes" they had to go without supper, but for dinner had either half a cod or half a stock fish and a pound of butter between four men, or, if they preferred it, could divide ten herrings and a pound of cheese between them. As for bread, every man got either a pound of bread or biscuit daily, while instead of the "grog" or "optional cocoa" of to-day, he got a liberal allowance either of beer or "beverage" made of two parts water to one of "sack".

As for the clothing of the Royal Navy, we have very little information so far as the Tudor period is concerned. That there was some attempt at uniformity may be gathered from the constant references to the provision of coats or jackets of green and white cloth. Some were satin or damask of the same colouring, presumably for officers. But what these garments were like we do not know. In Anthony Anthony's drawing of the Galley Subtle the master of the ship appears in the old "jack" with the red cross, while the rowers are apparently clad in pink. This may be intended to represent their bare flesh, for they might be stripped to the waist for rowing, but it is more probable that it was originally red and that the colour has faded. It is said that the rowers of Henry VIII's royal barge wore this colour, and it seems quite possible that the Galley Subtle, the only one of her class and a profusely-decorated vessel, was regarded as the royal barge.

We know, too, from the costume of the Yeomen of the Guard, or "Beefeaters", that red was making its appearance as a military colour, for their uniform is that of Henry VIII's body-guard. The standard under which Henry VII secured the crown at the battle of Bosworth Field was a red dragon on a white and green field, and was supposed to represent that of Cadwallader, the last of the British kings, from whom the victor claimed descent. The descent, I dare say, was genuine enough, but Cadwallader must have died before the invention of heraldry. But Wales has always been associated with a dragon of this kind, which has from time immemorial been a world-wide emblem of sovereignty. Henry seems to have adopted the colour of the dragon as the royal livery colour—as it remains to-day—but at the same time retained the white and green for the navy. Much in the same way "blue" is accepted as a royal colour, and as such is worn as the facings of royal regiments and as the uniform of the Royal Navy and Royal Artillery.

But it seems probable that blue—very possibly from dye of that colour being easily procurable; the Ancient Britons, we may remember, decorated themselves with blue woad—had been for centuries a very usual colour for seamen to wear; and when, in 1553, Sir Hugh Willoughby's North Sea expedition was fitted out all his crews were provided with "parade suits" of "Wachett or Skie-coloured cloth". Watchett was a place in Somersetshire where this special material was made. But these, perhaps, were not men actually belonging to the Royal Navy. As for the soldiers or marines, we may suppose that they wore the white "jack" with the red cross, which was so universal at this time that "whitecoat" was used for "soldier" just as "redcoat" was at a later date. The "gunners" wore the white and green and may have been regarded as "seamen gunners".

CHAPTER VII

From Elizabeth to Victoria

"Hearts of oak are our ships,
Gallant tars are our men,
We always are ready,
Steady, boys, steady!
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again."
Garrick.

We have now followed the story of our navy, its ships, and its men up to the time when the three-masted, many-gunned man-of-war with two or three decks, and relying entirely on sail-power for propulsion, made its appearance. This class of vessel, with, of course, gradual improvements, remained the principal fighting-unit, not only in our own, but in all other navies right up to the time of the introduction of steam power, and indeed we may almost say later; as, though provided with engines of no very great horse power, the sails, rigging, and hulls of our line-of-battle ships at the time of the introduction of the ironclad were practically the same as those of the ships which fought at Trafalgar. We are, in fact, entering on the period beginning with the time—

"When that great fleet Invincible, against us bore in vain
The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain",

and ending with the imposing but indecisive operations of the combined British and French fleets in the Crimean War.

Now this portion of our naval history is as near as possible all plain sailing, and its course as well known as that from the Mersey Bar to Sandy Hook to transatlantic travellers. I do not therefore propose to conduct my readers through the glorious, though, if I may be allowed to say it, somewhat hackneyed stories of the defeat of the Spanish Armada, Drake's exploits on the Spanish Main, and the series of wars with the Dutch, in which we met the toughest opponents we have ever fought with for the supremacy of the seas. Neither do I intend recounting for the hundredth time the magnificent record of the Royal Navy in its almost continuous campaign against those of the French kings, the French Republic, and the Emperor Napoleon, which, beginning early in the eighteenth century, was only finally terminated by the downfall of the great Corsican general at Waterloo. As far as all these are concerned I have only to say: "Now the rest of the acts of the Royal Navy, and all that it did, are they not written in the book of the chronicles of James the Naval Historian", and of many other historians for that matter, good, bad, and indifferent. No, so far I have endeavoured to keep a little off the beaten track of naval history as generally presented in books of this class, and until we arrive at our navy of to-day I propose to keep this principle in view; and it is in accordance with this that, before finally quitting the Tudor period, I propose to make a brief reference to our experiences with the Hanseatic League.

DESTROYING A STRAGGLER FROM THE ARMADA
From the painting by C. M. Padday

The first Spanish ships to meet their fate were the stragglers from the main body of the Armada. Above is shown one such vessel being engaged by an English captain. The great Spanish galleon is quite at the mercy of the smaller but handier vessel, which has got the wind of her enemy, and is pouring a destructive fire into her prow.

The adverse influence of this great confederation of German cities upon our country for two or three centuries has never been sufficiently emphasized in our histories. Possibly the earlier historians who were contemporary with the Hanseatics were "got at" by their representatives, who swarmed in this country and had an organized system of bribery, with a regulated scale of bribes for all sorts of people, from the Lord Mayor of London downwards. They seem to have been about the only people in the later Middle Ages with ready cash in the north of Europe, and they were glad to lend the Kings of England money to carry on their interminable wars with France in return for various concessions, which generally hit British trade pretty hard. They knew how to get good security for their loans, and in Edward III's time they actually had the British crown in pawn at Cologne! One proof of their tremendous financial influence in this country remains to this day in the word "sterling". We still say "one pound sterling", "sterling gold", &c. Now "sterling" is nothing but a corrupted form of "easterling"—a man from the eastward, as these Hanse traders used to be called—when they were not referred to as "Prussians".

At the Conquest, and for long afterwards, we were a nation of agriculturists, soldiers, fishermen, and sailors. Our only regular trade was in wool, therefore known as the "staple" industry—generally "the staple" for short. It was the desire to get their greedy fingers into this our only "pie" that first brought the Hanse traders into this country in force some time in the thirteenth century, though we had not been free from them since the days of Ethelred. They were allowed to make their head-quarters in the Steelyard in London (where Cannon Street Station now stands), to import merchandise on paying a nominal duty of 1 per cent, to be licensed victuallers, keeping inns, hotels, and wine shops, to have special courts of jurisdiction of their own, which put them above English law, and actually to hold one of the gates of the city. Have we not seen this financial, business, trading, and inn-keeping undermining of British interests in our own day by the modern easterlings?

Later historians preferred rather to dilate on our victories than to refer to our encounters at sea with the Hanseatics, in which we did not always show to advantage. For these traders, like their modern representatives, were good pirates on occasion, had a considerable number of fighting-ships at their command, and, according to some authorities, had complete control of the northern seas. Nor was there any reciprocity about their trading arrangements. They made a rule that only their own ships were to carry the goods they dealt in, and sank any English ship that attempted to break it. At the same time they would not allow our ships into the Baltic to interfere with their trade with Russia and Scandinavia, and now and again in return for some real or pretended grievance attacked our seaboard and hung the crews of our coasters to their own masts. All the time they were endeavouring to strangle our trade from their London head-quarters. Like an American "Trust", they were generally able to ruin individuals or smaller companies which endeavoured to compete with them.

LORD HOWARD ATTACKING A SHIP OF THE SPANISH ARMADA
In this fruitless attempt to invade our shores ten thousand Spaniards gave up their lives. England lost but one ship and about a hundred men.

Naturally the "Prussians" were not loved in this country, and it is said that Wat Tyler's insurrection was to a great extent directed against these interlopers, the insurgents killing as many of them as they could get hold of. But their influence with the Government always saved them till the days of the Tudors, when, in spite of all obstacles, our merchants began to make headway. Edward VI imposed heavy duties and restrictions on them, and established an alliance and a trading connection with Russia by sending a mission to Moscow by way of Archangel. The marriage of Queen Mary with Philip of Spain gave the Hanse merchants their chance, since the Prince Consort's father—Charles V—was Emperor of Germany. The privileges which had been taken away from the "Prussians" by her brother were restored; but they were not to hold them long. Queen Elizabeth had an eye to business; she saw how the Germans were hampering the development of our trade, and reimposed Edward VI's duty of 20 per cent on the Hanse merchants of the Steelyard. But she found that she still had to buy gunpowder and other munitions of war from them, because she could not get them elsewhere, and she did not like them the better for that. Neither did they like the reimposed duties, and they were only too glad to assist the Spanish Armada by sending a fleet laden with provisions and munitions to the Tagus. Drake and the navy countered by seizing the whole of these ships.

The Hanseatics, who had already before this laboured "to render the English merchants obnoxious to the other trading nations by various calumnies", retaliated by turning every Englishman out of Germany. This did not affect us very much, as, though there were a comparatively small number of the "merchants of the staple" and the "merchant adventurers" settled in that country, their trade and interests were not comparable with that of the merchants of the Steelyard in England. But the Hanseatics got a "knock out" blow in return from "good Queen Bess", who turned the whole collection of German merchants out of England, "lock, stock, and barrel", and so freed the country of a menace which, while not so obvious, was probably more insidiously dangerous than the Spanish Armada. Then followed the break-up of Germany in the Thirty Years' War, and British trade came by its own. It does seem a pity that "once bit" we were not "twice shy". Our historians are considerably to blame; but, in any case, we ought not to have so entirely forgotten what a menace German trade and German immigration might be to this country.

"What has all this to do with the navy?" may perhaps be asked. Possibly not much at first sight, but in reality a great deal. If, during the centuries the Hanse merchants were throttling our trade, we had maintained a formidable and national navy instead of pursuing a hand-to-mouth policy and utilizing our ships principally as ferry-boats to take our armies over to France, we might have been in a better position to deal with the Hanse League. We could have prevented interference with our ships, forced our way into the Baltic, and extended our trade. On the other hand, the navy was not a national navy, but, generally speaking, a personal appanage of the reigning monarch, who as often as not was very heavily in debt to the "Prussians". Gold is a very powerful factor, even in naval warfare, if judiciously applied, and not misapplied, as when some of our feebler Saxon kings bought off the viking invaders with "Danegelt".

I am tempted, before leaving the Hansa, to relate a story of one of their smaller naval operations, which, I must premise, is taken from a German source, so you can believe as much or as little of it as you please. But it is not a bad story in its way. Our King Edward IV had fallen out with the King of Denmark, who, in retaliation for a real or alleged piratical attack made by the traders of Lynn upon his dominions in Iceland, set to work to capture our merchantmen, using apparently the ships of his allies, the Hanse League, for the purpose. King Edward, in his turn, at once closed the Steelyard, and, according to this account, strangled many of its merchants, and demanded £20,000 compensation for his captured ships. At this time there were a couple of rather big Hanse ships lying in a Dutch harbour, the Mariendrache and the Anholt. Hearing of the English preparations for war, Paul Beneke, who was in command, stood over to Deal under French colours to intercept the Lord Mayor of London, who was expected to land there on his way back from Paris in La Cygne of Dieppe. How he discovered this we are not told.