reading

All men owe honor to the poets—honor and awe for they are dearest to the Muse who puts upon their lips the ways of life.

I WOULD LIKE TO dedicate this final edition of A Sea of Words to Patrick O’Brian (1914-2000), creator of the Aubrey-Maturin novel series. I have added many new entries for The Hundred Days (HarperCollins, U.K.; W. W. Norton, U.S.A., 1998) and Blue at the Mizzen (1999). It is for the better understanding and enjoyment of O’Brian’s magnificent epic of the Royal Navy during the age of Napoleon that I wrote this book and Harbors and High Seas.

The Royal Navy During the War of the French Revolution and the Napoleonic War by John B. Hattendorf

The Alphabetical Lexicon to the Aubrey-Maturin Novels, with Biographies of Historical Figures, Battle Accounts, and Foreign Words and Phrases

Appendix: A Time Line of the Napoleonic Wars, the War of 1812, and the Fight for Independence in Chile

List of Illustrations

Preface to the Second Edition

The Curiosity That Patrick O’Brian Inspires in Us

WHILE WALKING FROM THE village of Buriton to Ashgrove Cottage, Stephen Maturin observes that the Hampshire landscape is “ordinary country raised to the highest power.” Indeed, the rolling, wooded South Downs of southern England are subtly splendid. But for the O’Brian reader, this countryside is raised yet another notch in its appeal—by the author in the fiction he has set there.

Readers have many reasons to rejoice in the Aubrey-Maturin novels, for Patrick O’Brian has the gift not only of raising the ordinary to a higher power but of making the extraordinary human. In his central characters we admire their honor, dignity, skills, and knowledge, and we empathize with their foibles and flaws. In his plots we escape into a world where etiquette and order seem to rule, relishing for instance the formalities of a Navy officers’ banquet—and the inevitable transgression of those formalities—and where even war has its civilities. And of course O’Brian, his sense of humor never curtailed, frequently sends us into fits of laughter.

Of all things we admire, though, the most rewarding is perhaps the curiosity that O’Brian inspires in us. For me, these novels have sparked many learning adventures, among them visits to Mystic Seaport, where I saw a capstan turned to a shanty and watched a mainsail unbent, to the Musée de la Marine in Paris, which displays spectacular 15-foot-tall ship models, and to the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich, where the Battle of Trafalgar recurs in a narrated panorama through the stern window of a French first rate. On my way down to Portsmouth for a stroll on the decks of Nelson’s Victory (whose round tumblehome greatly increased my appreciation for Maturin’s shipboarding talents), I even stopped in the village of Buriton.

It is in The Reverse of the Medal that Maturin alights here from the Portsmouth night coach one fine morning for a walk across the fields and through the woods to Ashgrove. I quickly discovered why, in addition to its proximity, he might have paid an extra three shillings to be dropped off in this quaint farming village. The famous historian Edward Gibbon (1737-1794), who lived in a manor house by the pond and across from the Norman rectory, once wrote, “No more typical scene of 18th century England could be found.” It’s still true today.

After eating a “full-cooked” English breakfast at the Master Robert Inn—a walker’s meal if ever there was one—I visited the village’s peaceful flint-wall Norman church. The morning sun glistened on the dew-soaked tombstones as I prepared to strike off over the fields. Soon the sign for the South Downs Way, a national footpath, pointed up a tree-covered cart track, and I took it. As I dodged the deep, muddy ruts of the track, a covey of pheasants burst from a ragged hedge onto a cow pasture.

At the top of the cart track, I reached a lane guarded by two gnarly, silver-barked beech trees whose sagging branches were weighted by the half centuries they had seen. This was a lane that meandered over hills, through forests, and past farms. It was a lane for pleasant walking, and as my goal was to discover what I could about Ashgrove Cottage, a fictional place, I took my time. Like Maturin I was alone, and I did as I pleased. That included savoring ripe blackberries beside the road.

Soon I heard the clopping of horses. Around the bend, on big brown mounts, came four women in field boots and riding caps. Out front a perky, unblinking brunette greeted me with an irrepressible “Hello,” long on the first syllable. Behind her, side by side, were a sturdy, upright blond and a stout, silver-haired matron, the very countenance of the landed gentry, and bringing up the rear, a plumpish youngster. Surely, I thought, this was the Williams family out for a day’s ride. As I stifled a sudden desire to ask if they knew of a certain Jack and Sophie Aubrey, it occurred to me how delightful it is to go in search of fact and find fiction.

Eventually I reached Butser Hill, the highest point on the South Downs Way, and, looking south over the rippling Downs, I fancied I could make out Spithead and the Isle of Wight, just as Aubrey could from his observatory. My journey was well rewarded, and I couldn’t help but think of Maturin’s words as he traversed the same countryside: “ ‘Why do I feel such an intense pleasure, such an intense satisfaction?’ ... [H]e searched for a convincing reply, but finding none he observed ‘The fact is I do’ ” (The Reverse of the Medal, p. 178). I’m sure that Maturin’s profound curiosity and the opportunity to carelessly, purely indulge it were at least part of that intense satisfaction.

Indeed, curiosity seems to be a staple characteristic of O’Brian readers. From the comments and inquiries that poured in after the initial publication of A Sea of Words, it became apparent that the book had merely wetted that curiosity. Hence, Harbors and High Seas: An Atlas and Geographical Guide to the Aubrey-Maturin Novels, which explores the routes and the places where O’Brian leads his characters, and Every Man Will Do His Duty, an anthology of firsthand accounts from the men who fought the battles. Among them are Thomas Cochrane’s account of the cruise of the Speedy, upon which much of the action of Master and Commander is based, as well as accounts of the Glorious First of June, the battles of Cape St. Vincent and Trafalgar, and the frigate action between the United States and the Macedonian.

The second edition of A Sea of Words simply attempts to answer many more of the questions generated in reading these thought-provoking novels: What are the marthambles, and is there a historical basis for the chelengk that Aubrey receives from the Grand Turk? Who is Maturin’s famous patient the Duke of Clarence, and who the remarkable, precocious British prime minister William Pitt the Younger? On which days were honorary salutes required of all British warships, and what precipitated the Gordon Riots?

In this edition you will find many more entries regarding natural history, music, geography, and actions of the Napoleonic wars and the War of 1812. There are entries from The Commodore and The Yellow Admiral, neither of which was published when the first edition of A Sea of Words came out. This edition also refocuses on what I consider to be the seminal book of the series, Post Captain.

In this second edition you will also find many more translations of foreign words and phrases. In cases where passages have several foreign phrases together or near one another, the whole string has been translated together with ellipses linking them, so that by looking up the first foreign word of the passage, you will find all of the necessary translations. The new “Time Line of the Napoleonic Wars, the War of 1812, and the Fight for Independence in Chile” (see the appendix, page 483) should help readers place the events of the novels in the context of the history of the era.

I humbly confess to a number of corrections as well and thank all of the well-informed amateurs and experts who kindly wrote to suggest additions and modifications and to pose questions. With the help of the learned professors John B. Hattendorf and J. Worth Estes, these suggestions and queries have been addressed whenever possible.

Of course, there is much more relevant, fascinating information that simply would not fit into this one book, nor half a dozen like it. But it is my hope that A Sea of Words will continue to inspire readers to read and reread O’Brian, to explore the many great fiction and non-fiction books written about the period, and to set off on their own adventures of discovery, traversing the landscapes and seeing in person the important places and artifacts of this great age of history, one that Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey-Maturin novels so brilliantly bring to life for us.

Foreword

Dean King

“NO MAN COULD EASILY surpass me in ignorance of naval terms,” claims Stephen Maturin early on in Master and Commander, Patrick O’Brian’s first Aubrey-Maturin novel. Indeed, Maturin’s continuing ignorance of the ways of the sea and nautical terminology is one of the chief sources of humor in the series—and a very clever one, for it allows us, in our own ignorance of 18th-century naval cant, to associate ourselves with the novels’ paragon of intelligence.

“ ‘So that is a mainstay,’ said Stephen, looking at it vaguely. ‘I have often heard them mentioned. A stout-looking rope, indeed.’ ” Likewise confronted, we can imagine ourselves uttering these lines with Maturin’s boggled look and feigned disinterest. Later, in Post Captain, Maturin wistfully concludes, “ ‘Your mariner is an honest fellow, none better; but he is sadly given to jargon.’ ”

When reading the Aubrey-Maturin novels, the question “How much vocabulary do I really need to know?” inevitably arises, and it recurs again and again. If you’re anything like me—a certified lubber—you raced through the first three novels glued to the plots, inventing definitions, or what you convinced yourself were at least reasonable approximations, and reassuring yourself at each instance of Maturin’s touching lubberliness.

The fact is you don’t have to know more about the historical and nautical background to enjoy these books. But there comes a time when most of us suddenly realize we want to know more. Cross-catharpings? Lord Keith? Mauritius? Part of the great beauty of these tales is that they spark a thirst for knowledge; suddenly an era that initially seemed very remote—that of the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic wars—becomes very immediate. I found myself wanting to know more almost every time I turned the page. What I needed were maps and nautical manuals, instructive illustrations, and historical essays. There definitely was no one good source.

What I found when I began researching this companion book, however, was a great wealth of resources right here in the United States. Both the Mariners Museum in Newport News, Virginia, and the New York Yacht Club in New York City, for instance, were able to provide me with editions of Falconer’s Universal Dictionary of the Marine and The Naval Chronicles, the very volumes that O’Brian so studiously pores over in writing his books.

Even more important to the success of this venture was that two eminent American scholars of the period—John Hattendorf, Ernest J. King Professor of Maritime History at the Naval War College, in Newport, Rhode Island, and Worth Estes, Professor of Pharmacology at Boston University—agreed to contribute essays and review the text. Hattendorf’s “The Royal Navy During the War of the French Revolution and the Napoleonic War” and Estes’s “Stephen Maturin and Naval Medicine in the Age of Sail” are invaluable to anyone who wishes to better understand the Aubrey-Maturin era.

Of course, understanding the full meaning of every term O’Brian uses would take the better part of a career. And this is not necessary to enjoy the books. But even a humble attempt to learn more enhances the reading experience. It brings us closer to the author’s passion both for the age of Admiral Lord Nelson and for the very act of exploring that time. When you open this book, I hope that your imagination calls up the smell of the musty volumes of The Naval Chronicles, the feel of their rough-trimmed pages and of the thin layers of rice paper that for two centuries have attempted, often successfully, to keep the ink of the wonderful engravings in place.

The excitement of peeling back time and existing in the past, a thrill that O’Brian has so obviously reveled in for decades, can be experienced by better grasping the primary tools with which that past was preserved: words, many now out of use, with connotations fast fading. And when a sailor admonishes Maturin and Martin to “mind the paintwork.... They would not like to have the barky mistaken for a Newcastle collier,” it’s gratifying, if not essential, to know that a “barky” was sailor slang for a vessel well liked by her crew and that a “collier” was a bluff-bowed and broad-sterned ship originally intended to carry coal.

A few things must be said about this companion book. First, no claim can be made of comprehensiveness. Our survey of O’Brian’s books found more than 8,000 words that could use defining for modern readers, including the names of some 400 ships, 500 people, and 1,200 places. Obviously we had to focus our efforts, and we chose nautical, medical, and natural history terms, though we didn’t limit ourselves to those.

Second, we have tried to use as little jargon as possible in describing the terms. But we haven’t sidestepped it entirely. You will quickly pick up the basic terminology that recurs in the definitions of the more specialized words. In that way, the learning of sailing terminology grows exponentially. You build with each new term, and before you know it, it all crystallizes. You have ascended through the morass of rigging to the maintop, and as you look down, the ship becomes a coherent organic entity. At that point the vocabulary becomes manageable. The act of, say, “hauling in the cable and fishing the best bower at the starboard cathead” is easily recognizable as pulling in the anchor and hanging it on the bow, indeed, a specific anchor on a specific part of the bow.

Third, O’Brian uses a variety of spellings and hyphenations for many words, so it pays to be a little flexible when searching for a term in A Sea of Words. Also, a word that appears in many forms in the books probably does not appear in all of those forms here. For instance, we define “spanker” and “boom” but leave it to the reader to resolve “spanker-boom” (the boom of the spanker). Also, when O’Brian himself provides an explanation for a term in the text, we usually do not redefine it, simply to save precious space for the many other terms.

Finally, there is more than one way to use this book. Looking up words as you go is rewarding, but browsing through the lexicon to familiarize yourself with the lingo in between book readings is perhaps even better. Part of the beauty of O’Brian’s books is the deft way in which he weaves the languages of the sea and science into the narrative. Stopping to consult a reference book too frequently disturbs the intimacy between reader and tale, and between reader and author.

By all means, do read the two introductory essays before you read the next O’Brian novel. You may be surprised at how many more of O’Brian’s details you pick up when you return to the fiction.

As for the sea salt, there’s this little cottage on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, just over a dune from the crashing surf. On the porch is a graying two-seater hammock swing where my wife, Jessica, and I have been known to hoist volumes of O’Brian. Pelicans soar overhead in age-old vees and the weather raises Cain whenever it wants to. And yes, the sun and the sea salt wrinkle the pages of our paperbacks. I hope you put this book to good use in a similar reading spot.

The Royal Navy During the War of the French Revolution and the Napoleonic War

John B. Hattendorf

WHEN A SAILOR WAS swimming on the surface of the open ocean, his horizon was a mere 1.1 miles away. But climbing to the maintop—about 100 feet above the water on a 74-gun ship—extended the distance he could see to nearly 12 miles. The height of any object on the horizon, whether ship or shore, also increased that distance. Perched in the rigging of a large ship, a lookout might see the sails of another large ship at 20 miles, even if the ship was hull-down (with only its sails visible above the horizon).

Height was the key. Yet a person’s range of view could be affected by many circumstances, such as fog or even loud distractions on deck. At long distances, the atmosphere could create strange refractions, causing mirages.

For a naval man, there is a direct analogy between climbing the mast to extend the horizon at sea and climbing up the hierarchy of command to view the wider operations of the Navy. The top of the Royal Navy hierarchy was not in a ship at sea, but ashore, in London. It was only from there that one’s vision was global, encompassing the Navy’s numerous theaters of operation and distant exploits. And it was from there that the Navy’s basic directions emanated—everything from grand strategy to pay from ship construction to uniforms, from navigation charts to food allowances. Officers of the Crown, including naval officers like Jack Aubrey, were ultimately governed by Parliament, the King’s Cabinet, and the King himself.

For all those who served in the Navy, King George III stood at the pinnacle of command. Not only was the King a symbol of sovereignty, but he also played a tangible role in day-to-day affairs. Maintaining the prerogative of the Crown to appoint its own ministers, George III was an important influence on national policies and was certainly able to prevent the government from taking measures in which he did not acquiesce. Although after his first bout with insanity in 1788, George III began to leave an increasing amount of business to his ministers, he retained considerable influence over national policy and ministerial appointments throughout the years of the French Revolution and the Napoleonic wars.

In the King’s name and through his authority, the prime minister and the other ministers in the Cabinet collectively exercised the executive power of government through the means provided by Parliament. In this, the Cabinet was controlled on one side by the King and on the other by Parliament. When a cabinet was appointed and received the King’s support, it could normally expect the support of a majority in both the House of Commons and the House of Lords as well as a victory in the next general election, providing that it did not prove incompetent, impose undue taxation, or fail to maintain public confidence. When any of these were joined by public outcry over a defeat in battle or disappointment in foreign policies, Cabinet ministers were clearly in political danger.

Because of its representative nature and its exclusive ability to initiate financial measures, the House of Commons was the stronger of the two Houses of Parliament, but the House of Lords, usually siding with the King, retained enormous power. Its assent was essential to the passage of any law. In the 18th century, when most Cabinet ministers, including the head of the Navy, were Lords, it was normal for the Cabinet’s views to be more in harmony with those of the House of Lords. Together, the two could kill inconvenient measures arising in the Commons.

The Cabinet dealt with questions of broad naval policy and strategy, including finance, ship construction, and logistical support, obtaining funding from Parliament and sometimes even giving broad operational directives to the Admiralty and to senior naval commanders.

Traditionally, the Crown vested the powers and functions of the Admiralty in the office of Lord High Admiral. An ancient office of state, it had not been held by an individual since 1709. Instead, these powers were delegated to a board of seven men who were the “Commissioners for Executing the Office of Lord High Admiral,” or “Admiralty Board.” Of these seven, three were usually naval officers, called professional Lords, and four civilians, or civil Lords. In theory, each commissioner was equal in authority and responsibility, but in practice the person whose name appeared first on the document commissioning the board was the senior member, or First Lord. During this period, the First Lord was more often a civilian member of the House of Lords than a naval officer.

John Pitt, 2nd Earl of Chatham	Jul. 16, 1788-Dec. 19, 1794
George John Spencer, 2nd Earl Spencer	Dec. 19, 1794-Feb. 19, 1801
Admiral John Jervis, 1st Earl of St. Vincent	Feb. 19, 1801-May 15, 1804
Henry Dundas, 1st Viscount Melville	May 15, 1804-May 2, 1805
Admiral Charles Middleton, Lord Barham	May 2, 1805-Feb. 10, 1806
Hon. Charles Grey, Viscount Howick	Feb. 10, 1806-Sep. 29, 1806
Thomas Grenville	Sep. 29, 1806-Apr. 6, 1807
Henry Phipps, 3rd Lord Mulgrave	Apr. 6, 1807-May 4, 1810
Charles Philip Yorke	May 4, 1810-Mar. 25, 1812
Robert Saunders Dundas, 2nd Viscount Melville.	Mar. 25, 1812-May 2, 1827

In 1805, Lord Barham was the first to assign specific duties to each of the professional Naval Lords, leaving the civil Lords to handle routine business and sign documents. Under the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, the senior official was the First Secretary of the Admiralty. Usually an elected member of the House of Commons, he was the senior civil servant. More often than not, it was the First Secretary who communicated the decisions of the Commissioners to naval officers in the fleet, although from 1783, a Second Secretary assisted in carrying out the administrative burdens of the office.

The heart of the Admiralty was the Admiralty Office on the west side of Whitehall. It was a neighbor of the War Office, which administered the Army at a building called the Horse Guards, both overlooking St. James’s Park to the rear. In this location, the Admiralty was close to the nerve centers of national power: 10 Downing Street (the Prime Minister’s residence), the Treasury, the Houses of Parliament, St. James’s Palace, and the residence of George III.

Designed by Thomas Ripley, the Master Carpenter to the Crown, the Admiralty Office was built between 1725 and 1728 to replace one that had stood on the same site. Masked from the unruly mob on the street by a stone screen added in 1760, the brick building’s tall portico and small courtyard were often filled with arriving or departing naval officers and chastened messengers bringing news from the fleet.

It was a place where naval officers’ careers were made or lost. As O’Brian describes a visit by Jack Aubrey to seek a commission from Lord Melville in Post Captain, that tension is palpable: “The plunge into the Admiralty courtyard; the waiting room, with half a dozen acquaintances—disconnected gossip, his mind and theirs being elsewhere; the staircase to the First Lord’s room and there, half-way up, a fat officer leaning against the rail, silent weeping, his slab, pale cheeks all wet with tears. A silent marine watched him from the landing, two porters from the hall, aghast.”

The Admiralty Office’s oak-paneled boardroom was the site of the Admiralty Commissioners’ daily meetings. Saved from the earlier building, a working wind-direction indicator mounted on the wall over the fireplace served as a constant reminder of the fleets at sea, while charts covering the walls kept the Commissioners abreast of the various theaters of action. Together, the Commissioners deliberated at a long table, preparing the fleet for war, selecting its commanders, and making officer assignments. While the Board itself did not make strategic decisions, the First Lord was involved in this process as a member of the Cabinet, and the Admiralty Secretary often forwarded the Cabinet’s instructions on strategy and fleet operations to the fleet commanders.

The Admiralty managed a wide range of other administrative and judicial duties as well. For this, the First Secretary of the Admiralty supervised a bustling office with many clerks, visitors, and activities, making it a prime target for spies; indeed, security leaks were a problem.

On the other hand, the Admiralty itself had need of foreign intelligence, which Admiralty officials obtained in several ways. Some of it came from the ordinary sources of government intelligence: Post Office officials in London and Hanover who opened foreign letters and diplomatic agents and colonial officials abroad who forwarded information to the secretaries of state, who in turn forwarded it to the Admiralty. The Admiralty’s own sources included the reports of officers abroad, who supplemented their observations with information from merchant seamen and others in the ports they visited. Additionally, the First Lords often privately employed spies to make secret reports. When Lord Spencer became First Lord in 1794, one of his first observations about the Admiralty was the need to assign a clerk the specific responsibility of coordinating the different sources of foreign intelligence.

In 1786, the growing Admiralty bureaucracy expanded into a new yellow brick building joined to the Admiralty on the south. Here on the ground floor were three large state rooms for the First Lord’s official entertaining. Above that, two floors housed mainly the private apartments of the First Lord but also the Admiralty Library.

The Admiralty was not the only office that managed naval affairs. There were a variety of other boards and offices in London that dealt with specific aspects of the Navy. The most important of these was the Navy Board.

The Principal Officers and Commissioners of the Navy, who formed the Navy Board, worked in the Navy Office building at Somerset House in the Strand. They were concerned with three main areas: (1) the material condition of the fleet, including building, fitting out, and repairing ships, managing dockyards, purchasing naval stores, and leasing transport vessels; (2) naval expenditure, including the payment of all salaries and auditing accounts; and (3) the health and subsistence of seamen. The last function was delegated to subsidiary boards, also located at Somerset House:

An entirely independent board at the Ordnance Office with locations both at the Tower of London and at the Warren, next to Woolwich Dockyard down the Thames from London, the Ordnance Board was responsible for supplying both the Army and the Navy with guns and ammunition. Headed by the Master-General of the Ordnance, this board contracted with private foundries to make cannon; supervised gunpowder plants at Faversham and Waltham Abbey; managed the arsenal at Woolwich, where guns were received, tested, and issued; and appointed and supplied gunners to ships. The Ordnance Board worked closely with the Admiralty, its principal channel of communication on sea affairs, in determining with the Navy Board and its subsidiaries the specifications of armaments for naval vessels and in coordinating the timely delivery and convoy of supplies as well as the construction and victualing of Ordnance vessels.

Together, these offices and boards managed the support and direction of a large number of officers, seamen, and ships. Today, as then, it is difficult to ascertain exactly how many men were in the Navy. Parliament authorized a certain number in its annual vote, a certain number were assigned to vessels, and then there were actual musters, where the men on board each ship were counted. These muster counts varied from month to month and often were not completely kept or fully compiled for the Navy as a whole. The following figures, however, give an approximation (no figures are available for 1814 and 1815).

Year	Number of Ships	Number of men authorized	Number of men assigned	Number of men mustered
1793	390	45,000	69,868	69,416
1794	420	85,000	87,331	73,835
1795	483		100,000	96,001
1796	534	110,000	114,365	106,708
1797	587	120,000	118,788	114,603
1798	660	120,000	122,687	114,617
1799	694	120,000	128,930
1800	729	120,000	126,192	118,247
1801	735	120,000	125,061	117,202
1802	746	130,000	129,340	118,005
1803	608	50,000	49,430
1804	623	100,000	84,431
1805	726	120,000	109,205
1806	789	120,000	111,237	119,627
1807	865	130,000	119,855
1808	921	130,000	140,822
1809	979	130,000	141,989
1810	976	145,000	142,098
1811	960	145,000	130,866
1812	898	145,000	131,087	138,204
1813	899	145,000	130,127

Source: Numbers of ships as of January 1 each year from Roger Morriss, The Royal Dockyards During the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars (Leicester: Leicester University Press, 1983), table 1, p. 12. Remaining data from Christopher Lloyd, The British Seaman (London: Longmans, Green, 1968), pp. 288-89.

The Navy of this period was made up of a wide variety of ships with specific roles to play. Some were designed for combat, others for support activities. The most important combat vessels were those designed to fight an organized enemy fleet in a line of battle; they were called line-of-battle ships or ships of the line.

Battle Tactics. Navies had developed the line of battle in the 17th century. Simply described, it involved sailing ships in a line, bow to stern, as the most efficient way of concentrating their gunfire, at the same time protecting the ships’ weakest points. The bow and stern were the least protected parts of the ship, carrying only a few guns, and volleys received there could damage the ships’ weakest structural points if aimed low at the rudder, stern, or bow, or, if aimed high, could travel the whole length of the deck, killing men and wreaking havoc with the sails and rigging.

It was these factors that made the tactic known as “crossing the T” so effective. In this maneuver, one battle line passed, at a 90° angle, ahead of the opposing battle line, each ship firing its broadsides at the enemy ships’ bows and masts and along their decks. This maneuver was not an easy one to undertake because the approaching ships were themselves vulnerable to heavy gunfire. It helped to have the weather gauge, that is to say, to be to windward of the opposing fleet, because that allowed the swiftest approach and the advantage of choosing when to initiate the engagement. But one could not always dictate one’s position when encountering an enemy, or, for that matter, predict wind shifts. In general, however, while the British preferred the weather gauge, the French more often preferred the lee, because they tended to concentrate on reaching a destination to get troops or to convoy merchant ships rather than on seeking battle.

There were some other significant national differences in naval gunnery. Most prominent among them, perhaps, was the fact that in general the French fired at the masts, rigging, and sails of British ships, aiming to disable the enemy’s motive power, while the British usually fired on the French warships’ hulls. It was far more difficult to hit the hull of an enemy ship, but piercing the hull often created the heaviest damage, possibly sinking the ship.

Most battles took place at relatively close range. They often didn’t begin until the ships were as close as 1,000 yards, and sometimes this distance was reduced to 500 yards when the guns were double-shotted (firing two rounds at once). Closer ranges were termed “musket shot range” (within 300 yards) and “pistol shot range” (within 50 yards).

Sometimes, ships of the line were engaged in blockade operations, designed either to keep the enemy’s ships in port or, alternatively, to draw them out to fight. There were two types of blockades: close and open. An open blockade, usually by smaller ships of the line off an enemy port, such as Toulon in the Mediterranean or Brest in northwestern France, gave the impression that the port was not carefully watched or that there was a chance of battle success for the enemy. At the first sign the enemy fleet gave of moving out of port, a fast ship was sent to bring up the blockader’s battle fleet to engage them.

A close blockade with ships of the line, such as the one Nelson conducted off Cadiz in July 1797, was difficult, dangerous, and tedious work for the blockaders. Such a blockade was meant to keep an enemy fleet at anchor in port. Jack Aubrey was typical of many officers who expressed their displeasure in such work. Not only did it lack the élan of battle, but it was difficult to control a large line of battle in shallow and confined waters close to shore.

Rated Ships of the Line. Broadly speaking, the ships of the line were also the rated ships, falling into five or six classes. All of them were normally commanded by a sea officer trained in navigation, seamanship, and gunnery and holding the official rank and title of Captain, that is to say, a Post-Captain. There were gradations of seniority among these men, depending upon their length of service and experience, but all were Post-Captains.

The biggest ships in the Navy, the first-rate ships of the line, were all armed with 100 or more heavy cannons on three decks, with lighter guns on the forecastle and quarterdeck. In 1807, they carried a total complement of about 837 naval officers and men, plus 170 Royal Marines (a special corps of soldiers who served on naval vessels and were called the Royal Marines from 1802). The largest British ship of this period, carrying 120 guns, was H.M.S. Caledonia, launched in 1808. Nelson’s flagship, the 100-gun H.M.S. Victory, was among the biggest ships when it was launched in 1765. In addition to being fighting ships, these large ships had additional naval roles, often carrying an Admiral and his staff either at sea or in port and serving as symbols of naval power and diplomatic prestige.

The next class of ships of the line, the second rates, carried 90 to 98 guns, usually 98, with heavy guns on three decks, lighter armament on the quarterdeck, forecastle, and poop, and a total complement of about 738 naval officers and men, and about 150 Marines. Most naval officers did not like these three-deck ships, since they did not perform as well as either the first or third rates under sail. When Admiral Lord Keith was commanding the Mediterranean Fleet (1799-1802), he preferred as his flagship the two-deck third-rate ships Audacious and Minotaur to the Foudroyant, a three-deck second rate.

Third rates, also ships of the line, usually carried 64, 68, 74, or 80 guns, with the heavy guns on two decks and lighter guns on the quarterdeck and forecastle. Among these, the 74 predominated, carrying a complement of 590 to 640 naval officers and men, plus 125 Marines. Fourth-rate ships carried 50 to 60 guns on two decks and were technically rated as ships of the line, but during this period they were rarely used in the line of battle. In fact, they were rapidly disappearing from the fleet, having been used in peacetime largely as flagships for small overseas squadrons or as large vessels for patrol work. A fourth rate carried a complement of about 343 naval officers and men, plus 59 Marines.

Year	1st rates (100+ guns)	2nd rates (90-98 guns)	3rd rates (64-80 guns)	4th rates (50-60 guns)	5th rates (32-48 guns)	6th rates (20-32 guns)	Unrated (sloops and others)
1793	5	19	114	22	90	41	99
1794	6	19	117	22	94	42	120
1795	6	20	120	20	112	41	164
1796	6	19	117	30	118	44	200
1797	7	19	120	25	130	47	239
1798	8	20	130	25	135	49	293
1799	8	21	137	23	132	51	322
1800	9	19	136	26	132	47	360
1801	8	19	139	26	134	47	362
1802	8	19	138	26	141	44	370
1803	7	15	126	20	124	33	383
1804	7	14	129	20	128	33	291
1805	8	14	131	23	142	34	274
1806	8	15	139	22	153	36	416
1807	8	15	145	20	166	41	470
1808	8	14	165	19	175	46	494
1809	8	15	170	18	179	40	549
1810	8	15	177	17	185	40	534
1811	9	17	177	15	181	38	523
1812	9	15	181	14	173	30	476
1813	9	16	188	13	165	31	477
1814	9	12	183	19	180	40	493

Source: Adapted from Roger Morriss, The Royal Dockyards During the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars (Leicester: Leicester University Press, 1983), table 1, p. 12.

Frigates. Like destroyers in modern navies, frigates were the most glamorous ships. They were the fleet’s fast fighters, involved in all sorts of duties and high drama. Not part of the line of battle, they fought the majority of single-ship actions, convoyed merchantmen with valuable cargoes, raided rich enemy fleets, served as the eyes of the battle fleet, and carried earth-shattering news from all quarters of the globe. There were many different types and designs, but nearly all were fifth rates with 32 to 48 guns on a single deck. Some of these, known as razee frigates, were built as larger ships but had upper decks removed to create single-deck frigates. A fifth rate carried a complement of 215 to 294 naval officers and men, plus 42 to 48 Marines.

In this period, the United States Navy earned a reputation for the quality of its frigates, the most famous, the 44-gun U.S.S. Constitution, being launched in 1797. The military successes of the Constitution and her compatriots, the Chesapeake, Constellation, Congress, President, and United States, rocked the morale of the British Navy during the War of 1812.

There were some sixth-rate frigates of 20-some guns in the Royal Navy, the most common type carrying 28 guns. Jack Aubrey’s Surprise was one of these. A sixth rate carried a complement of about 135 to 195 officers and men, plus 30 Marines.

Unrated Ships and Vessels. A wide variety of other types of warships did not fall under the system of rated ships, the principal ones being sloops, bomb vessels, fireships, brigs, cutters, and gunboats.

Sloops. Unlike the current sailing sloop, which carries only a single mast, in the Royal Navy at this time a sloop of war had two or three masts, all carrying both square and fore-and-aft sails. When it had two masts, it was said to be “brig-rigged,” and with three, “ship-rigged.” Sloops varied widely in appearance, but they carried 10 to 18 guns and were generally commanded by sea officers with the rank of Commander. There were more than 200 of these ships in the Navy during the latter part of this period. Sometimes they carried out the patrol duties of frigates, but, being relatively small, they were also commonly used close to shore for raiding and cutting-out expeditions to capture particular ships. Sloops ranged in their complement of men from 42 to 121 officers and men, with 15 to 20 Marines.

Bomb Vessels and Fireships. Only a small number of these very specialized ships existed in the Navy. Designed to carry heavy ordnance for bombarding cities and fortifications, bomb vessels were named for volcanoes or some other entity that evoked fire and brimstone. When not being used for this purpose, they were employed as sloops. Fireships, also used as sloops when not in their special role, were intended to be set on fire and sent in among an enemy fleet to ignite its ships. No vessels were actually used for this purpose during these wars, but several were kept in readiness. One fireship was used to fire rockets in 1809. Bomb vessels carried a complement of about 67 officers and men, and fireships carried 45 to 56 officers and men.

Brigs. A brig was a smaller version of the brig-rigged sloop of war, and its distinctive feature was square sails on two masts. Brigs usually carried 14 short-range carronade guns and were commanded by Lieutenants.

Cutters. Designed for speed, these vessels carried about ten guns and a lot of sail. Most of them bore both square and fore-and-aft sails on a single mast. Some, however, used a distinctively American schooner rig taken from a type used at Bermuda, having a very large triangular sail, and, with only four to six guns, were categorized as schooners. Cutters carried a complement of 45 to 60 officers and men.

Gunboats. The term “gunboat” comprised a wide variety of vessels that were used primarily for local defense. They were relatively small and carried at least one or two guns mounted in the bow or stern. The smallest being not much bigger than a ship’s boat and the largest approaching the description of a cutter or schooner, gunboats carried a complement of 45 to 50 officers and men.

Yachts. This type of vessel was not a pleasure vessel, but a relatively fast, sleek sailing craft designed to carry high officials on state visits. They carried a complement of 50 to 67 officers and men.

The capacity to construct and repair ships was vital to the Navy. By the 1750s, Britain’s dockyards had become the largest industrial organization in the world and remained so until the vast changes brought by the Industrial Revolution in the 19th century. A key part of these establishments, which were under the authority of the Navy Board, were the ropeyards that manufactured the miles of cordage required to rig and operate the ships of the Navy.

At home, the largest concentration of these dockyards was in southern England, at Deptford, Woolwich, Chatham, Portsmouth, and Plymouth, but there were also a number strategically located around the world, the largest being at Malta in the Mediterranean, Halifax in the North Atlantic, Jamaica and Antigua in the Caribbean, and at the East India Company outposts at Bombay in the Indian Ocean. In 1814, they employed a total of 17,374 civilian yard officers and laborers. During the two wars, they built 119 ships (supplementing those built by commercial dockyards) and repaired and outfitted many more.

Sea officers came from every class of society, but without a doubt promotion was dependent upon one’s being liked by senior officers and having connections.

In O’Brian’s Aubrey-Maturin novels this is readily apparent, and usually to Jack Aubrey’s disadvantage. In Post Captain, at Aubrey’s disastrous interview with Lord St. Vincent, the First Lord of the Admiralty, St. Vincent rebukes Aubrey for his doggedness in pursuing post rank and for the attempts of his father and others to curry favor on his behalf: “General Aubrey has written forty letters to me and other members of the Board and he has been told that it is not in contemplation to promote you.... Your friends pepper us with letters to say that you must be made post. That was the very word the Duke of Kent thought fit to use, put up to it by Lady Keith.” Throughout the novels, Aubrey’s connections and actions are double-edged swords. Others far less accomplished than he at warfare but neater in their personal affairs and with better connections are promoted faster and receive the plum assignments.

All sea officers held written documents that gave them their rank and authority. The most important officers received commissions from the Admiralty, and the less important officers, such as Surgeons and Masters, received warrants from the Navy Board or other authorities. Normally, these commissions were given for each assignment or appointment, not just upon first receiving the rank.

Admirals. Admirals, also known as flag officers because they flew a colored flag denoting their rank, were in the highest category of sea officers. They had long been divided into three sets of three groups each. There were three squadrons, each of which flew a different colored ensign. In order of seniority, they were the Red, White, and Blue squadrons. Each squadron had an Admiral, Vice-Admiral, and Rear-Admiral. An Admiral commanded the main body of the squadron and flew the Union flag at the mainmast head; a Vice-Admiral commanded the van and flew his flag on the foremast; and a Rear-Admiral commanded the rear and flew his flag at the head of the mizzenmast.

In the first part of these wars, however, the position of the most senior post, the Admiral of the Red, was not filled, as it was reserved by tradition for the Lord High Admiral or Admiral of the Fleet. From 1805, both the positions of Admiral of the Fleet and the newly created post of Admiral of the Red, coming next below, were filled. At his death in 1805, Horatio Nelson, as a Vice-Admiral of the White, was about halfway up the Admirals’ hierarchy.

Between the Admirals and the established lower officers was another category, the Commodores.

Commodores. This rank was neither permanent nor a necessary step for promotion between Captain and Rear-Admiral. A Commodore was a Captain holding temporary command over a squadron, who had authority similar to that of a Rear-Admiral. Instead of a flag, a commodore flew a swallow-tailed broad pendant, also called a broad pennant. After 1805 there were two distinct types of Commodores: (1) a senior Captain who was appointed Commander-in-chief of a station or a detached squadron and therefore outranked any flag officer who came within his jurisdiction, and (2) a senior Captain appointed by his Commander-in-chief to command a division under him. All Commodores reverted to the rank of Captain upon hauling down their broad pennants and relinquishing their duties.

The World of Patrick O’Brian

A Sea of Words, A Life Revealed, Harbors and High Seas, and Every Man Will Do His Duty

Dean King

Contents

A Sea of Words

A Lexicon and Companion to the Complete Seafaring Tales of Patrick O’Brian

Dean King

with John B. Hattendorf and J. Worth Estes

A Note on the Third Edition

Contents

List of Illustrations

Preface to the Second Edition

The Curiosity That Patrick O’Brian Inspires in Us

Foreword

Dean King

The Royal Navy During the War of the French Revolution and the Napoleonic War

John B. Hattendorf