Sunday Sea Stories

Since my time is limited right now, but my curiosity continues at a pace, I'll try to update the Brethren on stories from history and around the web on Sunday afternoon. Nothing fancy of course, but hopefully a good read or two to start off your week.

First up, the awesome paintings above are from this article over at the UK Telegraph entitled "Historical Figures for the 21st Century." Of course there's Nelson as above, a little heavier due to his modern fate as a desk jockey but with a splendid prosthetic arm. Whatever would Emma say? Also in the mix are Henry VIII looking vaguely like Gerard Butler, his daughter good Queen Bess and a surprisingly hipster Will Shakespeare. Who knew?

Next, this little winner from NBC News. A women's group thought they were hiring an pirate expert to speak on the Golden Age. Instead they got a victim of modern piracy with a harrowing tale of survival. But, being a good sport, he did stay to judge the pirate costume contest after his lecture.

While not particularly related to seafaring per ce, this article from the NYT's continuing series on the Civil War should be of interest to anyone with a fascination for history in general and women's history in particular. Entitled "Rape and Justice in the Civil War", the author discusses the Leiber Laws and their application to Southern women attacked by Union troops; both free and slave.

On a modern note, USS Anchorage arrived on Tuesday in hers and my home city, Anchorage, Alaska, for her commissioning today.

Also of interest: On May 3, 1810, George Gordon Lord Byron along with his friend and marine lieutenant Ekenhead of HMS Salsette swam across the Dardanelles Strait.

Today, May 5, in 1828 the American Seaman's Friend Society of New York City was established. Their mission: to supply books via "floating libraries" to U.S. Navy and Merchant ships at sea. Also on this day in 1861 the U.S. Naval Academy moved from Annapolis, Maryland to Newport, Rhode Island for the duration of the Civil War.

And so I will leave you with a quote: The real difference between civilized and savage man consists in the knowledge of knots and rope work. ~ A. Hyatt Verrill

Seafaring Sunday: Unhappy Nuptials

March 10, 1787: Horatio Nelson marries Frances Nisbet at Montpelier Estate on the Island of Nevis. Prince William Henry gave the bride away. Nelson wrote to his friend William Locker shortly after that he was "morally certain [Fanny] will continue to make me a happy man for the rest of my days." In matters of the heart, however, Nelson proved a poor prognosticator.

Header: Fanny Nelson by an anonymous artist of the British School c 1800 via Wikipedia

History: The Naval Uniform

It may seem curious to some but it appears that the U.S. Navy, not her titanic mother the Royal Navy, was the first to standardize the dress of its able seamen. As early as the War of 1812, which occurred only a scant 36 years after independence was declared, U.S. Navy purchasing agents were ordering "cotton frocks" in standard blue and white nankeen, a type of cotton and wool blend. This at a times when the average sailor in European navies wore the clothes he climbed aboard ship wearing.

Over at the USSCM blog, Jack Tar offers an excellent example of the kind of naval uniform that became common after the Civil War. The little suit, which made it through a boiler explosion - as did young John T. Jefferson who was wearing it at the time - is curious not only for its survival but for its details. Sailors, who have always been handy with needle and thread, often embroidered their uniforms. Popular designs included natural items such as flower and vines (as on the front flap of Jefferson's trousers) as well as the almost obligatory stars. These were often placed on the shirt flap, which evolved into the familiar collar we know today.

Jack quotes Samuel Leech as an example. Leech was one of those much spoken of British deserters who served aboard USS Siren during the War of 1812:

I... adopted that peculiarity of dress practiced by American men-of-war's men, which consisted in wearing my shirt open at the neck, with the corners thrown back. On these corners a device was wrought, consisting of the stars of the American flag...

It is interesting to note that Leech considered this uniformity of gear a "peculiarity."

Out of these fledgling uniforms, certain myths have continued right down to our own time. The flap-front pant, which even the World War I recruit pictured above would have worn, had a different number of buttons depending on the era. Yet, a curious belief stems from the thirteen button pant. Per Peter H. Spectre:

According to the U.S. Navy, there is nothing to the rumor that the number of buttons (13) on enlisted men's flap-front trousers is in honor of the original 13 colonies. Rather, in the early 19th century there were 15 buttons, and 7 in the late 19th century; only when the flap front was enlarged - why? nobody seems to know - did the number of buttons become 13.

Another patently ludicrous myth is noted by Jack. People - and unfortunately some writers of both nautical fact and fiction - persist in the notion that the three rows of white piping on the modern navy dress is to memorialize the "three great victories" of Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson. The same people will tell you that the black neckerchief is also a remembrance of his death at the Battle of Trafalgar.

Why anyone would imagine that remembering Nelson - a man who would have happily battled America on wave had he survived to do so - would be such a priority for the U.S. Navy is beyond reasonable thought. The piping is simply an extension of that itch to decorate that sailors seem to come by naturally. And what is less likely to show dirt than a black neckerchief?

Header: World War I U.S. Navy recruiting poster by Josef Pierre Nuyttens via Wikimedia

History: Rough Medicine

The day is spent, the night draws on. Chiurgion, look to the wounded, and wind up the slain, with each a weight or bullet at their heads and feet to make them sink. ~ Captain John Smith, Governor of Virginia

In the 17th century, medicine at sea was just getting its start. Surgeons sailed with many a vessel, both in navies and the merchant service. Perhaps surprisingly, even fishing fleets like those off the coast of Newfoundland had surgeons who were paid, at least in part, in dried fish. But as Kevin Brown points up in his meticulously researched book Poxed & Survied, "...the position of surgeon onboard ship was ill-defined and depended very much on the support and informed interest in hygiene of such captains as Francis Drake and Richard Hawkins."

This was true well into the 19th century. Patrick O'Brian, a master not only of storytelling but of accurate historical detail, knew this very well. His Stephen Maturin, a full-fledged physician who took a post with the Royal Navy only because of desperate poverty, would not have been able to accomplish half of what he did - as not only doctor but as naturalist and intelligencer - had it not been for the strong support of Captain Jack Aubrey. In "real life", captains like Nelson cared about all aspects of their crew's lives. Less capable commanders like Hugh Pigot or William Bligh were also less likely to support their surgeon.

Such circumstance would have been troubling for men with a sincere dedication to their vocation. And the problems were only multiplied by controls - or monopolies - imposed not only by the Admiralty but also by Parliament and even the King himself. At least in England.

As Brown points out, in July of 1626 the Privy Council started paying the Barber-Surgeons Company a yearly sum to allow them to provide medicine chests to both the navy and the army. This was followed up in 1629 by a mandatory examination for sea surgeons put in place by Charles I who chose John Woodall, first surgeon to the East India Company, to oversee both processes.

Woodall published The Surgions Mate in 1617 and the book became a must-have among sea going medical men. So much so in fact that Brown notes the book was widely distributed but few copies have survived to the present day. He tells us that this "... suggests that they were much used at sea" and that the book was a "... model for future manuals for the ship's doctor."

Given Woodall's expertise, it is not surprising that the king dumped so much in the doctor's lap. He was given "the whole ordering, making and appointing of His Highness' military provisions for surgery both for his land and sea service," according to the journals of Captain James Cook. As Brown rather snidely remarks: "Thus began a lucrative venture for Woodall, but also the long monopoly enjoyed by the Barber-Surgeons over the supply and inspection of ship's surgeons' chests."

Though the Barber-Surgeons grip on supplying ship's doctors could do more harm than good, there was a silver lining to the order. This process of inspection developed a certain uniformity of instruments and medicines available on both Royal Navy and merchant vessels. The upshot was a uniformity of treatment - at least on ships where caring for the crew in illness and injury was made a priority.

All the same, again as pointed up by Brown, the ship's surgeon was by and large a product of an apprentice rather than an educational system. True physicians - "lordly" to use Brown's term - had little interest in serving either navy or army until well into the 19th century. And only after the pay rates were adjusted to recognize their lordliness.

Meanwhile the ship's surgeon toiled on. He treated everything from bug bites to shattered limbs and for the most part dealt with day-to-day illness from STDs to the common cold. It was no glamor job, certainly. But at least some of the men who did it must have been as cherished by their captains and mates as Dr. Maturin himself.

Header: Paul Bettany as Stephen Maturin and Russell Crowe as Jack Aubrey; a still from the movie Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Nelson's Blood

Today is a special occasion, a holiday in the truest sense of that word, for those of us who live and breathe  nautical history. On this day in 1758 Admiral Horatio 1st Viscount Nelson was born in Burnham Thorpe, Norfolk, England. Perhaps the greatest naval hero of modern times, it would take the U.S. another 50 plus years to produce his like in the person of Admiral David Farragut. And we've had some awesome naval heroes on this side of the pond, let me tell you.

But I digress. To honor The Great One, Triple P will stray a bit from the usual SMS format and give you a shanty instead. A shanty, that is, written to commemorate Nelson's life and tragic death. Known alternatively as "Nelson's Blood" or "The Golden Chariot", the song became popular among English speaking seaman not long after Nelson's death in 1805.

The phrasing, as with most sea songs, is repetitive and easy to sing. Various versions of the song exist (find my favorite, by The Corsairs, on their album "Songs from the Road" available for download here) but they all refer to Nelson's blood. Legend has it that the Admiral's body was packed in a barrel of rum for transport home aboard his flagship Victory. Men were said to sneak swigs from the barrel in order to gain a bit of Nelson's greatness. Thus rum took on the moniker: Nelson's Blood.

While the story may hold some truths, most of it is probably apocryphal Be that as it may, the shanty is a wonderful way to remember Admiral Nelson. It's also great to sing while hoisting a tankard of Nelson's blood.

A drop of Nelson's blood wouldn't do us any harm,
A drop of Nelson's blood wouldn't do us any harm,
A drop of Nelson's blood wouldn't do us any harm;
And we'll all hang down behind.

So we'll roll the Golden Chariot along,
We'll roll the Golden Chariot along,
We'll roll the Golden Chariot along;
And we'll all hang down behind.

The image is of men following Nelson's funeral wagon to the place of his burial, which many a Royal Navy sailor by land at the time did. Various other stanzas become more bawdy as they go, referring to things that "wouldn't do us any harm" such as a night in jail, a saucy wench and a fat old cook. The chorus of following the Golden Chariot continues throughout and most singers of the shanty end with the drop of Nelson's blood refrain.

So, a mug o' grog and a hearty Huzzah! for Admiral Nelson. Happy Saturday, Brethren. May fair winds follow you, and your Nelson's blood always be the best of quality.

Header: The Apotheosis of Nelson by Pierre-Nicola LeGrand c 1818 via Wikipedia

Tools of the Trade: All in the Color

Sailors are generally ship-proud.  Like housewives of old whose identity infused itself into their clean, tidy and good looking home, sailors want their ship to be the prettiest on the water.  One of the things that goes into sailing the best looking ship is the trim of her paint.  How well the paint is kept up, and what colors are chosen, has a lot to do with the personality of the ship and the pride of the sailor.

In the Great Age of Sail, certain colors were virtually synonymous with certain ships.  Nelson was famous for the black and white checkers he favored around the gun ports of his vessels.  This pattern, though tricky and time consuming to execute, caught on in the Royal Navy - particularly after Nelson's death but ultimate triumph at Trafalgar.  Ships that sported this design were generally painted black or a very dark blue to allow the checkered design to stand out.  From there, favorite combinations included everything from Nelson's black and white to such surprising combinations as scarlet and lilac, crimson and gold or salmon pink and brown. 

Across the Atlantic, the U.S. Navy tended to a more neutral pallet.  Black with cream was a very common combination but some of the larger frigates took on more distinctive colors.  USS Constitution, for instance, was famously recognizable for her contrasting black and white - no checkers, thank you.  As the picture above, from the ship's official website, shows, she carries those colors to this day.

A few other things, particularly those that might trick the eye as to a ship's flaws or help the crew in their day to day doings, were also taken into consideration.  For instance, decks were almost universally painted a light color such as white or cream.  This allowed the crew to see better at night.  Darker colors were favored for the hulls of larger ships while lighter colors - particularly white - were the choice for smaller ships.  This gave the larger ship a more lovely line, and the smaller ship the look of a larger one.  High gloss, in the form of lacquer, was usually avoided as it was thought to accentuate unmentionables such as a wide bow or a heavy bottom.

One rarely finds anything more beautiful on this planet than a well maintained ship.  If you haven't yet, now is a good time to think about a new coat of paint for your vessel, Brethren.  Maybe some purple and scarlet checkers, just for a change?

Header: USS Constitution in her glory, as noted above from her official website

Booty: A Date With Nelson

Today, Friday Booty at Triple P brings you one of my favorite comic artist's take on one of my favorite naval heroes.  The very talented Kate Beaton gives us a glimpse of her experience on "A Date with Horatio Nelson".  Clearly, things didn't go as planned.

Happy Friday, Brethren.  I owe you all a big thank you for your continued support, insightful comments and tenacious loyalty to a subject near and dear to me and mine: all things seafaring.

Header: "A Date with Horatio Nelson" by Kate Beaton from her delightful site Hark, A Vagrant

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Bend

On the majority of occasions, using the word bend at sea refers to rope, chain and cable in the “old fashioned” sense of those words. When bending rope one is usually attaching it via knot (which itself can be referred to as a “bend”) to another rope.


To bend may also mean tying a rope to an anchor. A Granny’s bend is a pejorative reference to a knot make by a lubber which is, as Admiral Smyth puts it, “a slippery hitch.” This will never do, of course, as a real bend is expected to hold through a gale. Time for an old tar to show the new guy how it’s done.

To bend a sail is to secure it to its appointed stay or yard. A river may have a bend, as in the lower Mississippi’s famous English Turn where British boats were thwarted in their attempt to reach New Orleans during the War of 1812. Men may be exhorted to bend to their oars aboard boats or galleys as well.

Bending ropes means, as noted, to tie them together rather than unraveling their ends and splicing them. Though bending is rarely as secure as splicing, knots have far more flexibility as they are readily tied and untied without the need for cutting and waste. A bowline knot is the most frequent way of bending rope but there are others; The Sailor’s Word Book lists Carrick-bend, hawser-bend, sheet-bend “and cetera” while Richard Henry Dana in The Seaman's Friend gives over a dozen names.

Bending the cable is the similar process of securing cable line to an anchor. As Admiral Smyth notes, this term did not die with the use of actual chains for anchor cable; the shackling of same to the anchor is still referred with such language.

When raising signal flags, a rope known as a distant line was used. This kept the flags separate to avoid confusion in the message, and the act of hoisting the distant line might be referred to as the bend on the tack. One would not want to mistake that England expects that every man shall do his duty.

Bender – though now more familiar in the way of imbibing – originally referred to the coiling of rope aboard ship or at dockside. One might “strike out for a bender” or “look out for a bender” when being told to coil rope or to find a coiled rope.

A bend roll is an old term for a rest used for muskets in the buccaneering days, these guns being extremely long and heavy. The bend proper is the large wedge on which a ship’s bowsprit sits.

The thickest, strongest planks on a ship’s sides were referred to as bends. This term was not used in common parlance among sailors, and is in fact more of a shipbuilder’s term. This part of the ship is more properly known as the wails or wales from which gunwale – gunnel.

And that is enough of bending and bends for one day. Happy Saturday, Brethren; come aboard tomorrow for Seafaring Sunday if you are so inclined.

Header: Going About to Please His Master by V.T. Turner c 1844 via Old Paint

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Go/Going/God

Today's words when used at sea usually have to do with orders. Well, except the last one; that usually has to do with bald-faced swearing. “God damn your eyes, sir,” comes to mind for some reason. Anyway, let us take a closer look and, upon the close of this post, I’ll explain the reason for William Blake’s peon to Horatio Nelson at the header. Bear with me, I humbly beg; or just skip to the last paragraph. I’m just glad that you’ve stopped by.


Go as a stand alone order is usually reserved for the shipyard and indicates the moment when a ship is ready to be released from the stocks. To go ashore implies shore leave, and “goashores” were a sailor’s best clothes, reserved in general for time on land when impressing the locals and representing the ship well would both have been a priority.

A ship is said to be going free when she is sailing with the wind on her beam, the bowlines slackened. She is going large when sailing off the wind in which case there would be much going about or tacking.

A go by is code for a strategy to get out of trouble, in the sense of the ship as a whole. As an example, Captain Aubrey gave the French ship Acheron the go by when he had his men row Surprise into a fog bank after her rudder was disabled in the movie Master and Commander.

Going through the fleet is an old and horrible form of torture inflicted in the Royal Navy prior to its abolition in the early 19th century. A criminal sailor was condemned to a certain number of lashes along side a group of ships at anchor in the same area, with the total lashes sometimes as high as 500. The unfortunate was rowed to each ship in a launch, the proscribed flogging performed, and then the launch rowed on to the next ship. Men were known to die from such punishment, and objection to this type of extremity was one of the foremost arguments against impressments of Americans by the Royal Navy which in turn led to the War of 1812.

A godsend meant an unexpected prize or sudden lifting of storm or attack. While the word God I will leave to the inimitable Admiral Smyth:

We retain the Anglo-Saxon word to designate the ALMIGHTY; signifying good, to do good, doing good, and to benefit; terms such as our classic borrowings cannot pretend to.

Since, upon his death at Trafalgar, Nelson became something of a god to the British people, Blake’s painting seems only appropriate for today.

Header: The Spiritual Form of Nelson Guiding Leviathan by William Blake c 1805

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Seaman

This is a term seldom bestowed among seafaring men upon their associates, unless they are known to be pre-eminent in every duty of the thorough-paced tar; one who never issues a command which he is not competent to execute himself, and is deemed an authority on every matter relating to sea-craft.


Thus begins Admiral Smyth’s definition of the often improperly used word seaman in The Sailor’s Word Book. In the terms used by seasoned mariners, a seaman in a sailor’s sailor. Almost without fail he is an officer who has come up through the ranks, if not starting out there, he has at least spent time as a foremast jack where he learned to heave a lead and haul a cable like any other tar. In his capacity of command he has not lost the memory of those days and, indeed, continues to embrace the work of running a ship. He pushes on the capstan, reefs the sails and works the pumps alongside those he commands. He is sound in judgment; no flogging captain has ever been called a seaman. This type of commander runs a happy ship.

From the annals of history, the names of such captains tend to spring to mind more readily than those of a different nature. Horatio Nelson, James Cook and Thomas Cochrane are all premier examples when discussing the Royal Navy. On the other side of the Atlantic, John Paul Jones, Stephen Decatur and David Porter are names that only scratch the surface of such a list. Then too, perhaps to many’s surprise, there were such men among pirates and privateers: Bartholomew Roberts, for instance, was known as an artist, the word used in his era for an expert navigator, and a sober if initially reluctant captain. Woodes Rogers was a right seaman as well, and I would be remiss as an admirer and a descendant to go without including the Baratarians Dominique Youx and Renato Beluche.

In mentioning those last two names, which I always do fondly, the perhaps unfamiliar term seaman-gunner comes to mind. This is a man who has such thorough knowledge of guns and artillery that he is well qualified to both lead a gun crew and train men to the guns. As both men proved on Rodriguez canal that fateful week in 1814-1815, they were both veteran seamen-gunners.

Seamanship is, as Admiral Smyth advises:

The noble practical art of rigging and working a ship, and performing with effect all her various evolutions at sea.

Finally, albeit reluctantly, I must mention that to this day the seaman’s disgrace is another term for that worst case scenario known as a foul – now frequently spoken as fouled – anchor. And a shame it is, too.

Happy Saturday, Brethren; may you all, in your lifetimes or only shortly after, be remembered by your peers as able seaman.

Header: Crow’s Nest by Scott Waddell via American Gallery

Books: A Manual for Victory

HMS Victory, arguably the most famous man-of-war built during the Georgian era, didn’t come with an operating manual. The iron men who sailed her didn’t need one. They knew what they were up to, certainly almost to a man, and gave her life through the work of their muscles and bones. She was and is a remarkable vessel, and to some degree a shrine. It was upon her deck and in her orlop that the immortal Horatio Nelson saw victory – and death – and Trafalgar.


All that said, a guide to owning and maintaining HMS Victory couldn’t hurt, even at this late date. That is exactly what author Peter Goodwin and Haynes Publishing Group came out with on February 4th: the first ever fully illustrated and impeccably accurate guide to one of the oldest and most iconic sailing ships in the world.

As noted in the press release from Haynes:

With the aid of specially commissioned photographs and an authoritative narrative, the reader is taken below decks to discover the innermost workings of the warship. There are chapters on how to sail an 18th century man-of-war, gunnery and tactics, and the [$2.5 million] conservation program that will ensure she continues to be a top visitor attraction well into the 21st century.

The book, as noted, was written by Peter Goodwin who is a former Royal Navy marine engineer and an expert on sailing and ships of Nelson’s navy. Fans of the movie Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World will be familiar with Goodwin’s expertise; he was an advisor on technical points during production and post-production of the film.

The book is available online at an extremely reasonable $23.73 U.S. It really is a must-have for anyone interested in any of the subjects which, throughout history, have touched the beautiful HMS Victory.

Finally as an aside, and with no offence intended to the British Brethren, the press release notes Victory is “the world’s oldest commissioned warship.” In fact, she is the world’s oldest commissioned warship not actively sailing. The oldest commissioned warship still on the high seas is USS Constitution. I’m splitting hairs, perhaps, but it is a small matter of pride for those of us who have some connection to the U.S. Navy which, in all fairness, is the daughter of the Royal Navy.

Header: HMS Victory In Battle by Chris N. Wood via Artists Harbour

Booty: Seeking Experienced Sea Captain

Buxom, stylish and well-spoken Englishwoman seeks naval commander of experience.


Currently in a marriage of some convenience and living abroad. Both are easy work-arounds. Willing to travel, and dress like a midshipman while doing so. Slightly fading looks offset by charm, wit and shameless willingness to do just about anything.

Ideal man will be captain with impressive record. Wounds and amputations a plus. Must be willing to risk career, marriage and social standing for me. Peerage preferable; potential for future titles a must. Gifts of all kinds including but not limited to jewels, gowns, hounds, horses and estates easily accepted and generously rewarded.

Must be English; no exceptions.

Contact Emma, Lady Hamilton, Palazzo Sessa, Naples, Italy.

Looking for your own sea captain, perhaps one just like Lady Hamilton’s Horatio? Well don’t hold your breath. If, however, you are willing to adjust your expectations, there is an honest-to-goodness website where both women and men can find seafaring leaders online. As this article at Jezebel (sent to me by ever vigilant Triple P supporter and member of the Brethren Dwight) points out, Sea Captain Date is a real, live “thing”.

Note: Unlike other sites mentioned here, I have no experience with SCD and cannot vouch for its integrity. Caveat emptor, so to say. And should you find your master and commander, I wish you a much, much better outcome than that of the star-crossed Emma and Horatio.

Header: Emma Hamilton as a Bacchante by Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun

Booty: A Game of Bumpers With You, Sir...

For centuries, bumpers or as it was later known, pool, was a favorite sport among the wealthy and elite.  Most people, not just the male of the upper-crust species, were partial to betting - if not addicted to it - and as anyone who plays these days knows, pool is a great game to bet on.  You don't even have to be playing to lay down the coin.  Many of our seafaring heroes were as wild about the game as monarchs like Charles II, Louis XIV and most of the English Georges.  Horatio Nelson famously played quite well, even lacking an arm.  I understand that wasn't the only thing he was good at despite his so-called "handicap".

Not a one of those gaming enthusiasts could have imagined the device pictured in action above.  From Dman3150 on YouTube via the first mate, I offer a gyroscopic self-leveling pool table in action aboard the cruise ship Radiance of the Seas, and in dirty weather no less.

Warning: if you are prone to seasickness, watching all 1:29 minutes of this curious footage might not be the best idea.

Ships: A Bold and Daring Act

On October 31, 1803, the frigate Philadelphia, William Bainbridge commanding, was run aground on a sandbar at the mouth of Tripoli Harbor and captured by the Tripolitans. Her crew was a stellar cast of future naval heroes and some of the 300 who survived to live through nearly a year of torturous captivity will be more than familiar to the Brethren. Among them were Bainbridge himself, his Lieutenant David Porter and Midshipman Daniel Tod Patterson. These men and their fellows would be rescued in a daring raid by U.S. Marines led by William Eaton, the memory of which action remains in “shores of Tripoli” line from the Marine Corps anthem.


Before that was accomplished, however, the Barbary pirates’ possession of one of the United States’ most modern engines of war – a heavy frigate – had to be addressed with all speed. While President Jefferson was ordering Eaton’s top secret mission to Tripoli, Commodore Edward Preble, commanding the Mediterranean station, was planning the best way to either reclaim or destroy the Philadelphia.

It was quickly recognized that trying to recapture the frigate in Tripoli’s heavily fortified harbor would be a disaster of epic proportions. Preble had to realize, however, that destroying the ship would mean at the very least the loss of several men but he had no other options. Unbeknownst to Preble, the Tripolitans did not have the resources to repair and then operate the heavy frigate so this fact was not a consideration in his decision making. In January of 1804, the Commodore called for volunteers to sign up on what could become a suicide mission.

The almost immediate response of Lieutenant Stephen Decatur, then in command of the schooner Enterprise, no doubt encouraged others to join the mission. Decatur already had a reputation for intrepid action and fearlessness; by February, 64 volunteers and two ships – Enterprise and Intrepid – had committed to the endeavor. The crews set out with a local pilot familiar with Tripoli Harbor on February 3rd.

Arriving in Syracuse, Decatur transferred his volunteers to the ketch Intrepid, a captured Tripolitan, and headed for Tripoli. They encountered two weeks of dirty weather, a delay for which they were in no way prepared. The ketch, generally manned by a crew of no more than twenty, was overcrowded and leaky and conditions grew worse as the days dragged on. Things did not immediately improve when Intrepid reached her destination, either; Decatur ordered the majority of his crew below and dressed those above as local merchants. On February 16th, he cruised slowly into the harbor at dusk spying Philadelphia at anchor just under the walls of the main fortress.

With his usual panache, Decatur put Intrepid along side the frigate and called over the side to request permission to tie up next to her. This was granted, but moments later an alarm bell was sounded aboard Philadelphia. Intrepid had been identified as a foreign intruder.

Decatur responded by ordering his men to board the frigate. The reaction of the crew was immediate and swift; the Barbary corsairs had no time to respond, and most barely managed to arm themselves. The majority of the men aboard Philadelphia jumped into the harbor and swam for it. Decatur’s crew set the frigate ablaze almost immediately, while the remaining pirates who stayed to fight were quickly overcome. Within twenty minutes, Decatur and his volunteers were back aboard Intrepid, rowing away in the blazing, red light from the dying USS Philadelphia. Decatur did not lose a single American in the action, and only one man was wounded.

Word of the daring raid spread throughout the Mediterranean with the same speed that fire had consumed Philadelphia to the waterline. In one of history’s true moments of well-informed hyperbole, Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson – arguably the most brilliant naval strategist of the era – commented that Decatur’s raid was “the most bold and daring act of the age.”

For an in depth analysis of Commodore Preble’s career as commander in the Mediterranean, including his reasons for ordering Decatur’s action, see today’s post over at the Naval History Blog.

Header: An early 19th c print of Decatur boarding Philadelphia via Navy History

Seafaring Sunday: Nelson's Blood

Oh, a drop of Nelson's blood wouldn't do us any harm; Oh, a drop of Nelson's blood wouldn't do us any harm; Oh, a drop of Nelson's blood wouldn't do us any harm; And we'll all hang down behind.  So we'll roll the golden chariot along; And we'll roll the golden chariot along; So we'll roll the golden chariot along; And we'll all hang down behind.

~ from the chanty Nelson's Blood which became popular after his death at Trafalgar

Header: Olivier as a dying Nelson from the film That Hamilton Woman

Booty: Memento Mori

The beautiful ring at the header is one of a scant 58 gold and enamel mourning rings minted by Salter of London in 1805. The rings were ordered to commemorate the death of Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson at the Battle of Trafalgar which took place on this date 206 years ago. Distributed to only close relatives, friends and pallbearers at the great man’s funeral, you can bet that Emma Lady Hamilton was not one of the lucky few who received such a treasure.


As noted at Marine Antique Digest from which the image comes, the ring bears the initials N and B with a Viscount’s crown over the N and a ducal coronet over the B. The initials represent Nelson’s name and his title as Duke of Bronte which he favored to the point of signing his letters Nelson & Bronte.

The ring is also engraved with Trafalgar and, along the outside of the band, Palmem Qui Meruit Ferat ~ Let him bear the palm of victory. The inside of the band reads Lost to his Country 21 Oct 1805 Aged 47.

This very rare ring was recently sold at a marine sale for $14,455 U.S. and is currently on display at Soho House in London.

My thanks to the delightful Susan and Loretta over at Two Nerdy History Girls for the heads up on this in their Breakfast Links of Sunday last.

History: A Last Letter

Tomorrow marks the 206th anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar and the death of Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson. For those of us who live and breathe the history of seafaring, this is a hallowed event indeed.


But, though Joseph Conrad told us that exalt was a word that seemed to be created for Nelson, still the Admiral was – in the end – just a man. Examples of this fact are everywhere in the history: his careless treatment of his wife’s feelings, his over-the-top infatuation with Emma Hamilton, his reckless if successful audacity and his sincere affection for his daughter, Horatia.

The girl who was named after her father was born on January 29th in 1801. She was one of a pair of twins born to Emma Hart Hamilton as a result of her ongoing and scandalously open liaison with Nelson. Emma, being neither the brightest nor the most steadfast of individuals, felt she could not raise two daughters. Horatia’s twin was secreted away to a foundling hospital before Nelson returned from a cruise; the girl is rarely spoken of in literature about Nelson, Lady Hamilton, or for that matter Horatia.

Horatia was little better off than her abandoned sister, as it turned out. She was initially told that Nelson and Emma had adopted her. Emma recanted this story, telling Horatia her father was Nelson but that she was not the child’s mother. Horatia clung to this fiction for many years, no doubt at the very least resentful of her impoverished youth taking care of a bloated and besotted Emma. Eventually Horatia found happiness, or one hopes so anyway. She married the Reverend Philip Ward in 1822, and the pair went on to have 10 children. Horatia survived her husband and lived to the ripe old age of 80.

She seems to have spent very little memorable time with her father but they did carry on a charming if brief correspondence that terminated with one of the last personal letters Nelson wrote. The series of extant letters amounts to four, all of which are available online here (note that admiralnelson.org appears to have the dates of the last three letters incorrect, placing them in 1804 rather than 1805). All four letters were written aboard HMS Victory and have an affectionate tone that brings to mind a father very much missing his child.

The last letter is exceedingly poignant, particularly in hindsight. Its simplicity makes it even more so. I shall quote it here and say simply, Huzzah! for Lord Nelson:

Aboard Victory, 19 October, 1805


My dearest Angel,


I was made happy by the pleasure of receiving your letter of September 19th and I rejoice that you are so very good a girl, and love my dear Lady Hamilton, who most dearly loves you. Give her a kiss for me.


The Combined Fleets of the Enemy are now reported to be coming out of Cadiz and therefore I answer your letter, my dearest Horatia, to mark that you are ever uppermost in my thoughts. I shall be sure of your prayers for my safety, conquest and speedy return to dear Merton and our dearest, good Lady Hamilton.


Be a good girl; mind what Miss Connor says to you.


Receive, my dearest Horatia, the affectionate parental blessing of your Father.


Nelson & Bronte


Header: Horatia Nelson, posed very much like her mother, by an unknown artist; portrait in the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich

People: The Birth of Jove

In her letters to Sarah Nelson, one of the few Nelsons who could tolerate that Hamilton woman, Emma Hamilton repeatedly referred to Horatio Nelson as Jove. While in life he was not so lofty a figure among his countrymen, in death he truly became something of a god.


Born on this day in 1758, the Hero of Trafalgar became the focus of not only a nation’s gratitude but of their curiosity as well. Figuring out what the enigmatic Admiral had been about became a minor obsession with many of the ladies and gentlemen of London’s elite. One of the more popular pseudo-sciences of the era, personology, was repeatedly applied to Nelson posthumously in this generally futile pursuit.

Personology, or the study of birth dates, sprang from the philosophical teachings of Hegel, the father of German Idealism. Hegel, who was perhaps one of the first philosophers to posit the theory that time is not linear, rejected stiff applications of time-based units in history. This was taken a step further by those who leached money from the well-to-do on the pretence of knowing the future and reading minds. Personologists rejected the old standard of astrology and claimed to be able to understand and advise an individual based on their birth date.

Personology and, more appropriately, the study of birth dates, is still practiced today. The most extensive treatise in recent years is The Secret Language of Birthdays by Gary Goldschneider and Joost Elffers. Drawing on both modern understanding and historical descriptions, the book is surprisingly instructive, particularly when one looks at a life from the past, such as Admiral Nelson’s. From the book:

Those born on September 29 fight an ongoing battle to maintain stability in their lives. At times they can feel that they are masters of the universe and at other moments not worthwhile at all. Such swings in their mood and self-image are most often due to an underlying lack of self-confidence.

While at first glance this may seem not to apply to Nelson at all, further insight makes such a statement quite plausible in his case. He certainly had a well developed ego by the time he died fighting at Trafalgar. Doubtless, however, his humble origins made him feel the need to constantly prove himself better than men who, though equals in naval rank, may have come from far more lofty circumstances.

Those born on this day… can oscillate between very intense and very relaxed behavior.

Of course Nelson’s professional and personal life, particularly later in his career, were so polarized as to be almost unimaginable at the time. His scandalous, ongoing affair with Emma Hamilton made him a laughing stock in polite society. But no one dared to laugh in the Admiral’s face out of respect, awe and fear.

The final sentence in the book’s September 29 entry sums Nelson up nicely:

If, however, the unusual people born on this day can take the reigns of their career firmly in hand, without foundering or getting sidetracked, they are indeed capable of extraordinary achievements.

In Nelson’s case, even a major derailment in love did not seem to alter his focus. The brilliant seaman would live and die under the standard of his most famous quotation: “Never mind maneuvers, always go at them.” Those who did not know him intimately would be left to consult astrologers and personologists in an effort to understand where so much greatness originated.

Header: Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson, artist unknown, via Napoleon Bonaparte

Booty: Painting Time

With the advent of spring, many of us are thinking about sprucing up our surroundings. Often that includes paint, an ancient way of sealing wood and making it last longer. Ships, of course, are no exception and – aside from varnish – there is hardly anything more important to a wooden ship than good, old fashioned, oil based paint.

Ancient ships were frequently painted rather fancifully with the Sea People, Egyptians, Greeks and Chinese favoring large human eyes on either side of the prow. The Vikings liked dragons at the head of their longboats and these were usually painted to look as realistic as possible. During the Medieval period cogs and cinque ports ships were usually painted either deep green or ochre because these pigments were easy to come by in nature. Some time during the Restoration era in Britain, more brilliant colors came into favor. Ships painted scarlet red, purple and sky blue were not uncommon. Patterns began to emerge during the 18th century. Nelson famously favored black and white checkered gunnels with a black or blue hull and the mania for “chequering” took off in the Royal Navy, continuing well into the 19th century. Pirates, it goes without saying, generally used what they had on hand. The worst of the worst would forego painting all together, and simply move to a newly captured prize when their current ship began to rot.

The colors that were popular in the Great Age of Sail are much harder to come by now, but you can obtain the elements needed in modern oil based paints and mix them yourself. Here are a few recommendations from Chambers’ Encyclopedia of 1882:

Cream: white lead, chrome yellow, and Venetian red
Drab: white lead, burnt umber, four or five drops of Venetian red
Fawn: white lead and burnt sienna
French gray: white lead, Prussian blue, two or three drops of vermilion
Imitation gold: white lead, chrome yellow and burnt sienna
Purple: white lead, Prussian blue and vermillion
Carnation pink: white lead tinted with Venetian red
Violet: white lead, Prussian blue, vermillion and two drops of black

White lead, incidentally, was the favored color for decks and other trimmings. Another good point to keep in mind is that most ship’s hulls would receive no fewer than six coats of paint along with varnish. Remember, as the old salts say, save the surface and you save all.

Header: Painting the Flagship Royal Navy c 1905 via pbenyon1

Seafaring Sunday: Huzzah for Lord Nelson!

February 20, 1797: Horatio Nelson, the son of a clergyman, is Knighted and promoted to Rear Admiral of the Blue in the Royal Navy.

Header: Horatio Lord Nelson by William Beechey