Maritime History and Identity: The Sea and Culture in the Modern World 9780755623730, 9780755627868

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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Richard J. Blakemore is Associate Research Fellow at the Centre for Maritime Historical Studies, University of Exeter. He holds a PhD from Cambridge University on London and the Thames maritime community during the British Civil Wars, and is currently writing The British Civil Wars at Sea, 1638–1653 with Elaine Murphy. Victoria Carolan is Visiting Lecturer at the Greenwich Maritime Institute, University of Greenwich. She holds a PhD from Queen Mary, University of London, on British maritime history, national identity and film. She previously held a two year stipendiary research fellowship at the Jan Van Eyck Academie, Maastricht, working on maritime identities through photography. Cori Convertito is Curator at the Key West Art & Historical Society in Key West, Florida and an Adjunct Instructor at Florida Keys Community College. She tolds a PhD from the University of Exeter, entitled ‘The Health of British Seamen in the West Indies, 1770–1806’, for which she was awarded the Boydell & Brewer Prize for the best doctoral thesis in maritime history, 2011–12. James Davey is Curator of Naval History at the National Maritime Museum and Visiting Lecturer at the Greenwich Maritime Institute, University of Greenwich. He holds a PhD from the University of Greenwich, entitled ‘War, Naval Logistics and the British State’. He is the author of The Transformation of British Naval Strategy: Seapower and

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Supply in Northern Europe, 1808–1812, co-author (with Richard Johns) of Broadsides: Caricature and the Navy 1756–1815 and co-editor (with Quintin Colville) of Nelson, Navy & Nation: The Royal Navy and the British People, 1688–1815. Roald Gjelsten served in the Norwegian Navy at sea, in defence colleges and on headquarters staffs. He is Researcher at the Norwegian Institute for Defence Studies where his research interests include security and defence policies as well as maritime issues during and after the Cold War. He has recently written a history of the Royal Norwegian Navy with Tom Kristiansen. Mark Jones is an Irish Research Council Postdoctoral Fellow at the Centre for War Studies, University College Dublin. He holds a PhD on political violence and the German revolution 1918/19 from the European University Institute in Florence. His main interests lie in twentieth-century German and Italian history, comparative and transnational history and the history of political violence. Tom Kristiansen is a Professor at the Norwegian Institute for Defence Studies. He earned his doctorate at the University of Bergen and has written extensively on Scandinavian diplomatic, naval and military history in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. He is co-editor of Navies in Northern Waters, 1721–2000 and has recently written a history of the Royal Norwegian Navy with Roald Gjelsten. John C. Mitcham teaches at the Howard College of Arts and Sciences, Samford University. He holds a PhD in British History from the University of Alabama. His research explores the cultural contours of British imperial defence policy in the late-Victorian and Edwardian periods, with a particular focus on cooperation with the self-governing Dominions. Alessio Patalano is Lecturer in War Studies at King’s College London, where he specialises in East Asian security and Japanese naval history and strategy. He is also Research Associate at the King’s China Institute. Since 2006, he has been Visiting Lecturer

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in Naval Strategy and East Asian security at the Italian Naval War College (ISMM), Venice and he is also currently Adjunct Fellow at the Institute of Contemporary Asian Studies, Temple University, Japan. Duncan Redford is Senior Research Fellow in Modern Naval History at the National Museum of the Royal Navy and Honorary Senior Research Fellow at the University of Portsmouth. He is the author of The Submarine: A Cultural History from the Great War to Nuclear Combat, A History of the Royal Navy: World War II and co-author of The Royal Navy: A History since 1900. He holds a PhD from Kings College London and was previously Leverhulme Early Career Research Fellow at the Centre for Maritime Historical Studies, University of Exeter. Giuseppe Restifo is Professor of History at the University of Messina. His research interests are the demographic, epidemic and maritime history of the Modern Age Mediterranean. He is the author of Tourism and History: Taormina, Sicily, 1750–1950. Daniel Owen Spence is Postdoctoral Research Fellow at the University of the Free State, South Africa. He holds a PhD from Sheffield Hallam University, entitled ‘Imperialism and Identity in British Colonial Naval Culture, 1930s to Decolonisation’. He is the author of Colonial Naval Culture and British Imperialism 1931–1967 and A History of the Royal Navy: Empire and Imperialism. Jo Stanley is a leading researcher on gender and the sea, using an interdisciplinary perspective. A writer, lecturer and facilitator, she is the author of Risk! Women on the Wartime Seas and Bold in her Breeches: Women Pirates across the Ages, and co-author (with Paul Baker) of Hello Sailor! The Hidden History of Homosexuality at Sea. She is Honorary Research Fellow at the Centre for Mobilities Research, Lancaster University. Carlos Alfaro Zaforteza is Visiting Research Fellow at the Department of War Studies, King’s College London. He is a specialist in the naval, imperial and diplomatic history of nineteenth-century

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Spain. He holds a PhD from Kings College London and is co-author of European Navies and the Conduct of War. Britt Zerbe holds a PhD from the Centre for Maritime History, University of Exeter. He is the author of The Birth of the Royal Marines 1664–1802 and A History of the Royal Navy: The Royal Marines.

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INTRODUCTION Duncan Redford

Maritime history, and its subset naval history, is a broad church containing an exciting array of approaches and potential areas of interest for the scholar. As such it is a discipline that has made great leaps of progress in the last 15 years. Whereas maritime and naval history has been seen in the past, possibly rightly, as a refuge for those whose only concern has been the minutiae of ship construction or battles, it is now a vibrant field that not only can provide a vital input to the traditional disciplines of political, diplomatic and economic history, but that is also playing a significant role in the newer, but now well established, areas of social and cultural history, as well as having an increasing following in its own right. With regard to British maritime history, Glen O’Hara made this point most powerfully in his 2009 review article ‘ “The Sea is Swinging into View”: Modern British Maritime History in a Globalised World’ in the English Historical Review, calling it ‘something of a renaissance.’1 However, the sea and identity, be it individual, local, regional, corporate or national, is an area that has not attracted as much attention as the social and cultural histories of the sea which have emerged in such marvellous profusion over the last few years, despite identity being an essential part of our understanding of these two themes. Perhaps this is because identity is still a new and somewhat challenging concept for some historians. As the popularity of the term “identity” within the history discipline has increased, the precision with which it is used has decreased. This is not a new problem, as Peter Mandler has pointed out: Phillip Gleason

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illustrated the origins of the term ‘identity’ as long ago as 1983.2 Nor, despite the easy conversion of ‘identity’ into glib political sound bites, has any real consensus emerged as to what exactly is meant by ‘identity’. Sociologists, who coined the term and led the initial research into identity issues, have not reached any definitive conclusions as to what it is, or how it is made or communicated. Historians, who have picked up the idea and explored it for a number of years and in a number of areas, like sociologists, cannot agree. It is admitted that this failure to develop a consensus has produced a certain Alice in Wonderland quality to identity debates, with historians and sociologists inadvertently taking their lead from Humpty Dumpty: ‘When I use a word,’ Humpty Dumpty said, in a rather scornful tone, ‘it means just what I choose it to mean, neither more nor less.’ ‘The question is,’ said Alice, ‘whether you can make words mean so many different things.’ It seems that, for the moment, those engaged in the study of identity in all its shapes and forms can. However, a historical approach to identity does not actually need a consensus between practitioners. One could argue that for historians the very debates and exchanges that arise from disputes and different conceptions are the means by which we can best make progress and evolve our understanding of historical issues. Perhaps the advantage of an historical view of identity over others is that it can allow scholars to avoid complex and disputed theory, regarding it instead as a guide to how we might marshal an argument and not a rigid framework. As historians we frequently do not seek to prove or disprove a model, but rather to enhance our understanding of an issue. Fortunately, there has been much impressive work by historians on identity over the last few years, even if little of it addresses the relationship between the sea and identity. The extremely valuable contributions to the identity debate by Peter Mandler, Linda Colley, Anthony D. Smith, Benedict Anderson, Paul Ward, Michael Billig and many others3 and the resulting discussion about what identity is or is not, has blazed a trail that we are glad to follow. Yet the variety of thought regarding

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the definition, construction and communication of identity does need some consolidation. More importantly, such debates and the identity discourse have not paid sufficient regard to the question of an identity changing over time. Nor has the maritime dimension been given the prominence that it deserves within the shaping of identities, not just of seaborne or littoral communities, but also that of larger, more generic constructions of identity such as the nation state. Indeed, it is also to be regretted that a great many otherwise excellent works examining identity, such as those by Robert Colls, Keith Robbins and Krishnan Kumar, to take a few at random which deal with English or British national identity, do not really get to grips with what at its simplest is a bilateral relationship between land and sea, sea and land but which can be a far more complex and multi-layered relationship.4 Similarly, one often looks in vain within histories of, for example, the British Empire, for any discussion of how Britain’s relationship with the sea shaped and contributed to its identity as an imperial state. Honourable exceptions to this generalisation include, but are not limited to, Jeremy Black’s Britain’s Seaborne Empire and Mary Conley’s From Jack Tar to Union Jack: Representing Naval Manhood in the British Empire 1870–1918. Others, like Robert Holland’s Blue-Water Empire: The British in the Mediterranean since 1800, while not dealing explicitly with identity, do place the sea at the centre of the imperial story.5 This book will hopefully bring the issue of identity into focus for maritime historians and allow us to play a part in an exciting debate that should aid both our understanding of the past and of today’s world. It should also highlight the many ways in which maritime identities can influence the understanding and construction of identity and can indeed be incorporated into more mainstream examinations of it. The contributions within this book, when taken together, suggest that identity should be considered as the multi-level network of ideas, beliefs and perceptions (political, religious, social, geographical, gender, security – the list is almost endless) of a member of an imagined community which in turn can stimulate that imagined community at the individual, local, regional or national level and which changes over time.6 As these ideas within the identity network

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can evolve in response to changes in the environment in which the imagined community exists – through time or by the impact of outside events – the links between the ideas may themselves also change, with the result that over time the response to a certain idea, belief or perception will produce a different reaction. This issue is clearly seen in the inability of today’s Royal Navy to stimulate public interest to the same degree that it did in the years before 1914 – the underlying message as to why Britain needs a navy and what its roles are has not necessarily changed in order to reflect changes that the population has experienced since then. But the question of identity in relation to the sea is also more than just a realisation of the importance of time, change and continuity. The sea is different. It may well be, for some, a transport medium no different from land or air, but for many it is more than that. The sea can be a frontier, a barrier, a livelihood, a place of adventure, a medium of political, diplomatic, cultural or economic exchange, even, in today’s climate-obsessed world, a threat. It is a place that can fire the imagination and break the heart. Seafarers, be they merchant or naval, have always had a very different understanding of the sea: for them, it is a familiar, if dangerous, workplace. To a ‘landsman’ – the sailors’ term for a non-seafarer – the sea could be a source of danger, hostility, the unknown, wealth or opportunity – a whole host of ‘others’ dependant on the individual viewpoint. All of these views of the sea as an ‘other’ could be at variance with that perception of ‘others’ by mariners, who were more likely to view the sea in relation to its position as their workplace. Even the way sailors dressed and the language they used set them apart from their counterparts ashore.7 The passage of time has not changed this. A twentieth-century merchant ship or warship and its crew would be just as superficially familiar to a member of the public as their eighteenth-century counterparts, drawn from and moulded by society but, at the same time, separate from it by virtue of their profession and the location of their workplace. Thus, the sailor was and remains an ‘other’ to the civil population. But, as Jo Stanley demonstrates in this book, the sea and, above all, ships, because they were an ‘other’, could also be liberating. The ship at sea was a place where some of society’s

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rules were weak or ignored and new measures of what was acceptable behaviour were formed and became accepted, not just by the seafaring community, but also by visitors from what was to the ship’s crew an ‘other’ – civil society. At the same time, the sea could be seen as an ‘other’ – something that caused society to unite against it.8 With regard to the sea, this view is illustrated by the efforts from the eighteenth century onwards to tame the ocean, to make it safe and to civilise it through advances in navigation – from Harrison’s chronometer, charts, hydrography, the provision of recognisable buoyage and lighthouses by Trinity House, to the rescue role of coastguards and the establishment of a volunteer lifeboat system. Yet the sea could also be an ‘other’ as a medium by which ‘others’ were brought into conflict. This conflict with ‘others’ could be in the form of real or imagined invaders, as Linda Colley has suggested.9 It could also be found where the sea was used as a medium for communication and economic activity where it became the means by which, for example, Britons moved into the spheres of ‘others’ who were not believed to be natural seamen unlike the British, or as an industrial sphere of business and trade. One of the pleasures of producing this book, and of reading the opinions in such varied and scholarly contributions, has been to see the similarities rather than the differences between the varied identities that have been shaped by their interaction with the sea. Identity was and is often constructed in opposition to perceived differences – the traditional view of the ‘other’ is that it is something that is seen to threaten or challenge a group. But, as many of the contributions show, the actual differences were not that great. Above all, it is the sea itself which often set mariners apart from those who did not go down to the sea in ships, and which united them irrespective of their identity. Indeed, the identities of those shaped by the sea do not necessarily adhere to the more rigid national or ethnic boundaries found on land. Oceanic empires created the foundations for the globalised world we live in today, fostering increased interactions and connections across the seas. This complicates traditional understandings of identity in that it created transnational communities and affiliations, separate

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from metropole-centred politics and the notion of the ‘state’, with its fixed terrestrial borders. This book aims to explore the relationship between different identities, different times, different locations and the sea through five avenues. First, there are three chapters dealing with national identity and the sea. James Davey looks at the idea of the British naval hero in the eighteenth century, in particular considering how the image of the naval hero was disseminated across the political and cultural sphere to shed light on the cultural and ideological framework of contemporary political discussion. He shows that one can tell how a nation thought about itself by examining what it read, bought and consumed and, in doing so, demonstrates that, more than any other institution, the Royal Navy provided a means by which individuals could identify with the new ‘British’ political nation. Alessio Patalano takes the Imperial Japanese Navy as his subject, examining how the imperial naval narrative became popularised through journalism and popular history in the controversial initial years of the post-war era. One man above all others helped in this task; the journalist Itoˉ Masanori, who was dedicated to the question of Japan’s national identity and the role of the navy in it. In his chapter, Patalano looks at Itoˉ’s career in detail, both pre and post World War II to show how the navy was rehabilitated into Japanese history following the trauma of Japan’s wartime experience. In the last of the three chapters, I look at the Royal Navy and British national identity after 1870. I argue that it is changes in national identity – especially the public’s sense of the security conferred by Britain’s island status, as well as changing attitudes to Britain’s place in the world – that have caused the gradual decrease in public and political interest in maritime – including naval – affairs, to the point where such issues are effectively ignored. This phenomenon has been termed ‘sea blindness’. The second strand of enquiry for this book is that of the relationship between the sea and regional identities. This set of chapters has a more maritime focus than the purely naval issues that were raised in the discussion on the sea and national identity. Giuseppe Restifo considers the Sicilian port of Messina in the early modern

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period and illustrates the way the sea bound together a community which was made up of a wide range of separate groups with ties, histories and customs that came from different regions in Italy and the Mediterranean shore. Richard Blakemore looks at London’s littoral identity and the interplay of sea, river land and community in the parishes that stretched along the Thames downriver of London Bridge. He argues that London was different from many other sixteenth and seventeenth century ports in that it was an appreciable distance from the sea, but linked to it by a river. The Thames and the parishes along its banks therefore formed a melting pot in which disparate spaces and communities interacted in the formation of a unique maritime identity. In their chapter, Tom Kristiansen and Roald Gjelsten discuss the profound impact the sea has had on Norway, not just as seen through national policy, but also in almost every arena – economic, social, geographical and cultural. Norway, as a region as much as a state, has been made by the sea and has a clear maritime character as a result. Victoria Carolan brings us back to thinking about the British relationship with the sea, but this time on a regional, industrial and cultural level through her chapter examining the portrayal of the British shipbuilding industry in film. Carolan demonstrates that documentary films from the interwar and World War II period not only provided a voice for regional and local identities, but also played a role in binding these identities within a larger whole that was based on the sea. Yet class, not local, identity was the chief focus of the films as they sought to mediate between socialism and middleclass conservatism and liberalism. The third aspect of identity that we are interested in within this book is that of corporate identities. Britt Zerbe considers the formation of the identity of that unusual beast – the Royal Marine – in the mid to late eighteenth century. He shows that there was an interesting combination of strategic imperative – the need for an amphibious force – and practical infrastructure issues – the use of barracks – that created an organisation that was neither totally naval or completely military, that was part of port communities but distinct from it. Mark Jones uses the destruction of Vice Admiral Maximilian von

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Spee’s Asiatic Squadron at the Battle of the Falklands in 1914 to examine the corporate identity of the Imperial German Navy in the opening few months of World War I. Jones explains how Spee’s defeat was converted into a tale of self-sacrifice which was used within the construction of corporate identity as an example for the rest of the German Fleet to follow. The fourth section of this book considers individual identities. Cori Convertito examines the use of tattooing to express individual identity in the Victorian Royal Navy and discusses the variety of tattooing within the Navy at that time, showing that there were strong themes running behind lower deck body art. Jo Stanley considers the way sexuality of the individual seafarer influenced and was influenced by shipboard life. She demonstrates that being at sea allowed men to live out a different way of life – one that would not have been acceptable on land. The final strand that this book explores is related to imperial identities. Carlos Alfaro Zaforteza demonstrates that Britain was not alone in thinking that its navy was necessary for its greatness and international influence; Spain also thought along similar lines in the nineteenth century. John Mitcham on the other hand explores the British experience in the late-Victorian and Edwardian periods. In his chapter, Mitcham considers the role of the navy within the idea of a ‘Greater Britain’ or Britain beyond the seas. In the final chapter, Daniel Owen Spence explores the problems the Royal Navy faced by adopting a ‘martial race’ approach to recruiting within the Empire. As Spence shows, a martial race – one that was perceived by colonial authorities to make good soldiers – was not necessarily the same as a good sailor, and the seafaring identity of colonial peoples could conflict with their prescribed imperial identity as ‘loyal’ subjects of the British Empire. We may consider that various groups and states have a special relationship with the sea, or have been uniquely shaped by it. Britain, as an island race of seafarers, springs to mind. However, this book shows very clearly that the differences between those groups who use and live on or by the sea, are actually much less than they may perceive. The

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sea truly does unite people through culture, economics, politics and through their identity.

Notes 1. Glen O’ Hara, ‘ “The Sea is Swinging into View”: Modern British Maritime History in a Globalised World’, English Historical Review, vol. CXXIV (2009), p. 1109, see also pp. 1109–1134. 2. Peter Mandler, ‘What is “National Identity”? Definitions and Applications in Modern British Historiography’, Journal of Intellectual History, vol. 3 (2006) p. 271; Philip Gleason, ‘Identifying Identity: A Semantic History’, Journal of American History, vol. 69 (1983), pp. 910–931. 3. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities, rev. edn. (London, 1991); Linda Colley, Britons: Forging the Nation 1707–1837 (New Haven, 1992); Tim Edensor, National Identity, Popular Culture and Everyday Life (Oxford, 2002); Gleason, ‘Identifying Identity’; Mandler, ‘What is “National Identity”?’; Peter Mandler, The Fall and Rise of the Stately Home (New Haven, 1997). See also Peter Mandler, The English National Character: The History of an Idea from Edmund Burke to Tony Blair (New Haven, 2006); Anthony D. Smith, National Identity (London, 1991); Paul Ward, Britishness Since 1870 (London, 2004). 4. Robert Colls, Identity of England (Oxford, 2002); Krishan Kumar, The Making of English National Identity (Cambridge, 2003); Keith Robbins, Great Britain: Identities, Institutions and the Idea of Britishness (London, 1998). 5. Jeremy Black, Britain’s Seaborne Empire (London, 2004); Mary A. Conley, From Jack Tar to Union Jack: Representing Naval Manhood in the British Empire 1870– 1918 (Manchester, 2009); Robert Holland, Blue-Water Empire: The British in the Mediterranean since 1800 (London, 2012). 6. Tim Edensor has stressed the need to think of national identity as a matrix, which is a very persuasive approach but he does not seem to allow for the possibility of change over time within his matrix; see Edensor, National Identity, pp. 1–37. 7. N.A.M. Rodger, The Wooden World (London, 1988), p. 15; Robert E. Glass, ‘The Image of the Sea Officer in English Literature 1660–1710’, Albion, vol. 26 (1994), p. 583. Quintin Colville has noted how naval fashion moved closer to that of civil dress, especially during the early and mid-twentieth century, see Quintin Colville, ‘Jack Tar and the Gentleman Officer: The Role of Uniform in Shaping the Class and Gender-related Identities of British Naval

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Personnel 1930–1939’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, vol. 13 (2003), pp. 105–29. 8. See Linda Colley, ‘Britishness and Otherness: An Argument’, Journal of British Studies, vol. 31, no. 4 (1992), pp. 309–329. 9. Linda Colley, ‘The Significance of the Frontier in British History’ in Wm. Roger Louis (ed.) More Adventures with Britannia: Personalities, Politics and Culture in Britain (London, 1998) p. 17.

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CHAPTER 1 THE NAVAL HERO AND BR ITISH NATIONAL IDENTIT Y 1707–1750 James Davey

The subject of national identity has been much in vogue in the last two decades. Linda Colley’s claim that after the 1707 Act of Union a sense of Britishness began to be forged has had its supporters and detractors.1 Alongside this, a parallel historiography has emerged, illuminating the Royal Navy’s role in moulding British national identity, though this has concentrated on the long nineteenth century beginning with the French Revolutionary Wars.2 However, the Navy’s role as a cultural instrument can be traced back to the early eighteenth century, if not before. When the Navy has been considered in this earlier period, it is usually through the lens of Admiral Edward Vernon, who won widespread popularity after his successes of 1739– 40. Kathleen Wilson, Gerald Jordan and Nicholas Rogers have seen Vernon’s popularity founded in his political opinions and his place in a British imperial project; Vernon won universal plaudits because he stood for empire and opposition politics.3 This chapter considers how the idea of the ‘naval hero’ was disseminated across the political and cultural sphere. Poetry, ballads, drama, print, fiction and prose satire are invaluable historical sources,

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illustrating issues commanding the attention of the British people across a range of social, regional and gender backgrounds, shedding light on the cultural and ideological framework of contemporary political discussion, in this case patriotism.4 It is possible to analyse how a nation thought about itself by consulting what it read, bought and consumed. Given this, it is clear that the Royal Navy provided a means by which individuals could identify with a nascent ‘British’ nation. Britain in the eighteenth century was a precarious and recently formed federal political unit. However, there is now a growing acceptance that a unifying sense of Britishness started to emerge – albeit slowly and fitfully – and made inroads into capturing hearts and minds after 1707.5 As the British nation was being created, so too was a concurrent sense of national identity: a common experience, patriotic feeling, culture or community – based within the territorial boundaries of a polity – that reached across class, gender and most importantly regional lines.6 That is not to say that everyone succumbed to these patriotic sentiments. For many, particularly those away from the maritime centres of London, Portsmouth and Plymouth, the Navy was less visible and played little role in their sense of self. The Navy was not ever-present nor was it all-embracing. It was reflected in only part of British culture and British society was far from homogenous.7 Regional loyalties, in particular Welsh and Scottish nationalism, did not cease with the Union of 1707. However, the naval hero – in this period always an officer – provided a nucleus around which Britishness could be forged. ‘English’ and ‘British’ were not exclusive terms after 1707, and both were frequently used. Stephen Conway has noted that a sailor from Admiral Vernon’s fleet in the 1740s referred to ‘English ships’, ‘English colours’ and the superior qualities of ‘Englishmen’.8 The terms ‘English’ and ‘British’ could be used synonymously, indeed absent-mindedly. The author Jonathan Swift and the historian Captain Charles Jenkins used ‘Britain’ and ‘England’ interchangeably, often on the same page.9 ‘Britain’ had been used as a unifying term before 1707. English people had always liked to play on the Greater Britain theme when it suited them, while Britannia was a symbol commonly evoked before 1707. A

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pamphlet of 1689 was entitled Gloria Britannica; Or, The Boast of the British Seas. Containing a True and Full Account of the Royal Navy of England.10 There is evidence though that suggests these words could be used very deliberately. The case of the ballad Admiral Hosier’s Ghost is instructive. Originally published in 1740, following Vernon’s capture of Porto Bello, the first stanza ended thus: ‘And his Crew, with Shouts victorious Drank Success to England’s Fleet’. Twelve years later however, it was included in a publication collating various British songs, The Charmer: A Choice Collection of Songs, Scots and English. In this, there was clear value for a Scottish publisher in referring to a British rather than to an English fleet, and so the same stanza ends with ‘British fleet’ in the latter edition. In a ballad of 72 lines, this is the only word changed, suggesting a conscious effort on the part of the publishers to inculcate a more ‘British’ approach.11 This chapter, then, places the naval hero at the centre of the development of a British national identity. Individual naval leaders, including but not limited to Admiral Vernon, became exceptionally important national symbols. This became particularly prevalent in the 1740s, when naval commanders represented the nation’s foremost champions, defending Britain without infringing British liberties. Though the idea of the English naval hero was nothing new, the Act of Union of 1707 which amalgamated England and Scotland into a single united kingdom prompted a redefinition, with the naval hero coming to represent fundamentally British characteristics. By using the naval hero to promote a sense of ‘Britishness’, various agents hoped to appeal to ideas already circulating in society. In continuing to propagate these notions, they would inculcate and further the link between the naval hero and British national identity.

The Naval Hero and Ideas of Britishness There were particular reasons why naval leaders came to embody national desires and interests. The Navy was the nation’s main arm of defence from invasion, while the wealth of the nation – its maritime trade – relied on naval power for protection. Commercial wealth

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and naval power were seen as mutually sustaining. Flourishing trade fuelled the Navy, providing funds in the form of customs revenues and manpower in the shape of able seamen, while an effective seaborne force guarded existing channels of trade and opened up new ones. Nowhere was this better expressed than by Lord Haversham, in an oft-quoted speech to the House of Lords in 1707: Your fleet and your trade have so near a relation, and such a mutual influence upon each other that cannot be well separated; your trade is the mother and nurse of your seamen; your seamen are the life of your fleet, and your fleet is the security and protection of your trade, and both together are the wealth, strength and glory of Britain.12 That most powerful of interest groups, the City of London, identified the Navy as its protector. Following the Act of Union, this was restated in British terms. One pamphlet from 1727 succinctly presented this argument: Great Britain’s Sinking Fund is a Powerful Maritime War, Rightly Manag’d, and Especially in the West Indies.13 In this the Navy ‘articulated symbolically’ the national interest.14 It is estimated that one fifth of the population drew their livelihood from trade and distribution. The Royal Navy was also the largest national employer; this included many tens of thousands of seamen, but also dockyard workers, and the farmers and contractors who fed the Navy.15 On average during the period 1707–1755, 24 per cent of national expenditure went to the Navy. Given the centrality of the Navy to British life it should not surprise us that it could impact upon the popular consciousness. As John Brewer has noted, enthusiasm for nation’s blue-water policies spread far beyond the wharves and counting houses of British ports; it made sense to almost all members of commercial society.16 The Navy was seen as the ultimate defender of the British way of life, an understanding that crossed British society. One pamphlet noted ‘the happy situation of Great Britain, and its boasted Security from the Insults of a Foreign Enemy, by its maritime Strength, added to its own natural Fortifications, cannot but engage every honest Member

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of the community to contribute his best Wishes, and most zealous Endeavours towards the Preservation of such invaluable Blessings’. It stood to reason therefore, that there was a ‘fine Disposition of the People to naval Affairs’, more so than ‘all other Countries’.17 There was a wide and important cultural public engagement with the Navy. By comparison, the Army was seen as alien to the interests of the British people, with fears of standing armies, billeting and foraging still prominent in political discourse. A pamphlet of 1745 stated that ‘a Standing Army will always very much contribute towards making a Parliament venal, and a Ministry corrupt and voracious’.18 The Navy, however, was seen as the protector of British trade, liberty, and the country’s way of life. It followed that naval personnel could be afforded heroic status, and feted around the kingdom. The fame of individual naval officers provided an opportunity to represent them to the public in creative ways. The celebration of a naval leader was nothing new; the Navy had grown in size and importance across the seventeenth century, and England had always turned to its naval heroes in times of crisis. In contrast to Vernon in the 1740s, the earlier heroes of the 1700s – Admirals John Benbow, Edward Russell, Cloudesley Shovell and George Rooke – all won popular notoriety. Benbow was deeply mourned on his death in 1702: ‘O unfortunate people’, wrote an early commentator, ‘to lose a man more valuable than the Indies’.19 Prints were published and accounts of his battles were sold to an enthusiastic public; songs were sung in his honour. Benbow’s bravery was in sharp relief to the cowardice shown by Richard Kirkby and Cooper Wade.20 Ideas of what a naval officer should be began to circulate, not least in the halls of Whitehall. Following the Battle of Beachy Head in 1690, the first thought of the Admiralty was to enquire into the character of its officers: ‘to examine and inquire into the actions, conduct, courage and behaviour of the Admirals, and Rear Admirals of your fleet, & Captains, Commanders & Officers of any of your Majesty’s Ships in the same late engagement’. In the report that followed, each officer was rated on his conduct: it was found ‘to be the general Opinion’ that had specific officers ‘bore down and press’d the Enemy equally with the rest of the fleet, the French would

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not have had the success, as to be able to keep the Sea, and many of the officers of those two divisions wish’d they might have been nearer the Enemy’.21 Officers that fulfilled national expectations were celebrated. Admiral Cloudesley Shovell was mourned in death as a national hero; he was buried in Westminster Abbey in 1708 with a spectacular monument in marble.22 Shovell’s statue in Westminster Abbey noted he was ‘lamented by all, but especially the Seafaring part of the Nation to whom he was a generous Patron and worthy example’.23 The Navy had yet to be a truly national symbol: it carried weight in maritime circles but no further. The years of peace that followed the War of Spanish Succession saw the Navy recede in the popular mind. However, the onset of war with Spain in 1739, and France in 1744, once again placed the Navy and its personnel at the forefront of the national consciousness. This was an opportunity not missed by the most ambitious of all earlyeighteenth century officers, Admiral Edward Vernon. Given the scale of his popular reception, he can be considered the first British naval hero. Following the widespread and unprecedented celebrations that followed his successes at Porto Bello and Cartagena in 1739–40, Admiral Vernon was appropriated as a national hero and patriot, who restored national honour and protected British liberty and properties, at home and abroad.24 He was placed at the end of a line of naval heroes: as the Gentleman’s Magazine described: ‘to humble Spain three naval heroes born, Drake, Raleigh, Vernon Britain’s Isle Adorn’.25 During the following years, subsequent naval officers – most notably admirals George Anson, Peter Warren and Thomas Mathews – also came to personify the ways the nation had come to depend on the Navy. At a time of heightened invasion fears, they were shining examples of Britain’s main defence against invasion. They also symbolised aggressive mercantile interests. The City of London made Vernon a freeman and presented him with a freedom box; ‘a testimony of the greatest sense this city hath of his eminent services to the Nation by taking Porto-Bello and demolishing the fortifications thereof’.26 In these years of conflict, naval heroes were increasingly referred to as ‘British’. This national identification was a direct result of the 1707 union with Scotland, but also demonstrates how commentators,

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writers and manufacturers saw a need to redefine heroism in a British context. It followed that the characteristics of the British naval hero were little different to his ‘English’ predecessor. Naval officers were seen to symbolically articulate national interests and represent important characteristics. With their plain, manly sincerity they exemplified all that was truest in the British character, and contrasted with Frenchified effeminacy. Naval leaders were able to play on these ideas of Britishness because they displayed the characteristics – bravery, manliness, and independence – that came to symbolise an idealised notion of the national character.27 Courage, above all, was seen as the defining feature of an officer’s character;28 however, there were other more nuanced characteristics. As Admiral Vernon himself commented in a pamphlet published in 1747, ‘It is certainly necessary that a sea officer should have good natural courage: but it is equally just that he should have a good share of sense, be perfect master of his business, and have some taste for honour’.29 It was this identification of naval leaders with patriotic qualities that enabled the Scottish historian John Campbell to publish Lives of the Admirals and other Eminent British Seamen in 1742. In this he highlighted the fundamental characteristics of the ‘British’ admiral, using the naval officer to portray a self-consciously patriotic ideal of Britishness. Campbell’s work reflected widespread ideas about naval officers, and placed the ‘characters, conduct and personal history of admirals and other seamen’ at the centre of the British historical narrative. The British admiral was skilled in navigation, virtuous, heroic and, most importantly, successful. The book highlighted the courage of naval leaders, celebrating those ‘brave ancestors of their Country’s Cause who have vindicated its rights at sea’. More than this though, Campbell used the exploits of the admirals in question to forward a sense of national identity: the book became ‘the most generous kind of Patriotism. For to know, and in Consequence thereof to assert our Country’s rights, is in their World the great Business of a Briton’. Campbell covered ‘the Britons’ from early Roman times; the first section, taking up half of the first volume, covers the Roman and Saxon eras, the chapter deliberately titled ‘The Naval History of the Britons’, tracing Britishness back through ‘the Transactions of

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One Thousand, Seven Hundred and Forty Years’.30 This long view appropriated – with what might be termed considerable license – famous figures from millennia before and reinventing them with a British identity. Caesar himself was deemed relevant because the author believed the public would be receptive to ideas about longstanding British characteristics.31 It passed through three editions in Campbell’s lifetime and was translated into German. After his death it swelled into eight volumes, continued by other authors. In total six editions were published.32 The naval leader was being used to deliberately fashion how people understood nationality. Just as naval heroes were promoted as emblems of Britishness, interpretations of national identity were used to question naval leaders who failed to meet public expectations. In 1744 the Mediterranean Fleet, under the command of Admiral Thomas Mathews, failed to prevent the French Toulon squadron escaping. Mathews laid the blame firmly at the door of his second in command, Admiral Richard Lestock, who had called off the pursuit of the French fleet. Lestock disagreed, and stated that the signal for the line had been flying (rather than the signal to engage) which he saw as his primary duty to obey.33 The two admirals fought a war of words with each other in the national press, each distancing themselves from responsibility. The debate centred on the characteristics a British admiral was supposed to possess. Lestock argued that naval leaders were supposed to follow orders regardless of the situation. Conversely, Mathews stated that his primary concern was not ‘discipline’ and the generic rules and regulations of military service, but attacking the enemy and securing victory. As one of his supporters wrote, promising to comment on the ‘Characters of some Commanders’: ‘The Question is whether it is the most commendable for an officer to lie idle in the station allotted him by his Superior, and thereby perform no manner of Service; or by swerving a little, distress the Enemy and serve his Country?’.34 In other words, a British admiral was supposed to be brave, use his initiative and attack. ‘Brave Admiral Matthews [sic] has been on the main, with a true British heart’, one supportive ballad proclaimed.35 Mathews – a Welshman from Llandaff – was

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described only as a Briton. The supporters of Lestock offered a different perspective: With a disinterestedness, a Candor, and a Nobleness of Soul, use their Talents and Capacities in Pursuit of the true Interests of their Country: and by their Prudence and Courage surmount all Obstacles and Difficulties: while pure Reason, Fortitude and Military Virtue appear to be the Rule of their Will.36 In their eyes, an admiral was not a hot-headed man who should attack without thinking, but who gave proper consideration to his orders, and contemplated the national interest. Lestock’s acquittal, and Mathews’s subsequent dismissal from service, might suggest that the former’s argument had gained the widest acceptance. On the contrary, the public reaction overwhelmingly disagreed with the decision. A naval historian writing in 1758 noted that ‘the nation could not be persuaded that the vice-admiral ought to be exculpated for not fighting and the admiral cashiered for fighting’. In his History of England, written the following year, Nicholas Tindal recorded how Lestock ‘was in the eye of the disappointed and enraged public a criminal, and the resentments and prepossessions against him were daily gathering strength’. When it became known that Mathews had been convicted, ‘the public was astonished at this sentence’.37 As far as the public were concerned, an admiral that acted quickly, courageously and with boldness was to be celebrated, while an officer that stuck to the rules, even when it was deemed in the national interest, was to be vilified. The character of the naval officer was the constant talking point during the debates; it was bold and aggressive action that proved appealing to the public.

The Consumption of the Naval Hero The patriotic resonance of these individuals rested upon the degree to which their exploits could be broadcast to a nation. Admiral Vernon’s victories overlooked regional loyalties, being celebrated across England,

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Ireland, Wales, Scotland and North America. According to London Magazine, the anniversary of Porto Bello was celebrated ‘in most of the chief places in the kingdom, as also in Ireland’.38 Celebrations occurred in at least 54 towns, with festivities planned and financed by subscriptions of local merchants. Prints, poems and ballads appeared at booksellers and print shops in London and in provincial newspapers.39 By the mid-1740s London was producing dozens of daily, tri-weekly, fortnightly papers, while there were 381 printers at work in 174 English towns, amounting to 35 provincial newspapers by 1760. With a concurrent rise in urban literacy, this meant print and press reached greater audiences than ever before, being consumed across social lines. It has been estimated that between 1700 and 1760, literacy rates among trades and craftsman rose from 60 to 85 per cent, while amongst women literacy grew from 30 to 50 per cent.40 By 1746 100,000 newspapers were being sold in London each week, reaching an estimated 500,000 readers. Samuel Johnson estimated that the Gentleman’s Magazine, in which praise of Vernon and Anson reached giddy heights, had a circulation of 10,000.41 Other naval heroes benefitted from the possibilities of national exposure. Admiral George Anson’s circumnavigation of the world, in particular his capture of the Spanish treasure ship Nuestra Senora de Covadonga, its contents triumphantly paraded through the streets of London, made him a national hero.42 The first official history of his circumnavigation was published in 1748.43 Since Vernon’s victory in 1739, there had been little to cheer about on a naval front. Anson restored national self-esteem; a poem ‘Great Britain’s Triumph’ described the public delight ‘at seeing the Waggons loaded with Treasure pass through the City of London’.44 Anson’s 1747 victory off Cape Finisterre elevated him still further in the popular mind, gaining him a peerage as Lord Anson. Accounts of his exploits were undeniably popular. The General Advertiser marketed the publication of ‘An Account of the Expedition to the South Seas, under the Command of George Anson’, noting that only a few remained.45 The Whitehall Evening Post or London Intelligencer advertised a mezzotint print of Anson, and one of an ‘Exact Representation’ of the battle of Cape Finisterre’.46 Anson made sure that the most widely read literature recorded a favourable account of

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Figure 1.1 Print depicting Admiral George Anson, 1751 (© National Maritime Museum, PAF3416).

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his exploits, loaded with patriotic language. ‘I told him that the Kings of Great Britain’s ships were never treated upon the footing of trading vessels’ went part of his narrative.47 Officers were again judged on ‘British’ characteristics. After the Battle of Cape Finisterre, the Gentleman’s Magazine highlighted ‘that truly British nobleman’ who had fought so well.48 The exploits of naval officers also produced a swathe of patriotic ballads. By the late-seventeenth century ballads had become by far the most popular printed medium in the literary marketplace of London: ‘Indeed, one could not travel anywhere in the city of London without hearing ballads sung on street corners, or seeing broadsides pasted up on posits and walls’. Ballads were sent to the provinces or onto the streets of London in the packs of peddlers along with other cheap fare. By the mid-eighteenth century, there were thriving ballad printing industries in Edinburgh and Glasgow. Ballads also filtered across all levels of society. The ‘broadside ballad’ was the cheapest and most popular literary genre of the period. Printed on one side of a single sheet costing one penny or less, they were accessible to all sectors of society. Cheap, using simple language, uncomplicated narrative lines, sung to common tunes, they were often displayed in public spaces, alehouses, taverns, and homes, and when sung, could be heard by paying and non-paying bystanders alike. Along with the Bible and local histories, they formed the reading matter of the poor during the eighteenth century. Indeed, as the scholarship of Tessa Watt has indicated, ballads reached all classes and thus represented a ‘shared culture’.49 Admiral Vernon was celebrated in a series of ballads and in one case an entire volume of songs.50 In these ballads, Vernon was characterised as a true Briton, represented as the incarnation of liberty and patriotic virtue, a ‘True Briton’, and ‘Britain’s Avenger’. Similarly, a popular play ‘The Play of the British Hero; or Admiral Vernon’s Conquest over the Spaniards’ had to turn away viewers.51 It was not only Vernon and Anson that inspired ballads, for the wars of the 1740s presented many other successful admirals to the public. This was done regardless of the officer’s rank and breeding: ‘All the World well know’, wrote one pamphleteer, ‘that in the Navy many Commission-Officers, some even of the first Rank, have risen from the

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Figure 1.2 and 1.3 Plate, teapot and bowl, showing the capture of Porto Bello in 1739 (© National Maritime Museum, AAA4352, 4354 and 4355)

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Figure 1.4 Medal commemorating Spanish galleys destroyed, 1742 (©National Maritime Museum, MEC1133)

lowest’.52 No-one personified this more than Admiral Peter Warren, an Irishman who had signed on to the Navy as an ordinary seaman in 1716, before rising to the rank of Vice-Admiral of the Red. Anson and Warren were celebrated together in song, invoking Britannia and playing on ideas of British nationalism: To Anson and Warren your Bumpers life high, They’ll chase the French Squadrons beneath ev’ry Sky ...

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... O’erjoy’d they sail forth and come up with the Foe, Determin’d like Britons to strike a bold Blow.53 The last phrase is crucial: regardless of their origins, they were both British heroes. Another poem stated that: One world was all that Greece subdu’d of yore, For Britain Anson shall discover more While Warren, chief for equal worth renown’d Shall conquer all the worlds by Anson found.54 The naval hero was not only celebrated in printed form. Vernon and to a lesser extent Anson were emblazoned on vast quantities of material culture, including medals, ceramics, fans and plates. 102 medals were stuck in Vernon’s honour between 1740 and 1743, more than any other figure in the eighteenth century.55 Elizabeth Robinson Montagu described the meeting of Vernon material culture and patriotic celebration with her description of a rural fair in 1742: ‘Under another booth, for the pleasure of bold British youths, was Admiral Vernon, in gingerbread; indeed he appeared in many shapes there; and the curate of the parish carried him home in a brass tobacco stopper’.56 The production of these goods during the first half of the eighteenth century demonstrates how manufacturers saw the Navy, and patriotism, as a ‘useable resource’: from patriotism, profits could be expected.57 Merchants saw and took advantage of a market for overtly patriotic objects and did well out of it, if the amount of material still remaining today is any judge. Patriotism, in this sense, was a commercial initiative, but one based on an expectation of demand. Since the late-seventeenth century, monarchs and military figures had been immortalised on ceramics. Subsequent social, economic and technological developments opened consumption to ever wider markets. A growing population and increasing wage rates had created a mass consumer market. More pronounced social mobility created a culture whereby possessions symbolised and signalled each step in social promotion. As Neil McKendrick has put it, there was an ‘increased desire to spend and an increased ability to do so’.58 What followed

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An ivory and paper fan printed with a depiction of Vernon’s victory at Portobello, 21 November 1739, hand coloured, 1740 (©National Maritime Museum, OBJ0421)

were consequent advances in marketing, distribution and advertising. Astbury ware, salt-glaze and delftware potteries in Lambeth, Bristol and Liverpool, and particularly Shelton in Staffordshire, began producing vast quantities of commemorative pottery with naval heroes at the fore (see figures 1.2 and 1.3). When manpower or materials were unavailable, ceramic manufactures satisfied the growing public demand by producing portrait figures, busts and medallions of the country’s naval heroes.59 Merchandise of varying quality was available at a ranges of prices; for example porcelain for high end purchasers, and earthenware for the middle ranks. Ownership of earthenware doubled during the 1670–1725 period.60 Though McKendrick’s idea of a ‘consumer revolution’ has had its critics61, it is clear that material culture became a defining status object of the ‘middling sorts’. The middle classes increasingly defined themselves by their possessions: Maxine Berg notes that approximately 25–30 per cent of wealth was held as consumer goods. It was thus possible, given the decline in the cost of these goods, ‘to bring them to the horizons of labouring class expenditure for the

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Figure 1.6 Plate representing a naval hero, London, c.1740–50 (©Victoria and Albert Museum, CIRC.82–1963)

first time’. Those among the labouring poor who sought fashionable possessions joined in the wider consumer movement.62 For instance, the numerous medals celebrating Admirals Vernon, Anson and Warren were often made of cheap metal and of poor workmanship, but were highly patriotic in sentiment.63 A burgeoning middle class extending from professionals, merchants and industrialists to ordinary tradespeople and artisans embraced these new consumer types, and all that they conveyed.64 Objects purchased were, as John Styles has noted, ‘indispensable props in the genteel performances that constituted politeness, whether in the dining room or the assembly

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room’. An individual’s gentility was judged by whether one owned the ‘right’ items.65 Amidst a seemingly infinite variety of designs, objects relating to the navy were particularly popular. These were overtly patriotic objects that made a statement about individual identity, allowing purchasers to express allegiance and solidarity with the British polity. Consumption of medals and ceramics bearing the figures of Admirals Vernon and Anson tell us a great deal about the role the naval hero played in the domestic sphere. Sold across the nation, to a variety of social groups, female consumers too could engage with the naval hero and his exploits, such as the fan in figure 1.5. This object celebrated Vernon’s courage, engraved with the words in overtly patriotic language: Hark the Briton Cannon thunders See my Lads six Ships appear; Every Briton acting Wonders, Strikes the Southern World with fear. Porto Bello fam’d in Story Now at last submits to fate; Vernon’s Courage gains us Glory, And his Mercy proves us great.66 Objects did not need to refer to a particular individual. During the 1740s, plates were produced that showed not a particular commander, but a generic figure representing a naval hero.67 The naval hero had become the determinate of British success in war, and also of a nascent sense of national identity.

The Naval Hero and National Identity During the 1740s, then, the naval hero had secured an important place in British popular culture, forwarding a sense of Britishness amongst its population. Admiral Vernon himself had stated in 1741 that naval officers had long been considered ‘in a secondary light, as Persons of little Consequence out of our own element’. Admirals

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Vernon, Anson, Warren and Mathews had fundamentally altered this. The British public grew to agree with Vernon, that naval officers were ‘the only natural Strength of Great-Britain’.68 Naval heroes captured the public imagination and exemplified the values that society, or sections of it, held dear. The naval hero became a nucleus around which ideas of Britishness could be constructed, displaying certain characteristics – boldness, courage and success – that constituted the national spirit. In this context, the naval hero was consumed across the nation, in newspapers, prints, ballads, and a variety of other material culture, patriotic in tone and design. The naval hero was reconfigured amidst a broader discourse on Britishness. The figure of the heroic navy officer was by no means the only function of national identity, nor was it ubiquitous across the country. Not everyone bought ceramics or engaged with a ‘British’ project. Vernon later became dismayed with the dynamic he had done so much to create. He commented in 1747 that ‘The general notion about sea-officers is that they should have the courage of brutes without any regard to the fine qualities of men ... [this] ... makes no distinction between the judgement skill and address of a Blake and a mere fighting blockhead without ten grains of common sense’.69 The British people were not concerned with the finer points of an admiral’s education, only that he was brave, bold and, above all, successful. There can be no doubting that the naval hero had become the nation’s protector, in both tactical and symbolic terms. In 1748, one commentator wrote to the Westminster Journal, in which he framed the perils of the country in terms of the naval leadership: To what purpose has a large quantity of British Blood been spilt, and Treasure expended? ... How we did rejoice at the Taking of Porto Bello, and Levelling the Forts of Carthagena? ... And how we did rejoice at the Behaviour of Anson and Warren, and of Hawke! And have we not more than once foolishly pleased ourselves with intimating that Vernon was still amongst the Living?’70 Not only had the fate of the nation become intertwined with the naval hero; ideas of Britishness had too.

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These ideas would find further force during the Seven Years’ War, and provide a telling context in which to understand the reaction to Admiral John Byng’s failure to hold Minorca in 1756. Byng’s supposedly cowardly behaviour did not fit with the idea of the brave, manly and successful British admiral, and was attacked as such. Byng’s failures were in marked contrast to his precursors. The British nation instead turned to the bravery of the common seaman, in Margarette Lincoln’s words ‘as a sop to patriotic zeal and a contrast to Byng’s pusillanimous behaviour in the face of enemy fire’.71 The naval seaman, later ‘Jack Tar’, would become an increasingly important national symbol. Three years later, the British success at Quiberon Bay would re-invigorate the idea of the British naval hero. The commander, Admiral Sir Edward Hawke, won accolades, but he was happy to see praise spread across the rank and file of his fleet. In his dispatch, he proclaimed ‘the commanders and companies of such as did come up with the rear of the French on the 20th behaved with the greatest intrepidity and gave the strongest proofs of a true British spirit’.72 For the remainder of the eighteenth century, and beyond, naval heroes remained fixed in the public consciousness. The British man of letters Horace Walpole, may have wished in 1743 that Admiral Vernon ‘has outlived his popularity’, but this was not the case.73 Vernon, Anson, Warren and Hawke were still being celebrated into the 1790s.

Notes 1. Linda Colley, Britons: Forging the Nation, 1707–1837 (London, 1992). For her detractors see J.C.D Clark, ‘Protestantism, Nationalism and National Identity, 1600–1832’, Historical Journal (2000), pp.259–265; J.E. Cookson, The British Armed Nation 1793–1815 (Oxford, 1997). See also Adrian Hastings, The Construction of Nationhood: Ethnicity, Religion and Nationalism (Cambridge, 1997), esp. pp.60–3; Douglas Hay and Nicholas Rogers, Eighteenth Century English Society (Oxford, 1997), esp. pp.152–67; Helen Brocklehurst and Robert Phillips, ed. History, Nationhood and the Question of Britain (London, 2004); Alexander Grant and Keith J. Stringer, Uniting the Kingdom: The Making of British History (London, 1995); Peter Mandler, ‘What is “National Identity?” Definitions and Applications in Modern British Historiography’, Modern Intellectual History, vol. 3, (2006), pp.272–97.

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2. Timothy Jenks, Naval Engagements: Patriotism, Cultural Politics, and the Royal Navy, 1793–1815 (Oxford, 2006), pp.6, 291; Jan Rüger, ‘Nation, Empire and the Navy: Identity Politics in the United Kingdom, 1887–1914’, Past and Present, vol. CLXXXV, (November 2004) p.161; Jan Rüger, The Great Naval Game: Britain and Germany in the Age of Empire (Cambridge, 2007). 3. Kathleen Wilson, The Sense of the People: Politics, Culture and Imperialism in England, 1715–1785 (Cambridge, 1995), pp.22–4, 151–3. See also Kathleen Wilson, ‘Empire, Trade and Popular Politics in Mid-Hanoverian Britain: The Case of Admiral Vernon’, Past and Present, vol. CXXI, (November 1988), pp.74–109. Gerald Jordan and Nicholas Rogers, ‘Admirals as Heroes: Patriotism and Liberty in Hanoverian England’, The Journal of British Studies, vol. XXVII, no. 3, (July 1989), pp.208–10. 4. M. John Cardwell, Arts and Arms: Literature, Politics and Patriotism during the Seven Years War (Manchester, 2004) p.2. 5. Lawrence Stone, ed. An Imperial State at War: Britain from 1689 to 1815 (London, 1994), p.4. Stephen Conway, ‘War and National Identity in the Mid-Eighteenth Century British Isles’, The English Historical Review, vol. XCVI, (September 2001), pp.865, 893. 6. Wilson, The Sense of the People, p.23; Stone, ed. An Imperial State at War, p.4; Benedict Anderson, ‘Imagined Communities’; Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London, 1983); Colley, Britons, p.5; Clark, ‘Protestantism, Nationalism and National Identity’, pp.249–50. 7. Margarette Lincoln, Representing the Navy, British Seapower, 1750–1815 (Aldershot, 2002), p.7 8. Gentleman’s Magazine, vol. X (1740), p.145. Conway. ‘War and National Identity’, p.871. 9. Jonathan Swift, The Conduct of the Allies, in Herbert Davis, The Prose Works of Jonathan Swift: Political Tracts, 1711–13, Vol.VI (Oxford, 1951), p.26. Charles Jenkins, England’s Triumph: Or Spanish Cowardice expos’d. Being a Compleat History of the Many Signal Victories Gained by the Royal Navy and Merchants Ships of Great Britain, for the Term of Four Hundred Years past, over the insulting and haughty Spaniards ... (London, 1739). 10. Gloria Britannica; Or, The Boast of the British Seas. Containing a True and Full Account of the Royal Navy of England (London, 9 April 1689). 11. Admiral Hosier’s Ghost (London, 1740). The Charmer: A Choice Collection of Songs, Scots and English (Edinburgh, 1752). 12. John Lord Haversham, Memoirs of ... John Lord Haversham, from the year 1640 to 1710 (London, 1711), p.28. 13. Great Britain’s Speediest Sinking Fund is a Maritime War, Rightly Manag’d, and Especially the West Indies (London, 1727).

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14. Colley, Britons, p.56; Jenks, Naval Engagements, p.4. 15. Daniel A. Baugh, ‘Naval Power: what gave the British navy superiority?’ in Leandro Prados de la Escosura, ed. Exceptionalism and Industrialisation: Britain and its European Rivals, 1688–1815 (Cambridge, 2004), pp.235–57. 16. John Brewer, The Sinews of Power: War, Money and the English State, 1688– 1783 (London, 1988), pp.168–9. 17. Ways and Means Whereby His Majesty may man his Navy with Ten Thousand able sailors (London, 1726), p.2. 18. A Plain Answer to the Plain Reasoner; Wherein the Present State of Affairs it set, not in a NEW but TRUE Light; in Contradiction to the REASONER, who advises the Continuance of a LAND-WAR, and doubling our debts and Taxes, as the only Means of recovering our Trade, remaining Free, and becoming Rich and Happy (London, 1745), p.27. 19. Sam Willis, The Admiral Benbow: The Life and Times of a Naval Legend (London, 2010), p. ix. 20. Daily Courant, 5 January 1705; Willis, Benbow, pp.313–8; London Gazette, 7 January 1703, 19 April 1703. 21. National Maritime Museum (NMM), HIS/3, ‘Accounts of the Battle of Beachy Head, 1690, compiled for presentation to the King’. 22. John B. Hattendorf, ‘Sir George Rooke and Sir Cloudesley Shovell c.1650– 1709 and 1650–1707’, in Peter Le Fevre and Richard Harding, ed. Precursors of Nelson: British Admirals of the Eighteenth Century (London, 2000), pp.74–5. See A Consolatory Letter to Lady Shovell (1707), The Life and Glorious Actions of Sir Cloudesly Shovel ... (London, 1707), and Secret Memoirs of the Life of the Honourable Sr Cloudsley Shovel ... (London, 1708). 23. Hattendorf, Precursors of Nelson, pp.61, 63, 67, 70, 74. 24. Wilson, ‘Vernon’, p.88. 25. Gentleman’s Magazine, vol. XI (London, 1741), p. 274. 26. NMM, PLT0187, Gold City of London freedom box presented to Admiral Edward Vernon. 27. Kathleen Wilson, ‘Nelson and the People: Manliness, Patriotism and Body Politics’, in David Cannadine, ed. Admiral Lord Nelson: Context and Legacy, (London, 2005), p.50 28. See for example, The Rule of Two: or, the Difference betwixt Courage and Quixotism. Being remraks[sic] on a pamphlet, entitles, An Enquiry into the Conduct of Captain M-n, &c. By Philonauticus Antiquixotus (London, 1745). 29. Herbert Richmond, The Navy in the War of 1739–48, Vol.1 (Cambridge, 1902, p.xii). 30. The author acknowledged this step was ‘not a little obscure’, but suggested even more long-standing characteristics, noting the ‘British ancestors’ who ‘planted this country’ and who ‘must have come by sea’.

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31. John Campbell, Lives of the Admirals and other Eminent British Seamen (London, 1742). Francis Espinasse, ‘Campbell, John (1708–1775)’, rev. M. J. Mercer, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford, 2004, online edn, May 2006). 32. Campbell, Lives of the Admirals. 33. N.A.M. Rodger, The Command of the Ocean: A Naval History of Britain 1649– 1815 (London, 2004), pp.243–5. 34. Original Letters and Papers, Between Adm–-l M––ws, and V. Adm–-l L––k. With Several Letters from Private Hands, Exhibiting Many Particulars Hitherto Unknown of the Transactions in the Mediterranean. With Remarks on, and Answers to the Narrative of the Fleet, from 1741 to 1744. Especially on the Author’s Partiality and Great Liberties with the Characters of some Commanders ... (London, 1744), p.101. 35. Admiral Matthew’s Engagement Against The Combined Fleets of France and Spain (London, 1745). 36. A Narrative of the Proceedings of his Majesty’s Fleet in the Mediterranean, and the Combined Fleets of France and Spain, from the year 1741 to March 1744 ... , 3rd ed. (London, 1745), p.1–2. 37. John Campbell, The Naval History of Great Britain, With the Lives of the Admirals and Commanders, from the Reign of Queen Elizabeth ... to the year one thousand seven hundred and fifty eight, Vol.4 (London, 1758), p.270. Nicolas Tindal, The Continuation of Mr. Rapin’s History of England; From the Revolution to the Present Times, 9 Vols, Vol.9 (London, 1759), pp.43, 48. 38. London Magazine, vol. IX (1740), p.558. 39. Richard Harding, ‘Edward Vernon’, in Precursors of Nelson, p.168. Wilson, The Sense of the People, pp.146, 148. 40. Wilson, The Sense of the People, pp.29–31. 41. Cardwell, Arts and Arms, p.9. 42. N.A.M. Rodger, ‘Lord Anson’, in Precursors of Nelson, p.180. 43. General Advertiser, 5 May 1748. 44. Gentleman’s Magazine, June 1744, Great Britain’s Triumph, p.390. 45. General Advertiser, 3 February 1748. 46. Whitehall Evening Post, or London Intelligencer, 12 April 1748. See also the General Advertiser, 15 April 1748, and Old England, 16 April 1748. 47. Gentleman’s Magazine, June 1744, p.390. Matthew Craske, ‘Making National Heroes? A Survey of the social and political functions and meanings of major British funeral monuments to naval and military figures, 1730–70’ in John Bonehill and Geoff Quilley, ed. Conflicting Visions: War and Visual Culture in Britain and France, c.1700–1830 (Aldershot, 2005), p.43. 48. Gentleman’s Magazine, June 1747, p.272. 49. Tessa Watt, Cheap Print and Popular Piety, 1550–1640 (Cambridge, 1993), p.11. Patricia Fumerton and Anita Guerrini, ‘Introduction’, and Ruth Perry,

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50.

51. 52.

53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58.

59.

60.

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‘War and the Media in Border Minstrelsy: The Ballad of Chevy Chace’, in Patricia Fumerton and Anita Guerrini ed. Ballads and Broadsides in Britain, 1500–1800 (London, 2010), p.1–2, 208; Madden Ballad collection, University of Cambridge Library, 17–19, The Jolly Roving Tar (Carlisle), The Admiral (Preston), The Brave Old Admiral (Lincoln), Tom Bowling (Ballingdon); William St Clair, The Reading Nation in the Romantic Period, (Cambridge, 2004), pp.345–8; Angela McShane, ‘Recruiting Citizens for Soldiers in Seventeenth-Century English Ballads’, Journal of Early Modern History vol. XV (2011) p.108. Vernon: Celebrating the Capture of Porto Bello (London, 22 November 1739); The Spectre or Admiral Hosier’s Ghost (London, 1740); Vernon’s Glory: Containing Fourteen New Songs, Occasion’d by the Taking of Porto Bello and Fort Chagres (London, 1740). A New Ballad on the taking of Porto-Bello, By Admiral Vernon (London, 1740). Wilson, The Sense of the People, pp.146, 148. Camillus: A Dialogue on the Navy. Proposing a Plan to render that Wooden Wall, by Means which will both ease and extend our Commerce, the firm and perpetual Bulwark of Great Britain (London, 1748), p.10. Anson and Warren: A Song (London, 1747). Gentleman’s Magazine, June 1747, ‘On the Admirals Anson and Warren’, p.291. Edward Hawkins, Medallic Illustrations of the History of Great Britain and Ireland to the death of George III, vol.2 (London, 1885), pp.530–62. The Letters of Mrs E. Montague, With Some of the Letters of Her Correspondence, Vol. 2 (London, 1809). Colley, Britons, p.55. Neil McKendrick, ‘The Consumer Revolution of 18th Century England’ and John Brewer ‘Commercialisation and Politics’, both in Neil McKendrick, John Brewer and J.H. Plumb, The Birth of a Consumer Society: The Commercialisation of Eighteenth Century England (London, 1992), pp. 9, 20–25, 200, 207–208. Captain P.D. Pugh, RN, Naval Ceramics (Newport, 1971), p.xiii-xiv; Wolfgang Rudolph, Sailor Souvenirs: Stoneware, Faiences and Porcelein of three centuries (Leipzig, 1985), pp.43, 48; Griselda Lewis, English Pottery (London, 1956), pp.74–5; Brian Bicknell, ‘Derby Porcelain Factory: Eighteenth Century Portrait Statuettes of military personalities, particularly that of Lord Howe’, Derby Porcelain International Society Newsletter, No.28 (May 1993). Maxine Berg, Luxury and Pleasure in Eighteenth Century Britain (Oxford, 2005), p.15, 126–153.

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61. For summaries of the attacks on McKendrick’s ‘consumer revolution’ see C.H. Feinstein, ‘Pessimism Perpetuated: Real Wages and the Standard of Living in Britain during and after the Industrial Revolution’, Journal of Economic History, vol. LVIII (1998), pp.625–658. N.F.R. Crafts, British Economic Growth during the Industrial Revolution (Oxford, 1985). 62. Berg, Luxury and Pleasure, p.219. 63. Pugh, Naval Ceramics, p.7. 64. Berg, Luxury and Pleasure, pp.15, 126–153. 65. John Styles, ‘Georgian Britain 1714–1837: Introduction’, in Michael Snodin and John Styles, ed. Design and Decorative Arts: Britain 1500–1900 (London, 2001), p.184. 66. NMM, OBJ0421, Fan with depiction of Vernon’s victory at Porto Bello. 67. Victoria & Albert Museum, CIRC.82–1963, Plate representing a naval hero, London, c.1740–50 68. A Second Genuine Speech Deliver’d By Adml Vn. On board the Carolina to the Officers of the Navy After the Sally from Fort Lazara (London, 1741), p.19. 69. Richmond, War of 1739–48, Vol.1, p.xii. 70. Westminster Journal, 28 May 1748. 71. Lincoln, Representing the Royal Navy, p.47. 72. Ruddock Mackay and Michael Duffy, Hawke: Nelson and British Naval Leadership, 1747–1805 (Woodbridge, 2009), p.79. 73. W. S. Lewis, ed. The Yale edition of Horace Walpole’s Correspondence, 34 Vols, Vol. 28 (New Haven, 1937–70), p.135. Jordan and Rogers, ‘Admirals as Heroes’, p.211.

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CHAPTER 2 – M ASANOR I, THE ITO IMPER IAL NAV Y AND JAPAN’S POST-WAR NATIONAL IDENTIT Y Alessio Patalano1

Throughout its 77-year-long history, the Imperial Japanese Navy came to symbolise the achievements and drama of the rise and fall of the nation it represented. As Japan strove to modernise its political, social and military institutions, the Navy came to represent a statement of national power of the tallest order. Early in the twentieth century, warships like Mikasa or Kongoˉ were some of the finest naval assets of their age; they mirrored ‘important aspects of modernity’ and as such, symbolised the emergence of the Japanese nation on the world stage.2 In the interwar period, design features such as the pagoda style masts common to capital ships became worldwide renowned trademarks of the Japanese brand of naval power. At the zenith of naval splendour, the impressive display of firepower of the battleship Yamato summarised the Japanese challenge to the world’s power order. One authoritative study of the Imperial Navy fittingly pointed out that the ‘awe-inspiring fleet that patrolled the waters of East Asia by 1922 mirrored, symbolised, and influenced the rise of modern Japan’.3 In the aftermath of the devastating defeat suffered in World War II, one award-winning

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Japanese novelist chose the history of the battleship Nagato, the proud jewel of the imperial fleet which survived the war only to be sunk during the 1946 nuclear test in the Bikini Atoll, as a metaphor of the nation’s experience in the first half of the twentieth century.4 In the aftermath of the war, the destruction and the suffering endured by the Japanese population coupled with news of the aggressiveness and misconduct of Japanese forces as they advanced across Asia cast a shadow over the reputation of Japanese imperial military institutions at home and abroad. How was the Navy remembered in the post-war era? To what extent did its pre-war symbolism come to be overshadowed and eradicated from the national ethos? ‘Did any aspect of pre-war naval identity enter post-war Japanese national identity? This chapter investigates these questions in the early phases of the post-war period. The construction of a national identity is a process that is difficult to define, both in terms of where and how it takes place. For example, in post-war Japan, literary doyen Shiba Ryoˉtaroˉ influenced contemporary Japanese public views of the Imperial Navy through the historical novel A Cloud at the Top of the Slope,5 originally published as a series of short stories in the newspaper, Sankei Shimbun.6 Over the decades, his novel sold thousands of copies, provided the basic plot for a number of major television dramas and entered the reading lists of numerous schools at all levels of education. In this chapter, the main focus is the imperial naval narrative as it became popularised in the realm of journalism and popular history during the controversial initial years of the post-war era. From the end of the war, for more than a decade and a half, the writer Itoˉ Masanori dedicated his work to engaging with the question of Japan’s national identity and the role of the Navy in it. Itoˉ was one of the most distinguished and renowned defence correspondents and naval writers of the age, the ‘last naval journalist’, as he was nicknamed by other colleagues. In fact, Itoˉ was more than a journalist. He was known for his special access to the Imperial Navy and its most senior officers before, during and after the war, often obtaining first-hand information that no one else could have accessed. This chapter shows how Itoˉ established his reputation in the tumultuous years of World War I and in the interwar period. Subsequently, it reviews Itoˉ’s career and commitment to Japan’s naval

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past from the 1950s until his death in 1962. Throughout these years, his readership followed his work because of its authoritative nature. In a climate of general disorientation, one in which the nation was rejecting the imperial military tradition and what it had represented tout court, Itoˉ sought to review the country’s naval past and with it, help the Imperial Navy take its place in the nation’s cultural heritage.

Reporting the Pre-war Navy Itoˉ Masanori was born in 1887 in the former dominion of Mito (Ibaraki Prefecture), birthplace of the influential philosophical and political neo-Confucian movement Sonnoˉ Joˉi (‘revere the Emperor, expel the barbarians’). According to later characterisations of his persona, Itoˉ fully embraced his region’s history and tradition. He was a taciturn person, a tall slight figure who had the same energy and patriotic dedication that distinguished well-educated men of his cultural heritage.7 Like many young men of his generation, Itoˉ grew up in the decade that witnessed Japan winning its first two tests of strength for international power and status against the two major regional powers, China and Russia (in 1894–95, and 1904–05, respectively). War accounts in national newspapers and governmental propaganda on the staggering victories on the battlefields of Korea and Manchuria and in naval encounters in the East China Sea and the Sea of Japan nurtured his pride and patriotism.8 Later accounts pointed out that the sense of duty unfolding from his patriotism led him to develop an inquisitive mind and great discipline in his intellectual quests.9 The experiences of his childhood had a profound impact, informing Itoˉ’s professional style throughout the rest of his life. It was as a result of his well-educated background that in December 1913 he was able to secure, after receiving a degree in economic studies and some initial work experience, a position at Jiji Shinpoˉ. One of Japan’s most progressive newspapers of the time, Jiji Shinpoˉ had been founded in 1882 by influential Meiji thinker Fukuzawa Yukichi, and was renowned for its balanced interpretation of current Japanese affairs, crediting the role of western innovation and techniques in Japan’s national success, without discarding the country’s traditions, values and distinctive culture.10

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The lively environment of the newspaper matched Itoˉ’s Mito upbringing, Meiji experience and intellectual inclinations. Whilst at the paper, he started specialising in military and naval affairs – emerging specialisations in Japanese journalism at the time. The latter expertise was more appealing to him because professional navies required from their members a blend of technical and moral skills that Itoˉ regarded as necessary to succeed in any given field. Further, the struggle for moral rectitude and technological mastery had been key attributes – in his perception – in the Japanese Meiji experience. For Itoˉ, the emergence of the Imperial Navy on the world stage well symbolised the success of modern Japan.11 Recent scholarship has convincingly demonstrated how this was not an uncommon feeling for people of Itoˉ’s generation who harboured confidence and esteem in the country’s navy, a conviction that the Imperial Navy’s leadership worked hard to fuel through a comprehensive set of propaganda activities.12 On 25 October 1905, the editorial of the Kokumin Shimbun captured the spirit of the age when it stressed that ‘nothing can be obtained without paying a price, and the importance of this truth is nowhere greater than with the navy, on which pivots our nation’s rise or fall’.13 Itoˉ’s passion and professional interest in navies transformed him into a regular resident of newspapers and magazines columns. In a few years, his analysis of military topics paved the way for a sound reputation in Japan, as well as abroad, as one of the country’s outstanding and most prolific naval correspondents of the Taishoˉ and later of the Shoˉwa eras, a reputation he maintained throughout his lengthy career.14 The main strength of Itoˉ’s ‘powerful pen’15 rested on his ability to convey a genuine passion for the Navy through an appealing writing style. The systematic use of a sophisticated language, the restlessness of his activity and his attention to detail all became trademarks of his popularity. As a modern journalist, he kept himself constantly updated on the latest developments in the field of naval technology and tactics. However, he was also a ‘traditionalist’ and demonstrated this by employing ‘old’ Chinese characters in his articles. This was the case in his choice for the character ren16 used in the expression ‘Combined Fleet’, an elegant and ancient ideogram which was unknown even to some of Itoˉ’s editors of the time.17 In the Japanese language, with one

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single verbal expression Itoˉ’s pen gave a traditional connotation to Japan’s modern and powerful fleet. He was old-fashioned in his style, but modern in his topics of choice, sophisticated in the content of his articles and very engaging in style. He was a perfect example of a man of his time, a figure displaying a measure of what some western specialists defined as Japan’s ‘romantic nationalism’.18 A true workaholic, he dedicated most of his free time to reading and writing on history and strategy, learning by heart the particulars of foreign classes of warships and pennant lists.19 His dedication to technical knowledge stunned editors and colleagues, who often exhorted him to work less just to hear from him that writing about navies was a relaxing endeavour.20 By the time that World War I broke out, he had already established himself within Japanese press circles as an expert with a mastery and an understanding of naval matters comparable to that of a scholar. This was a particular advantage in that he could channel his expertise in a clear, informative prose, making naval matters easy to understand to a wide readership.21 One reported example conveys both the dedicated nature of his spirit and the effectiveness of his approach. When in June 1916, news reached Japan of the Battle of Jutland, Itoˉ had just set off for a long overdue vacation in Hokkaido. After receiving a telegram outlining what clearly looked like the most significant naval encounter since the Battle of Tsushima (the main naval battle of the Russo-Japanese War), Itoˉ did not hesitate to return to his newspaper’s headquarters to prepare an analysis of the battle. He had no direct source to use for an in-depth examination of the events. Nonetheless, in the following days, based on the information available to the press and his professional judgment, he wrote seven informed articles for different national and regional newspapers.22 A man with Itoˉ’s dedication to naval affairs could not pass undetected by senior Japanese naval officers. By the end of World War I, he had established a network of acquaintances within the promising group of imperial naval officers revolving around Admiral Katoˉ Tomosaburoˉ, the influential Navy Minister (1915–21) and Japanese mastermind of the arms control system devised at the Washington Naval Conference (1921–22). Indeed, it was whilst reporting on this conference that Itoˉcame into closer contact with some of the key figures

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of the three international naval agreements of the 1920s, including Captain Yamanashi Katsunoshin and Captain Nomura Kichisaburoˉ, who both later became Admirals.23 The nature of his relationship with the Navy was one of reciprocal benefit. Itoˉ was a knowledgeable man, willing to articulate a navy perspective and he was in the right position to reach out to a large audience.24 In turn, his naval connections assured him first-hand access to information for his activity as a reporter. This meant he was often a ‘step ahead’ of his colleagues and enabled him to secure ‘sensational scoops’, such as when he was the first to report the imminent shift in Japan’s alliance system with the dissolution of the Anglo-Japanese alliance in favour of the Four-Power Treaty (United States, Great Britain, Japan and France).25 The importance of the international naval conferences of the 1920s and 1930s for Itoˉ’s professional career was three-fold. Firstly, the conferences were major media events, setting the stage for continuous interviews, private conversations and meetings with members of the delegations. These opportunities strengthened his naval network among the officers of what became subsequently known as the ‘treaty faction’, including rising stars such as Admiral Yamamoto Isoroku. Secondly, the trust he established with many of these influential figures did not diminish in time, and the books he published in the 1950s and early 1960s benefited from this as they were filled with the personal reflections of the numerous wartime naval protagonists who had found in him an ‘old friend’ and a professional to discuss controversial issues. His naval contacts also facilitated his access to archival evidence.26 Thirdly, the news coverage of the conferences gave Itoˉ great exposure, enhancing his reputation as top commentator on the subject of the arms control process at home as well as abroad. As some informed Japanese observers later put it, ‘Mr Itoˉ’ was a respected name familiar to many interwar analysts of international relations of the Pacific.27

Reviewing the Wartime Experience Itoˉ Masanori’s files at the archives of the Sankei newspaper – the Japanese newspaper where he worked for the majority of his postwar career – have very limited materials concerning his activity as a

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journalist during World War II. What is clear is that in the aftermath of the Pacific War, Itoˉ Masanori’s professional pedigree, direct contacts and respect for what the rise of the Navy had represented in Japan’s modern history, put him in an ideal position to investigate the more contentious episodes of the war. Prior to the conflict, he had provided informed views of the Japanese position vis-à-vis arms limitations. Now, against an increasing public sense of disorientation generated by the revelations of the Tokyo Tribunal regarding the ferociousness of Japan’s military conquest of Asia, his quest was to focus on ‘what had gone wrong’.28 An early 1970s assessment of Japanese historiography of World War II duly noted the service rendered by Itoˉ’s relentless writing activity and ‘valiant one-man effort’.29 In the two decades that followed the end of the hostilities, numerous multi-volume war histories of variable scholarly value were in fact published in Japan. The volumes authored by the journalist-scholar were among the first to present an insightful, though at time discontinuous, operational narrative. Of particular note was the dramatised and powerful style of the delivery which denoted Itoˉ’s personal connection to the topic and clear willingness to reach out to a very wide readership.30 His publications penetrated the psyche of pre-war Japanese military leaders, explaining the roots of decision-making failures and tactical and strategic misjudgements. In so doing, they reflected the personal journey of an insider who had come to feel at odds with the patriotic feelings the imperial armed forces had contributed to nourish in his adolescence. Now, similarly to many of his fellow countrymen, he wished to understand why the leaders had failed his expectations with their conduct in war. For these reasons, his books possessed an almost cathartic value as he explored the reasons for defeat. Itoˉ’s post-war works often crossed the subtle line dividing his professional agenda from personal emotions, making them unusual products. They were well-researched and authoritative, but also dramatic and emphatic. It is said, for example, that the passing away of his second wife gave a major impulse to his decision to write The End of the Imperial Japanese Navy, one of his most successful publications. The gesture was particularly indicative of a close identification between his personal loss and the downfall of the service and the heavy human cost

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it entailed, with the preparation of the book representing a rationalised way to heal both wounds.31 In the book’s introduction, Itoˉ himself set the tone, explaining that the nostalgia for the Combined Fleet in many Japanese hearts, and the deep respect for the memories of many friends perished in the heat of battle pressed him to reconsider his initial reluctance to write on a difficult topic such as Japan’s military defeat.32 These were feelings he shared with thousands of Japanese who had fought in the war or counted family members amongst Japan’s over three million war dead. With them, he wished to share the conclusions of his quest as a way to pay homage to the memory of the many who had perished. The book’s opening lines underscore the character of the narrative: Movements to Romanise our language may some day succeed, but the ideographs for Rengo Kantai will always stir Japanese hearts, just as do some of Admiral Heihachiroˉ Toˉgoˉ’s famous words. His dispatch as battle was about to be joined at Tsushima strait: “The enemy has been sighted; the Combined Fleet is moving to annihilate him. The waves are high but the day is clear.” And his famous Z-signal: “The rise or fall of the nation is at stake in this battle; all hands exhorted to do their utmost,” are quotes known to everyone.33 The informed nature but accessible prose of his books also impressed foreign scholars interested in the more recent stages of Japanese naval history. In a 1963 review of the English translation of the same text, the Cambridge research fellow and official Royal Navy historian of World War II, Captain Stephen W. Roskill, remarked how the strengths of the book rested on its interesting and vivid portrayal of the war ‘through Japanese eyes’ and on ‘the candid comments on the errors made by his countrymen’.34 Captain Roskill, a line officer with years of service at sea and a war veteran himself who fought the Imperial Navy off the Solomon Islands in July 1943 continued, approving of Itoˉ’s ‘well-deserved tribute to the courage and endurance of the ordinary Japanese sailor, whose fighting spirit never failed in spite of the terrible losses suffered’.35 In his main criticisms of the publication,

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Captain Roskill came to indirectly acknowledge Itoˉ’s core agenda. Of the detailed analysis of the Imperial Navy’s strategic drawbacks and misjudgements, one critical issue he thought remained virtually unnoticed, namely the navy’s substantial failure to adopt adequate convoy escort measures throughout the majority of the conflict.36 This depended on the fact that naval strategy was not as central to the book’s theme as the life and struggle of the individuals and assets that had made the Japanese Navy an internationally renowned national totem. Itoˉ’s literary achievements and publishing activity on wartime military events reached their zenith in December 1960, when he became the ninth recipient of the prestigious Kikuchi Kan Prize, awarded by the Japanese leading monthly magazine Bungei Shunju (where, in 1946, he had started publishing the findings of his research activity) to individuals who had made outstanding contributions to Japanese society.37 Itoˉ’s work had great professional credibility, but he was not an ‘objective’ observer, particularly in the eyes of the disillusioned Japanese post-war readership of the late 1940s and 1950s. Yet, his views possessed a public appeal and were well received because they sought to give depth to the mechanics of the ‘betrayal’ of the military vis-à-vis the Japanese people. For Itoˉ, the Navy was not without sins.38 He did not fail to criticise the fact that the Navy’s intention to implement the disarmament treaties had lost momentum well before its delegation withdrew from the negotiations for the Second London Naval Treaty in January 1936. Preliminary studies for the battleship Yamato that was laid down in Kure only a few months after the failing of the negotiations were emblematic of ‘Japan’s intention to vitiate the treaty’.39 With equal clarity, Itoˉ made no excuse for what he regarded as the two gravest responsibilities of the Imperial Navy in Japan’s dramatic defeat. Firstly, the Navy’s high command had failed to express clearly its opposition to General Toˉjoˉ and his militarist clique as the country walked towards war. Secondly, the Navy had downplayed Japanese structural weaknesses and its limited confidence in the ability of Japan to wage a protracted confrontation with western powers.40 Itoˉ’s informed assessment gave voice to the visceral sense of betrayal felt by Japanese people who, like him, had been accustomed, as a result of previous successes and propaganda, to having the utmost confidence

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in their military leaders. In a passage which conveys this reservoir of feelings he admitted that: ( ...) The Navy, knowing that Japan would lose any war with the United States, should have shown the courage expected of leaders, and accepted humiliation in order to preserve the nation from defeat. Such a sacrifice would have proven that the Navy was worthy of the people’s high regard and confidence.41 These critiques notwithstanding, Itoˉ still felt that the burden of Japan’s strategic responsibilities weighed more heavily upon the shoulders of the Imperial Army. This was because the individuals who had acted to prevent the escalation towards war were those naval officers that to him represented the prime expressions of the tradition which had brought respect and prestige to Japan. Itoˉ clearly emphasised this point explaining that: Death in war is inevitable, but it should not be pointlessly courted. It was a basic tenet of the Japanese navy to avoid any operation which offered no chance of survival. ( ...) This tradition was not violated until the adoption of the tactics which called for the Kamikaze Special Attack Force (suicide pilots) and the kaiten (human torpedoes), at a time when Japan realised that the war was lost.42 In Itoˉ’s mind, one of the most representative naval figures was Admiral Yamamoto, a close acquaintance of his, and one of the finest characters of his narrative. Yamamoto was a ‘stubborn man’, a gambler and a womaniser. He was also an officer who did not fear taking risks, who was knowledgeable about technical matters and meticulous in the examination of tactical problems. Admiral Yamamoto disagreed with more conservative doctrinal views regarding the tactical dominance of battleships in naval warfare, and was one of those who voiced fears ‘that Japan had no chance of victory in a war lasting more then one year’.43 Until 1939, from his position at the Navy Ministry, together with the acting Minister Admiral Yoˉnai Mitsumasa and Rear Admiral Inoue Shigeyoshi, he systematically opposed Japan’s alignment with Germany and Italy.

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Itoˉ charted with details and anecdotes the Admiral’s difficult journey into the increasingly tense atmosphere of late 1930s Japanese politics, almost in an effort to legitimise the officer’s subsequent actions. Yamamoto was first and foremost a naval officer of the Imperial Navy, and once the decision to wage war had been taken, he remained at his post (as Commander-in-Chief, Combined Fleet) and channelled his energies towards the preparation of operations capable of giving Japan the upper hand in the conflict. Faced with the dilemma of either accepting humiliation, admitting the lack of capabilities to face a protracted confrontation with the United States Navy, or seeking victory in an all-out test, he chose the latter option. In this respect – Itoˉ seemed to argue – Admiral Yamamoto was the embodiment of the tradition of the Imperial Navy. He was a professional, trained to plan and fight campaigns for his country, a loyal servant of the Emperor, a daring warrior. His later actions in the war and those of many other front-line commanders demonstrated such qualities and, even when it became clear that the Japanese were ‘the pitchers of the losing team’, he and many of his colleagues did not fail in their duty.44 Yamamoto lived, fought and died standing by a martial code virtually connecting the actions at the Yalu (1895), Tsushima (1905) Pearl Harbor (1941), and Midway (1942). The combination of his tragic demise in 1943 and his overall characterisation as an officer capable and resolute, fluent in English and knowledgeable of the impact of new technologies like naval aviation, imbued with samurai values, naturally awarded him the role of the ultimate Japanese hero. By taking the side of the navy, Itoˉ’s war narrative sought to provide an even more controversial conclusion. The Imperial Navy had not failed to honour the path traced by its predecessors, opposing the war first, eventually sparing no resources to fight it. Japan had made a grave mistake, and millions of men had paid for it. Who was to be made responsible for this dramatic downfall? In Itoˉ’s impression, the answer could not rest solely on the shoulders of the armed services. As he put it, ‘( ...) the Combined Fleet will never return. Its existence and achievements are now but a page in history which will show that blame for the loss of the Combined Fleet must rest, not on the enemy who destroyed it, but on Japan itself’.45 Concurrently, by highlighting

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the positive attributes of the Navy, Itoˉ sought to rescue part of Japan’s martial ethos from a broader collective post-war rejection. The victories of the Imperial Navy and the men who achieved them were a precious heritage of Japan’s national identity.

Shaping Post-war National Military Identity In addition to his war histories, Itoˉ contributed to the moulding of the discussions on Japan’s post-war military identity and to the reconstruction of post-war public memories of the imperial past in two other ways. First of all, in his role as a journalist and military analyst, he actively contributed to the controversial debate on national defence in the early 1950s. In particular, in January46 and July47 1954, whilst the debate that preceded the establishment of the Self-Defence Forces unfolded, he wrote two series of newspapers articles. Each of them was composed of seven instalments and they appeared in the conservative newspaper Sankei. They dealt with what he perceived to be a central issue concerning the future of any Japanese military apparatus. Both moments were carefully selected, providing timely circumstances for public debate. The January series appeared at the moment when political party negotiations on the laws defining the nature of the new military forces entered their final phase. The July instalments were meant to offer in-depth comments on the establishment of the Japan Defence Agency and the Japan Self-Defence Forces.48 By that time, Itoˉ was ‘the’ authoritative Japanese military analyst of his generation, a position in many ways comparable to that of Sir Basil Liddell Hart in pre-war Britain. For the Japanese readership who followed his columns in national newspapers, he was a seasoned master of his subject with a first-hand grasp of the Japanese military tradition resulting from a network of friendships and acquaintances within former practitioners. In both series, he only partly engaged in the ongoing debate between conservative forces led by controversial figures such as the former Minister of Foreign Affairs Shigemitsu Mamoru (1943–1945, 1954– 1956), Hatoyama Ichiroˉ (later Prime Minister, 1954–1956) and Kishi Nobusuke (Prime Minister, 1957–1960) and more liberal pragmatists headed by Prime Minister Yoshida Shigeru (1948–1954). The Byzantine

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legal schemes envisioned for the status of the new forces were at the centre of their exchange.49 Itoˉ sought to shift the focus of public attention to the fundamental relationship between a nation and its armed forces. He felt this was a core question, one he feared would remain unaddressed as a result of the social and educational reforms conducted during the Allied occupation and the military sensitiveness generated by the trauma of defeat.50 His argument was two-fold. On the one hand, he strongly disagreed with many of his contemporaries who emphasised an uncritical and absolute break with the past. Militarism had blinded Japan’s pre-war strategic calculus, but Japan’s military tradition had not always been pervaded by the extremism of the late 1930s.51 Nor was the existence and maintenance of the armed forces to be considered as a manifestation of aggressive nationalism, an increasingly common assumption among Japanese people and politicians.52 Indeed, a more in-depth assessment of Japan’s modern past demonstrated that, at the turn of the twentieth century, the country had been able to strike the right balance between the natural requirements of national defence and the creation of an appropriate military apparatus. Itoˉ therefore refuted what seemed to be a mainstream idea according to which the only way for Japan to re-establish armed forces was by dismissing the pre-war system.53 Public amnesia was no solution, careful re-examination was. This consideration led to a second and – in his perception – more fundamental issue. Itoˉ regarded military forces as a product of the societies that created and maintained them. Japan was no exception and the identity crisis he perceived in his fellow countrymen regarding the importance of national defence could be a fatal weakness undermining the ethos of the new forces.54 For this reason, in the July instalments he subscribed to the conservative tendency to speak of ‘Jieigun’ rather than ‘Jieitai’,55 employing the character Gun which was generally employed in the Japanese language to define a military organisation.56 Providing numerous examples from Japanese, American and British history, Itoˉ argued that the effectiveness of military forces did not rest only on their equipment and on their force strength levels.57 Re-evaluating the experience of the past and the part played by the imperial armed forces in the rise of Japan as an international actor was an essential step for post-war Japan to regenerate the sense of trust,

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respect and perceived social value attributed by a society to its armed forces.58 In turn, these attributes were essential in nourishing the organisation’s fighting spirit and efficacy. Japan needed to turn to its national heroes and draw inspiration and guidance from their actions to reconstitute the moral grammar of its military. In Itoˉ’s view, the performance of the Japanese imperial military in the Meiji and Taishoˉ eras created heroes that deserved greater consideration than the state of oblivion in which they had been relegated since 1945.59 Itoˉ’s second main contribution to the development of a Japanese post-war sensitiveness to its martial past was entwined with this last argument and he proactively lobbied for its realisation. In the following years, the last of his career, he put his pen and energies towards the service of a campaign to re-contextualise Japan’s modern naval experience and rebuild the nation’s pride. He joined an effort to bring back into the public conscience what he believed to be Japan’s defining military success and iconic moment in its modern nation-building process: the Battle of Tsushima of 1905. He campaigned for the restoration of the memorial ship Mikasa.60 It appears that it was a letter sent on 24 September 1955 to the editor of another newspaper, the Nippon Times (now Japan Times) that ignited the process to revitalise and preserve Admiral Toˉgoˉ’s flagship. The letter had been written by a British man named John S. Rubin, a native of Barrow-in-Furness in the north of England, who had recently returned from a visit to Japan where he had visited Yokosuka, and observed the state of abandonment of the glorious pre-dreadnought battleship. In the letter, Rubin explained that from 1900 to 1902 he had observed the ship being completed and launched at the Vickers, Sons and Maxim’s Shipbuilding Works’ dockyards in his home town and felt deeply moved by the conditions of the relict which represented to the Japanese what HMS Victory represented to the British.61 Numerous requests for information on the ship were received by the newspaper following the publication of the letter. This gave an old acquaintance of Itoˉ’s, Admiral Yamanashi – who had explained the circumstances to Mr Rubin in his new function of President of the Japan Naval Association (the veteran association of the Imperial Navy), a suitable opportunity to gather momentum for the ship’s restoration.

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Admiral Yamanashi knew Itoˉ from the hectic days of the naval limitation conferences. The admiral belonged to the group of senior retired uniformed men of the pre-war treaty faction who, in mid-September 1952, together with 200 other former naval officers had established the association using the facilities of the former naval museum in Yoyogi (central Tokyo). Other founding fathers of the association were Admiral Nomura Kichisaburoˉ, Vice Admiral Sakonji Masazo (acting as vice-presidents), and Admiral Sawamoto Yorio, reportedly a leading promoter of the organisation.62 For all of them, Itoˉ was more than a familiar name. His personal inclinations, writings and professional status made his involvement in the Mikasa operation decisive, if not essential. Their expectations were not disappointed. Itoˉ took the campaign to heart and privately manoeuvred to gather funds for the restoration of Mikasa. Meanwhile, in the pages of the Sankei he sought to retain the focus of the attention by periodically publishing commemorative articles on the significance of the battleship.63 Throughout the process, local Japanese dignitaries from the city of Yokosuka became involved. Extremely important also was the involvement of influential retired American naval officers, most notably Fleet Admiral Chester Nimitz and Admiral Arleigh Burke, who had come to appreciate the valour of the Imperial Navy as a foe during the war and who contributed to the formation of the Japan Maritime Self-Defence Force (JMSDF) in its aftermath. They went to great lengths in the fund-raising mission for the restoration. By the spring of 1959, representatives of American naval forces in Yokosuka presented some 91,000 yen to the mayor of Yokosuka. The amount was soon to be matched by an equal sum that Itoˉ and other naval enthusiasts and former officers had raised. A conspicuous number of veterans had contributed, all in a fashion commensurate with their financial capabilities.64 Itoˉ’s articles on Mikasa were constructed along intellectual lines similar to those of the series on the Self-Defence Forces. He wrote to motivate Japanese people to react to their state of psychological refusal of a core component of the national identity. In arguing Mikasa’s case, Itoˉ focused on two main aspects connected to the battleship’s history. On the one hand, he highlighted the universal character of the achievements of the Imperial Navy in the Russo-Japanese War, presenting evidence of how the leaders and assets deployed in the Battle of Tsushima were celebrated worldwide as textbook examples of tactical brilliance and impeccable

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execution.65 On the other, he emphasised the vital role played by the Combined Fleet in shielding Japan from the Russian threat to Japanese territory.66 In a period of increasing popular concerns over the intensifying of the Cold War and its consequences for Japan, the image of the Navy’s victory over the Baltic Fleet indirectly served as a source of security and inspiration. In this respect, Itoˉ compared Toˉgoˉ’s Mikasa to HMS Victory and USS Constitution for its defining value to Japan’s national identity, military tradition and international role. For this reason, he pointed out, the battleship deserved, like its British and American counterparts, to become a site of proud public memory. His words did not fall on deaf ears, and to the present day, the attributes he stressed are still central to the exhibition onboard the ship, where scale reconstructions of the ships and the portraits of their respective three commanders occupy a central space.67

Conclusions In 1966, the former President of Keio University and leading Japanese economist, Professor Koizumi Shinzoˉ, commenting on the restoration of Mikasa, effectively summarised Itoˉ’s view when he stressed that the powerful pre-dreadnought symbolised the: utmost duty of the people to devote themselves to the defence of their own country when their independence is endangered. Sixty years ago Japan was faced with a life-or-death crisis. But the national crisis was resolved by the great victory of our Combined Fleet led by Admiral Toˉgoˉ, Commander in Chief. I think this will indicate what kind of people the Japanese are. The victory was secured not only by distinguished services of our Navy personnel but also by the Japanese people who organised, brought up and supported such a strong Navy.68 Returning to where this chapter started, what does Itoˉ’s experience tell us about the role of the Navy in the early stages of the reconstruction of Japanese national identity in the post-war era? A talented writer and authoritative journalist, Itoˉ offered the Japanese public a narrative of the Navy that tied its history to the achievements of modern Japan. His representations of the Navy did not merely draw upon abstract

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ideas. He constantly connected naval successes to the qualities of the men and to the achievements of the organisation. For this reason, he explored the lives of crucial figures like Admirals Yamamoto and Toˉgoˉ to give a context that would enable his readership to empathise with them. These officers became metaphors of the exceptional in every Japanese person. He used them to detail how values such as courage, respect for authority and dedication to the service and the nation – all notions considered to be part of the Japanese national ethos – came to be complemented by modern attributes such as the mastery of technical skills and together, enabled Japan to emerge and excel in the pre-war era. In a country that was rejecting the past and the martial pedigree it represented, Itoˉ offered his readership national heroes and explained why they were to be regarded as such. His success rested on three factors. Firstly, he was considered an authoritative voice. Naval connections had played a significant role in the establishment of his reputation in the interwar period. Secondly, he was the first to present in the post-war era, Japanese naval history from the perspective of the ‘insider’, delivering uniquely-informed products, genuine and dense of drama. Simply put, his stories felt authoritative and benefited from an engaging writing style. Thirdly, he made the narration of the experience of the Navy a personal affair. He presented the war as an event that required investigation. He questioned attempts of collective amnesia, suggesting an understanding of Japanese wartime experience instead of concealment, though the focus of his work remained largely limited to Japanese failures in the conduct of operations. In this respect, his publications remained centred on the perspective of the Japanese people as ‘victims’ more than ‘aggressors’ – leaving unaddressed difficult issues such as wartime atrocities and misconduct. Above all, Itoˉ contributed to the rescue of one of Japan’s defining pre-war icons: the Mikasa. In 1962, the transformation of this warship from an abandoned corroding piece of scrap metal into a museum gave Japan its first post-war symbol of military identity. As the restoration was completed, the Mikasa became a physical manifestation of the qualities Itoˉ had narrated in his articles and books. In a national context where, for many decades, the trauma of the wartime experience left the question of the country’s military identity at the margins of the Japanese public

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debate, the Mikasa stood as a lasting example of the naval contribution to national history. The pre-dreadnought lines of this warship were meant to be a statement of past successes and of the qualities that had made them possible. It is perhaps no coincidence that, since the day the memorial ship was opened, a flag signal ‘Z’ has being flying from its mast. This was the flag signal used by Admiral Toˉgoˉ as it sailed into the Battle of Tsushima. The message attached to it had a true Nelsonian flavour and it read ‘The fate of the Empire rests upon this battle, let every man do his utmost’; a battle for a national identity that continues to this day.

Notes 1. Japanese names are given with family names preceding first names. In bibliographical references, names of Japanese authors are given according to western practice. 2. The subject of the evolving relationship between ‘man and machine’ at the beginning of the twentieth century and how naval power embodied it is well explained in Jan Rüger, ‘The Symbolic Value of the Dreadnought’, in Robert J. Blyth, Andrew Lambert, and Jan Rüger (eds.), The Deadnought and the Edwardian Age (Farnham, 2011), p. 15. 3. Charles J. Schenking, Making Waves. Politics, Propaganda, and the Emergence of the Imperial Japanese Navy, 1868–1922 (Stanford, 2005), p. 223 4. Hiroyuki Agawa, Gunkan Nagato Syoˉgai (The Life of the Battleship Nagato, 3 Volumes, Tokyo, 1982 – 1st Ed. 1975). 5. Ryoˉtaroˉ Shiba, Saka no Ue no Kumo (A Cloud at the Top of the Slope, 8 Volumes, Tokyo, 2010 – 1st Ed. 1968). 6. The book, which is regarded to date as a key source of information for Japanese people on the Russo-Japanese War, dealt with the adventures of Akiyama Yoshifuru and Saneyuki, two brothers serving in the Imperial Army’s cavalry and in the Imperial Navy respectively. Saneyuki, the younger of the two, was the master tactician behind the victory at the Battle of Tsushima, and Shiba’s engaging account did much to strengthen perceptions of the Meiji Navy. Isao Chiba, ‘Shifting Contours of Memory and History, 1904–1980’ in David Wolff, S.G. Marks, D. Schimmelpenninck ven der Oye, J.W. Steinberg, Y. Shinji (eds.), The Russo-Japanese War in Global Perspective – World War Zero, Volume II (Leiden, 2007), pp. 374–375. For an appreciation of the impact of Shiba’s literary production on Japan’s contemporary culture and society, cf. Hidehiro Nakao, ‘The Legacy of Shiba Ryotaro’, in Roy Starrs (ed.), Japanese Cultural Nationalism at Home and in the Asia Pacific (Folkestone, 2004), pp. 99–115; Donald Keene, Five Modern Japanese Novelists (New York , 2003), pp. 85–100.

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7. Biographical data on Itoˉ Masanori is included in Katsumi Usui, Naosuke Takamura, Yasushi Toriumi, Masaomi Yui, Nihon Kindai Jinmei Jiten ( Japanese Modern Biographical Dictionary, Tokyo, 2001), p. 95. Editorial Department, ‘Saigo no Kaigun Kisha Itoˉ Masanori’ (The Last Navy Journalist: Itoˉ Masanori), Sankei Shimbun Toˉkyoˉ Honsha Choˉsabu: Itoˉ Masanori (Sankei Shimbun Archive, Tokyo Headquarters: Itoˉ Masanori, hereafter SSAIM), 7 May 1962, p. 106. All articles consulted at the SSAIM appeared in daily or weekly publications of the Fujisankei group unless otherwise noted. The author wishes to express his gratitude to Dr, James E. Auer, Vanderbilt University, and Mr. Satoˉ Hisao, Sankei Shimbun Archive, for granting access to the multi-volume archival materials concerning Itoˉ Masanori. 8. The conflicts with China and Russia constituted two major moments in the construction of Japan’s modern national identity. They contributed to the establishment of Japan’s modern media industry, receiving capillary coverage due to considerable public interest. In various fashions, and with different objectives, governmental and military authorities, newspapers and artists, all sought to use these events to ‘whip up the nation’s fighting spirit’. On the Russo-Japanese War, cf. Naoko Shimazu, Japanese Society at War (Cambridge, 2009). For an overview of the role of the media in shaping perceptions of the First Sino-Japanese War, S.C.M. Paine, The Sino-Japanese War of 1894– 1895: Perceptions, Power and Primacy (Cambridge, 2003); the impact of the wars on the development of the Japanese media industry is documented in Foreign Press Centre Japan (FPC), Japan’s Mass Media (Tokyo), pp. 11–12. 9. Editorial Department, ‘Go Getsu Nijū Nana Nichi no Tamayo Yomigaere: Senkan Mikasa to Itoˉ Masanori’ (Reviving the Spirit of 27 May. The Battleship Mikasa and Itoˉ Masanori), SSAIM, June 1959; Editorial Department, ‘Setsu Setsu to Kaigun wo Omou’ (Learning with Passion about the Navy), SSAIM, 6 June 1962, p. 21. 10. FPC, Japan’s Mass Media, p. 11. 11. Editorial Department, ‘Seishin de Musubareta Ai’ (An Affection Held by a Strong Spirit), SSAIM, 20 February 1961. Department, ‘Go Getsu Nijū Nana Nichi no Tamayo Yomigaere. Senkan Mikasa to Itoˉ Masanori’, June 1959. 12. Schencking, Making Waves, pp. 107–136; Schencking, ‘The Politics of Pragmatism and Pageantry’, pp. 21–37; Charles J. Schencking, ‘Navalism, Naval Expansion and War: The Anglo-Japanese Alliance and the Japanese Navy’, in Phillips Payson O’Brien, The Anglo-Japanese Alliance, 1902–1922 (London, 2004), pp. 122–139. 13. Quoted in Schencking, Making Waves, p. 107. 14. The volumes in the Sankei’s archive corresponded to the period from 1951 to 1962 and contained some 1,121 articles, distributed among various daily

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16. 17. 18. 19.

20. 21.

22. 23.

24.

25. 26.

27.

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and weekly, national and local publications. In almost all cases, the articles presented war-related issues which Itoˉ subsequently developed in his books. Fude no chikara (literally, ‘the power of the pen’), quoted in Soˉkichi Takagi, ‘Kaigun to Itoˉ Masanori’ (The Navy and Itoˉ Masanori), SSAIM, 22 April 1962. Ren as in Rengoˉ Kantai. Editorial Department, ‘Saigo no Kaigun Kisha Itoˉ Masanori’, p. 105. Ian Buruma, Wages of Guilt. Memories of War in Germany and Japan (London, 1994), p. 34. In pre-war Japan, it was rather common, not only among those who had a passion for naval matters, to know the names of entire Japanese classes of capital ships by heart. Warships’ names like Mikasa, Nagato, Hiei were true national icons that almost everyone knew. Editorial Department, ‘Saigo no Kaigun Kisha Itoˉ Masanori’, 106; Editorial Department, ‘Setsu Setsu to Kaigun wo Omou’, p. 21. Editorial Department, ‘Nihon no Senshi Shitsu: Itoˉ Masanori’ ( Japan’s Military History Section: Itoˉ Masanori), SSAIM, 5 September 1960, pp. 82–83. Ibid., p. 82. Itoˉ’s informed assessments and characterisations of the main protagonists of the naval treaties are still employed by leading Japanese scholars on the subject. For instance, cf. Sadao Asada, From Mahan to Pearl Harbor. The Imperial Japanese Navy and the United States (Annapolis, 2006), pp. 54, 70, 73. Reportedly, at the Washington Naval Conference (1921–1922), Itoˉ was one of the few who confidently ‘predicted’ the IJN’s request for a 70 per cent ratio for its fleet vis-à-vis the Royal Navy and the US Navy, whereas the Washington Post, for instance, claimed that Japan intended to ask a little over 60 per cent. Itoˉ’s grasp and contribution to the circulation of information at the time of the conference and of the 1927 Geneva Conference is well documented in Ian Gow, Military Intervention in Pre-war Japanese Politics: Admiral Katoˉ Kanji and the ‘Washington System’ (London, 2004), pp. 115, 130, 140–141, 164. Editorial Department, ‘Setsu Setsu to Kaigun wo Omou’, p. 21. On this matter, cf. Itoˉ’s interview with Admiral Kurita Takeo concerning his controversial decisions on 25 October 1944, during the battle of the Leyte Gulf, Masanori Itoˉ, The End of the Imperial Japanese Navy (trans. by Andrew Y. Kuroda and Roger Pineau, New York 1962), pp. 177–179. Editorial Department, ‘Itoˉ Masanori Shi’ (Mr Itoˉ Masanori), SSAIM, 4 April 1962. Reportedly, he was on good terms with journalists and editors from popular foreign publications such as the Morning Post and the New York

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28.

29. 30.

31. 32. 33. 34.

35.

36.

37. 38. 39. 40.

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Times, and leading naval journalists with expertise in Pacific Affairs, like Hector C. Bywater. ‘Nihon no Senshi Shitsu: Itoˉ Masanori’, p. 82; Itoˉ, The End of the Imperial Japanese Navy, pp. 7–8. From the second half of the 1950s to 1962 (the year in which he died), Itoˉ published widely on the subject of Japan’s wartime military history. His main works were Rengoˉ Kantai no Saigo (The End of the Combined Fleet, Tokyo, 1956); Gunbatsu Koˉboˉ Shi (A History of the Rise and Fall of the Military Cliques, 3 Volumes, Tokyo, 1958); Teikoku Rikugun no Saigo (The End of the Imperial Japanese Army, 5 Volumes, Tokyo, 1959–1961); and Rengoˉ Kantai no Eikoˉ (Glories of the Combined Fleet, Tokyo, 1962). Louis Allen, ‘Notes on Japanese Historiography: World War II’, Military Affairs, Vol. 35 (1971), p. 134. Ibid. A reviewer of the English version of his works defined his style as ‘racy, succinct, and never dull’. Jesse B. Thomas, ‘The End of the Imperial Japanese Navy by Itoˉ Masanori, Roger Pineau, Andrew Y. Kuroda’, Military Affairs, Vol. 26 (1962–63), p. 180. Editorial Department, ‘Seishin de Musubareta Ai’, 20 February 1961. Itoˉ, The End of the Imperial Japanese Navy, p. 2. Ibid. In this context, Captain Roskill’s comments seem particularly relevant, as his scholarly understanding of naval history was informed by his experience as a former naval officer. On this subject, Jonathan Steinberg pointed out that he had the right blend of intellectual, literary and moral qualities which made his naval scholarship unique ‘for Roskill had served in the navy he studied (i.e. The Royal Navy)’. Jonathan Steinberg, ‘Admiral of Fleet earl Beatty: The Last Naval Hero. An Intimate Biography, by Stephen W. Roskill’, The English Historical Review, Vol. 98 (1983), p. 834. Captain Stephen W. Roskill, RN (Ret.), ‘The End of the Imperial Japanese Navy by Itoˉ Masanori, Roger Pineau, Andrew Y. Kuroda’, International Affairs, Vol. 39 (1963), p. 644. For an effective overview of Japan’s wartime convoy protection problem, cf. Euan Graham, Japan’s Sea Lane Security, 1940–2004: A Matter of Life and Death? (London, 2006), pp. 63–89. Editorial Department, ‘Itoˉ Masanori Shi’, 4 April 1962. Itoˉ, The End of the Imperial Japanese Navy, pp. 10–11. Ibid., p. 3. Ibid., pp. 19–20, 216–228. Inter-service disputes and military factionalism in Japan is also comprehensively treated in Itoˉ’s three-volume work Gunbatsu Koˉboˉ Shi. The volumes go to great length to explain the historical roots of

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48.

49.

50.

51. 52. 53.

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military cliques, each volume covering the Russo-Japanese War, the interwar period, and the Pacific War, respectively. Ibid., p. 221. Itoˉ, The End of the Imperial Japanese Navy, pp. 173–174. Ibid., p. 11. The expression was used by Admiral Kurita in an interview he gave to Itoˉ. Ibid., p. 179. Ibid., p. 228. The series was titled: Kokuboˉ no Kadode ni Okuru (A Present for the Setting Out of the National Defence). The first instalment appeared on 1 January 1954. This second series was significantly titled: Jieigun wo Mukaete (Greeting the Self-Defence Military), and the first instalment appeared on 4 July 1954, three days after the inauguration of the JSDF. From September to December 1953, Prime Minister Yoshida Shigeru sought the cooperation of the Reform Party to amend the existing ‘Safety Agency Law’ in order to create Self-Defence Forces to protect the country from external aggressors. A special committee was instructed to study the various legal, constitutional and economic ramifications of the amendment of the existing laws and, by the beginning of January 1954, the new bills were nearly completed. Eventually, they were submitted to the Diet on 11 March 1954 with the Japan Defence Agency (JDA) and the Japan Self-Defence Forces (JSDF) officially inaugurated on 1 July 1954. James E. Auer, The Post-war Rearmament of Japanese Maritime Forces, 1945–1971 (New York, 1973), pp. 98–99. The political struggle between these forces revolved around three main issues. First of all, Article 9 of the constitution, which conservative revisionists wanted to amend because it had been imposed by the United States. The second element of contention concerned the role of defence production in Japan’s economic reconstruction. Thirdly, the two camps harboured very different visions of the functions of the institutions responsible for defence and security policy making. For an in-depth analysis of the debate, cf. Richard Samuels, Securing Japan: The Securing Japan. Tokyo’s Grand Strategy and the Future of East Asia (Ithaca, 2007), pp. 29–37. Itoˉ Masanori, ‘Rikkoku no Seishin Wasuruna’ (Forgetting the Spirit of National Law), SSAIM, 1 January 1954; Itoˉ Masanori, ‘Guntaiwa Kokumin no Sanbutsu’ (The Military as a Product of the Society), SSAIM, 8 January 1954. Itoˉ Masanori, ‘Kyoˉhei to Gunkokushugi no Betsu’ (On the Question of a Strong Army and Militarism), SSAIM, 8 July 1954. Itoˉ Masanori, ‘Kokumin no Kokuboˉ wo Satoru Koto’ (The Awakening to Nation’s Defence), SSAIM, 9 July 1954. Ibid.

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54. Itoˉ Masanori, ‘Guntaiwa Kokumin no Sanbutsu’ (The Military as a Product of the Society), SSAIM, 8 January 1954. 55. Jieigun (Self-Defence Military). It must be noted that the series were published after the official creation of the Self Defence Forces. 56. Hatoyama, Kishi and other conservative politicians used the term Jieigun to emphasise the autonomous character they wished to give to the Japanese post-war military. Samuels, Securing Japan, p. 35. 57. Itoˉ, ‘Guntaiwa Kokumin no Sanbutsu’, 8 January 1954. 58. Itoˉ, ‘Kokumin no Kokuboˉ wo Satoru Koto’, 9 July 1954. 59. Ibid.; Itoˉ, ‘Guntaiwa Kokumin no Sanbutsu’, 08 January 1954. 60. Editorial Department, ‘Saigo no Kaigun Kisha Itoˉ Masanori’, 7 May 1962, p. 106; Editorial Department, ‘Senkan Mikasa to Itoˉ Masanori’, June 1959. 61. Peter C. Smith, ‘A Naval View of Anglo-Japanese Relations’, Mainichi Shimbun, 28 May 1998. HMS Victory was moved to dry dock No. 2 in Portsmouth’s Royal Naval Dockyard in 1922 to be better preserved in her Trafalgar glory. In Japan, the Mikasa Preservation Society (Mikasa Kai) was established in 1924 to restore the battleship which had been severely damage during the Great Kantoˉ Earthquake of 1923 and to transform it into a memorial ship. The inaugural ceremony was held on 12 November 1926 in the presence of the Prince Regent Hirohito. Mikasa Preservation Society, Memorial Ship Mikasa (Yokosuka, 2007), p. 20. For an overview of the memorial ship and its exhibits, cf. the association’s official website, http:// www.kinenkan-mikasa.or.jp/index.html (the website is only in Japanese language). For an English description, cf. William M. Powers, ‘Mikasa: Japan’s Memorial Battleship’, US Naval Institute Proceedings, Vol. 102 (1976), pp. 69–77. 62. Hanji Kinoshita, ‘Echoes of Militarism in Japan’, Pacific Affairs, Vol. 26, 1953:3. 63. For instance, cf. Itoˉ Masanori, ‘Gaikokuwa imamo Kinensu’ ([An Event] Commemorated Even Now Abroad), SSAIM, 27 May 1956; Itoˉ, ‘Sekai Kūzen no Senshoˉ’ (An Unprecedented Victory Worldwide), SSAIM, 26 May 1959. 64. Editorial Department, ‘Mikasa Kanjoˉ de Zoˉtei Shiki’ (On the Deck of the Mikasa the Presentation Ceremony), SSAIM, 1959 (unspecified date). 65. Itoˉ, ‘Gaikokuwa imamo Kinensu’, 27 May 1956. 66. Itoˉ, ‘Sekai Kūzen no Senshoˉ’, 26 May 1959. 67. Author’s visit to the memorial ship Mikasa, 16 August 2007. For details on the exhibition, cf. Mikasa Preservation Society, Memorial Ship Mikasa, 25; also http://www.kinenkan-mikasa.or.jp/siryou/index.html, accessed on 20 July 2008. 68. Quoted in Mikasa Preservation Society, Memorial Ship Mikasa, p. 28.

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CHAPTER 3 THE ROYAL NAV Y, SEA BLINDNESS AND BR ITISH NATIONAL IDENTIT Y Duncan Redford1

Introduction For many years, the Royal Navy was seen as Britain’s first, and indeed only, line of defence. It was seen – uniquely – as an institution which ensured British freedoms, especially those of Parliament, and British freedom from interference by despotic Europeans. This relationship between the Navy, state and public was forged over many years and incorporated national myths of survival, such as the defeat of the Spanish Armada, as well as aspirational visions of what Britain should be – outward looking, successful, and free. This freedom came not just through the defensive power of the Navy to defeat any rivals, but also through what the Navy stood for, or indeed did not. It was not, for example, a standing army that under a king or general could threaten Parliament. The Navy therefore was, in British political terms, totally benign. Yet in 1884 a massive scare erupted which captured the public imagination. The fear was that the Royal Navy was unable to defend Britain and its interests. As a result, the Liberal government of the day was forced into increasing the money it was spending on defence.

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The 1884 scare was also the start of a period where naval power was a significant force within British politics. British naval supremacy was, for the first and only time, enshrined in an Act of Parliament, the Naval Defence Act of 1889. Prime Minsters could be forced to resign over their opposition to high levels of spending on the Navy that their own party was demanding – as Gladstone had to in 1893. Votes of no confidence could be levelled at a government for failing to take seriously a naval challenge to British power, as happened in 1909. However, this was to be a very short-lived period of navalism. By the early 1980s a term had been coined to describe the subsequent affliction that had beset the British – ‘sea blindness’ – the inability to connect with maritime issues at either an individual or political level. Sea blindness, of course, relates to both maritime and naval problems and it must be realised that sea blindness from a naval perspective may not be the same as from a mercantile one. That said, it seems that defence, and the Navy in particular, had slipped out of the public consciousness over the course of the twentieth century. Does this mean that it is now harder for organisations to influence the political process? Yes and no. Clearly the Navy is struggling to find messages that resonate sufficiently with the public and that politicians will sit up and take notice of, but this is not necessarily true of other institutions outside the defence arena. The public and politicians may not get animated about defence or the Navy today, but it is not true of other areas of government activity – the political sacred cow of the NHS is, in many ways, similar to the attitude of both politicians and the public in the late-Victorian and Edwardian period to the Navy. Nor does it mean that the apparent public disinterest in the Navy before the 1884 scare – except at times of headline-grabbing disaster that has a whiff of scandal about it, such as the sinking of HMS Captain in 1871– is the same as the disinterest in the Navy that was clearly growing in the interwar years and which became prevalent in the post-1945 period. This chapter will argue that the public and political influence which the Navy was able to benefit from between 1884 and the interwar period was due to conceptions of British national identity. Such conceptions of identity were not necessarily solely focused on a

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security identity that centred on the protection that being an island was imagined to give the British. It will also argue that the periods of disinterest in the Navy that preceded and followed the upsurge of navalism in late-Victorian and Edwardian Britain are actually very different due to changing constructions of Britishness and how the Navy interacted with such evolving belief structures.

Disinterest in the Navy Before 1884 In order to fully understand the impact of navalism and the Navy on British society and identity, it is necessary to comprehend the period of calm before the political and public opinion storm over the efficiency and strength of the Navy that gusted across Britain between 1884 and 1914. The period 1870 to the mid-1880s was famously called ‘the Dark Ages of the Victorian Navy’ by Oscar Parkes in his 1966 book British Battleships, a theme that was picked up and explored by N.A.M. Rodger in a three-part article in the Mariner’s Mirror.2 Parkes’s choice of phrase to describe a period which, at the time, must have seemed to be a period of technological uncertainty and financial pressure on the Navy has resonated ever since. While some of the underlining premises of both Parkes’s and Rodger’s work have been revised by the naval historians who have followed in their wake, the period 1870 to 1884, as John Beeler has noted, ‘to a considerable extent ... remains a “Dark Age.” ’3 Not only is the period 1870–1884 a historiographical ‘dark age’, but it also saw widespread contemporary public and indeed political disinterest with the Royal Navy. It has been argued that the perceived victory of the ‘Fortress Britain’ mentality behind the forts craze of the late 1850s and early 1860s, and the earlier volunteer rifle company movement, set the tone for a period of stagnation in naval policy and administration, a political attitude which by default could only prosper due to a lack of interest in what was actually going on in the Navy.4 Only the publication, in 1888, of Phillip Columb’s argument for a ‘blue water’ strategy for Britain’s defence started to tip the political and opinion scales in favour of the Royal Navy, a process that culminated in the 1889 Naval Defence Act and the birth of navalism as a widespread component of the public political debate.

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Such an argument is however, mistaken. Figure 3.1 shows clearly the low level of interest in the Navy which was prevalent between 1870 and the mid-1880s. Indeed, between 1870 and 1880 there were six years when none of the journals illustrated published any articles on current naval issues and in only nine years out of the 20 analysed were two or more articles published. Of the four journals, Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine and the Nineteenth Century showed the most interest with articles in nine of the years between 1870 and 1890. However, the only time that all four journals published articles dealing with naval issues was in 1888, a level of interest that can be put down to yet another war scare, this time provoked by renewed worries about French naval activity and a reduction in British naval construction.5 In comparison, at least two of the same journals printed articles about the British Army and related policy-making in every year over the same period with the exception of 1872 and 1873 when no articles were published and 1874 when only one article was published. On the other hand, the upsurge in articles on both the British Army and the Royal Navy in 1888 suggests, on first consideration, that there was an ideological battle going on between the ‘blue water’ arguments of the Navy and the ‘Fortress Britain’ or ‘bricks and mortar’ mentality of the Army in order to win over public support. This analysis has found some favour with historians where it is perceived that the development of a blue water school of strategic thought defeated the more readily accepted military arguments for a large army and forts to safeguard the United Kingdom from invasion which had held sway since the early 1860s. Only with the victory of the blue water school could any move towards a Naval Defence Act be possible politically.6 Such a standpoint is mistaken, as the idea that an intellectual battle was fought for the heart and soul of British strategy between the Army and the Navy from the 1860s to the 1880s, with the 1888 contribution of Phillip Colomb being the turning point in the Navy’s favour firing public enthusiasm for the Royal Navy after over a decade of disinterest, cannot be accurate. It is more productive to view the high costs of the fort building programmes after 1859, incomprehensible as they may be as a realistic means of defence for an island, as merely over-

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14 12

Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine The Nineteenth Century

10

The Fortnightly Review 8

The Contemporary Review

6 4 2 0 1870 1872 1874 1876 1878 1880 1882 1884 1886 1888 1890

Figure 3.1 Articles dealing with British naval issues 1870–1890 in four major periodicals.38

insurance at a time of acute public anxiety, in the same mould as the fort building phase – the Martello towers – during the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars.7 Indeed, John Beeler explicitly refutes there being any political strength behind the ‘Fortress Britain’ school of military strategy.8 It seems that the fundamental reason why the media, and thus the wider public audience, were not showing much interest in the state of the Navy was not that they did not believe it was important, or that there was a widespread belief that the British Army was the most importance aspect of national defence, or that aspects of their Britishness, their national identity, were not closely linked to that of the Royal Navy. Rather, they did not see a problem with the funding, equipment or efficiency of their Navy. Throughout the 1870s and early 1880s, the British were constantly reassured about the strength and efficiency of the Royal Navy. Readers of the Gentleman’s Magazine were assured in 1870 that ‘it cannot fail to give satisfaction to English readers to find that in all branches of our naval force suited to ocean-warfare we are still superior to America.’9 The Times described the Royal Navy as ‘a naval force which, it is not

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too much to say, could sweep the seas of all the Navies in the world’ and considered that ‘We have a powerful Fleet, manned with excellent seamen.’10 Politicians, as well as the media, frequently reiterated that there were no problems with the strength or efficiency of the Navy. More importantly, there was the widespread belief amongst Admiralty officials that when they made a statement as to the efficiency of the Navy it would generally be accepted at face value. As the Pall Mall Gazette pointed out, when Lord Goschen, First Lord of the Admiralty: ... rose at public meetings to declare the perfect efficiency of the Navy, its power and its readiness to meet all the other navies of the world combined, he was believed: as he expected to be.11 Nor were political statements of the superiority of the Royal Navy limited to the Liberal Party; the Conservatives were equally capable of trumpeting the supremacy of Britain’s seapower. In 1876, during George Hunt’s tenure as First Lord of the Admiralty in Disraeli’s Conservative ministry, the Liverpool Mercury reminded its readers that ‘It has been repeatedly stated in the House of Commons that our navy possesses a sufficient number of ships, and those of sufficient strength, to hold the sea not only against any one naval power, but against any combination of such powers known to be possible in modern times.’12 Overall, the Navy was popular, but it was a popularity based on the banal. Interest in naval affairs, such as there was, quickly waned. Indeed, it is hard not to think of the general view of the Navy in this period as relying on the almost mythic status of the Battle of Trafalgar and Nelson’s longevity as a popular hero.13 What was at work was complacency about Britain’s Navy – not disinterest. The scare of 1884 and the subsequent ones up to World War I are therefore not about a sudden discovery of naval affairs, but rather related to the shaking of a deeply established confidence in, and reliance on, the Navy.

Why the Navy Mattered Then One of the reasons why the British were so enamoured of their Navy in the period between 1884 and 1914 was its role in imperial defence,

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which was closely linked to perceptions of national prestige and power. This area could encompass a narrow belief in the supremacy of the Royal Navy such as expressed by the Daily Mail in 1909 – ‘For England “there is nothing between sea supremacy and ruin” ’14 – or a more sophisticated analysis by the Morning Post, also in 1909, centred on the role of seapower and Empire – ‘Every one knows that if the Navy should not be decidedly superior to any other Navy the empire must come to an end, and Great Britain cease to be a Great Power.’15 However, the Navy as a symbol of great-power status was contested at times, not just between Conservative and Liberal forces, but within parties as well. The Gladstonian foreign policy of splendid isolation – avoiding foreign entanglements – was at odds with the earlier Palmerston ‘send a gunboat’ attitude.16 A second extremely powerful interaction between the Royal Navy and the wider political society was through its role in defence of the home islands. The foundation of British domestic defence policy was based on the concept that, as an island, invasion by a hostile power was impossible while Britain had a strong Navy in a position to intercept such an invasion force. The centrality of island status within first the English and then the British psyche was long-standing; Shakespeare wrote of the British Isles (and specifically England) as ‘this sceptre’d isle, set in a silver sea’ and of the sea as ‘serving in the office of a wall’.17 Across the centuries, belief in this Shakespearean imagery gave the Royal Navy significant political capital, an advantage frequently eyed with great envy by the Army and its supporters. This issue was exacerbated by various accidents of history which meant that, despite its name, the Royal Navy had greater parliamentary oversight than the Army. The Navy, therefore, had a legacy of being seen as the traditional defender of Parliament, as well as Britain, while land forces, thanks to the Army’s greater Royal patronage, weaker Parliamentary oversight, Cromwell’s military junta during the 1650s, and the example set by large European conscript armies raised by despotic regimes, were seen as the instruments of oppression.18 Indeed, so powerful was this image of the Navy as the first and last line of defence for Britain, that authors who wished to use a fictional invasion as a plot line had great difficulty in coming up with a

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credible device to explain the absence of the Royal Navy – the usual method was to claim the Navy had been lured away from home waters on a pretext or that a new wonder weapon (always unspecified) had rendered the fleet helpless. Indeed, the British Army and its supporters made various attempts to undermine the public’s and politicians’ belief in the security posed by the Royal Navy, such as the invasion enquiries in 1904, 1907 and 1913, as this would not only boost the prestige of the Army, but also could lead to the transfer of money from the Navy votes to the Army estimates. This concept of island status and the Navy making Britain invulnerable to continental oppression and despotism also explains the opposition to a Channel Tunnel between the early 1880s and the end of the World War II.19 The most common charges against the proponents of various channel tunnel schemes were that it would end Britain’s island insularity, its reliance on seapower for its security and that such a tunnel would require a continental-sized army, probably conscript-based, that not only aped those despotic continentals, but which would also challenge traditional British freedoms and be very expensive.20 In short, the British liked a security environment which ensured an Army that was so small it couldn’t be used against the populace or Parliament. Of course, the flip side of Britain’s island security was that, as trade developed, Britain became more vulnerable to forms of economic warfare that interdicted the very trade on which the British economy and government depended. This problem was exacerbated in the nineteenth century with the ending of the Corn Laws and, as free trade developed, Britain’s ever-increasing reliance on imported food. The worries over food insecurity were a feature of several debates in the 1880s, 1890s and 1900s; a Royal Commission investigated the issue and reported to Parliament in 1905. As Admiral Fisher pointed out, it was starvation not invasion that Britain should fear. The Navy’s construction programme reflected the trade protection imperative – cruisers, not battleships were the staple of the Navy’s shipbuilding programmes in the period up to World War I. The Navy also projected a uniquely British – as opposed to an English, Welsh, Scottish, regional, county or municipal – identity,

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thanks to Britain’s overarching island identity. In a period where localism and local and municipal pride were commonplace, as seen through the impressive civic buildings that sprung up in cities as expressions of civic pride, identity and achievement, the Navy rose above these more local identities as a strongly British institution. One aspect of this presentation of Britishness was to name the ships of the Navy after British counties, like Antrim, Carnarvon and Roxburgh, or cities, such as Birmingham, Nottingham, Dublin or Cardiff. Not only did such names give the Navy a local focus in areas with perhaps few direct links to it, but they also emphasised the union that bound the four home nations. Similarly, ship names emphasised the imperial identity of the Navy and Britain to reinforce the links with that ‘Britain beyond the seas’ with names such as HMS Australia, HMS New Zealand, HMS Malaya or HMS Good Hope.

Why the Navy Stopped Mattering How did the Navy get from a point where the British needed little urging to show an interest in their Navy to one of public and political insignificance today? As we have seen, during the period between 1884 and 1914, both political parties supported naval supremacy, in one form or another, and the idea that Britain might lose control of the sea was unthinkable to all except the ‘most eccentric Radicals’.21 Hindsight is a wonderful thing. It allows people (historians included) to look back and identify when and where it all went wrong – at least in theory. However, in the case of defining when the Royal Navy lost its ability to influence public and political opinion there is not one point that can be isolated with a shout of ‘Ah ha’ followed by the exhortation that, if a different decision had been taken, everything would have remained satisfactory. Instead, there are a number of events that chipped away at the Navy’s (and its supporters’) ability to influence people. It seems that the role of the Navy home defence was perceived by many to weaken after Louis Blériot’s 1909 flight across the English Channel. The development of a viable aircraft capable of crossing the

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Channel was trumpeted by many, including, inevitably the Daily Mail, who wrote: Now, however, we have to reckon with the fact that a small and inexpensive machine, which can readily be multiplied by the hundred, has bridged the Channel and done what steam could never achieve. British insularity has vanished.22 Blériot’s feat was quickly followed by apocalyptic visions of future wars ‘from the sky’ raining down destruction on Britain. The British public, of course, were used to wars ‘being an away fixture’. The strength of the Zeppelin scare in the immediate pre-World War I period was harmful enough to the idea of the Navy as the ultimate guarantor of British freedoms, but the experience of air attack during the war itself was worse. The sea change in attitude towards the Navy and its role in home defence continued to develop in the interwar period. Not only did the era of British absolute naval supremacy come to an end with the acceptance of parity with the United States Navy, as part of the 1922 Washington Naval Treaty, but it caused negligible public or political comment – unlike the 1909 naval scare. At the same time, in part due to the experience of air attacks during World War I, the interwar period was characterised by British fears of a sudden and catastrophic aerial attack. Such fears were heightened by apocalyptic fictional portrayals of future wars fought from the air, with authors pointing out in frightening detail the imagined effects of an aerial attack, prophesying cities destroyed, riots and the collapse of government,23 echoing Arthur Conan Doyle’s 1914 description of the collapse of Britain as a result of an unrestricted submarine campaign.24 The bomber and the likely attack on Britain’s civil population also inspired a widespread disarmament movement, the Peace Pledge Union in the late 1930s, which made strategic bombing the main issue of its campaign.25 The concerns over strategic bombing were increased by politicians’ public pronouncements, with Stanley Baldwin coining the famous phrase ‘the bomber will always get through’.26 The First Sea Lord even went as far as to describe the bombing of towns as ‘a method

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of warfare which is revolting & un-English’.27 Such fears throughout the entire populace helped to generate ‘an outspoken public campaign supporting disarmament’ with the bomber, not invasion or starvation as a result of naval weakness, ‘the most frightening weapon of the day ...’28 The bomber and the threat of aerial attack had made the security previously granted by the combination of the Royal Navy and Britain’s island insularity appear irrelevant. This view was confirmed by the propaganda and myth-making that surrounded events in the summer of 1940, when the Navy’s role in preventing a seaborne invasion was written out of history in favour of an air battle that, due to the severe limitations on airpower and air weapons in that ‘Spitfire summer’, meant that the RAF was effectively incapable of stopping an invasion force.29 This image of naval irrelevance to home defence was enhanced by the threat of nuclear attack after 1949. Whereas the reality of conventional strategic bombing, whilst terrible, was not quite as bad as had been feared, nuclear warfare promised to make the level of destruction that could fall from the air match the visions of pre-war airpower prophets. In August 1945 The Times observed that: The designing and building of giant bombers to carry increasingly bigger weights of high explosives has already made air power one of the most terrible weapons of war. Now the perfection of the atomic bomb by British and American scientists make it even more potent and terrible.30 Unsurprisingly, the Air Staff argued that Britain’s short-term and longterm defence posture should be to deter war and that British forces should be organised to provide a nuclear, as well as a conventional, deterrent – a deterrent that would best be provided, unsurprisingly, by the RAF’s bomber force, suitably reequipped.31 Such a position was naturally a disaster for the Royal Navy as it left no role for the Navy in home defence in a future war, a war that was seen as likely to be extremely short and devastating with little or no time for the Navy or Britain to mobilise and exert conventional pressure on an enemy. Instead a ‘superblitz’ would befall the United Kingdom.32 The

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armed forces’ response to this was to develop alternative strategies, culminating in the 1952 concept of ‘broken backed war’; the idea that after an initial atomic attack there would still be a period of conventional war while both sides regrouped and rearmed ready for the next nuclear exchange. Importantly for the Navy, the most intensive area of broken backed warfare would be at sea, against a major submarine and mine threat.33 The development of the thermonuclear weapons made attempts to argue for the traditional maritime approach of a long economic war against a continental foe impossible to sustain. The 1955 Strath Report bluntly assessed the impact of a thermonuclear attack on Britain; 12 million dead, another four million seriously injured, and no hope of rescuing those in shelters within the damaged area or giving medical aid to those who were injured.34 In such a strategic environment it is easy to see how the public could ignore the Navy, and what seapower could provide them with in both cold and hot wars, in preference to concerns about an apocalyptic vision of nuclear war. Nor does it seem that the Navy was a high priority politically – in the Cabinet Defence Committee, and its successor the Defence and Overseas Policy Committee, discussion of naval matters was sparse and spasmodic – far more attention was devoted to the needs of the Army and the Royal Air Force. While perceptions of technological change in the shape of the possibilities for future air warfare up to 1939 and the realities of a future nuclear exchange after 1949 fundamentally altered the way the British saw the security conferred by their island home and a powerful Navy, the part played by the image of the Navy as part of the construction of Britain as a great power also underwent revision. Central to this revision was, of course, decolonisation and the end of the British Empire. Quite simply, without an Imperial network of distant dominions and colonies to defend against competitors who would use force or the threat of force to achieve their aims, the perception of the Navy as the defender of British overseas interests waned and the concept of the Commonwealth as an alternative did not engage the British publically or politically. The turn towards Europe, politically, militarily, and economically, also failed to engage the vast majority of the British, but now the defence debate, where it existed at all, was over the strength of UK land and air forces in Germany rather than those at sea.

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At the same time, there was a shift in the public and political perception of the acceptability of the use of force. The British public’s jingoistic approach to international relations, which characterised attitudes towards war as an instrument of policy during the period of navalism before World War I, waned after the experience of the ‘war to end all wars’. Instead, the pursuit of collective security and disarmament were powerful new areas of public engagement. Furthermore, the Navy League – the public guardians of British naval supremacy since the mid-1890s – ceased to advocate British naval supremacy in the immediate post-World War I period and instead advocated disarmament and collective security.35 After World War II, the antinuclear movements garnered significant support in the period up to the late 1950s, although the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament’s importance did decline in the 1960s and 1980s, before the decision to replace Polaris missiles with Trident, and the basing of US cruise missiles on British soil reinvigorated the organisation.36 Beyond the politics of disarmament, it is clear, after World War II, the political acceptability of using armed force within foreign policy became unacceptable to an increasing part of the population, as evidenced in the public opposition towards recent involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan – although support for the armed forces has remained high.37 There also appears to be a geopolitical aspect to the issue. National identity – what makes the British feel British – clearly has an element of geography within it – the concept of Britain as an island: the sceptre’d isle. The construct of Britain as an island within a maritime trading network is countered in geopolitical thought, notably Halford Mackinder’s early-twentieth century analysis, where he contrasted the ‘world island’, ‘heartland’, ‘offshore islands’ and ‘outlying islands’. In this respect therefore, the idea of a continental commitment is much more than the old British Army of the Rhine (BAOR) and now defunct 2nd Tactical Air Force, or RAF Germany; it is also the political and public move away from seeing Britain as a hub (or, in the period before 1945, the hub) of a global trading network to an, at times, reluctant partner in a European trading and political system where global perspectives, maritime issues and, more specifically, the role of the

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Navy within British security engages neither the public nor politicians to any meaningful level.

Will the Navy Matter Again? The fact that the Navy doesn’t matter much politically is not actually a new thing. In times of crisis, politicians of all colours have preferred pouring money into holes in the ground (think Martello towers in Nelson’s time, or Palmerston’s follies of the early 1860s; for a more modern version consider the current veneration of the propaganda ‘victory’ of the Battle of Britain) rather than investing in a fleet that voters could not see – unlike forts and later fighter aircraft overhead. Yet the disengagement of naval policy from public debate in the period from the mid-1860s up to 1884 should not be seen as disinterest – at least not in the manner of today. Instead, it should be regarded as a profound and unthinking expression of confidence in the strength of the Navy. When that supposed strength was publicly and effectively questioned, the ensuing panic over ‘The Truth About the Navy’ reports in the Pall Mall Gazette in late 1884 was not a sudden awakening of interest in the Navy as such, but the manifestation of a shaken public confidence that had taken naval supremacy and the political importance of the Royal Navy for granted, and heralded a period of unprecedented interest in the Royal Navy and naval policy. It is the fact that the scares and navalism of the nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries were more a shaking of an existing confidence in the Navy rather than an awakening of interest, whereas today there does not seem to be that fundamental belief in the need for the Royal Navy, which is the nub of the issue. This does not mean that the strategic rationale of the maritime case is incorrect, rather that it is not relevant to the public and politicians today. While the messages of navalism and the need for a navy engaged the public in the period up to 1914, those same messages do not engage the public or politicians now; the audience’s interests have changed. However, without a great deal of new research into contemporary attitudes, it is difficult as a historian to say what messages may resonate in the future.

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Interdisciplinary research and collaboration into the current basis of national identity is clearly the only way forward now. What can be said about how the past relationship between the Royal Navy and British national identity from the late-Victorian period onwards can inform future discussions, is that it shows only too clearly the fluid nature of identity. British identity has changed and will change in the future; putting out the same tried and tested messages to a public whose agenda has changed will not change the way the British feel about their Navy.

Notes 1. Research for this article was supported by funding from the Leverhulme Trust. The author would like to place on record his appreciation of the support given by the Leverhulme Trust. 2. Oliver Parkes, British Battleships, 2nd edn. (London, 1966), p. 230; N.A.M. Rodger, ‘The Dark Ages of the Admiralty, 1869–1885’, Mariner’s Mirror, vol. 61 (1975), vol. 62 (1976). 3. John Beeler, Naval Policy in the Gladstone-Disraeli Era 1866–1880 (Oxford, 1997), p. 3. 4. Norman Longmate, Island Fortress: The Defence of Great Britain 1603–1945 (London, 1991), pp. 361–369; Roger Parkinson, The Late Victorian Navy (Woodbridge, 2008), pp. 10–12, 102; Edward M. Spiers, The Late Victorian Army 1868–1902 (Manchester, 1992), pp. 229–30. 5. Arthur J. Marder, British Naval Policy, 1880–1905: The Anatomy of British Sea Power (London, 1940), p. 126–132. 6. Longmate, Island Fortress, pp. 361–369; Parkinson, The Late Victorian Navy, pp. 10–12, 102; Spiers, The Late Victorian Army, pp. 229–30. 7. Beeler, British Naval Policy, pp. 23–24. 8. John Beeler, ‘Steam, Strategy and Schurman: Imperial Defence in the Post-Crimean Era, 1856–1905’, in Greg Kennedy & Keith Neilson (eds.) Far Flung Lines: Studies in Imperial Defence in Honour of Donald Mackenzie Schurman (London, 1997), pp. 29–30; John Beeler, Birth of the Battleship: British Capital Ship Design 1870–1881 (London, 2001), pp. 89–91. 9. ‘Alabamas of the Future’, Gentleman’s Magazine, vol. 4 (1870), p. 195. 10. The Times, 3 August 1870. 11. Pall Mall Gazette, 21 April 1874. 12. Liverpool Mercury, 7 March 1876.

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13. Andrew Lambert, ‘The Magic of Trafalgar: The Nineteenth-Century Legacy’, in David Cannadine (ed.), Trafalgar in History: A Battle and its Afterlife (Basingstoke, 2006), pp. 155–174. 14. Daily Mail, 17 March 1909, p. 6. 15. The Morning Post, 17 March 1909, p. 6. 16. Nor is it strictly accurate to consider naval spending in this period as a straight Conservative/Liberal difference; the Liberal Party of the time was riven with factions: traditional Whig, former Peelite Torys (refuges since the repeal of the Corn Laws), Liberal Imperialists and Radicals. Of these groups normally the Radicals are singled out as being against naval spending, but in reality they frequently supported the need for a Navy – just not the Navy other people wanted. 17. William Shakespeare, Richard II, Act 2, Scene 1. 18. David Reynolds, Britannia Overruled. British Policy and World Power in the 20th century 2nd edn., (Harlow, 2002), p. 50; N.A.M. Rodger, The Command of the Ocean: A Naval History of Britain, 1649–1815 (London, 2004), pp. 578–579. 19. For an interesting history of the British relationship with the idea of a Channel Tunnel see Keith Wilson, Channel Tunnel Visions (London, 1994). 20. The Times, 1 January 1890; J.L.A. Simmons, ‘The Channel Tunnel. A National Question’, The Nineteenth Century, vol. XI (1882), pp. 663–4; Albert V. Tucker, ‘Army and Society in England 1870–1900: A Reassessment of the Cardwell Reforms’, Journal of British Studies vol. 2 (1963), pp. 120; cf. David French, Military Identities: The Regimental System, the British Army and the British People, c.1870–2000 (Oxford, 2008), pp. 232–233, 234, 248; Edward M. Spiers, The Army and Society 1815–1914 (London, 1980), pp. 221–222. 21. Kenneth L. Moll, ‘Politics, Power and Panic: Britain’s 1909 Dreadnought “Gap”’, Military Affairs vol. 29 (1965), p. 136; G.H.S. Jordan, ‘Pensions not Dreadnoughts: The Radicals and Naval Retrenchment’, in A.J.A. Morris (ed.) Edwardian Radicalism 1900–1914 (London, 1974), p. 163. 22. ‘The Meaning of the Marvel’, Daily Mail, 26 July 1909, p. 6. 23. The works of L.E.O. Charlton and P.R.C. Groves are a case in point, examples include: P.R.C. Groves, Our Future in the Air: A Survey of the Vital Questions of British Air Power (London, 1922), and Behind the Smoke Screen (London, 1934); Jonathan Griffin, Glass Houses and Modern War (London, 1938); L.E.O. Charlton, War From the Air (London, 1935), War Over England (London, 1937), and War From the Air (London, 1938). The fear of aerial warfare must also be considered in the light of the World War I experience of chemical weapons, see Tim Cook, ‘Against God-Inspired Conscience: The Perception of Gas Warfare as a Weapon of Mass Destruction, 1915–1939’,

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24. 25.

26.

27. 28.

29.

30. 31.

32. 33. 34. 35.

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War & Society vol. 18 (2000), pp. 47–69.’ Consider also aspects of the plots of H.G. Wells’s The Shape of Things to Come (London, 1933) or The Time Machine (London, 1895). See also Williamson Murray, ‘Strategic Bombing: The British, American, and German experiences’, in Williamson Murray and Allan R. Millett (eds.), Military Innovation in the Interwar Period (Cambridge, 1996), p. 102; I.F. Clarke, Voices Prophesying War, 1763–1984 (London, 1966), p. 170. Arthur Conan Doyle, ‘Danger!’, Strand Magazine, vol. XLVIII (1914), pp. 12, 16, 17, 18. In conversation with Mr William Hetherington, archivist for the Peace Pledge Union; all of the surviving material from the Peace Pledge Union for the interwar period relates to air warfare only. This author is indebted to Mr Hetherington for the advice and assistance he provided. Keith Middlemas & John Barnes, Baldwin: A Biography (London, 1969), p. 736; Philip Williamson, Stanley Baldwin (Cambridge, 1999), pp. 47, 305–306. The National Archives, ADM 116/2827, PD 04/058/32 1SL minute, 13 April 1932. Tami Davis Biddle, Rhetoric and Reality in Air Warfare: The Evolution of British and American Ideas about Strategic Bombing, 1914–1945 (Princeton, 2002), pp. 102, 103. For a discussion on the perception of the threat of starvation due to unrestricted submarine warfare during the interwar period see Duncan Redford, The Submarine: A Cultural History from the Great War to Nuclear Combat (London, 2010), pp. 136–142. See Anthony J. Cumming, ‘The Warship as the Ultimate Guarantor of Britain’s Freedom in 1940’, Historical research, vol. 83 (2010), pp. 165–188, which won the Institute of Historical Research’s Sir Julian Corbett Prize in Modern Naval History in 2006; Anthony J. Cumming, The Royal Navy and the Battle of Britain (Newport, 2010) The Times, 8 August 1945, p. 4. Simon J. Ball, The Bomber in British Strategy (Boulder, 1995), pp. 23–5. See also Eric J. Grove, Vanguard to Trident: British Naval Policy since World War II (London, 1987), p. 33. H.G. Thursfield (ed.) Brassey’s Naval Annual 1947 (London, 1947), p. 111. Grove, Vanguard to Trident, p. 84. The National Archives, CAB 134/940, HDC(55)3, The defence implications of fallout from a hydrogen bomb. Duncan Redford, ‘Collective Security and Internal Dissent: The Navy League’s Attempts to develop a New Policy towards British Naval Power between 1919 and the 1922 Washington Naval Treaty’, History, vol. 96

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(2011), pp. 48–67; Duncan Redford, ‘Keep Watch: The Navy League in the Interwar Period’, Trafalgar Chronicle, vol. 21 (2011), pp. 191–205. 36. Paul Byrne, The Campaign For Nuclear Disarmament (London, 1988), pp. 45–7, 51; Martin Ceadel, ‘Britain’s Nuclear Disarmers’, in Walter Laqueur and Robert Hunter (eds.), European Peace Movements and the future of the Western Alliance (Oxford, 1988), p. 218; see also Ruth Brandon, The Burning Question: The Anti-Nuclear Movement since 1945 (London, 1987), p. 60; James Hinton Protests and Visions: Peace Politics in 20th Century Britain (London, 1989), p. 165; Richard Taylor, ‘The Labour Party and CND 1957 to 1984’, in Richard Taylor and Nigel Young (eds.), Campaigns for Peace: British Peace Movements in the Twentieth Century (Manchester, 1987), p. 120; Richard Taylor, Against the Bomb: The British Peace Movement, 1958–1965 (Oxford, 1988), pp. 91, 105, 112. 37. BBC news ‘Polls find Europeans oppose Iraq war’, dated 11 Feb 2003, http:// news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/2747175.stm accessed on 27 Oct 2010; BBC news ‘ “Million” march against Iraq war’, dated 16 Feb 2003, http:// news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/2765041.stm accessed 27 Oct 2010; The Guardian, ‘60% think Iraq war was wrong, poll shows’, dated 20 Mar 2007, http:// www.guardian.co.uk/world/2007/mar/20/iraq.iraq accessed 27 Oct 2010; Anon, ‘Majorities of the Americans and Britons Believe the War in Iraq Was a Mistake’, Angus Reid Public Opinion Poll, dated 26 August 2010; Anon, ‘Opposition to Military Mission in Afghanistan Reaches 60% in Britain’, Angus Reid Public Opinion Poll, dated 20 Oct 2010. 38. This graph does not include articles that were about foreign forces, articles of a historical nature, or those giving a narrative of contemporary campaigns.

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CHAPTER 4 LIKE THE CR EW OF A SHIP: THE SEA AND IDENTIT Y IN MODER N MESSINA Giuseppe Restifo

The City and the Sea The convenience in terms of location for a maritime site is not enough;1 in the rise of a port city in grandeur the sense of identity among the people who live there and their perceived link to the sea are also important. This chapter will examine the case of Messina in the early modern age, considering its complex social structure, its non-linear identities and its relationship with the sea. Messina has been described as the ‘gate of Sicily’, ‘gateway towards the Levant’, ‘gate between the East and West of the Mediterranean’: the term ‘gate’ has often been used to define Messina, reflecting an identity as an entry point that lasted for centuries. ‘Porta’ and ‘porto’, meaning gate and port: in Latin and the Romance languages the terms have the same root,2 and Messina has much to do with the relationship between ‘porta’ and ‘porto’. If Messina is a ‘gate’ then it is also an ‘access city’, the threshold to a whole region and, at the same time, a revolving door and pathway towards the wider urban structures that were established in Europe and in the Mediterranean from the Medieval Age onwards.

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Not all people living in Mediterranean port cities were as affected by their proximity to the port and the sea as those in Messina. Not all people living in a great port city share the same ‘nationality’. If there is a certain degree of affinity among port city dwellers in the modern Mediterranean, it is provided by the link between the Mediterranean port cities and the phenomenon of ‘cosmopolitanism’.3 In a cosmopolitan Mediterranean port city, is it possible to have at the same time distinction and unity among its different inhabitants? Like the crew of a ship, whose life is marked by different functions, the residents of Messina, even if of different origins and identities, were involved in the life of the same ship – their city. In 1518, 88 inhabitants of Messina, ‘all merchants’, decided to impose a tax upon all the exports sent to Flanders, Brabant and England, in order to make a donation to the Chapel of Santa Maria della Lettera. To fund this payment, only the merchandise of ‘any foreign person’ was taxed – a clear example of defining one’s identity in opposition to another group. Yet for the Messinese, the reasoning was simple: the Madonna della Lettera was the protectress of Messina and thus only she could ‘improve our affairs’. If business went well there would be proceeds, and a part of these proceeds would be dedicated to the chapel.4 That all merchants, regardless of origin or identity, chose to act as they did in 1518 makes Messina, a maritime city in the Mediterranean network, an ideal observation point to see how communities with different languages, traditions and origins could interact. Obviously, the local political and religious authorities always tried to impose on people a clear and predictable identity; it was better for expatriates to be defined according to their ‘nation’. The well managed world so beloved by the representatives of the local power could not suffer deviation from its administrative order. However, many of the foreigners in the city understood that this rigidity was illusory and imagined the society in which they lived, and with which they had relations, to be multiple, porous and adaptable.5 A foreign group with a strong identity, for example, was formed by the Catalans resident in Messina. Identities within cities like Messina have not been examined by those historians who dedicated themselves to the analysis of the connection between state, nation and identity.6 It is therefore necessary to unearth

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Figure 4.1 Anonymous, View of Messina from an engraving of the sixteenth century, 1740, private collection.

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this new model from the avalanche of academic studies describing the processes of the building of nationalities and the nationalisation of collective sentiment. These conceptual categories are too global, wide, indifferent to the local realities to understand their huge heterogeneity ... they make, on the one hand, the present too similar to the past ... and, on the other, they confuse the strong specificity of each single case, restraining them in a homogeneous process usually called – if we want to use a label – nation building.7 A Mediterranean maritime city can provide, with its history, analytical categories which can help scholars to understand the collective identities of population during the pre-nationalistic age.8 Such a topic is of increasing importance as many modern nation states grapple with ever louder calls for greater regional autonomy and even independence from within their own populations. With Mediterranean seaside cities like Messina now within a national state, they provide an avenue for the consideration of the historical process that incorporated cities into larger entities, as well as their resistance to such integration, and to the nationalisation of the local cultures. That resistance also involves linguistic competition. In contrast to the contemporary world, in which linguistic homogeneity is perceived as a distinguishing characteristic of national culture and identity, the maritime world of the early modern Mediterranean was a multilingual space in which encountering and navigating a multiplicity of languages was the norm and in no way destabilizing or disorienting. The port cities of the early modern Mediterranean were a linguistic Tower of Babel. Beyond a small stratum of language intermediaries, most communication occurred through multilingualism or the use of a ‘lingua franca’. ‘The characteristic use for this language type was/is for trading purposes ... this speech type was generally not written or standardised.’9 This made the early modern Mediterranean a polylingual society, in which linguistic difference was a fundamental and familiar feature.10 Sicily in particular had a polyglot culture, above all in the sixteenth century, when Sicilian, Tuscan and Spanish languages co-existed, both

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on a daily level and in formal, literary culture. The control of these languages was an essential part of thinking, acting, and successfully manoeuvring through the multiple levels of Sicilian society. The choices made each time among Sicilian, Tuscan and Spanish languages, which had different socio-political connotations, revealed the practical sense of those who lived on this Mediterranean island.11 The Sicilian port city was not only an ‘auditorium’, but also an observatory to see if there were coherent social identities and if they were well integrated, how the groups defined themselves in terms of general feeling and in relation to the sea, how the political and religious authorities influenced the process of identification and what role was given to the sea in moulding a collective sense of identity. The local authority dimension in Messina was particularly important as, at least until 1678, the city presented itself as a quasiRepublic, the pinnacle of the maritime system within the Sicilian Kingdom. From the city élite came the municipal leaders, the ‘giurati’ or senators, who did not disdain strong commercial relationships with foreign merchants, because in this way they could gain unclear profits from the grain administration. Moreover, the ‘giurazia’ – or senate – could monitor immigration, granting citizenship to those foreigners residing in the city for one year, one month, one week and one day; citizenship could also be obtained by marrying a Messinese woman or was granted in recognition of particular qualifications. Such citizenship criteria made it possible to provide the city with manpower of various skills levels, while also allowing sufficient flexibility of opportunities to attract foreign merchants.12 Nor was upper class intermarriage with newcomers a rarity; there had been unions between foreigners and the Messinese since Norman times.13 Using these matrimonial strategies, rich or aristocratic foreigners could enter the local establishment and share their cultural attitudes while the labouring classes could rely on the city’s needs for their skills and labour to gain entry. For those engaged in trade, the best way to compete with more favoured competitors in the economic web of Sicily was to become a ‘citizen’. Hence the particular importance of acquiring citizenship, which brought unquestionable privileges.

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Figure 4.2 Giacomo del Duca, Loggia of the Merchants, Messina, 1599.

On the other hand, middle class immigrants, exiles who arrived in Sicily with a good financial position and dealt in commerce, did not enjoy particular support and had to press for rapid social integration. In order to get around their initial disadvantage, to avoid reprisals and to take advantage of any political support, they had to adopt a different approach. One approach was to use their professional abilities, particularly if related to an exclusive area of activity. In 1530, when the Silk Guild was established in Messina, there were three foreigners among the founders: a Venetian, a man from Lucca and a Florentine.

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Messina, as the city port of the Straits, had long been an access point to the Mediterranean trading and economic network, and the presence of foreign merchants was a long-term factor from a historical point of view. The municipal government of Messina did not adopt special policies towards foreign merchants, taking a sort of middle way between the approaches seen in Leghorn and Genoa. A foreigner was a ‘relative stranger’ on the shores of the Straits: some groups had been in Messina since the Norman period, others were more recent, but they integrated fairly easily. The advantage for these early ‘capitalists’ was their freedom of movement, which allowed them to tap into any flow of goods and merchandise that could ensure high profits, and to step in and out of these flows as the economic currents in the Mediterranean changed. These economic agents also promoted the entrance and diffusion of diverse materials in the urban context, which increased the richness of Messina’s society. This phenomenon was particularly noticeable in the artistic and architectural fields.

The City, the Sea, and Municipal Religion Considering the city as an individual entity, from a microhistorical perspective, we can indicate a marginal element related to the phenomenon of cosmopolitism, that of wanderers always ready to jump down or climb on a ship and considered devoid of roots. The Mediterranean sea was home to a kind of nomadic individual, those who appeared uprooted and with an uncertain identity. However, the organised foreign groups, present in Messina, seemed able can maintain links with their original places and cultures. Their roots extended across the sea, that sea which at any time could take them back ‘home’. This can be seen in many Messinese groups; the Pisans, who frequently came and went, the Florentines, the Catalans and the Genoese. It can be supposed that similar maritime identities existed for other groups of foreigners present in the city – the Greeks, people from Ragusa, the English and Biscayans. Indeed, the study of these groups in Mediterranean port cities may make up a fruitful area for further research.

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The national groups were organised communities with strong identities and connections interwoven with the local society. At the same time, both in competition with, and as part of the local society, these settler communities practiced forms of market control, as well as seeking out shared interests with the local society in order to prosper. The most obvious common ground was the sea, which supported the lifeblood of Messina – trade. It was the sea which bound the Messinese inhabitants together like the crew of a ship. One way of seeing all of them as ‘sailors on the same ship’ is through ‘municipal religion’, with the recognition of feast days and ceremonies recalling maritime events, connecting them to local devotion. Thus, the ‘municipal religion’ rather than a generic religious unity, was part of the collective and plural identity. Scipione Guarracino makes this point: The common belonging to Christianity could have weakened the city’s patriotism. But the fact is that it was so strong that it became dominant. The religious square and its buildings were more part of the city than connected with Christian universalism.14 Such a link between Messina’s ‘municipal religion’, patriotism, the sea and identity can also be seen in many of the local rituals. City patriotism was a matter of fact; the city constituted political unity par excellence, and this was certainly the case in the western medieval city. Municipal patriotism was without any doubt an ideology widely used, and intentionally created, by the ruling classes, who generally determined its content. The question was not related to the ideological nature of its influence, but rather the strength it exerted and this served as a unifying force in urban society.15 In the sixteenth century, there was a tendency to create the myth of Messina with the ‘help’ of miracles of the Virgin, the patron saint of the city. The whole saga of the city and the protection of the Virgin Mary was the foundation of Messina’s cultural and religious identity. Santa Maria della Lettera of Messina seems to be a sort of ‘glocal’ symbol: in the Mediterranean, St Mary attracted extra-local popular identification,

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The ‘Vascidduzzu’ in front of the Annunziata dei Catalani Church, photo by Giuseppe Martino.

which went ‘beyond the actual spaces in which people passed most of their lives’.16 While on one hand the celebration of Santa Maria della Lettera linked the believers of Messina to a wider world and involved the foreigners present in the city, at the same time it was also relevant to the problems collectively afflicting the local population. As members of a maritime city, Messina’s citizens and inhabitants travelled along the commercial networks of the Mediterranean. It was during intense moments of crisis that imperilled mariners petitioned for divine aid. But above all the Messinese inhabitants and foreigners were on the same ship when it came to their daily bread. Due to its geographical and historical structure, Messina could easily fall prey to famines; the shortage of grain united everybody, local people and foreigners; and the miracle saved them all. The Sicilian poet Vann’Antò sang: ‘Bread for we are good united brothers / brothers that will help each other’.17 This poem is included in a collection titled ‘U Vascidduzzu’, the little vessel, recalling a votive ship – that still exists today – and a sixteenth century story.

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The rescue from famine thanks to the arrival of a vessel laden with food supplies has been commemorated in Messina every year since the sixteenth century. Among the most important maritime feasts is the procession of the ‘Vascidduzzu’ (‘Vascelluzzo’, a small silver vessel), which followed the devotional procession of the Corpus Domini, in which there was a close connection between the religious and the popular element.18 The organisers of the procession are the brothers of the Confraternity of Sailors. They have their headquarters in the church of Santa Maria di Porto Salvo (St Mary of Safe Port), located near the sea. Before sailing, and on returning from sea, the sailors knelt before the Madonna di Porto Salvo, ensuring that this place became their space to practise works of Christian piety. As the Virgin was the protectress of their trips; so the sailors shared with her the profits from their voyages; even the standard of the Confraternity used religious imagery to represent the protection towards sailors and ships and the link between the religious and maritime identities of Messina. The standard was also a sign of pride, and the Company always wanted to stand out compared to, for example, the fishermen, even though these latter had an important role in the maritime life of the city: ‘The tunny fisheries of the Strait of Messina and the coastal waters of Provence were the richest sources of fish for salting’.19 In 1575, the founders of the brotherhood of Santa Maria di Porto Salvo created the ‘Vascelluzzo’, a three-masted ship about one metre long with a wooden core covered with finely engraved silver, faithfully reproducing a galleon. The little galleon had three masts, supporting a reliquary containing the hair with which, according to tradition, the Virgin tied up a letter to the inhabitants of Messina. In this way the inhabitants of Messina and the authorities showed their devotion and their gratefulness to the Virgin who provided them with corn.20 In its devotional aspects the ‘Vascelluzzo’ refers to the miracles of the Virgin of the Letter. Other iconographical aspects inherent in the ship have a secular origin.21 Throughout its history, Messina has been visited by a large number of foreigners, from as far afield as Northern Europe, but it is essentially a Mediterranean port city. Its culture and its traditions are fundamentally Mediterranean. In Mediterranean countries, maritime votive

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offerings or ‘ex-votos’ were rather common. Seamen, and other people who travelled by sea, but also their families, when they were in danger, offered votive objects – vowed to the Virgin Mary, or the saints – in expectation of, or in thanks for, divine aid. Maritime ex-votos were often votive paintings or models of ships. The intentions of these special offerings left on altars or hung on walls were usually in lieu of prayers for the protection of a loved one on the sea or as an expression of gratitude for a miraculous survival at sea. Ex-votos have a long tradition in Christianity, but the originally Roman Catholic tradition of donating models of ships to churches was adopted also by the congregations of Protestant churches in Scandinavia, England, Germany and the Netherlands in the sixteenth century. In Mediterranean countries, votive ship models spread from the fifteenth century onwards as an expression of thanksgiving for an answered prayer and developed as a kind of popular culture.22 The figure of the Virgin Mary as Mediatrix and protectress occupied a prominent place in the rank of invocations. Her relationship with the maritime world is linked with medieval allegory and symbolism as the star of the sea or ‘stella maris’ and as the ship of salvation. The lives of sailors are safe if the sea, thanks to the intervention of Our Lady, is calm. This symbolism in the culture of Messina and in its material expression is present in the painting ‘Christ Crucified’ by the famous artist Antonello da Messina and in the name of a gate overlooking the harbour. The background of the ‘Crucifixion’ by Antonello, now at the National Gallery in London is a calm sea; this is due to the presence of the Virgin Mary in the scene.23 The same symbolism can be found at the Messina’s harbour where a gate in the so-called ‘Maritime Theatre’ or ‘Palazzata’ is called ‘Stella Maris’. That unique mile-long building was built along the harbour in 1622. The next year a gate in the building was dedicated to the Holy Virgin and called ‘Porta Stella’, because St Mary was proclaimed ‘Star of the Sea’.24 The common Mediterranean identity is expressed essentially through human contacts, religion, tradition and popular feasts. Public spaces provided the social forum to facilitate usual interactions, leisure and, at the same time, public dissent. Feasts constituted a key element in the evolution and identification process of this society and could

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have various origins.25 The feasts in Messina celebrated both the people and institutional political authorities. For the latter, the feasts represented an ‘instrumentum regni’ or ‘instrument of power’, exhibiting the importance and the greatness of the city, especially to foreigners, but also providing a way of involving local people in public celebrations. In 1606, a year of famine and hunger, the ‘Giurati’ resorted to piracy against ships loaded with grain that were attempting to pass through the Straits. Together with this raid they organised processions to gain the favour of the population.26 The sense of municipal distinctiveness was vital to a maritime city like Messina, which wanted to mark its relationship with the sea, even in its largely cosmopolitan context. The local political authorities gave considerable emphasis to any means of improving public spaces; besides the buildings there were also a large number of ‘apparati da festa’ – feast ornaments – which represented the maritime history of this harbour city. The ‘Reports’, the so-called Ragguagli, describe the scenes produced by arches, temporary fountains and small vessels, that showed the popular and common soul of such creations. In 1535, amid the various civic preparations for the visit to Messina of Emperor Charles V, the creations of the artist Polidoro da Caravaggio stood out. The arch he designed was erected near the Customs Bridge and it was decorated with paintings of figures of marine deities in a calm sea.27 Among the devotional and triumphal artefacts which characterised the Messinese religious feasts, there was a special one: the ‘Galley’ created for the feast of the Assumption of St Mary.28 The first mention of this object dates back to 1571, as the chronicles constantly report the presence of this triumphal ephemeral artefact.29 The ‘Galley’ as an artefact symbolised the links with Messina’s maritime history and it became an important feature of the city’s most important feast. Furthermore, the symbolic galley was constructed in a similar fashion to a real ship. The symbolism of the galley gains in importance when the significance of the real galley is remembered; it was the queen of the Mediterranean for several centuries. The Messinese Galley was built in St John of Malta Square using as its base the perimeter of the large marble fountain that stood in the square itself and that, therefore, determined its size.30 Its particular role, as

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part of the Assumption celebrations, was to provide the support from which the fireworks in the celebrations were fired. The galley also had cannons mounted in the bow which fired (the ‘petriere’) and there was a cacophony of sound from a pseudo-military fanfare from on board the ship, using trumpets, drums and horn-trumpets made out of shells. The military community of the city saw the ‘Galley’ as a representation of the Sicilian galleys belonging to the fleet of Don John of Austria that departed from Messina to the Battle of Lepanto. The commercial community, however, saw it as a secular symbol of the local maritime community, the most active and enterprising of Sicily, ruling the Straits and the backbone of the navy of the Sicilian Kingdom for many centuries. Sometimes instead of only one ‘naval machine’ the Messinese built two galleys, the second in a wide square outside the Imperial Gate (‘Porta Imperiale’). When it had been completed, it was symbolically decorated with ears of wheat.31 The addition of wheat brought a religious undertone to the festival with its reference to the Holy Virgin, the sea, grain and daily bread and connected the sea to the city’s identity which was linked to the wider Mediterranean culture. At the same time, the city also wanted to highlight its own unique characteristics in comparison with other port cities in the Mediterranean. In the sixteenth century the city of Messina, with its ambitions placed on the sea, wanted to stimulate awareness of its geographical and historical origins. That desire became material in the Fountain of Neptune, with its references to a pagan myth and to the learned lessons of the Messinese scientist Francesco Maurolico. The sculpture was entrusted to Giovannangelo Montorsoli, a pupil of Michelangelo, who worked on it between 1553 and 1557. The fountain was placed within the noisy and somewhat smelly hubbub of the harbour, creating an oasis of art. At the feet of the statue of Neptune were images of Scylla and Charybdis: the two monsters had been chained and the god of the sea had delivered them to the city, where he had been consecrated as Master of the Straits. Montorsoli used Neptune to personify the supremacy of Messina on the whole territory of the Straits, in return Neptune was seen as entrusting the government of the Straits to the city of Messina, in pectore capital of the viceroyalty of Sicily.

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The fountain spread a clear message to the citizens of Messina and to foreigners: that real wealth came from the sea and one could obtain it in the Straits and in this port, thanks to their unique geographical and historical features.32

Conclusion The relationship between Messina and the sea changed in the following century. The seventeenth-century crisis in the Mediterranean region, caused by the shift in economic activity towards the Atlantic, spelled disaster for this maritime city.33 The changes in the economic cycle were large and Messina’s economic horizons did not expand beyond the Mediterranean, even if the variety of nationalities in its urban cosmopolitan population was not questioned. Finally, it can be seen how the inhabitants of this Mediterranean city in the early modern age, were faced with a world which did not present – or did not allow – the creation of simple, linear social identities. A foreigner in Messina could think he belonged to his original ‘nation’ while at the same time taking part in the city’s self-identification process, which in turn linked him to the sea; he could speak a number of languages; he could be an important part of his own birth family; he could participate in different forms of organisation and ideological elaboration; and he could sometimes be tempted to change his religion. In other words, he could experience all those features considered ‘reactionary’ in the past century by the social scientists of ‘modernity’. In more recent studies these features have been examined again to ask whether they constitute elements of social cohesion and strength, characterising Mediterranean urban and maritime societies. The question for future research is if they are advantageous points from which to observe our more ‘advanced and modern’ societies.34

Notes 1. Giovanni Botero, Delle cause della grandezza e della magnificenza delle città (Venice, 1588; reprinted Rome, 2003). See also Ruggiero Romano, Paese Italia: venti secoli di identità (Rome 1997), p. 101.

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2. Predrag Matvejevic, Mediterranean: A Cultural Landscape (Berkeley, 1999), pp.159–160. 3. Henk Driessen, ‘Mediterranean Port Cities: Cosmopolitanism Reconsidered’, History and Anthropology, 2005, 16:1, p. 130. 4. Cajo Domenico Gallo, Annali della Città di Messina, volume 2 (Messina, 1758), pp. 469–471. Gallo also provides a copy of the autograph preserved in the files of the notary Girolamo Mangianti ‘in the dead Notaries Archive’ of Messina. 5. Anthony Molho, ‘Comunità e identità nel mondo mediterraneo’, in Maurice Aymard and Fabrizio Barca (eds.), Conflitti, migrazioni e diritti dell’uomo: Il Mezzogiorno laboratorio di un’identità mediterranea (Soveria M., 2002), p. 32. 6. Stefan Berger, Mark Donovan and Kevin Passmore, (eds.), Writing National Histories: Western Europe since 1800 (London, 1999). For a critical review of the ‘nation building’ historiography, see Eric J. Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism since 1780: Programme, Myth, Reality (Cambridge, 2004), especially the Introduction. 7. Clifford Geertz, Mondo globale, mondi locali: Cultura e politica alla fine del ventesimo secolo (Bologna, 1999), pp. 82–83. 8. Manuel De Landa, A New Philosophy of Society: Assemblage Theory and Social Complexity (London-New York, 2006), p. 111. 9. Conrad M.B. Brann, ‘Lingua minor, franca & nationalis’, in Ulrich Ammon (ed.), Status and Function of Languages and Language Varieties (Berlin-New York, 1989), p. 378. 10. Eric Dursteler, ‘Speaking in Tongues: Language and Communication in Early Modern Mediterranean Port Cities’, Paper presented at the Mediterranean Maritime History Conference, Izmir, Turkey (5–7 May 2010). 11. Bernardo Piciché, ‘Prudenza e poliglossia nel Cinquecento siciliano’, in Roberta Morosini and Perissinotto, Cristina (eds.), Mediterranoesis. Voci dal Medioevo e dal Rinascimento mediterraneo (Rome, 2007), p. 193. 12. Carmelo E. Tavilla, Per la storia delle istituzioni municipali a Messina tra Medioevo ed età moderna, volume 1, Giurati, senatori, eletti: strutture giuridiche e gestione del potere dagli Aragonesi ai Borboni (Messina, 1983), pp. 19, 21 and 41. 13. Andrea Romano, ‘Stranieri e mercanti in Sicilia nei secoli XIV-XV’, in Andrea Romano (ed.), Cultura ed istituzioni nella Sicilia medievale e moderna (Soveria M., 1992), p. 90; Domenico Ligresti, Sicilia aperta (secoli XV-XVII): Mobilità di uomini e idee (Palermo, 2006), p. 290; Domenico Montuoro, ‘I Cigala, una famiglia feudale tra Genova, Sicilia, Turchia e Calabria’, Mediterranea, n.16, 2009, p. 294. 14. Scipione Guarracino, Mediterraneo: Immagini, storie e teorie da Omero a Braudel (Milan, 2007), p. 65.

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15. Marcel Roncayolo, La città: Storia e problemi della dimensione urbana (Turin, 1988), pp. 53–54. The affection for some institutions, for a certain event, or for a sports team for example, still continues today. 16. Hobsbawm, ‘Nations’, pp. 46–47. 17. ‘Pane che siamo uniti bei fratelli / fratelli che si aiutano l’uno con l’altro’: Vann’Antò, see Giovanni Antonio Di Giacomo, ‘U vascidduzzu (Milan, 1986). 18. Carmelina Gugliuzzo, ‘Holy Ship: the “Vascelluzzo” of Messina during the Modern Age’, in Harriet Nash, Dionisius Agius and Timmy Gambin (eds.), Ships, Saints and Sealore: Maritime Ethnography of Mediterranean and Red Sea (Malta 2012); Giulio Conti and Giordano Corsi, Feste popolari e religiose a Messina (Messina, 1980), pp. 19–21. 19. John H. Parry, The Discovery of the Sea (Berkeley, 1981), p. 65. 20. Placido Samperi, Iconologia della gloriosa Vergine madre di Dio protettrice di Messina (Messina 1644; reprinted Messina, 1990), p. 61. 21. Caterina Ciolino, ‘L’arte orafa e argentaria a Messina nel XVII secolo’, in Orafi e argentieri al Monte di Pietà. Artefici e botteghe messinesi del sec. XVII (Palermo 1988), pp. 119–121. 22. Sjoerd De Meer, The nao of Matarò: a medieval ship model, http://www.iemed. org/dossiers-en/dossiers-iemed/accio-cultural/mediterraneum-1/documentacio/anau.pdf (last accessed 5 June 2013) 23. Margarita Russell, Visions of the sea (Leiden, 1983), p. 86. 24. Cajo Domenico Gallo, Annali della Città di Messina, Capitale del Regno di Sicilia, volume 1 (Messina, 1756), p. 278. 25. Carmelina Gugliuzzo, Fervori municipali: Feste a Malta e Messina in età moderna (Messina, 2006), p. 2. 26. Saverio Di Bella, La rivolta in età barocca come problema storico e giuridico: Messina e la Spagna nel 1612, in Mario Tedeschi (ed.), Il Mezzogiorno e Napoli nel Seicento italiano (Soveria M., 2003), p. 41. 27. Cola Giacomo D’Alibrando, Il Spasmo di Maria Vergine: Ottave per un dipinto di Polidoro da Caravaggio a Messina, Barbara Agosti, Giancarlo Alfano and Ippolita di Majo (eds.), (Naples 1999), p.xxi. See also André Chastel, ‘Les entrées de Charles Quint en Italie’, in Les fêtes de la Renaissance II: Fêtes et céremonies du temps de Charles Quint (Paris, 1960). 28. Gugliuzzo, Fervori, pp. 60–62. 29. Giuseppe Arenaprimo, La Sicilia nella battaglia di Lepanto (Palermo, 1893; reprint Vincenzo Caruso, ed., Messina, 2011), pp. 44–45. 30. Giuseppe Pitré, Feste patronali in Sicilia (Palermo, 1870–1913; reprinted Palermo, 2001), pp. 125–126.

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31. Rodolfo Santoro, ‘Le “machine” navali di Messina’, Archivio Storico Messinese, 47 (1986), pp. 49–73. See also Orazio Turriano, Ragguaglio della festa celebrata dalla Nobile, Fedelissima, ed Esemplare Città di Messina (Messina, 1729), p. 22. 32. Nicola Aricò, Illimite Peloro: Interpretazioni del confine terracqueo (Messina, 1999), pp. 28–32. Between 1547 and 1557, Giovanni Angelo Montorsoli sculpted two major public fountains in Messina, one dedicated to the city’s legendary founder, Orion, the other to the god of the sea, Neptune. See also Sheila Ffolliott, Civic Sculpture in the Renaissance: Montorsoli’s Fountains at Messina (Ann Arbor, 1984). 33. Enrico Pispisa and Carmelo Trasselli, Messina nei secoli d’oro. Storia di una città dal Trecento al Seicento (Messina, 1988), p. 544. 34. Molho, ‘Comunità’, p. 36.

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CHAPTER 5 THE SHIP, THE R IVER AND THE OCEAN SEA: CONCEPTS OF SPACE IN THE SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY LONDON M AR ITIME COMMUNIT Y Richard J. Blakemore1

Throughout history, seafarers’ experiences have been determined by encounters with a variety of spaces, most obviously and importantly oceanic space, the world occupied uniquely by those who, in the early modern phrase, ‘use the sea’.2 This space defines seafarers’ professional activities and is consequently central to the formation of their identity. Yet, though perhaps it hardly needs saying, seafarers did not spend their entire lives isolated at sea and other spaces also shaped maritime identities: the limited area of the ship or vessel, with its own internal geography; the littoral spaces of ports and coasts, points of connection, transition and departure; and the spaces within the seafarers’ home society, on a range of scales such as (in European terms) household or parish, village, town or city. This chapter will explore the connotations and characterisations assigned to these spaces and especially the connections and tensions between them, in order to understand the

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role of oceanic space, and its relationship to other spaces, in the formation of a specific group identity: that of the maritime community of early modern London. The suburban parishes downriver of London Bridge provide a useful focus for an exploration of the relationships between various maritime spaces. The riverside parishes of eastern London and the lower Thames were home to the largest maritime community in Britain from the sixteenth century until the nineteenth century, concentrating the onshore lives and experiences of vast numbers of British seafarers within this area. London was one of the largest ports in Europe and the Atlantic world, and the great increase in shipping fuelled the growth of these parishes from small hamlets in the mid-sixteenth century, to sprawling suburbs by the mid-seventeenth.3 By considering this formative period it is possible to trace ideas which would long remain influential for British seafarers. London was unusual, too, because it was, unlike other large northern European ports such as Amsterdam or La Rochelle, some distance from the sea. The size of the Thames as an anchorage was one of the most important factors in the development of London’s dominance in British overseas trade, though undoubtedly the city’s place as the financial and political hub of England, and from 1603 of the three British kingdoms, was also crucial. This geographical situation meant that there was no specific division between land and sea, for the river belonged to both, a space caught between these two worlds and into which they intruded. The Thames and the parishes along its banks therefore formed a melting pot in which disparate spatialities met, had an impact on one another and were mediated in the formation of a unique maritime identity.

The Ocean Sea The dichotomy between sea and land has always been central to the identity of seafarers, so it is worth discussing the ways in which oceanic space was conceptualised during the early modern period. Marcus Rediker has argued that a reification of the conflict between man and nature has played a major part in the romanticising of seafarers and the maritime world, compared with the social conflicts which he has

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explored as a crucial element in the developing capitalist system of the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Atlantic.4 This focus on oceanic relationships between people and societies has characterised most scholarship on the ‘Atlantic World’, and indeed much work on maritime space in general, for example that of Bernhard Klein, who discusses the ocean as a place of transcultural encounters in which ideals of superiority and subordination are created, negotiated, and inverted; and by Philip Steinberg, who has considered the different ways in which societies construct oceanic space in terms of resources and power.5 Yet, though these perspectives offer a fascinating and useful understanding of the important role of oceanic space in history, to discuss the identity and experience of seafarers we must return to the conflict between man and nature, which formed an important part of their relationship with the maritime world. While Rediker is right to dissuade historians from romanticising seafarers and the sea, it is nonetheless important to recognise that they themselves reified their conflict with nature as a central tenet of their identity. For early modern seafarers, the sea, while a source of employment whether in fishing, trade or naval service, was usually considered dangerous, even hostile, and the currency of this idea beyond the maritime community is evident in much contemporary artwork (see fig. 5.1). The concept of the sea as an inherently violent entity encompassed all the natural phenomena which constituted what Robert Hicks has called the ‘seascape’: Martín Cortés, a Portuguese writer whose Arte de Navegar was the first navigational treatise translated and printed in English, claimed that the wind ‘is in Latin called Ventus, because it is vehement, and violent’.6 Phrases such as ‘contrarie windes & tempestuous weather’ or ‘extreame tempest’ frequently appear in High Court of Admiralty depositions, usually explaining why a particular ship was delayed in its voyage, or why cargo was damaged, and in doing so they vividly evoke the conditions seafarers experienced.7 The ‘manifold Dangers of the Seas’ were proverbial, the phrase occurring both in legal documents and in seafarers’ wills, suggesting that they were very much aware of the inherent dangers of a sea voyage.8 It is important to note that the majority of wills produced by London seafarers mentioning an imminent voyage were made by those

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Figure 5.1 Jan Porcellis, ‘English ships in a rough sea’ (c. 1606–10), BHC0810, © National Maritime Museum, Greenwich.

about to embark on a journey to the Indian Ocean, a particularly long and dangerous endeavour.9 This suggests a more complex understanding of variant oceanic spaces, which is also apparent in a number of depositions in the Admiralty Court concerning voyages during the late 1630s to Brazil in Spanish employment.10 According to shipmaster William Triddell, from Lisbone to Brazeel is reconed a dangerous voyage amongst Seamen in respect yt is an unusuall voyage for Englishmen & hath bin conceived to bee unhealthfull for them ... in regard of the infection or contagion of the climate, a voyage to Brazeel cannot but bee much more daungerous then to the Streights [i.e. the Mediterranean]. Triddell went on to explain that ‘the perill of the sea is more to the Streights from Lisbone then from Lisbone to Brazeell, but daunger of life in a Brazeel voyages is more then a Streights voyage in respect

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of the climate’.11 Robert Collcoll, another sailor, described Brazil as ‘by all mens report ... an unfree & unlawfull port to saile to ... very daungerous in respect of sicknes & French & Holland men of war’.12 The ocean was not an entirely homogenous space, but perceptions of the sea incorporated natural local conditions as well as political and social frameworks which recognised regional varieties. Nevertheless, this level of detail is not apparent in much of the available source material and the general stereotype of the dangerous ocean appears to have underpinned all seafarers’ relationships with the sea, regardless of where they sailed. Facing and overcoming this violence and danger in particular emphasised early modern seafarers’ masculinity; although a number of studies have proved that it would be unrealistic to assume that early modern seafarers were all male, or that gender issues were simplified in a maritime context, the sea was figured primarily as a space for men.13 A petition of ‘Greeuances of seamen pr[e]sented in parliament’ in 1628 declared that ‘they undergoe many dangers and difficultyes and so many desperate adventures, as no men the lyke’.14 A popular ballad of the 1630s, Saylors for my money, characterised sailors as facing dangers at sea while other men sleep, safe and comfortable on land.15 The ballad declared ‘He that is a Saylor/Must haue a valiant heart’, for ‘Our calling is laborious’, facing death on ‘The rough & blustrous seas’; the repeated refrain ‘How ere the wind doth blow’ evokes the lack of control early-modern seafarers possessed over the oceanic environment.16 Alexandra Shepard has argued that men excluded from the normative patriarchal hierarchy asserted their identity in ways ‘shaped by expedience and social context’ and this emphasis on the danger of the sea perhaps reflects an alternative code of manhood arising from the specific circumstances of seafarers’ lives.17 Because of these dangers, and also its fluid, permeable nature, David Stewart argues that ‘the sea represented an environment that was highly conducive to the production of ghosts’; the sea brought seafarers closer to the division between life and death, and burial rites at sea were therefore particularly important for separating the dead.18 On these occasions, the sea could take on a religious or spiritual aspect, and this is revealed in the journal of William Ball, who recorded that

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when a young sailor died, they ‘buried the corpse of him in the large sepulchre of the ocean sea’, a phrase he repeats.19 Indeed, the sea was frequently represented as the natural expression of God’s providential will, a concept implied in the phrases ‘master under God’, ‘the first good Winde & weather which God shall send’, or ‘by Gods grace directly sayle’, appearing in wills and charter agreements.20 Collections of devotions produced for sailors during the 1640s contain prayers for a safe voyage and for when a ship was caught in the storm, drawing explicit parallels with Jonah, though it is admittedly difficult to imagine seafarers reciting these clumsily-worded and self-castigating prayers while desperately trying to save their ship.21 Even navigational techniques, which facilitated an understanding of this environment, were a part of this religious schema; the magnetic compass in particular was believed to have been ‘discovered’ by God and provided to man precisely to allow him to cross the sea.22

The Ship While the ocean thus literally and figuratively surrounded seafarers, their experiences were more intimately framed by the confined space of the ship on which they sailed. Ships have always been one of the most iconic images of seafaring and in early modern Britain they provided a ubiquitous visual referent for the oceanic world, as shown by the standard image of a ship which recurs on pamphlets discussing maritime affairs.23 This was probably more a result of printing practices than a deliberate element of visual culture, but indicates general recognition of the ship as a signifier of the sea. During the 1620s and 1630s, Charles I tried to link the icon of the ship explicitly with royal authority, in his ultimately unsuccessful bid to spread the pace Domini Regis (‘the peace of the lord king’) beyond the shores of his kingdom and onto the seas surrounding.24 This included circulating counters celebrating his ‘dominion’ featuring a ship on one side and Charles’ portrait on the other (see fig. 5.2), and building the massive warship Sovereign of the seas, the decorations of which were laden with regal allegory and explained to the public in a pamphlet written by playwright Thomas Heywood.25

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Figure 5.2 Counter celebrating Charles I’s ‘dominion of the sea’ (1630), MEC0864, © National Maritime Museum, Greenwich.

Clearly the ship was a symbol of maritime power worth harnessing for Charles’ ultimately unsuccessful political campaign; the ‘ship of state’ was also a resonant metaphor during this period.26 Ships themselves were considered to possess both general and individual characteristics; as a proverb of the time proclaimed ‘an active little ship, a middle ship sleepy, but a dead great ship’.27 In a more specific example, Captain Mason declared in 1628 that his ship, the Spy, sailed so well ‘that she has stolen the hearts of her captain and company’, indicating the very close relationships seafarers might construct with their vessels.28

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Greg Dening, in his influential study of the Bounty, argued that ‘Space and the language to describe it make a ship. Space was inseparable from the authority it displayed and the relationships it enclosed.’29 A case in point is the general division of sailors before and officers aft of the mast, possibly the origin of the term ‘foremaste man’, synonymous with ‘common sayler’.30 The stern of the ship was associated with status within the crew, and certain areas of the ship were singled out as places of greater significance, such as the great cabin or roundhouse; officers only abandoned this distinction in cases of necessity, as on the Jonas, a ship so badly caulked that the officers left their cabins and slept in the hold.31 Richard Swanley, captain of an East India Company ship, was reprimanded for coveting the great cabin, which was usually reserved for Company factors.32 When Swanley later became a naval officer, he was accused of keeping women aboard ship, and one sailor reported that he ‘hath seen Capt[ain] Swanly danceinge & very merry with those woemen in his Cabon’; another added that ‘songs were frequently sunge upp & downe the Country of the said Capt[ain] Swanley’.33 That Swanley’s actions were widely known suggests that, even for privileged officers, ships were a largely public space in which there was very little privacy. Yet this may not have been so unusual, as Amanda Flather has demonstrated that boundaries between public and private were ill-defined in this period, and that most people shared private spaces with family members and servants.34 Ships, as John Mack puts it, were both ‘embodied technological space[s] ... [and] embodied social spaces’, and besides the hierarchical understanding of ship space, the social rituals of life aboard ship were focused around particular points, of which the mainmast was the most important.35 When a mariner died at sea, their possessions were ‘sould at the mast’, the money usually being put towards any widow and family, and this custom also occasionally extended to passengers who died at sea.36 Important documents were displayed at the mainmast for the crew to view, for example in 1640, when the council of Maryland ordered that sheriffs were ‘upon the arrival of any Ship or other Vessel ... to goe aboard the Same, and there to fix a Coppy of this proclamac[i]on [concerning customs duties] upon the Mast’; and the area around the mast was sometimes used for religious services.37

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On board William Ball’s ship, the mast was a site of conspicuous punishment, including any mariner convicted of being a ‘talecarrier’ having their tongue tarred.38 When the crew of the privateer Valentine mutinied in response to their captain’s violence, they ‘did make a law and order in the said ship that whosoever did strike any of the company with a sword or such like weapon in his hand should be nayled to the mast whosoever he were’.39 Ships were, therefore, more than merely technical apparatus for crossing oceanic space: they were themselves imbued with spatial significance, reflecting the social structure of crew communities and the importance of ritualistic activity within them. Both the conception of oceanic space as fundamentally different to land space in its essentially dangerous and unpredictable character, and the ‘embodied’ experience of sailing a ship, therefore shaped the cultural and behavioural codes which defined life at sea. The phrase ‘customs and orders of the sea’ appears frequently during this period, referring both to a seafaring culture which it is now difficult to reconstruct entirely, and to a quasi-legal framework which incorporated the Laws of Oléron, a set of decrees supposedly dating from the thirteenth century, and which, by the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, were widely accepted as legally binding.40 These ‘customs and orders’ governed, in principle at least, behaviour at sea, from duties within a crew to actions involving a number of ships, and included the technical language of seafaring, which, as the publication in this period of various dictionaries of seafaring terms shows, was increasingly complex, and an important marker of maritime experience.41 This customary culture was widely adopted by mariners, evident in the requests in wills, such as that of Nicholas Morgan, for Christian burial ‘if it be possible if not according to the manner and Customes of the Sea’.42 Yet it was also imposed, and violence played a key role in enforcing both the ‘customs and orders’, and the social hierarchy of the crew, though this too was bounded by customary limits. According to a number of depositions in the Admiralty Court, the boatswain had power to ‘punishe and correcte’ any mariner misbehaving or neglecting their duty, and at least some mariners themselves endorsed the use of violence in a disciplinary capacity.43

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These behavioural codes were used to define who did and, just as importantly, who did not belong to the maritime community. In 1648, when Parliament’s admiral, the Earl of Warwick, attempted to impose martial law on recalcitrant mariners, he provoked mutiny and discord, because (according to royalist news writers hostile to Warwick) ‘all the world knowes the Seamen hate it worse then hell, to bee tide to the manners and Discipline of Land Souldiers’, considering it ‘contrary to the custome of the Sea’.44 Consequently, the world of land society was characterised as a release, both from the physical confinements and danger of life aboard ship, and from the supposedly rigid social structure and behavioural norms imposed by the need to overcome the uncontrollable ocean. As Cheryl Fury has commented in discussing Elizabethan sailors, ‘There is a timelessness about seamen, trouble and shore leave’.45 In May 1642, for example, Trinity House, the corporation of ship owners of the Thames, passed ‘an Act touching disordered seamen’, prompted by ‘daily complaints of the disorders of Seamen and of theire want of care, and honestie, in not attendinge and lyeing aboard theire shipps aswell here in the River before they goe forth as after they come home’.46 A number of commentators, particularly naval officers, considered that sailors were inherently unruly and disorderly, unable to adapt to land norms because they belonged wholly to oceanic space.47 This was the stereotype most frequently recognised in wider society. The popular ballad Saylors for my money declared ‘Ther’s none more free then saylors’, who ‘care not for a crowne’, although Mark Hailwood has demonstrated that balladeers celebrated the ‘free’ nature of a number of occupations, including porters, shoemakers and blacksmiths.48 Another verse describes the carousing of sailors ashore, for ‘The Vintners and the Tapsters/By us have golden gaines’.49 This stereotype of disorderly behaviour was presumably also influenced by the social surroundings in which sailors found themselves once ashore. Levels of migration to London amongst young people were high, which presumably included seafarers.50 In a register of fishermen’s apprentices, of the 157 indentured in 1639–50, only 49 (31 per cent) came from London or its environs.51 Many sailors were therefore probably migrants, distant from their families, and potentially disconnected from the networks which regulated social behaviour in most of Britain.

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The River The experience of surviving in the dangerous oceanic space, the behavioural codes demanded by life aboard ship, and the corresponding contrast with life ashore, were therefore understandably central to the identity of early modern seafarers. Nevertheless, this distinction between life on land and life at sea may have been less complete in reality than as a cultural trope. The Thames, although clearly not the same kind of space as the ocean, was in many ways associated with it, forming a link between the two divided worlds which sailors inhabited, carrying connotations of the open ocean right into landlocked London. The river was described by one contemporary as ‘the greatest for navigation in the known part of the world’, highlighting the importance of maritime activity in defining the river.52 Presumably because of its importance as an anchorage, the Thames downriver of London Bridge was under admiralty jurisdiction of arrest, hinting at a conceptual as well as a legally technical understanding of the river as a primarily maritime space.53 This space was framed, as the question of admiralty jurisdiction shows, by London Bridge, which for members of the seafaring community was the edge of the maritime world. It was a physical barrier, preventing ocean-going ships from sailing further upriver. It also functioned as a conceptual barrier, a spatial limit for the self-definition of the maritime community. In January 1642, at the outset of the Civil Wars in Britain, a crowd of sailors joined five Members of Parliament as they returned to Westminster in triumph after Charles I had left London. A pamphlet published shortly afterwards to justify the mariners’ actions declared ‘Our appearance above the Bridge, [is] a passage the Histories of England cannot exemplifie’.54 This demonstrates how London Bridge was perceived as a significant boundary for seafarers, but, as with most boundaries, it also functioned as a point of connection. St Magnus Corner, at the north end of the bridge, was a site long associated with the sale of navigational manuals and other maritime texts. Cortés’s The Arte of Navigation was sold there by Hugh Allen in 1561, and after Allen, John Tapp sold navigational texts there until his death in 1631, following which George and Joseph Hurlock took up the same trade.55

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In their prefaces, these manuals often addressed themselves directly to the maritime community, although it is probable that they were also marketed for those with a more scholarly, rather than a practical, interest.56 David Waters has argued that sailors would probably not have used these texts, though historians have argued more recently that Waters over-emphasised the distinction between coastal ‘pilots’ and oceanic ‘navigators’, and the shift from one to the other which he perceived in this period.57 Indeed, St Magnus formed a focal point for the networks which facilitated the development of navigation, and which involved seafarers. Luke Fox, a shipmaster from Hull, visited John Tapp’s shop and there met Thomas Sterne, a globe-maker, as well as the mathematicians Henry Briggs and John Brooke, with whom he had discussions while preparing for the voyage he undertook in 1633 in search of the North West Passage.58 The bridge, therefore, was a connecting, as well as a dividing line, a spatial limit, but also a place where scientific understanding of the natural world was transmitted to those who would use it to traverse oceanic space. Anchoring in the Pool of London, the area of the Thames downriver of London Bridge, transformed the space of a ship, which in any case were rarely the entirely ‘closed communities’ imagined by archaeologist Keith Muckelroy.59 Vessels regularly went in convoy with one another, with crews going aboard each other’s ships to share news and to drink together. April Lee Hatfield has described their function as ‘congregation points’ in the early years of the American colonies.60 Only on the very longest voyages were ships out of all contact with others for a considerable amount of time, and the period for which a ship could operate away from port was naturally finite. Even so, apart from such contacts, while at sea, the experience of seafarers would have been largely limited to the area of their ship, and in foreign ports, sailors were supposed to remain aboard. Those who broke this rule were punished for it, suggesting that it was observed in principle if not in practice.61 Once in their home port, however, ship communities were at their most permeable, and the river’s anchorages turned ships into sites of sociability. In one case, mariner David Price came aboard the Unicorn while she lay in the Thames, and drank with members of the crew, disrupting the work of the ship until he was eventually driven

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off by the master, John Goodlad.62 Similarly, when John Ripp and Thomas Bleaker wished to sell their ship, they held an auction aboard, preceded by a meal in which the owners, crew and prospective buyers ate and drank together.63 Just as the ship changed when anchored in the Thames, so crews changed when they went onshore into the riverside parishes, where the majority of the London maritime community resided while not at sea. There are some hints towards the concept of these parishes as a primarily feminine space, in contrast with the masculine world of the ocean. The preface to the navigational manual The Navigator by Charles Saltonstall mentioned how mariners’ wives ‘spinne on their wheeles at Wapping’.64 A slightly more intriguing piece of evidence, the knave of hearts in a satirical deck of cards produced during the Interregnum of the 1650s, shows the radical Parliamentarian chaplain Hugh Peters presenting ‘the bodkins and thimbles giuen by the wiues of Wappin for the good old cause’.65 This evidence should not be stretched too far, but it at least suggests that the riverside hamlets, such as Wapping, were considered spaces belonging primarily to the families of seafarers, associated with the kind of domestic production by which these families supported themselves while the husband and father was absent at sea. However, this emphasis on families to some extent collapses the polarised nature of sea and land, highlighting the fact that seafarers were often connected to land society and land space. As parish registers show, large numbers of mariners married and fathered children during this period, crossing the conceptual boundaries which differentiated land from sea, forming cohesive relationships with people ashore, and engaging in the behavioural and social norms of land society.66 The experience of sailors in the parishes was clearly distinguished by their marital status, as married men could sleep ashore without asking leave, while single men had to receive permission to do so.67 However, sailors who did not have families in the Thames parishes also experienced the process of crew fragmentation and re-formation, for although there is evidence of some continuity in crews between voyages, especially among a ship’s officers, the membership of most crews fluctuated from voyage to voyage.68 Close social relationships are indicated in

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the wills of mariners, which name executors and administrators from among these local communities, and other legal records, in which sailors appointed men of other trades as their securities.69 These were relationships involving a good deal of trust and responsibility. These parishes, therefore, were places where ship communities fragmented, where sailors were also husbands, fathers and friends, until they joined new crews and went to sea once again. Yet, for vocational seafarers at least, they did not lose or abandon their maritime culture and identity while experiencing this process; rather, their presence turned these parishes into spaces, like the river, where sea and land met. Taverns, as key public sites of sociability, provided important focal points in this process of crew communities forming and splintering, and the naming of taverns indicates the strong maritime associations of these parishes, such as ‘The Shippe Taverne at Ratcliffe Crosse’, where master John White contracted with mate Benjamin Bowden to sail together, or the Dolphin in Tower Street, where John Jones gathered a crew for an Atlantic voyage.70 These associations ran deep; they were a major catalyst to the growth of these parishes during the late-sixteenth and early-seventeenth centuries. According to John Stow’s survey of London, published in 1603, it was the building of dockyards which spurred the growth of the eastern suburbs. Stow wrote that of late yeares ship-wrights and (for the most part) other marine men, haue builded many large and strong houses for themselues, and smaller for Saylers, from [Ratcliff] almost to Poplar, and so to Blake wal [Blackwall].71 The wills of mariners support this statement, often mentioning the possession of land, tenements, wharves and ‘dwelling houses’ in these parishes.72 As a map of Deptford made in 1623 shows, dockyards dominated the layout of the parish, framing the main cluster of the hamlet, and forming centres from which roads radiated (see fig. 5.3).73 Stow also recorded that the parish of St Katherine’s by the Tower had been ‘the vsuall place of execution for hanging of Pirats & sea Rouers, at the low water marke there to remaine, till three tides had ouer-flowed

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Figure 5.3 Map of Deptford by John Evelyn (1623), Add. MS 78629 A, © The British Library Board. The oblong structures are dockyards.

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them’, although the gallows had since been moved and a new street, ‘inhabited by saylors victualers’ ran along the river to Ratcliff.74 These parishes were also the locale for the creation of the technical and material culture which made seafaring possible. Maritime tradesmen such as shipwrights and caulkers also appear regularly in parish records and, usually through familial connections, women were involved in maritime activity ashore: for example, shipmaster Peter Didd wrote to his wife from Dunkerque asking her to buy him a new anchor and cable, and to have this sent over to him.75 The records of the Navy Board include payments to Elizabeth Davis for ‘hamaccoes’ and Elizabeth Hill for navigational instruments, both widows, and to Hester Leatherland for ironwork produced by her husband.76 The parishes had a reciprocal relationship with the oceanic world, as they were in turn influenced by the maritime activity they fostered. One archaeological excavation of a street in Limehouse discovered pottery from Germany, France and Spain, as well as Spanish coins, which the archaeologists posited could have been plunder from privateering ventures, although trade might be just as likely; the same excavation discovered a piece of Caribbean coral, which was probably used as ballast on a ship.77 These scant remains are the material traces of crossing and re-crossing oceanic space: even though far inland, the seafaring occupation of the inhabitants of these parishes therefore brought the maritime world home with them. This occurred in a more sinister manner, too. The Middlesex Sessions of the Peace presented Thomas Trescott of St Botolph’s, Aldgate, a mariner, for that hee is suspected to bee one of those that take up children in [th]e Streets & are commonly Called by [th]e name of Spiritts, Aswell for that hee endeavoured to entice away [th]e daughter of one Winefred Baily a poore widdow woman ... as alsoe [th] e Covenaunt Servant of one Sampson Walker ... under false pr[e]tences to carry them to [th]e Barbadoes.78 This returns us to the point we began with, that oceans were and are spaces where transcultural encounters and social conflicts play out.

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Because of their proximity to the Thames, and their high population of seafarers, these parishes were also subject to and sites for these encounters and conflicts: in this case, the demands of the Atlantic economy of which seafarers were an active element, but in which they were also enmeshed.

Conclusion Early modern seafarers adopted and encouraged a cultural distinction between oceanic space and land space as an important, perhaps even the most important, aspect of their identity, as it was the definitive basis of their vocation. Facing the dangers of the ocean allowed them to contrast their masculinity with those of land-bound trades, and different social rules existed for life at sea, which perhaps explains why sailors were stereotyped so frequently as incapable of adjusting to land norms. However, while its cultural relevance cannot be denied, this dichotomy should not be accepted uncritically: land and ocean affected one another and were, in the lives of seafarers, intimately and inextricably linked. The attitudes of their home society, such as religious interpretations of the natural world, influenced how seafarers understood the ocean; and their reliance on maritime industry, and their interaction through families and friendships with society ashore, brought the two contrasting worlds into contact. London was not unique; all ports or littoral areas are meeting-places between the land and the ocean. Nevertheless, in London’s case this meeting is particularly clear, as London’s metropolitan status and the shipping industry this supported, and its geographic distance from the sea, transformed the Thames and the parishes along its banks into a transitional space. The identity of seafarers in early modern London was definitively shaped by the ship, the river and the ocean sea.

Notes 1. I would like to thank the Arts and Humanities Research Council for financially supporting my PhD research, upon which this chapter is based; the British Library and National Maritime Museum, for permission to reproduce

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images; Dr David Smith, my supervisor, and Kristen Klebba for commenting on drafts; and the participants of the Sea and Identity Conference in Exeter, September 2010, and the Geography of Ships roundtable at Royal Holloway, March 2011, for their suggestions. The National Archives (hereafter TNA) HCA 13/59, depositions of John Swift, 13 February 1643[/4], Moses Hardinge, 26 February 1643[/4] and John Baker, 13 April 1644. Ralph Davis, A Commercial Revolution: English Overseas Trade in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries (London, 1967); Ralph Davis, The Rise of the English Shipping Industry in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries (Newton Abbot, 1971); Kenneth Andrews, Ships, Money & Politics: Seafaring and Naval Enterprise in the Reign of Charles I (Cambridge, 1991), ch. 1. Marcus Rediker, Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea (Cambridge, 1987), p. 57. Bernhard Klein and Gesa Mackenthun, ‘Intoduction: The Sea is History’, in Bernhard Klein and Gesa Mackenthun, eds., Sea Changes: Historicizing the Ocean (London, 2004), pp. 1–12, esp. pp. 2–4; Bernhard Klein, ‘Staying Afloat: Literary Shipboard Encounters from Columbus to Equiano’, in Klein and Mackenthun, eds., Sea Changes, pp. 91–110; Philip Steinberg, The Social Construction of the Ocean (Cambridge, 2001). For a good recent overview of the ‘Atlantic World’ see Nicholas Canny and Philip Morgan, eds., The Oxford Handbook of the Atlantic World c. 1450–1850 (Oxford, 2011). Robert Hicks, ‘The Ideology of Maritime Museums, with Particular Reference to the Interpretation of Early Modern Navigation’ (Unpublished Ph.D. thesis, Exeter, 2000), p. 118–20; Martín Cortés (trans. Richard Eden), The Arte of Navigation (1561, references to 1596 edition), fo. 50v. Unless otherwise stated, all printed primary sources were published in London. See, for example, the depositions of Nathaniel Bradd, 24 April 1643, and Thomas Chapman et al., 7 August 1643, TNA HCA 13/118; TNA HCA 30/855, fo. 717r. Quoting the will of Symon Hitchcock, TNA PROB 11/179, proved 19 August 1639. For wills mentioning East India Company voyages, see TNA PROB 11/147 (17 October 1625, 22 November 1625), 149 (27 June 1626), 150 (31 October 1626, 7 November 1626, 9 November 1626), 152 (29 November 1627, 4 December 1627), 153 (21 January 1629[/30]), 154 (24 November 1628, 25 November 1628), 156 (17 July 1629, 13 November 1629), 157 (19 January 1629[/30]), 158 (14 September 1630), 163 (8 May 1633, 14 May 1633), 164 (17 August 1633, 9 September 1633, 10 September 1633, 13 September 1633, 16 September 1633, 4 October 1633, 15 October 1633), 168 (22

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10.

11. 12. 13.

14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

20.

21. 22. 23.

24.

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August 1635, 27 August 1635), 174 (5 August 1637), 175 (8 September 1637), 177 (21 August 1638), 181 (20 December 1639), 182 (30 January 1639[/40]), 184 (10 September 1640, 12 October 1640), 185 (25 February 1640[/1]), 186 (22 June 1641), 187 (3 September 1641), 190 (18 July 1642). TNA HCA 13/58, depositions of John Limbery, 21 May 1642, Peter Andrews, 21 May 1642, George Dauie, 21 May 1642, Robert Collcoll, 26 May 1642, Thomas Squibb, 26 May 1642, William Triddell, 18 June 1642, and Thomas Reynolds, 21 June 1642. TNA HCA 13/58, deposition of William Triddell, 18 June 1642. TNA HCA 13/58, deposition of Robert Collcoll, 26 May 1642. Linda Grant de Pauw, Seafaring Women (Boston, 1982); Margaret Creighton and Lisa Norling, eds., Iron Men, Wooden Women: Gender and Seafaring in the Atlantic World, 1700–1920 (Baltimore, 1996); Suzanne Stark, Female Tars: Women Aboard Ship in the Age of Sail (London, 1998). TNA SP 16/102, fo. 141r. M. P., Saylors for my Money (c. 1630). For similar ballads, see anon, The Couragious Seaman (1690) and anon, The Undaunted Mariner (c. 1664–1703). M. P., Saylors for my Money, lines 10–11, 18 and 37. Alexander Shepard, Meanings of Manhood in Early Modern England (Oxford, 2003), p. 11. David J. Steward, ‘Burial at Sea: Separating and Placing the Dead in the Age of Sail’, Mortality, 10 (2005), pp. 276–85, at p. 278. William Ball, ‘Might and Would Not’, printed in Nelson P. Bard, ed., ‘The Earl of Warwick’s Voyage in 1627’ in N.A.M. Rodger, ed., The Naval Miscellany, vol. V (London, 1984), pp. 15–93, at pp. 30, 50. TNA PROB 11/159 (3 February 1630[/1]), 173 (27 March 1637), 174 (25 July 1637), 190 (3 December 1642); for an example of a charter-party, see HCA 30/851, fo. 471r. See Sarah Parsons, ‘The “Wonders of the Deep” and the “Mighty Tempest of the Sea”: Nature, Providence and the English Seafarers’ Piety, c.1580–1640’ in Peter D. Clarke and Tony Claydon, eds., God’s Bounty? The Churches and the Natural World (Saffron Walden, 2010), pp. 194–204. T[homas] S[wadlin], A Manual of Devotions, suiting each Day (1643), pp. 386– 93; anon, A Supply of Prayer for the Ships of this Kingdom (1645). E.g. Thomas Blundeville, M. Blundeville his Exercises (1597), fo. 33v; Robert Norwood, The Sea-mans Practice (1637), sig. A2v, p. 106. Examples include Robert Mansell, A True Report of the Seruice done vpon Certaine Gallies (1602) and Richard Polter, The Pathway to Perfect Sayling (1605). National Maritime Museum (hereafter NMM) LEC/5, fo. 4v.

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25. Counters include NMM MEC0864, MEC0865, MEC0866, MEC1428, and MEC1429. For the Sovereign, see NMM BHC2949; Thomas Heywood, A True Description of his Majesty’s Royall and most Stately Ship (1637). 26. Early Modern Research Group, ‘Commonwealth: The Social, Cultural, and Conceptual Contexts of an Early Modern Keyword’, Historical Journal, 54 (2011), pp. 659–87, at p. 674. 27. Moderate Intelligencer, 97 (7–14 January 1647), p. 6. 28. Calendar of State Papers, Domestic Series, of the Reign of Charles I, 1628–9 (London, 1859), p. 161. 29. Greg Dening, Mr Bligh’s Bad Language: Passion, Power and Theatre on the Bounty (Cambridge, 1992), p. 19. 30. Henry Mainwaring, The Sea-mans Dictionary (1644), p. 2; TNA HCA 13/59, depositions of Moses Hardinge, 26 February 1643[/4], Jonathan Harris, 11 March 1643[/4], John Howcrafte, 26 March 1644, and Thomas Orrell, 27 April 1644. 31. TNA HCA 13/59, deposition of Richard Medcalfe, 16 February 1643[/4]. 32. M.L. Baumber, ‘An East India Captain: The Early Career of Captain Richard Swanley’, Mariner’s Mirror, 53 (1967), pp. 265–79 at p. 270. 33. TNA HCA 13/60, depositions of William Ayliffe, 18 September 1645, George Haward, 3 October 1645, and Samuell Hawett, 12 November 1645. 34. Amanda Flather, Gender and Space in Early Modern England (Woodbridge, 2007), esp. pp. 68–73. 35. John Mack, The Sea: A Cultural History (London, 2011), p. 138. 36. TNA HCA 13/52, fo. 205r; HCA 13/54, fo. 180r. 37. William Hand Browne, ed., Archives of Maryland: Proceedings of the Council of Maryland, 1636–1667 (Baltimore, 1885), p. 94. For religious services, see Sarah Parsons, ‘Religion and the Sea in Early Modern England, c.1580– 1640’ (Unpublished Ph.D. thesis, Exeter, 2010). 38. Ball, ‘Might and Would Not’, pp. 80–1. 39. Quoting TNA HCA 13/49, fo. 199r; see also fos. 93r, 104v-7r, 110v-12r, 117r-119r, 149r-50v, 181r, 199r-v; HCA 13/107, fo. 136r-v. 40. TNA HCA 13/52, fo. 266v; HCA 13/106, fo. 121r; HCA 13/107, fo. 79r; HCA 13/118, answer of William Coates, 29 March 1644; SP 16/102, fo. 141r; SP 16/157, fos. 12r, 17r, 19v; NMM PLA/6, fos. 3v-10v. 41. The most popular was John Smith, An Accidence or the Path-way to Experience necessary for Young Sea-men (1626), reprinted numerous times. 42. TNA PROB 11/160, proved 13 August 1631. 43. TNA HCA 13/59, depositions of Rudolf Haydon, 26 February 1643[/4], Clement Knapp, 27 February 1643[/4], Robert Welny, 15 March 1643[/4],

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44. 45. 46. 47.

48.

49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55.

56. 57.

58. 59. 60.

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John Basell, 18 March 1643[/4], Edmund Batherne, 25 March 1644, Thomas Orrell, 27 April 1644, John Howcrafte, 26 March 1644, and Steven Eastgaute, 26 March 1644. Mercurius Pragmaticus, 20 (8–15 August 1648), p. 9; 22 (22–29 August 1648), p. 6. Cheryl A. Fury, Tides in the Affairs of Men: The Social History of Elizabethan Seamen, 1580–1603 (London, 2003), p. 200. TNA HCA 30/853, fo. 494r. Andrews, Ships, Money & Politics, pp. 62–3; G.E. Mainwaring and W.G. Perrin, eds., The Life and Works of Sir Henry Mainwaring (London, 2 vols, 1920–1), vol. II, p. 42. M. P., Saylors for my Money, lines 121–2; Mark Hailwood, ‘Sociability, Work and Labouring Identity in Seventeenth-century England’, Cultural and Social History, 8 (2011), pp. 9–29. M. P., Saylors for my Money, verse 13. Ilana Krausman Ben-Amos, Adolescence and Youth in Early Modern England (London, 1994), p. 86. TNA HCA 30/897, fos. 1r-8v. G.G. Harris, ed., Trinity House of Deptford Transactions, 1609–1635 (London, 1983), p. 121 TNA HCA 1/7, fos. 4r, 30r, 40r, and HCA 13/107, fo. 199r. Anon, The Seamans Protestation concerning their Ebbing and Flowing to and from the Parliament House at Westminster (London, 1642), sig. A2r. See Henry R. Plomer, ‘The Church of St Magnus and the Booksellers of London Bridge’, The Library: Transactions of the Bibliographic Society, 3 (1911), pp. 384–95. E.g. C. Anthonisz. (trans. Robert Norman), The Safeguard of Saylers (1584), sig. A2r; John Skay, A Friend to Navigation (1628), sig. A2r. David W. Waters, The Art of Navigation in England in Elizabethan and Early Stuart Times (London, 1958); Katherine Neal, ‘Mathematics and Empire, Navigation and Exploration: Henry Briggs and the Northwest Passage Voyages of 1631’, Isis, 93 (2002), pp. 435–54; Susan Rose, ‘Mathematics and the Art of Navigation: The Advance of Scientific Seamanship in Elizabethan England’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 14 (2004), pp. 175–84. Luke Foxe, North-west Fox, or, Fox from the North-west Passage (1635), pp. 169–70; Neal, ‘Mathematics and Empire’. Keith Muckelroy, Maritime Archaeology (Cambridge, 1978), p. 221ff. Ball, ‘Might and Would Not’, pp. 82–3; April Lee Hatfield, ‘Mariners, Merchants and Colonists in Seventeenth-century English America’, in

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Elizabeth Mancke and Carole Shammas, eds., The Creation of the British Atlantic World (Baltimore, 2005), pp. 139–59. TNA HCA 13/59, depositions of John Howcrafte, 26 March 1644, Steven Eastgaute, 26 March 1644. and Thomas Orrell, 27 April 1644. TNA HCA 13/111, fos. 96v-7r TNA HCA 13/111, fos. 139v-41r; HCA 13/112, fos. 7v-8v. Charles Saltonstall, The Navigator (1636), sig. *2v. British Museum, reg. no. 1896,0501.917. E.g. London Metropolitan Archives P97/DUN/256–7 and 265–6. TNA HCA 13/59, depositions of John Swift, 13 February 1643[/4] and Moses Hardinge, 26 February 1643[/4]. See Richard J. Blakemore, ‘The London Maritime Community in the Reign of Charles I’ (M.Phil. dissertation, Cambridge, 2009), pp. 33–9. Blakemore, ‘London Maritime Community’, pp. 17–33. TNA HCA 13/49, fo. 62v; HCA 13/53, fo. 24r; 13/54, fo. 323v. See also TNA HCA 13/54, fo. 269r. John Stow, A Survey of London, ed. Charles Leithbridge Kingsford (Oxford, 2 vols., 1971), vol. ii, p. 72. Blakemore, ‘London Maritime Community’, pp. 25–6. British Library, Add. MS 78629 A. Stow, A Survey of London, pp. 70–1. TNA HCA 13/59, deposition of Thomas Silver, 13 April 1644. TNA ADM 18/1, fos. 36r, 49r, 53v, 66r; ADM 18/2, fos. 18v-21r, 39v, 53v. Kieron Tyler, ‘The Excavation of an Elizabethan/Stuart Waterfront Site on the North Bank of the River Thames at Victoria Wharf, Narrow Street, Limehouse, London E14’, Post-Medieval Archaeology, 35 (2001), pp. 58–60, at pp. 63–4. LMA MJ/SR/0995, fo. 87r; cf. MJ/SR/1000, fo. 153r;

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CHAPTER 6 THE SM ALL COUNTRY AS A M AR ITIME GR EAT POWER: THE CASE OF NORWAY Tom Kristiansen and Roald Gjelsten

Introduction: Ambiguity and Duality For most foreigners, if they consider it at all, Norway is a small country surrounded by cold, unfriendly, tempestuous and unwelcoming seas. In addition to the endless forests and mountains, the fjords and the rugged coastal landscape are often regarded as the most prominent topographical features of the country, situated at the northern periphery of Europe. Without the Gulf Stream-tempered Northeast Atlantic, large swaths of the land would barely have been habitable. Nonetheless, the majority of Norwegians have always lived by the sea, at sea and from the sea. Even the name Norway is derived from the sea route to the far north. Despite the seeming barrenness of the windswept coast, maritime resources and an array of economic activities such as commercial seafaring, the fisheries and hunting of sea mammals have constituted one of the most important parts of the livelihood of the Norwegian people throughout history. Since the 1970s, offshore oil and gas exploitation and fish farming have become the dominant economic activities, together with the maritime technology sector that has been developed

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as a corollary. The Norwegians have reaped the rich harvest of the adjacent waters down the centuries. The result is one of the largest – and most sophisticated – maritime sectors in the world, which, moreover, is by far the country’s main source of revenue. Fernand Braudel much-cited phrase that ‘the sea was the gateway to wealth’ is indeed apt for Norway as well as the Mediterranean world.1 All this, of course, has had a profound impact on Norway’s relations with the world, on the domestic economy and culture, and even on the mentality of the majority of citizens. Geoffrey Till has pointed out that, historically, the sea differs significantly from land and air, since there are so many geoeconomic dimensions attached to it, and he has identified four characteristics of the sea. According to Till, the sea can first be seen as a supplier of resources. Second, it is a channel for communication and cooperation. Third, the sea is a medium for the exchange of ideas and information. Finally, the sea can also be an avenue for dominance.2 All of these might serve well as keys to understanding the significance of the sea in Norwegian history, and they also serve as a structure for this chapter. By and large, the resources extracted from the sea have put the scarce Norwegian population – around three million at the start of the twentieth century and approaching five million a hundred years later – near the top of all international statistics regarding welfare, income, social equality and living conditions. Viewed from the outside, it is, indeed, remarkable that so few people in such a small peripheral country have been able to develop such an extraordinarily vast, profitable and diverse maritime sector. However, an intriguing question remains: notwithstanding the dependence on the maritime sector tested and inured in both world wars, to what extent has it exerted influence on the national identity and character of the Norwegians? An even more fundamental question is how the notion of a national identity should be understood in the case of Norway; does it emanate from geographical features such as proximity to the sea or from political and ideological factors such as nationalist, democratic and liberal norms? Taking into account the central role of the sea in Norwegian society, most observers are likely to assume that there has always been a strong

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navy to protect the resources and activities in times of peace, and to shore up national interests in times of war. Surprisingly, that is not at all the case. An independent Norwegian navy was only established in 1814 and it was, from the outset, by far the junior service. With the notable exception of the five years in exile during World War II, when it served the allied cause, the Navy has remained smaller than the Army. At some points in history it has even verged on eradication, and, unlike the Merchant Fleet, the Navy has, to a large extent, been an unknown quantity outside Scandinavia. Norway is somehow a staggering example of how a small country and weak naval power has nonetheless developed into a great maritime nation. There are two salient aspects to the country’s relations with the maritime domain. In times of peace the sea has been an engine for progress; in times of war it represents an unmanageable security challenge. This awkward situation was demonstrated beyond doubt in both world wars, when the belligerent great powers had vital strategic interests attached either to the coast, the raw materials or the Merchant Fleet, and thus rendered Norway an inarticulate object in their war policy calculations.

Land and People: Moulded by the Sea Let us present some basic physical features of the country. The Norwegian coastline is some 2,650 kilometres long, or about 21,000 kilometres if fjords and indents are included. Some 32,000 kilometres of shores around the islands and islets adds up to a total of 53,000 kilometres of coastline. Moreover, the fjords cut widely into the mainland and they are generally very deep. The Sognefjord on the west coast is no less than 205 kilometres long and more than 1,300 metres at the deepest. The total main land area is around 324,000 square kilometres, and there are an additional 62,000 square kilometres of other possessions in the Arctic and Antarctica. Vast parts of the country consist of wilderness, forests and mountains, not suitable for dense population. Around 60 per cent of the population lives within ten kilometres of the sea. Indeed, the main populated areas have always been the coast, the great

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fertile inland valleys and the wider Oslo Fjord region. Without the sea, the land would only have been able to sustain a much smaller population. Since the Late Middle Ages, the insufficient agricultural production has been compensated by imports of grain paid for through export of timber, fish and raw materials. The main country stretches from Lindesnes Lighthouse in the south at 57 degrees north to Knivskjellodden in the far north at 71 degrees north. The northernmost point of Norway is on the Svalbard archipelago at 81 degrees north. The mainland is surrounded by the Barents Sea and the Norwegian Sea in the north and the North Sea and the Skagerrak in the west and south. Weather conditions along the coast can be rough throughout the year, but exceedingly so in the winter. The reason is that the continuous succession of low pressure that builds up in the west and southwest, causes frequent changes of wind direction and strength. Moreover, the rapid transition from deep sea to shallow waters causes heavy seas. Notwithstanding the meteorological and geographical inconveniences, the coastal topography offers a protected inshore sea lane and fishing areas that the population can harvest all year round. Norwegian territorial waters, including Svalbard and Jan Mayen Island, comprise more than 240,000 square kilometres. The establishment of the Exclusive Economic Zone off the mainland in accordance with the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Seas (UNCLOS 3) of 1982, added some 788,000 square kilometres of sea territory for economic exploitation. The Norwegian-imposed fish protection zone around the island of Jan Mayen north of Iceland covers more than 289,000 square kilometres, while the disputed fish protection zone around the Svalbard archipelago in the Arctic makes up close to 715,000 square kilometres. All in all, the Norwegian maritime domain covers an astonishing 2,032,000 square kilometres of water surface. For several climatic and biological reasons, the seas adjacent to Norway are extraordinarily rich in fish and sea mammals. Norway’s geographical position made it a maritime buffer between the land and the sea powers in Northern Europe after 1900. The coast flanked the debouches to the North Atlantic for Germany and Russia, and Norwegian territorial waters offered protected sailing for

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belligerents in accordance with international law. As a result, Britain also had strategic interests attached to Norwegian waters. It was duly realised by the British, long before the outbreak of war in 1914, that the fjords could float almost any type of ship, and were therefore potential naval staging areas.3 This sensitive strategic position represented a massive challenge throughout the twentieth century, for the governments of a small state with very limited naval power. It turned out to be an insurmountable problem during both world wars. The physical features of Norway are compellingly summarised by the British historian David Pugh: Peoples such as the French and Russians can [ ... ] abandon their peripheries and fall back into the heart of their countries. This the Norwegians cannot do – the bulk of their population lies along the two-thousand mile coastline. Almost all the towns and practically the entire economy is located there. The hinterland, on the other hand, is mostly mountain and forest. Geostrategically, Norway is inside-out. The seaboard is not the country’s outer shell but its living heart. ‘Remote centre’ cannot hold if the ‘central periphery’ is lost. And a seapower can assault this long, exposed heart wherever it wishes.4 It is something of a platitude to state that chance had bestowed an abundance of maritime territory and resources on the Norwegians, and that the country, in a physical sense, clearly is a maritime great power. However, to develop and prosper by these resources was in no way within the realm of providence; it was a matter of domestic and foreign policy responding to the outside world, but one that was shaped in almost every possible way by the sea.

Harvesting the Sea As discussed above, maritime resources – Till’s first dimension – constituted a substantial part of the Norwegian economy and made the country an active participant in international trade. There were a number of Norwegian settlements in the British Isles, Iceland,

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Greenland and Ireland during the Viking Era. Fishing, fish farming, whale hunting and energy production are inextricably fixed to the economic and commercial development of the country. The history of Norwegian foreign trade dates back at least to the Middle Ages, and it started with fish. Norway became intrinsically interwoven into the trade system that encompassed the Hanseatic League. The country exported fish and was totally dependent on the import of grain after the Black Death. The League was in gradual decline from the latefifteenth century, and much of the trade in Eastern Norway was taken over by the Danes and the Dutch. The fishing industry, however, remained the mainstay in coastal communities down the centuries. Apart from the obvious impact that the fisheries and trade had on coastal communities, they fostered other developments as well. First of all, the far north of the country was exceedingly rich in fish resources. Indeed, that part of the country would only have had an extremely scattered population without the fisheries. Another social feature, brought about by the fishing industry in the far north, was the unique position of the local trader who often became a dominant figure controlling all levels in their communities. Many of them acquired feudal attributes and ambience vivaciously depicted in Norwegian literature. In the era before the introduction of ocean-going trawlers, the main fisheries were seasonal. This affected coastal societies and the character of the population profoundly. The sociologist Ottar Brox has suggested that the combination of coastal and seasonal fishing, and small-scale farming over the years resulted in a distinctive mentality among the coastal population in the north.5 The seasonal fisheries brought about a sense of independence from the assumed serfdom of the industrial working class and agricultural labourers. Families could live from their crofts and the fish they caught in the fiords and off the coast. These waters were regarded as common property that could be harvested freely. The coastal women also developed particular characteristics due to their relationship with the sea. Being left to themselves during the fishing and hunting seasons, or while their husbands were at sea, they became hard-working, independent and used to taking the responsibility for home and family, in a way that would have been unfamiliar to many European women of the time. In a historical

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perspective this contributed to the fact that the Norwegian coastal population was relatively poor, but not likely to suffer from starvation. In fact, Norway has suffered a famine only once in modern history, caused by the Royal Navy’s blockade during the Napoleonic Wars. The sea also rescued large sections of the population from extreme poverty during the depression in the 1930s and the five austere years of German occupation in World War II. In the 1970s, commercial Norwegian sea farming began to expand in earnest. It started with salmon and trout, which are still the dominant products. There is also now some farming of cod and mussels. Due to the advantageous natural conditions and the access to capital for research and investments, the Norwegian fish farming industry has become the ninth biggest in the world and a major source of income for many coastal communities. Moreover, quite a few of these small settlements may have survived due to the entrepreneurial spirit and innovations shown by the pioneers in this field. Norwegian whaling – particularly in the South Atlantic – is a chapter in the national history of the country that many would now like to forget. The reason is that the country contributed vastly to the near eradication of some species of sea mammals in the southern hemisphere. Since the Middle Ages, whales have been hunted along the coast. Regulations were gradually introduced from the interwar years onwards, ending with a ban on hunting according to the moratorium imposed by the International Whaling Commission in 1982. Local communities benefitted vastly from whaling well into the post-war era in parts of country. Fortunes were built and a number of people were employed in the business. Today whaling is only a marginal – though still controversial – activity in Norway. What really brought about a fundamental change in Norwegian society was the discovery of oil and gas in the North Sea in the 1960s. Permission to start exploration drilling was granted in 1965. At that point, the countries around the North Sea were in the process of agreeing on the median line for delimitating the exclusive right to exploit resources. In 1969 the rich oil field Ekofisk was discovered and production started in 1971. That marked the beginning of an era of unique affluence. The energy

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sector has generated revenue that was estimated at a staggering 1100 billion Euros in 2010. In 2009 the sector alone represented 21 per cent of production in the Norwegian economy, three times more than the main land industries put together. Oil production reached its peak in 2001 with 3.4 million barrels per day. The industry is now in decline while the export of gas is still expanding. It is expected that there will be a considerable growth in energy production in the far north in the years to come. We shall not delve into the complicated history of the Norwegian oil and gas industry but restrict our comments to one main aspect of it, seen from the historian’s vantage point. In spite of disagreement over many policy details, there has been a fundamental understanding within the leading political parties that there should be strict official regulations and state ownership to ensure that the resources are developed in a way that benefits the citizens and the society at large. The results of 50 years of governmental control over the energy sector suggest that the efforts have been surprisingly successful. All in all maritime resources have been the precondition for the development of the Norwegian economy and the welfare state, and have contributed immensely to shaping Norway’s relations with other countries. However, political challenges have also flowed from the sea. On the one hand, most governments have given priority to the protection of the coastal population’s exclusive right to cultivate and harvest maritime resources. The struggle for resources has, time and again, put Norway in conflict with other countries, such as Britain, Germany, Iceland, Russia and Spain over fishing rights. On the other hand, it has been imperative to strike a delicate balance between this kind of protectionism and the need to promote the principle of free trade, which the Norwegian economy is totally dependent on. At many historical crossroads, it has been viewed as an almost impossible task to encourage protectionism and free trade at the same time.

Ploughing the Sea Till’s second dimension of the sea – communication and cooperation – is just as important for Norway as the maritime resources.

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Notwithstanding the country’s geographic position, shipping and trade put the country in intimate contact with the outside world. Since Norway was a province of the Danish kingdom until 1814, the sea has for centuries been something of an artery for all sorts of exchanges both with Denmark and with other countries. True, parts of the country could be somewhat backwards, but the major coastal societies were rarely isolated. Norwegian shipping started to develop in earnest with the abolition of the British Navigation Acts for foreign trade in 1849 and for domestic trade in 1854. The introduction of free trade launched a period of astonishing growth for the merchant marine. Ship-owners were able to adjust swiftly to the new possibilities and, as early as 5 January 1850, the Norwegian barque Flora anchored in London with a cargo of lumber from Quebec. The Netherlands abolished its navigation act in 1850, and, after the Crimean War, the Congress of Paris opened the Black Sea to international shipping in 1856. The Danish government ended the tax for passage through the Sound in 1857, which made the important trade on the Baltic more thriving for Norwegians. In 1860, France acknowledged the free trade principle by signing a treaty with Great Britain, and in 1865, a similar treaty was agreed with the United Kingdom of Sweden-Norway. Finally, around 1870, Portugal and Spain also started to favour free trade. Norwegian ship-owners’ indebtedness to the principle of free trade was reflected in an endless number of ship names like William Cobden, Richard Peel, Free Trade and General Prim (after the Spanish head of state). This development provided almost limitless possibilities for the expansion of the Norwegian Merchant Fleet, which, for the most part, was made up of relatively small wooden sailing ships. It participated worldwide, and the years 1850–70 represented the heyday of traditional Norwegian shipping. In 1850, Norway was eighth among the world’s shipping nations, with a fleet consisting of some 4,000 vessels of 300,000 gross register tonnage. The Merchant Fleet grew to a remarkable 1.5 million gross register tonnage around 1880 and was thus the third largest in the world, after Britain and the United States. The reason why ship-owners were able to benefit so promptly

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from the new trade regime was the existence of long-standing maritime traditions. The Norwegian Merchant Fleet often consisted of small companies owned by a group of partners, since the country lacked strong private or institutional investors. For these reasons, the modernisation of the Merchant Navy became a slow process in the late-nineteenth century – which eventually turned out to be a blessing in disguise since many companies leaped directly from sail to motorships in the interwar years. All in all, shipping became deeply entrenched in local communities along the coast. In the course of time, it was not only the shipping companies that grew but also an array of corollary services, such as shipyards, support, insurance, brokers and operations. A salient feature of the Norwegian shipping industry was that it, to a large extent, served the trade system that encompassed the British Empire. This had considerable political and economic implications. For Norwegian politics, it became imperative to protect the industry and support its development. For a small country with limited political clout, the only avenue of approach was to take part in and encourage international cooperation that promoted free trade and the freedom of navigation. The maritime sector was therefore an important formative factor in the internationalisation of Norwegian political and commercial thinking. The sea as a means of communication also had other consequences for the Norwegians. The sea was the gateway for those who wanted to escape from harsh living conditions and, from the early-nineteenth century, Norway witnessed the start of mass emigration to all parts of the world. Over the years, for instance, the population of Norwegian extraction in the United States became bigger than in Norway itself. Moreover, Norway sent many missionaries to Africa and Asia from the 1800s. They represented a large popular movement and can be said to represent the start of the preoccupation with foreign aid that has been a major aspect of Norwegian foreign relations. Also, from the late 1800s, Norwegian mariners were among the active explorers of the Arctic and Antarctica. Finally, it must be mentioned that both the Merchant Fleet and the Navy were the basis for a prosperous industry that supplied the sector with ships and equipment. All this

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was a result of the country being a seafaring nation in every possible sense.

Seaborne Ideas Till’s third dimension of the sea – the exchange of ideas – also made Norway, in spite of its remoteness, a participant in the political, intellectual and cultural development of Western Europe. Such impulses could alternately flow in or trickle down in a country where a substantial proportion of the population was in intimate contact with the outside world and which was increasingly literate throughout the nineteenth century. We shall not go into any details concerning the cultural and intellectual exchange, but rather take a closer look at the effects it had on political thought and institutions. The big picture, however, is clear. Culturally and intellectually, Germany was the dominant source of inspiration, while British liberal ideas and institutions strongly influenced the political domain. From the late-eighteenth century, the ideas of the Enlightenment had a growing impact on Norwegian intellectuals and artisans, long before anyone subscribed to the principle of free trade. Clearly inspired by the American and French Revolutions, liberal norms were written into the Constitution of Norway in 1814, when the country re-emerged as a semi-independent state in the wake of the Napoleonic Wars. The state of emergency imposed by the Royal Navy’s disruption of the communication between the Danish capital Copenhagen and Norway, the lack of a powerful aristocracy and the relatively free position of farmers and peasants, in addition to the grip of new political ideas had, in some circles, made Norway a fertile ground for the emerging democratic ideals. A few decades later, the so-called national breakthrough in Norway was thoroughly influenced by German romanticism. The dominant aspect of that movement was the discovery and appreciation of national cultural traditions. However, this movement did not fully acknowledge the maritime traditions, but tended rather towards historical nostalgia, an adoration of rural culture and a glorification of the Norwegian landscape. Consequently, there is a

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dissonance between the emphasis of the national romantic movement and actual lived life in Norway. From the 1860s, the national movement was profoundly politicised and made up a parliamentary opposition, dominated by representatives from intellectual life, the civil service and the agricultural sector. This political force was characterised by liberal and democratic values and by a strong belief in a state governed by law. As in many other European countries, the nineteenth century in Norway was marked by the struggle between the monarchy and the executive on one side and the democratic forces represented by the national assembly and civil society on the other. In Norway, there was also the long and persistent process of gaining a more autonomous position in the union with Sweden. At this point, the two countries appeared as an unstoppable force colliding with an immovable object. The contest with the Swedes resulted in the dissolution of the union in June 1905, at which point Norway gained full independence. True, the need to secure Norwegian shipping and trade interests (by way of a separate Norwegian consular service, which Sweden blatantly rejected) lay at the core of the political dispute. Controversies over trade and foreign representation unleashed the final act of the break-up process. In that sense, therefore, Norway’s position as a sea-dependent country had a vast indirect impact on the formative years of modern Norwegian politics. During the constitutional struggle with Sweden from the 1860s onwards, however, farmers and peasants formed the core of the opposition together with liberal bourgeoisie. This resulted in the institutionalisation of their political clout, which the maritime sector did not achieve. National identity is not at all a precise term but it is rather understood as a community sharing territory, historical memory, language, norms and culture. This entity is bound together by political institutions, as well as by economic and legal institutions. A distinction is often made between an objective cultural identity and a subjective political identity. The former emphasises the distinguishable national character, which was a major issue among German romanticists. The latter puts emphasis on the political efforts to build national institutions and coherence. Scholars, such as Benedict Anderson and Ernest

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Gellner, tend to trace the advent of nationalism to the Industrial Revolution, and regard the nation as a construction, rather than something organic. Also, in the case of Norway, national identity is something of a construction enforced by the elites, which is why for instance the labour movement and the communists rejected aspects of it fervently up until 1940. Unsurprisingly, there have been minorities within the country which have been subject to coercion – sometimes by harsh methods – to assimilate into the majority culture. Nonetheless, the sea and seafaring are parts of popular identities, particularly along the coast, but cannot be said to dominate the notion. It is glaringly obvious that there is more than one national identity among the coastal, town and inland populations. In addition to the appraisal of domestic homogeneity at the political level, within most national entities there is also a perception of being different from one’s neighbours. Norway shares borders with Sweden, Finland and Russia in the east. What seems clear is that the Norwegians, for obvious reasons, have been much more strongly attached to the sea than any of its neighbours have, and, moreover, that there has long been a clear notion of being different from the neighbouring peoples. Finally, the peaceful situation that prevailed in Scandinavia has generated another characteristic in the Norwegian national identity, which became increasingly forceful from the late-1800s. At least in the self-serving official rhetoric and in the somewhat sentimental and delusive world-view of civil organisations, the country boasts a reputation for being outstandingly peace-loving and a staunch promoter of international cooperation. This is true in the sense that the political authorities have been in favour of international cooperation and law but the notion of representing a more peaceful code of conduct between nations is perhaps a result of being detached from major controversies for such a long time and therefore is rather misleading. All in all, it is easy to see that the seaborne communications and cooperation have brought ideas into the country, though it is more difficult to determine precisely how this has shaped Norwegian political institutions, thought and foreign relations. However, it remains an obvious fact that securing the maritime resources and free trade

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activities on the high seas have always been a core issue for the Norwegian authorities.

‘This fortress built by Nature for itself’ Till’s fourth dimension – the sea as an avenue of domination – is intriguing in the case of Norway. The German attack in 1940 was the first of any size made by sea since the Middle Ages. The attack illustrated, in a harrowing way, something few Norwegians had thought much about at the time, namely that the country’s geographic position represented a vast liability in times of war. In addition to the maritime resources and the merchant marines, great powers like Britain, Germany, Russia and, from the 1950s, the United States also had vital strategic interests attached to Norwegian territory, which turned Norway into an object in their calculations. When push came to shove, however, Norway’s own policy was either disregarded or given little attention. An assault from the sea had been regarded as a realistic scenario since the turn of the century – even confirmed by the British First Sea Lord, John Fisher in 1906.6 Regrettably, this had been largely ignored by the authorities in the interwar years, despite growing warnings in the late-1930s. Both the political majority and the commanders-inchief of the services downright rejected the idea that such an attack was likely, due to the Royal Navy’s dominant position. Some officers, however, maintained that an attack was a likely scenario, due to Norway’s geostrategic and maritime position. In addition to great power controversy, the increased risk emanated from modern military technology and new operational concepts which put faraway Norway within reach. Thinking about national security has, of course, a long pedigree, and a brief overview of the period after 1814 will clarify our argument. The Royal Navy’s seizure of the joint Danish-Norwegian Fleet in 1807, and the ensuing blockade of Norway, led to starvation and desperate austerity. The lesson learned from this defining incident in Norwegian history was obvious: the country must never get into a conflict with the dominant sea power, because of the paralysing effect it would have on trade and shipping. However, the years up to the

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outbreak of war in 1914 was marked by the growth of the maritime industry and a feeling of profound peace in Scandinavia. The question of national security was therefore not high on the political agenda. For a long time it was somehow only a theoretical strategic issue in which merely a few politicians, intellectuals and high-ranking officers were engaged. However, the days of innocence gradually ground to a halt in the years leading up to World War I. The reason was the rise of Anglo-German antagonism and the naval race that could literally be observed from the Norwegian coast – and even in the fjords during the annual cruises conducted both by Hochseeflotte of the Imperial German Navy and the Royal Navy. For leading politicians and officers, it had become obvious that the country had moved swiftly from being a periphery to an area of operations. One answer to this challenge was to prepare for strict neutrality in times of war, in accordance with international law. Both civilian assets and the armed forces were organised for this eventuality. The Navy was in relatively good shape with four armoured gun ships and a vast number of torpedo boats and gun boats as the main assets. Furthermore, a modern coastal defence system was constructed from the late-1800s. Artillery forts were built at the inlets to the major towns. This effort shows that the strategic challenge was finally being appreciated. The defence concept was simple: the fjords were attack lines that could be effectively defended by a layered and elaborate system of naval vessels off the coast, land-based artillery and prepared and defended minefields in the inner leads. These defence resources were immediately mobilised at the outbreak of war in 1914 and Norway succeeded in remaining a non-belligerent throughout the war. It is probable that the efforts of the Navy and the other services contributed to that end. However, the system was not maintained after the war ended, with the result that the major coastal towns with railway connections became vulnerable to attack, an advantage the Germans fully utilised in 1940. The Norwegian Navy had some salient characteristics. It was an inshore fleet mostly consisting of smaller ships and boats, and always vastly inferior to the Army. Occasionally, ambitious plans to build

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a blue-water navy surfaced but they were never passed by parliament. The state did not have sufficient economic strength to take on the investment and operational costs that such an enterprise would require. The main assignments of the fleet were to shore up neutrality and to conduct littoral operations such as anti-invasion and escorting along the inner lead. In addition the Navy carried out a variety of peacetime tasks. It served in the postal service, charting and mapping, fishery protection, coast guarding, search and rescue, support for fishermen and hunters and in scientific expeditions and explorations. This made the Navy fundamentally different from the Army in the period leading up to World War II. The Navy quite simply became the work horse for coastal communities. In the years following Norway’s secession from the union with Sweden in 1905, there was even some support for the rather puzzling idea, emanating in shipping and naval circles, that the Navy should no longer be a part of the armed forces, but rather should become part of a new maritime ministry for all civilian maritime and naval matters under the leadership of the Commanding Admiral.7 However, this proposal was rejected in 1909 and again in 1919. The tendency to put emphasis on civilian tasks continued throughout the interwar years up until around 1936. At that point, the government realised that the war-fighting capacity and the neutrality guard had to be revitalised. The reason why national security was ignored after World War I was, of course, that the pre-war naval predicament disappeared with the relegation of Germany and Russia to insignificant naval powers, and the perception that collective security via the League of Nations had rendered military aggression redundant. In addition, there was a widespread antimilitarism in the wake of World War I and a strong reluctance to increased defence spending during economic austerity in the 1930s. When international relations deteriorated as the 1930s wore on, the Norwegian government – as part of a group of small countries, the so-called Oslo States – retreated from the League’s sanction regime and tried, to the best of its ability, to return to traditional neutrality. Given the character of the great power conflicts, Sweden was the only Oslo State that remained neutral of sorts during

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World War II. The others – Belgium, Denmark, Finland, Luxembourg, the Netherlands and Norway – became occupied or belligerents. At this early stage of the war, it was clear that neutrality was rendered an illusion, or to borrow the words of the American international jurist Wolfgang Friedmann: ‘The collapse of the League left a world that had travelled a long way from the social, economic and political conditions which had produced the rules of neutrality as laid down in the Hague Conventions and the Declaration of Paris.’8 In its energetic efforts to revive neutrality as a legal, ethical and political option, the government increasingly looked like a dog chasing its tail – a perfectly sensible activity only for the dog. At the dawn of World War II, the cornerstone of Norway’s security policy – non-alignment in peace and neutrality in war – turned out to be a pipedream. The sea and the maritime assets were the deciding factors. Geography and strategy made detachment from international power politics a forlorn hope. World War I was a harbinger in which Norway was able to remain formally neutral, albeit as a ‘neutral ally’ in the words of Olav Riste. This position proved utterly illusory in the months of neutrality from September 1939 until the German attack on 9 April 1940 and resulted in Norway becoming a belligerent on the Allied side. In 1949, Norway became one of the founding members of NATO. Following the Soviet naval build-up on the Kola Peninsula from the 1950s, Norway became increasingly and inescapably a part of NATO’s naval strategy. The lessons of history were learned; it was realised that there was no free space for the maritime country. Geography and maritime assets were anyhow likely to tow the country into conflicts of which it was not a part. The Navy was assigned to supportive tasks in cooperation with the great western naval powers throughout the Cold War. One of the major lessons learned from the two world wars was that the western powers were totally dependent on sea transports and, in particular, the sea lines of communications over the Atlantic in times of war. Norway was to play an important role in western contingency planning in this respect. In November 1949, work started on the creation of a Planning Board for Ocean Shipping in NATO. Norwegian participation rested on three basic preconditions: first, a strong and

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broadly accepted Atlantic orientation in Norwegian security policy after World War II; secondly, a recognition of the fact that the services of the Merchant Navy had to be in accordance with both Norwegian defence requirements and the American security guarantee; thirdly, that the Merchant Navy still was expected to become a vital factor in the securing of Norwegian economic and political interests in times of war. After the establishment and consolidation of the Board for Ocean Shipping and the Defence Shipping Authority, Norway became one of the major contributors to NATO’s large-scale plans to ferry supplies from North America to Europe in times of war. This contribution by far outweighed Norway’s limited military contribution to the Alliance’s war plans. As early as 1953, the British Embassy in Oslo underscored this by maintaining that ‘at sea ... Norway’s contribution to the Allied cause in the event of war would be out of all proportion to the size of the country’. This situation prevailed throughout the Cold War and rested heavily on the booming growth in size, distribution and quality of the Norwegian Merchant Navy in the reconstruction period after 1945. All in all, the experiences from both the world wars and, to a certain extent, the Cold War demonstrated that the extensive Norwegian coastline and the huge Merchant Navy had turned the small country, albeit a maritime great power, into an object in great power strategic calculations, rendering it exceedingly powerless. However, the country’s contribution was nonetheless substantial.

Prospering or Powerless? Norway as a maritime power was indeed put to the test during the world wars. It was not in any sense plain sailing to remain neutral in World War I. The government was time and again subjected to enormous pressure both from Great Britain and Germany. When the European armies dug into the trenches and the war on the Continent became a stalemate, the belligerents started to wage war by other means – first of all by attacking each other’s trade. Britain imposed strict contraband control on all commercial traffic in the North Sea,

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in order to prevent exports from neutral countries to Germany. The Germans, for their part, attacked Norwegian merchant ships relentlessly and put pressure on the authorities to continue the exports. Maritime law and 200 years of historical precedence gave little protection in this situation. By November 1914, Britain had established a blockade in the North Sea in order to impose strict control over civilian shipping. To counter this, Germany declared the waters adjacent to Great Britain and Ireland a war zone from 4 February 1915. All enemy vessels were to be attacked. Norway was severely affected by this development. The pressure increased steadily throughout 1915 and 1916, and, by August 1916, 135 ships had been sunk. From the autumn of 1916, there was a new development in the war at sea. Germany stepped up its U-boat warfare by attacking the sea lanes to Northwest Russia. It was believed that German submarines passed through Norwegian territorial waters on their way to the areas of operation. British pressure made the Norwegian Government issue the so-called ‘U-boat Resolution’ of 13 October 1916, which prohibited this traffic. The Germans reacted by coercing the Norwegian authorities into watering down the regulations. This caused the British to strengthen their pressure towards the end of 1916. In December 1916, the British imposed an export ban on coal. This was an effective means, since it would both terminate the import to Norway and expel the Norwegian Merchant Navy from the worldwide network of bunker stations, thus paralysing it. The British export ban caused a terrible energy crisis that lasted for three months until it was revoked in mid-February 1917. The position of Norway had been extremely difficult from the outset of the war, but when Germany declared unrestricted submarine war on 31 January 1917, it became even more vulnerable to the ensuing campaign. The United States had been by far the most powerful defender of neutral rights, albeit strongly biased in favour of Britain. The American declaration of war on Germany in April 1917 eradicated the most important component in the political and naval protection of neutral rights, and thus put the northern neutrals in a terrifying position. The casualties suffered by the Norwegian Merchant Navy during World War I represent a sombre statistic: some 900 ships or 1.2 million

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gross register tonnage were lost. That was one half of the 1914 fleet. Close to 2,000 seamen were killed, of whom 1,400 were Norwegian citizens. All in all, the incompatible interests of the belligerents in Norwegian shipping and export during the war clearly indicated that traditional neutrality was an almost impossible position during a protracted economic war between the great powers of Europe. There is a simple conclusion to all this. In times of peace and low tension, a politically weak, albeit great maritime power like Norway, has been in a position to prosper by its resources and activities. The maritime sector has benefited vastly from the progress of international cooperation and the development of international law that has secured an overall framework within which the small country can formally operate on a footing of equality with far greater participants. By endorsing state regulations and intervention over the maritime sector and by promoting its growth, society at large has been in a position to profit from the riches. However, there is a permanent challenge. In times of war and international tension, the twentieth century has shown that the country can be forced into a cumbersome position because its maritime sector is vital for the belligerents. The value of the Norwegian merchant fleet was worth more than a million soldiers, the British maritime journal The Motorship wrote during World War II. An American admiral claimed; more than a million.9 Even more challenging in the era of total war was Norway’s geographical position. All in all, for a maritime-dependent country like Norway there was no sanctuary outside the international system, no viable retreat to isolation, no possibility of escape into neutrality. This represents both a security challenge and the avenue to prosperity. As a result, the small country as a great maritime power, though prospering in times of peace is rendered powerless in times of unrest – particularly if the body politic suffers from sea blindness.

Notes 1. Fernand Braudel, Civilization and Capitalism. 15th–18th Century, Vol. 2: The Wheels of Commerce (New York, 1982), p. 361.

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2. Geoffrey Till, Seapower: A Guide for the Twenty-First Century (London, 2004), chapter 1. 3. The National Archives/FO 371/1175/36285, minutes signed GHV [Gerald Hyde Villiers], 13 September 1911. 4. David C. Pugh, ‘Guns in the Cupboard: The Home Guard, Milorg, and the Politics of Reconstruction 1945–1946’, FHFS Yearbook (1986), p. 99. 5. Ottar Brox, Hva skjer i Nord-Norge? En studie i norsk utkantspolitikk (Oslo, 1966). 6. Omang Reidar, Norge og Stormaktene 1906–1914 (I). Kilder til Integritetstraktaten (Oslo, 1957). Document 134, Nansen to Løvland, 13 March 1907. 7. The Commanding Admiral in Royal Proposition XXXII, 1909, p. 188. A similar proposal was put forward by the Admiral in 1919. 8. W. Friedmann, ‘The Twilight of Neutrality’, The Fortnightly, vol. CXLVII, January 1940, p. 26. 9. The Motorship cited in Olav Riste, Utefront [The Exile Front], Vol. 6 in Magne Skodvin (ed), Norge i krig. Fremmedåk og frigjøringskamp[Norway at War: Foreign Yoke and the Struggle for Liberation] (Oslo, 1987), p. 114 and Erik Anker Steen, Norges Sjøkrig 1940–1945 [Norway’s War at Sea], Vol. 5, p. 120.

Bibliography Fernand Braudel, Civilization and Capitalism: 15th–18th Century, Vol. 2: The Wheels of Commerce (New York, 1982). Ottar Brox, Hva skjer i Nord-Norge? En studie i norsk utkantspolitikk (Oslo, 1966). Roald Gjelsten, 1960–2008: Fra invasjonsforsvar til ressursforvaltning og fredsoperasjoner, part 3 in Sjøforsvaret i krig og fred. Langs kysten og på havet i 200 år (Bergen, 2010). Rolf Hobson and Tom Kristiansen (eds.), Navies in Northern Waters, 1721–2000 (London, 2004). Tom Kristiansen, ‘The Norwegian Merchant Fleet during the First World War, the Second World War and the Cold War’, in The Economic Aspects of Defence through Major World Conflict (Rabat, 2005). Tom Kristiansen, ‘Neutrality Guard or Preparations for War? The Norwegian Armed Forces and the Coming of the Second World War’ in Wim Klinkert & Herman Amersfoort (eds.), Small Powers in the Age of Total War, 1900– 1940 (Leiden, 2011). David C. Pugh, ‘Guns in the Cupboard: The Home Guard, Milorg, and the Politics of Reconstruction 1945–1946’, in FHFS Yearbook 1986 (Oslo, 1986). Olav Riste, The Neutral Ally: Norway’s Relations with the Belligerent Powers in the First World War (Oslo, 1965).

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Olav Riste, Utefront, Vol. 6 in Magne Skodvin (ed.), Norge i krig. Fremmedåk og frigjøringskamp (Oslo, 1987). Erik Anker Steen, Sjøforsvarets organisasjon, oppbygging og vekst i Storbritannia: Handelsflåtens selvforsvar, Vol. 5 in Norges Sjøkrig 1940–1945, (Oslo, 1959). Geoffrey Till, Seapower: A Guide for the Twenty-First Century (London, 2004).

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CHAPTER 7 THE SHIPYAR D WOR KER ON SCR EEN 1930 –1945 Victoria Carolan

Introduction This chapter traces the emergence of the fictional shipyard feature through the documentary movement and argues that a particular aesthetic and socialist slant came to dominate the genre over the first half of the twentieth century. It suggests that although shipbuilding films were often shot on location using regional actors, they were not primarily concerned with regional identities. Rather they concentrated on integrating the national narrative of Britain’s history with the sea. Only a small body of fictional films depict Britain’s maritime industries and these industries were largely unexplored in fictional film before the 1930s. They had, however, been a prominent part of actuality presentations1 from the beginning of the film industry. Two decades later, these subjects proved to be a rich ground for the documentary movement.2 John Grierson returned to maritime workers throughout his career after his first film Drifters (1929) about the North Sea herring fleet. Paul Rotha, a lifelong socialist, showed a similar interest in the subject with productions such as Shipyard (1935). The film documented the construction of a ship in Barrow-in-Furness, using a Soviet socialist style realism to portray the workers. With the

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sound of the yard punctuating the film, it showed what became the most familiar images of shipbuilding on screen, for example: workers streaming into the yards, the strong worker hammering rivets and blinding shots of molten steel. This aesthetic became a tenet of the portrayal of the shipyard in fictional film. As will be seen, all the fictional features used documentary film and employed either local actors or genuine workers to portray the maritime industries. In the first third of the century, they were rare examples of films that used regional accents and at least appeared to deal with local identities. Grierson, however, felt the aesthetic principles were secondary to the sociological, educational and democratic origins of the documentary film.3 While the aesthetic and socialist leanings were a new direction in film, under the auspices of the Empire Marketing Board these films were required to represent a positive image of industrial Britain. Philip M. Taylor argues that they were part of a drive towards ‘an educated and enlightened democracy’.4 This was a response to anxiety amongst the ruling classes that the perceived ignorance of the new mass electorate could result in a widespread brand of socialism that was damaging to British democracy.

Ship Launches Although the documentary movement films won critical approval, they were relatively rare and not necessarily widely distributed. Instead, the most prominent indication of maritime industries on film was the ship launch. As a repeated and familiar feature of newsreel reporting, this was probably the element of maritime industry with the highest public profile. The naval ship launch was well-established as a public spectacle before the advent of film. By the middle of the eighteenth century, they had started to become major events and Margarette Lincoln notes that, by the beginning of the nineteenth century, the ship launch was used to patriotic ends; in particular in the promotion of a united country.5 During the Victorian period, as naval matters came to the forefront, the launch became increasingly institutionalised. Women had been known to launch vessels from the beginning of the nineteenth century,

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but this became the norm.6 This was reinforced by Queen Victoria as the first female monarch to actually launch a naval vessel herself, rather than simply provide a Royal presence.7 Designated as a state occasion, the launch of naval vessels also began to incorporate a church service8 and the national anthem.9 It was an example of a union of state, church and Royal Navy. Newspaper articles indicate that some launches were attended by thousands of people,10 but they gained an even greater audience as they immediately drew the cameraman. Between 1897 and 1919, commercial companies made at least 50 films of launches which proved popular with distributors.11 Ship launches became a staple of the newsreel with companies such as Gaumont Graphic and British Pathé producing at least 196 films of merchant and naval launches before the outbreak of World War II. The interwar concentration on launches was part of a wider interest in both the shipbuilding industry and technology in general. There were a number of factors which heightened the profile of shipbuilding in public consciousness during this period. First, the Great Depression saw a quarter of shipyard workers unemployed when Britain’s market share in shipbuilding had fallen from 61 per cent before World War I to 40 per cent by 1919.12 The reduced capacity of the industry became a concern as rearmament became necessary in the build-up to war. All this was the subject of constant press commentary, in addition to the internal problems of the industry. Tension between the unions and yard owners led to strike action throughout the period, which provoked particular fears of uprisings after revolution in Russia in 1917 and fears of Communist infiltration into the unions as World War II approached. Second, in an increasingly competitive world market, there were fears of national decline and a conscious effort to promote British industries in general.13 This was indicated, for example, by the establishment of the Empire Marketing Board in 1926. At the same point, there were a number of high-profile, large-scale exhibitions, which heavily featured the maritime industries. The British Industries Fair, for example, had been instigated before the war to promote Britishmade products and skills, with exhibitions at the Victoria and Albert Museum greatly expanded. By 1930, it had grown under the Board of

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Trade to encompass three exhibition spaces: two in London and one in Birmingham. Most notable was the British Empire Exhibition, held at Wembley in 1924–1925, which was designed to promote the Empire’s resources in raw materials and industrial potential. It attracted more than 20 million visitors, covered an area of over 216 acres and all the countries of the Empire were represented. These national projections, seen in ship launches and exhibitions, were heavily patronised by the Royal Family and frequently captured on film. The sustained media interest in the launching of new vessels was not surprising, considering the combined factors of a troubled shipbuilding industry, the rise of the great liners, rearmament concerns and a deliberate promotion of British industries in the lead up to World War II. Arguably, the projection of the ship launch symbolised a continuing idea of prosperity and of naval and merchant dominance. They underlined Britain’s perception of itself as a maritime nation and promoted the country abroad as being at the forefront of cutting-edge technology. Launches provided a location for popular participation which could be presented, as in the eighteenth century, as the fulfilment of the idea of a united Britain. A ship surrounded by elaborate ceremonials on launch day emphasised pride and reassurance over industrial, political, economic or international unease. International rivalry for the Blue Riband intensified competition to build ever bigger and faster liners throughout the interwar period: a regular newsreel subject. The Blue Riband underlined the significance of the liners as symbols of national pride, creativity and international prestige.14 This should be seen in the wider context of ‘techno-nationalism’. As David Edgerton points out, intellectuals in nearly every nation were nationalistic about science and technology, in terms of propaganda, claiming inventions and forwarding the notion that their country was particularly suited to the modern age, although the idea of techno-nationalism has most often been applied to Germany in the interwar period.15 Bernhard Reiger concludes on Anglo-German rivalry that: Numerous celebrations that rallied the population around ships, airships and aeroplanes provided points where support was

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crystallized and further enhanced technology’s role as an indicator of each country’s economic, political and military power before and after the First World War.16 During World War II, films of the naval launch virtually disappeared due to censorship restrictions. The naming of vessels, however, was still important and used to foster allegiances. As Edgerton points out, the word Empire was common to over 1,300 merchant ships built or acquired by Britain during the war. The naming of Empire Liberty in 1941, he suggests, ‘expressed what they were fighting for, Empire and liberty’.17 While Empire may also have been a key concept in the promotion of shipping before the war and frequently represented in newsreel through naval tours and Royal visits, it was to play almost no part in the fictional representations of shipbuilding or in the MoI shorts: instead they largely focussed on internal issues of class cooperation.

Fictional Film Films of launches focussed on the ship as artefact and highlighted the finished product rather than the practice of shipbuilding and the workforce. A distinct shift towards a focus on the workforce, however, occurred with the onset of the documentary movement films and the cluster of shipbuilding films made around World War II. The lives of shipyard workers, particularly those from Glasgow, began to be explored in novels and plays following the heightened profile of shipyards after World War I and the 1919 general strike. The action, called largely by the shipbuilding unions, as Martin Bellamy notes, gave rise to the legend of ‘Red Clydeside,’ and the workers tended to be glamorised in literary incarnations.18 It was not until 1934, however, that the first major treatment of shipbuilding in fictional film appeared: Michael Powell’s Red Ensign. Set during the Depression, the film focuses on entrepreneur Michael Barr, who has to persuade the workers to proceed with his revolutionary ship design against the wishes of the rest of the company’s board members. Moreover, this entails the workforce toiling without pay in the short-term. Red Ensign, while sympathetic to the workers, was told

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from the point of view of the shipyard owners, with an emphasis on the cooperation of the workers. Two things stand out about the film: firstly, it dealt with industrial relations and secondly, it emphasised the importance and tradition of merchant shipping, as opposed to naval prowess, to the nation as a whole. That only a relatively small number of films dealt with the issue of industrial relations at this time was in part due to the restrictions imposed by censorship. This specifically discouraged any film that dealt with civil unrest or strike, considering that it would ‘at once range the films as political propaganda of a type that we have always held to be unsuitable in this country’.19 As Robert James’s research on working class tastes in film and literature has shown, elements of the establishment ‘believed that one of the principal roles of popular leisure was to raise class consciousness’ and that it was ‘the potential political challenge from below, that they feared most’.20 These combined factors made the telling of Red Clydeside, truth or myth, virtually impossible. As the Monthly Film Bulletin noted with regards to Red Ensign, ‘Politics, patriotism and industrial disputes are brought in but the treatment avoids controversy.’21 The resolution in the film was brought about through cooperation and respect amongst the classes: a theme that would develop and become an important tenet of cinematic propaganda during World War II.

Shipbuilding Films during World War II Wartime provided a much-needed boost to the shipbuilding industry but also presented a problem in terms of rebuilding a labour force to man the yards. The Shipbuilders is the only film that gave the subject a serious fictional treatment. It is however worth looking first at the musical comedy Shipyard Sally and the MoI shorts in order to contextualise the theme of shipbuilding as portrayed during the Second World War. Shipyard Sally (Monty Banks, 1939) Shipyard Sally was released in August 1939, and was still being shown at the outbreak of hostilities. The film was a vehicle for the hugely

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popular Gracie Fields, who specialised in portraying Northern working class figures. Like many of the working class comedies of the period, it was virtually ignored by critics but proved popular with audiences.22 In the film, Sally is working in a pub in Clydeside when the yards are forced to close because of the Depression. She galvanises the unemployed men to take action reminding them that, ‘You are the greatest shipbuilders in the world, Britain owes you a lot, and you ought to remind her of it’. They petition Lord Randall, head of a committee that is to decide the fate of the Glasgow industry, and Sally is nominated to go to London to present their case. Most of the film is taken up with her farcical attempts with her father to meet Randall. All these efforts appear to have been in vain. On returning to Glasgow, however, she is hailed as a hero, as the newspapers report that Randall has decided in favour of resuming shipbuilding on the Clyde. The final scene shows Sally singing Land of Hope and Glory superimposed over a sequence of the men returning to work, the laying of a keel, men working with molten steel and riveting, climaxing in the launch of RMS Queen Mary attended by the King and Queen. Despite the over-simple, romantic approach, and the fact that the majority of the film is not set in the yards, Shipyard Sally had a surprising number of characteristics in common with the later documentary shorts and The Shipbuilders. It used the closure of the yards as its starting point and made use of documentary footage. It highlighted the skill of the shipbuilders and that the country had a debt to them, and ended with shots of the workers returning to the yards. It was also centrally concerned with the issue of class. Marcia Landy suggests that Sally becomes the symbol for ‘interclass solidarity’ and that ‘... the film also portrays the spectre of unemployment and contrasts between working-class indebtedness and economic failure and the indolent life of the upper classes ...’23 The use of the Queen Mary launch as the climax was significant. Work on the ship, then known as Cunarder 534, had stopped in 1931 and the Queen Mary ‘came to symbolise the decline of the industry, and the great rusting hull stood out as a beacon of despair’.24 It conversely became a symbol of optimism in 1934 when the Government advanced three million pounds to enable work to proceed. The same footage would also be used in the climax to The Shipbuilders.

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The MoI Shorts The MoI shorts made during World War II were born directly out of the documentary movement and involved many of the same filmmakers. The films were used to emphasise the importance of the industry to the war effort, to reassure the public that the country’s shipbuilding capacity could meet the needs of war, for recruitment and, to a limited extent, to advocate a better future for the yards after the war. The MoI films emphasised the long tradition of shipbuilding in Britain’s regions. The most thought-provoking of these was Tyneside Story (1943), which looked to the future of the industry after the war. The short begins in the yards left derelict by the Depression, looking at the history of the area and concluding that the ‘history of the Tyne is the history of building ships in prosperity and adversity’. It emphasised the skill of the men and their pride in their work: but it recognised the difficulties in manning the yards, with the lack of skilled workers due to men being away in the forces or working in alternative occupations. It was aimed at recruitment and in particular in attracting women to the workforce. According to Lewis Johnman and Hugh Murphy, there was considerable antagonism towards women working in the yards,25 but the film put a positive gloss on this, showing women training in the yards with one of the female welders described as ‘as good as any of the men’. There were indications in the film that the recall to the yards was not altogether welcomed: some workers were happily settled in new positions. Some resented the fact that they had been turned away in the 1930s when they were desperate for jobs, and they feared this would be repeated at the end of the war once the immediate demand for ships was over. This was underlined at the end of the film. The narrator speaking over stirring music eulogising the work of the Tyneside yards is interrupted by a shot of a worker who questions: Ah but wait a minute. Tyneside’s busy enough today, old ‘uns and young ‘uns hard at work, making good ships, but just remember what the yards looked like five years ago: idle, empty, some of them derelict and the skilled men that worked in them scattered and forgotten. Will it be the same five years from now? That’s what we on Tyneside want to know.

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Unsurprisingly, the film stopped short of looking at the tensions within the industry, including the many instances of strikes, even though emergency legislation had made such action illegal.26 There were, however, instances in other MoI shorts that hinted at difficulties in industrial relations, although in such a way as to offer reassurance of the loyalty of the workers to the war effort. In Shipbuilders (1940), for example, the commentator, interviewing a riveter, remarks, ‘you’re known as the black squad of the boiler makers’ union aren’t you?’ The riveter replies: ‘We are, but believe me we are white when trouble comes along and at present we are working like the very devil to beat our common enemy.’ Most of the shorts used a similar format in using workers speaking directly to camera and notably did portray shipyard owners, unlike all the fictional films which generally featured them as paternalistic nurturers of their workers. The emphasis was upon the workers as craftsmen, enthusiastic to engage with new technology and committed to the war effort.27 Not only were the workers the most skilled in the world, British ships were the best in the world and this was the result of a long tradition. Nearly all the shorts began with history: the long view by reference to Britain’s long association with the sea: the short view by reference to the Depression and more personal history by reference to familial ties with generations of the same family shown working within the yards. For example, the commentator in Steel Goes to Sea (1941) comments: [Britain] is fitted by nature to be the birth place of ships ... The skill and craft of shipbuilding is a tradition which carries on beyond the span of any man’s life ... it must be handed down from one to another, from father to son, from brother to brother. And from Shipbuilders (1940): It was the work of men such as these that defeated the Spanish Armada; it was their work that shattered Napoleon’s dreams of world conquest. Their work will bring back the world again to sanity ... These are the men with 1000 years of craftsmanship behind them.

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While genuine difficulties within the industry were not totally obscured, the overall view of the worker was highly romanticised and couched in a familiar rhetoric, often rooted in naval tradition. The keynotes of naval tradition, that is, prowess and familial ties, were easily transposed to make ‘heroes’ of shipyard workers. Not only had Britain led the world in shipbuilding and seapower, the yards were genuinely manned by generations of the same family, but ships themselves had been powerfully promoted as symbols of national pride and technological advancement. A practiced ‘authenticity’, rooted in the documentary movement, was prominent in these films, with almost all of them filming on location, using workers speaking directly to camera and re-enacting activities. This technique was also used in the MoI shorts that featured the fishing industry during the war. They were subject to a similar rhetoric that emphasised skill and tradition. For example, the narrator of Sailors without Uniform (1940) states: A large part of the destiny of Great Britain and the British people has been shaped by the fishing tradition. They have learnt their trade; they have been brought up on the tradition of the sea ... like their fathers and grandfathers before them ... and now that Great Britain together with her allies has taken up arms ... the British fishing community as they did in the last Great War is supplying the men and the boats in the service of her country ... and this they are doing with the same cheerful camaraderie that they go about their peacetime occupation ... In Britain today, no matter to what class a man belongs, there is evidence as never before of a quiet determination to crush this German war of aggression ... As this indicates, there was a largely homogeneous approach towards workers in the maritime industries on film. This tended to flatten the nuances of both regional diversity and the traditions of different occupations. Other than regional accents, the Tyneside Story could easily have been that of Greenock, Barrow or Dublin. Common elements in the representation of maritime industries were to be found regardless of genre, crossing over comedies, dramas

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and the information film. First, there was a certain romanticisation of the worker in a tight-knit community. Second was an emphasis on the unique skills of the workers, passed through the family line, and the debt owed to them by the whole country. Third, the documentary style became the dominant mode of representation of the maritime industries. These aspects were forcefully projected by the only major fictional representation of shipbuilding during the war. The Shipbuilders (John Baxter, 1943) The film was based on the 1935 novel of the same title by George Blake. Beginning with the slump in the Glasgow shipbuilding industry during the Depression and the effects upon the workforce, the story of the novel is extended to include World War II. In this, the film projects a more positive ending which sees the yards open again, although this is tempered with a caution: the nation must bear the responsibility to see that the renewed prosperity will be protected in peace. The Shipbuilders came closer than any other film in representing the working community of the shipyard and in pushing for a better future for the working class after the war. Unusually, the film gave equal prominence to both the shipyard owner, Pagan, and one of the workers, Danny Shields. Neither did it shrink away from representing inequality between classes. The home lives of Pagan and Shields are shown in sharp contrast. The contrasts are not of the kind made in In Which We Serve, which shows families of different classes enjoying their own pleasures uncritically. The Shipbuilders shows Danny’s struggle just to provide food, and his unemployment leads to a breakdown of his marriage. His youngest child is seen playing at the table of their single room apartment with a roughly hewn wooden toy boat. Pagan’s child is seen in an immaculate playroom with freakishly large and overpowering toys. Pagan is also seen to be willing to give up on the business and move to the country, and this hints at Martin Wiener’s assessment: Businessmen increasingly shunned the role of industrial entrepreneur for the more socially rewarding role of gentleman (landed,

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if possible). The upshot was a dampening of industrial energies, the most striking single consequence of the gentrification of the English middle class.28 It is Danny’s energy that convinces Pagan to try again, turning this potential debate into another example of class cooperation with mutual benefits. Reviews of the film recognised the rarity of this approach and praised the depiction of working class Glasgow. The Guardian’s reviewer commented that: ‘This painstaking production brings Britain’s shipping industry to the screen, and George Blake’s story makes some attempt at political comment, an unusual effort in the cinema.’ 29 The Spectator suggested that: In its pictures of derelict Clydeside shipyards, mean gangridden Glasgow streets, the Saturday afternoon catharsis of an international football march, the domestic heroisms of unemployment and the later braveries of the blitz we have a rare screen phenomenon: a picture of an industry presented not simply as a background to a personal adventure but as an adventure in itself, and one in which the nation had better begin to consciously participate or face a repetition of the between-wars neglect.30 As the end of the review indicates, however, the film was very much a call to the nation as a whole to engage with both British industry and social conditions. It also foregrounded the idea that, to win the war, the whole of society needed to work together: a familiar theme in films of the latter part of the war.31 In Baxter’s film, however, the common man did not need to be convinced of this: what he needed was the opportunity to contribute from a position of strength, that is, regular work and decent conditions rather than the instability of the dole. When Danny’s son, Peter, is accused of murder, and the young gang are acquitted, the judge believes that the situation was brought about

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by social conditions. In his speech he forwards the idea that the ruling classes also bear responsibility: We have here the tragedy of unemployment, of hands idle through no fault of their own ... this may have been a failure on our part to provide these unhappy boys with something better to do than hang about on street corners. It is significant that Peter’s salvation is found at sea and is brought about by both Pagan and Shields. Pagan organises for Peter to join the Merchant Navy and he serves in a ship built by his father. The war also places Pagan’s own son literally in the same boat serving with Peter, i.e. symbolically the whole nation in the same boat. As the opening voiceover of the film asserts, Britain’s identity is one shaped by her relationship with the sea: The story of the British Isles is a story of great seamen and fine ships. With them the British people have found themselves and their place among the nations. From an island nation’s need for ships was born a craft and an industry whose achievements have never been surpassed. The potential loss of that identification, for nation or for individual, is seen as catastrophic. The closing voiceover warns against complacency and makes a plea: ... they are always ready to work, these men the world’s finest craftsmen ... The Dannys of this world have never lost simple faith. For a just cause they are ready to give and suffer without question. All they have ever asked was the opportunity to serve, and not always was it granted: are we to make that mistake again? War gave these men a chance: what of the peace? Shall we again leave our industries to be fought for by lone fighters: be they employer or employee- or shall they be preserved as the heritage and responsibility of the whole nation? Great promises have been made. Great tasks lie before us. Tasks that will need

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work and sacrifice and SHIPS. In ships and in the British yards that built them lies a splendid past – we built an Empire with ships, saved the freedom of the world with ships. We must build them and use them to do more. Ships can bind together the people in the world to make a great new commonwealth. Ships to fight if necessary for the freedom of the rights of the common man wherever he may be found. This speech is heard over a sequence of the launching the Queen Mary. The voiceover, however, makes this different from previous representations. The continuity of Britain’s relationship with the sea was under threat and the film is a warning to nurture traditional industries. In Shipyard Sally the launch of the Queen Mary is seen as an unequivocal celebration of a community and a nation returning to prosperity, overlaid as it is with the triumphal singing of Land of Hope and Glory. In The Shipbuilders it is shown more particularly as symbolic of a cautionary tale. The Shipbuilders came closer than any other maritime film of the war in pushing for a socialist agenda and a better future for both the maritime industries and the working class after the war. The subject of shipbuilding in fictional film was rarely revisited in the second half of the twentieth century: once the needs of a nation at war had been met.

Conclusions The maritime sphere beyond the naval film remained a relatively unexplored area. In this, film largely replicated the absence in the dominant Victorian narrative of British history. It is also noticeable that much of the rhetoric used in the deliberate projection of the maritime industries in national causes was borrowed or indistinguishable from naval rhetoric. This was necessary in terms of propaganda because the naval rhetoric drew together the disparate parts of the commercial maritime sector to align it with the grander narrative of Britain and the sea. The grand narrative had, of course, been predicated upon, and was recognisable through, naval tradition.

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In the early twentieth century, the proliferation of filmed ship launches was the most prominent indicator of merchant activity to the general public and was symbolic of national unity. These, however, sidelined the worker who increasingly began to play a more central role in the representation of shipbuilding through the documentary movement and in the fictional film after 1930. There was a line of continuity through film, in which the industry was used to question the nature of society, as well as the nature of the shipbuilding. The image of the shipbuilder in fictional film was associated only with Glasgow. Only in the MoI shorts were other regions of the United Kingdom represented.32 The use of regional identity, however, is not used in representation of itself but rather to reinforce national identity: that is in emphasising the relationship of Britain with the sea. The great similarities between the representation of shipyard workers and fishermen demonstrated a homogenised and romantic approach to the worker that tended to obscure regional diversity. The main cluster of shipbuilding films occurred between 1934 and 1945 and it is perhaps a mistake to look for regional difference. The inclusion of a broader range of class representations and socialist principles did not necessarily signify a more nuanced reading of the range of British identities on film. The 1930s films were produced at a point where Britain was deliberately promoting the industries of nation and Empire and emphasising its technological advancements. The films of World War II promoted national cooperation. In both cases, the diversity and capacity of industry within the stable homogeneity of ‘nation’ were the keynotes: not regional identities and difference. In this sense they were very ‘British’ films, representing Britain as a nation-state, not looking at a separate Scottish identity. As propaganda, they did not admit decline: all the shipbuilding fictional films were about solutions: the main one being a united Britain. This is underlined by a continued use of the Victorian rhetoric of navy and nation in the representation of the maritime industries. The mode of presentation for the industrial maritime film was remarkably consistent. It was rooted in a documentary tradition, and the films were judged on how far that criterion was met. A particular socialist realism aesthetic became the norm in the presentation of

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shipbuilding, which was linked to an expression of leftist sympathies in the films. The maritime film also became one of the few locations that broached a serious consideration of industrial relations and conditions of workers in the first third of the twentieth century: although this was tempered by simplistic solutions through class cooperation and paternalism. The cluster of films about shipbuilding that were made between 1930 and 1945 were representative of wider cinematic shifts. First, film saw a greater acknowledgement of the working classes as serious protagonists on screen. Before World War II, working class characters on screen were usually secondary, fulfilling either a comic or criminal role. The virtual conservative hegemony was challenged by a social democratic stance on film by the documentary movement. This was, however, limited by a homogenous approach towards workers of any industry, emphasising issues of class, rather than regional diversity. The subjects that interested the movement tended to be those which affected social conditions – such as housing, education, infrastructure, as well as technological development. British industry was placed at the forefront in the light of increasing global competition and assimilated into the ‘story’ of Britain’s maritime history, becoming on screen a representative of the nation as much as any traditional institution.

Notes 1. Actuality films were non-fiction films and were, in essence, rudimentary documentaries. Unlike documentaries, they rarely presented a cohesive narrative or argument. Pre-dating widespread dedicated cinemas, they were usually shown as a part of other entertainments, such as in the music hall or at fairgrounds. 2. John Grierson instigated the British documentary film movement whilst working for the Empire Marketing Board in the early-1930s and, in 1934, he transferred to the GPO. Initially, he adopted a modernist approach to filmmaking, using impressionist techniques and later a more journalistic style. 3. John Hill, Sex, Class and Realism: British Cinema 1956–1963 (London, 1986), p. 69. 4. Philip M. Taylor, British Propaganda in the Twentieth Century: Selling Democracy (Edinburgh, 1999), p.91

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5. Margarette Lincoln, ‘Naval Ship Launches as Public Spectacle 1773–1854’, Mariner’s Mirror, 83/4 (1997), p. 470. 6. Ibid., pp. 466–72 7. Jan Rüger, The Great Naval Game: Britain and Germany in the Age of Empire (Cambridge, 2007) p. 33. 8. Technically, this was a re-introduction, as before the Reformation there would have been a form of Catholic blessing, then launches remained secular affairs until the Victorian period. 9. Silvia Rodgers, ‘Feminine Power at Sea’, Royal Anthropological Institute News, 64 (1984), p. 2. 10. See discussions in Rüger, The Great Naval Game, and W. Mark Hamilton, The Nation and the Navy: Methods and Organization of British Navalist Propaganda 1889–1914 (New York, 1986) 11. Charles Urban, quoted in Rüger, The Great Naval Game, p .66. 12. Ian Friel, Maritime History of Britain and Ireland c.400–2001 (London, 2003), pp. 223 and 271. 13. As in the case of the Royal Navy, despite some decline, in comparison to the period after 1945, the interwar years were in fact a time of sustained strength for the shipbuilding industry. See for example, David Edgerton, Britain’s War Machine: Weapons, Resources and Experts in the Second World War (London, 2011), p. 25. 14. See Bernhard Rieger, Technology and the Culture of Modernity in Britain and Germany, 1890–1945 (Cambridge, 2005), p. 228, p. 330. 15. David Edgerton, ‘The Contradictions of Techno Nationalism and Techno Globalism: A Historical Perspective’, New Global Studies 1/1 (2007), p.1. 16. Rieger, Technology and the Culture of Modernity in Britain and Germany, p. 273. 17. Edgerton, Britain’s War Machine, p. 81. 18. Martin Bellamy, ‘Shipbuilding and Cultural Identity on Clydeside’, Journal for Maritime Research, January 2006, (unpaginated) www.jmr.nmm.ac.uk/ server/show/ConjmrArticle.210 [accessed 16 March 2010] 19. From a censorship report (BBFC Scenario Reports 1932/209) on Tidal Waters, a proposed film on the strike of Thames watermen quoted in Jeffrey Richards, The Age of the Dream Palace: Cinema and Society 1930–1939 (London, 1984), p. 120. 20. Robert James, Popular Cinema Going and Working Class Taste in Britain, 1930–39 (Manchester, 2010), p. 203. 21. ‘Red Ensign,’ The Monthly Film Bulletin, 1/4, (1934), p. 29. 22. ‘Box Office Winners’, Kinematograph Weekly, 11 January, 1940.

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23. Marcia Landy, British Genres: Cinema and Society 1930–1960 (Princeton, 1991), p. 340. 24. Martin Bellamy, The Shipbuilders (Edinburgh, 2001). p. 182. 25. Lewis Johnman and Hugh Murphy, Shipbuilding and the State since 1918: A Political Economy of Decline (New York, 2002), p. 67. 26. Ibid, p. 70. 27. This was the propaganda message, but Barnett has argued that tradition ‘fossilised’ the industry. See Correlli Barnett, The Audit of War: The Illusion of Britain as a Great Nation (London, 1986), pp. 107–124. 28. Martin Wiener, English Culture and the Decline of the English Spirit 1850–1980 (Cambridge, Second Edition, 2004), p. 97. 29. ‘The Shipbuilders’, Guardian, 9 March 1944. 30. Edgar Anstey, ‘The Shipbuilders’, Spectator, 17 March 1944. 31. In films such as In Which We Serve (1942) and Millions Like Us (1943). 32. This needs further analysis in comparison to other regional identities in the United Kingdom. Bellamy asks the same question in Shipbuilding and Cultural Identity on Clydeside and suggests that other regions such as Merseyside and the North East were more associated with the docks and coalmining respectively. There is also the possibility that it is linked with the romantic image of Red Clydeside and the strength of the Unions which emanated largely from the Glasgow yards. In addition, Greenock existed only because of the yards, they were its identity, and while other locations prospered through shipbuilding, it was not the reason for them being built.

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CHAPTER 8 THE OTHER SIDE OF AN A MPHIBIAN’S IDENTIT Y: BR ITISH M AR INES ON L AND, 1755–1802 Britt Zerbe

Introduction Every military organisation, except the Marines, has one defined geographical purpose of existence. Armies exist to fight on land, air forces in the air and navies on the seas. The Marines are the only military service that is not confined within a sole geographical arena. Instead, they exist in two spheres; land and sea, defining them as a truly amphibious organisation. The origins of Britain’s Royal Marines began with the raising of the Duke of York and Albany’s Maritime Regiments on 28 October 1664 as part of the mobilisation for the Second Anglo-Dutch War. However, upon the conclusion of hostilities these Marine units were disbanded, only to be reformed anew during the next war. In this period, the Marines were seen by the population as being synonymous with the Army. The lack of permanency left no real impression upon or relationship with the local populations which housed the Marine regiments of this time. On 3 April 1755, with the

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new establishment of the British Marine Corps (as it was known before 1802), some stability of structure and permanency was given to this military unit. Hence, for the first time, the Marines’ relationships with their local populations extended beyond wartime into periods of non-conflict. This chapter examines some of the relationships between the Marines and the local (mainly English) communities they were in contact with during the 47-year period of 1755–1802. It begins with an explanation of the contemporary eighteenth-century British concept of ‘amphibious’. The definitional issue concerning the concept of amphibiousness is more than an academic exercise, as the term encompasses not only contemporary society’s understanding of its new Marine Corps, but also combines it with the cultural notion of British society. The following section describes the physical location of marines when on shore. While ashore, marines lived and trained, providing their most basic level of contact and interaction with the local communities. By focusing on the major barracks construction projects for marines undertaken by the Admiralty and Ordnance Board over this period, this section also conveys the idea that these buildings were not only meant to be houses, but also a physical sign of the Marines’ separation from the community. The section goes on to examine the Marines’ guard duties and how this was the primary official duty which brought these two groups into daily contact. The next section explores some of the frictions between the service and its local communities. These would involve not only negative associations through criminal activities, but also public destruction resulting from accidents. However, this relationship was not always negative as the final section will illustrate. It focuses on moments of public grief for lost marines and also joy for important marine landmark occasions, such as the 1802 celebrations surrounding the Marines being made a Royal unit. All of these sections weave a narrative of how an amphibious organisation’s existence on shore was perceived and affected by its proximity to its land-based community. It also reveals that, while tensions may have arisen between military and civilian populations, they maintained a broader sense of community.

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An Amphibious Identity Many eighteenth-century Britons considered England, and later Britain, as an amphibious nation. Daniel Defoe mocks the English people in one of his satires, describing them as an ‘Amphibious Ill-born Mob’. In his response to this satire, William Pittis accepted the idea of the English being seen as amphibious, as they ‘live in an Island, where the Sea is its defence’. Pittis’s objection to Defoe was in relation to his description of the English as being an ‘ill-born mob’.1 Throughout the eighteenth century, this notion of Britain as an ‘amphibious animal’ was a reccurring culturally-descriptive motif within contemporary writings. It was further accented by the political and strategic debate that gripped Britain throughout this period, concerning whether British military forces should attack colonies and overseas territories or strategically attack the continent. There seemed to be consensus, at least, that at all times the nation should maintain its ‘amphibious’ nature and prevent itself from being drawn into costly land wars on the European continent.2 A second usage of ‘amphibious’ as a unifying idea appeared within the institution of the Marine Corps. ‘That which partakes of two natures, so as to live in two elements’, was how Dr. Johnson defined ‘amphibious’ in his famous dictionary. Whereas, ‘A Soldier taken on shipboard to be employed in descents upon the land’, was how ‘Marine’ was defined by Dr. Johnson.3 This was the extent of Dr. Johnson’s work on the subject, and is somewhat plagued with a conceptual limitation as he ignores the duties of marines in preparing and fighting on warships. Johnson, it should be mentioned, compiled his dictionary before the Marine Corps was founded and hence missed the development of its doctrine, which later writers took up. James Edward Oglethorpe’s short work published in 1755, The naked truth, used the facade of classical warfare, but was really a critique on a potential conflict with France. He describes the Marines in these terms: Soldiers are not Seamen; so Soldiers can have no Share in the [Merchants] War, unless they be amphibious Soldiers; your amphibious irrational Animals are Otters and Beavers; and your

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amphibious rational Animals are Marines; therefore no Land Soldier can wish for a War in this Circumstance, but [one] who wishes to be a Marine ...4 Oglethorpe’s work, like Dr. Johnson’s, was written before the founding of the Marine Corps. By 1757 there is clear evidence that the Marines began identifying themselves as ‘amphibious Marine[s]’. They were also actively taking on the trappings of a dual-life in combat and everyday activities on both shore and at sea.5 By the 1760s, the public at large was also beginning to see the Marines as a truly amphibious force. When the Marine Corps was discussed in public they were repeatedly described as ‘our amphibious warrior[s]’.6 One author, in linking the two teams of ‘amphibious’ and ‘marine’ together, goes so far as to title his 1789 book Symptoms of advice, to the o*****rs of an amphibious corps; with notices of N***l character. This work was written using the guise of advice to Marine officers concerning how they should comport themselves in the presence of naval officers. However, the real objective of the work was to emphasise in the public consciousness the distinct nature of the Marine service and its separation from the other military services by its very amphibious nature.7 By this period, then, the term ‘amphibious’ was largely developing into a cultural notion that additionally allowed it to be used to classify a country or an institution and not just purely organic or inorganic characters. Another article clearly set out the duality of existence for the Marine Corps and their overall usefulness to the Navy and country as a whole: Respecting the usefulness between a seaman and marine on board ship, there is no difference after the marines had been on board for a few months and though worthy of double honour, as he serves his country in a double capacity, either by sea or land.8 Some authors took the amphibious nature of the Marines and combined it with notions of them as a constitutional body, therefore viewing marines as the ultimate protectors of Britain:

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It is a maxim that can never be too often repeated, that the greater part of the standing armies of Great Britain and Ireland should be amphibious, or, in other words, composed principally of marines.9 With the growing might of the British nation over the eighteenth century, the word ‘amphibious’ was not just a term, but also a cultural consciousness of this very power. The country was protected by the sea from enemies by its navy but could also utilise, through the sea and marine corps, an offensive capability to capture the enemy’s economic colonies and also harry the enemy’s coasts.

Barracks: Giving an Identity a Home While marines were theoretically given validity as a military force, theory does not always agree with practice. The most basic point of contact between the British population and their marines was on land. One of the most important structural problems that marines dealt with throughout this period was where and how they should be quartered when they were not on ship. During the Marine Regimental period, they would be quartered in a variety of port towns from Deptford to Plymouth.10 By the 1740s, this would be consolidated to the three Royal Dockyard towns of Chatham, Portsmouth and Plymouth. There were advantages for positioning marines within these Royal Dockyards: ‘It was only by pressing all the workmen that they could lay hands on and by employing as many Marines as could be quartered near the dockyard towns’ that the fleet was kept at sea in the winter of 1691–1692.11 John Ehrman believed this to be one of the primary reasons for the British fleet’s success in 1692. In 1740, the Navy had ordered Colonel Wolfe’s 1st Marines to be quartered in the Hilsea Barracks in Portsmouth. Unfortunately, these barracks were unable to house all the marines due to the very poor state they had been kept in by the Board of Ordnance. The marines therefore had to be billeted in ‘public houses’ similar to their Army counterparts, a practice which continued during the early stages of the Marine Corps period.12 This dispersion meant marines would be scattered throughout their

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respective dockyard cities, and consequently it took longer for them to form up for speedy embarkation on ships. Additionally, dispersing forces throughout these public houses facilitated desertion, ill-health (possibly pox) and disturbances due to over-intoxication. To prevent civilian tensions, the Admiralty felt that a purpose-built barracks construction project should be undertaken.13 Not all of the barracks construction was undertaken because of unscrupulous publicans or the need for military mobility; it was also about protecting the public as a whole. As late as the 1770s, complaints were streaming into the Admiralty about marines: make[ing] a practice to break the windows, damage and destroy beds, bedding in their quarters, and as it unavoidably happens that several men are lodged in the same room, it is found difficult to discover the offender.14 The Admiralty was concerned about these complaints and declared it was ‘of the utmost importance to the service in point of discipline and good order’. When the Seven Years’ War came to a close in 1763, the Admiralty ordered the three dockyards of Chatham, Portsmouth and Plymouth to begin looking for land upon which to start building barracks for their respective Divisions.15 Like most eighteenth-century projects, the bureaucracy of the Navy and Ordnance Boards meant that it took nearly 20 years to complete the barracks. The first Division to have its barracks purpose-built by these two Boards was the Portsmouth Division. The Admiralty, which ‘very much wanted’ the barracks, proposed to the Privy Council: that the old cooperage, so soon as it can be conveniently spared, may be fitted up for barracks for the Marines doing duty at Portsmouth.16 The conversion project was not completed until 17 January 1769, almost three years after the barracks were officially approved.17 A great part of the delay was due to the designs of the barracks continually

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being upgraded in order to create more room to house the men and to provide better officer accommodation. The completed project provided accommodation for 564 marines and five rooms for officers amounting to the hefty sum of £3,198 14s 6d.18 The Chatham Division of Marines was largely saved from this expense at the time because they were allowed to take over the largest proportion of the old Army Barracks in Chatham. These barracks, built in 1750, were some of the largest in England at the time, thus giving the Marines plenty of room, at least until marine numbers eventually grew too large and the Army reclaimed them during the American War of Independence. The Chatham Marines therefore had to build their own barracks, not far from their previous Army ones, which were completed in 1780. The Plymouth Marines at Stonehouse were the last of the three to receive barracks, which were not completed until 1783. From 1763–1778 the Plymouth Division, like the Chatham Division, occupied a portion of the Army barracks. But also like Chatham, they were expelled in October 1778 ‘to make room for a Regiment of Foot and a Regiment of Militia’. So the Admiralty requested the then staggering sum of £16,680 so that the Marines could ‘be accommodated with barracks from whence they might not be liable to be removed on like occasions’. These barracks were to be larger than those in Portsmouth and would accommodate 612 officers and men.19 The cost of building barracks was not the only expense, as they also had various equipment and provisioning needs that amounted to a little over £5,000 per annum by 1784.20 The Ordnance Board was charged with the basic management, supply, construction and maintenance of every barracks and fort in the United Kingdom.21 While their provisioning was standard, the Navy recognised that a Barrack Master, usually an officer on half-pay, was needed to provide for the administrative and logistical needs of the men when in the barracks. The Barrack Master was to take: into your care & charge, together with the Bedding Furniture & Utensils therein ... to take care that the rooms ... be constantly supplied with Beds Bedding & such Furniture Utensils & Necessaries as are usually & customarily allowed.22

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He would make all orders of these basic necessities through the Marine Department, who would then make its request to the Ordnance Board, or sometimes even to the Navy Board. Many of the duties within the barracks were eventually entrusted to non-commissioned officers and senior privates, as these were duties that required certain ‘capacities’. In total there were anywhere between 30 and 40 enlisted men fulfilling the duties of everything from clerks and barbers to schoolmasters.23 This was all done in the hope of making the barracks a self-contained community within the broader community whilst giving the Navy total control over their men while ashore. While being physically separated from the community, men in the barracks did have interaction outside of their official duties. Some of the married men were allowed to spend time outside of the barracks. In Portsmouth, the order was given that each company was allowed to give leave to three married men so that they could spend time with their families. These were to be the ‘best & soberest men’ and each week a new group would be chosen to rotate. However, the other married men who did not receive leave, while ‘obleidged [sic] to sleep in the barracks’, need ‘not mese [sic] there if they shall not choose it’.24 Another issue that could not be wholly contained to the barracks, especially when in close proximity to the local population, but which affected both communities, was hygiene. Diseases could be quickly communicated amongst the men and the local population. In August 1771, Portsmouth made a garrison order: It being absolutely necessary, as well for the healths [sic] of the inhabitants, as others, that the ditches be frequently replenished with a fresh supply of water. The divisional commanding officers added that the men should make sure that: sluces [sic] of the ditches be opened to ebb tide in order that the present stagnated water may run off, and that they remain open till a sufficient quantity of water be readmitted so as not to prejudice or anoy the cellers[sic] of the inhabitants.25

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The physical act of confining marines within the walls of the barracks was a major concern for the Admiralty, but even then there was still contact with the wider civilian population.

Tensions and Celebrations: The Marines in the Community The most frequent contact between marines and the local population occurred when marines were carrying out official duties while ashore. Following the Treaty of Paris in 1763, which ended the hostilities of the Seven Years’ War, there was no consensus about how marines should be used during peacetime. One author felt that a possible example for government economy during peacetime was to use marines in the Royal Dockyards: I am for dismissing the 30l a year watchmen, and having at least a Captain’s guard of the marines mounted daily at every Dock-yard in England, and thereby give them an opportunity of learning the shore discipline. However, he did admit that: The Captains of men of war, I believe, may object to the want of marines, the centry [sic] in red being the more respectable appendage to their dignity.26 In 1764, the Dockyard Commissioners agreed with the author and made a formal request of the Admiralty to transfer Marine detachments to do guard duty in the dockyard to replace the civilian watchmen. It was felt that marines would: contribute greatly to the security of His Majesty’s magazines and stores, as well as to the safety of the ships of war which now are or may hereafter be, refitting, building or repairing.27 To placate some civilian concerns, the old civilian watchmen who would lose their jobs because of this change were to be financially

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compensated for the loss. They were to be given half of their watchman’s pay along with full pay per annum as dockyard labourers until they left the yards. Dockyard Commissioners were placed in overall command of the Marine guard, a role similar to that of a ship’s captain, though they were not to ‘interfere in the discipline of the Marines doing duty in the dockyards’.28 If Marine guards had any conflict relating to their daily duties with the artificers or other dockyard workers, they were to immediately make it known to the Marine guard’s commanding officer. This officer would then report the incident directly to the commissioner, who could ensure that ‘due satisfaction may be obtained’. He would also make sure that: all subject of personal abuse and enmity between the parties in the civil and military service of the crown [is] guarded against, and prevented as much as possible.29 The tenet of civilian command was an important element of marine duties on land, and it also mirrored those of the Army and militia. Average Marine Corps guard details in the Royal Dockyards consisted of one subaltern, a sergeant, two corporals, a drummer and 36 privates. The other non-dockyard guard details consisted of a naval hospital guard (one sergeant, a corporal and 12 privates), a barrack’s guard (one subaltern, a sergeant, a corporal, a drummer and six privates) and an infirmary guard (a corporal and three privates).30 Marine guard duties entailed standing guard in the dockyards for a 24 hour rotation until the next day’s relief arrived. They were also given control of the key to the fire engine and stores. One of their primary responsibilities was to remain vigilant in preventing anyone from entering into the magazine with a flame or pipe, similar to their duty on ship concerning fire prevention and detection. There were some fears that, because of their close proximity to the materials lying around the yards, marines might be tempted by theft. It had been reported to the officer of the watch that ‘some old rope or old cordage has been stolen from off the anchor wharf in the dockyard near the centinels [sic] post No 17’. This theft caused ‘suspicious reflections upon the Marine Corps’. The commanding officer was so

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concerned about any diminished image of the Marine Corps that he offered a reward: ‘One Guinea to any person that can make a probable discovery of the same and another guinea on finding the offender or offenders out.’31 The commanding officer’s concern for the reputation and image of the Corps was, in the public’s eye, the reason for making such a quick response. These guard details were not small and could lead to a significant deployment of personnel in and around the dockyard communities. The combined Marine guard detail for the three largest Royal Dockyards – Chatham, Portsmouth and Plymouth – consisted of a force totalling about 330 men from which the daily and nightly guard details were taken. This would provide, at each dockyard, a minimum of ten marine guards doing continuous duty at any one time. These numbers continued to increase until 1803, when the total force was 954 men. Such an increase necessitated the significant enlargement of the guard quarters in each yard.32 In peacetime, with the heavily diminished numbers of marines in the barracks, this created an increasingly difficult strain upon marine resources in maintaining their duties on land and sea. The lack of marines on land was an ever-growing concern of the divisional commanders in peacetime, especially with the increasing naval demand made upon their men. In August 1787, the Colonel-Commandant of the Portsmouth Division, having been ordered to supply HMS Bedford (74) and Magnificent (74) with marines, lamented just this: ... the present number of men at quarters fit for duty including officers’ servants is one hundred and ninety two. With this force, 69 had to be detached daily for guard duties so that ‘we have therefore at present little more than three relieves or two nights in bed for the men’.33 However, the guard detail of 69 in August had already been reduced from the previous 91 in January of that year, due to other fleet requirements like the Botany Bay expedition.34 If the requirements of these two ships were met then the Marines would no longer be able to maintain their full guard duties. The press also raised concerns regarding a lack of marines for guard and overseas

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duties. A writer styling himself Per Mare Per Terram lamented the Admiralty’s lack of foresight and ‘hope[d] in future that useful corps will never again be reduced to the very low state’. He went on to state that the Admiralty should understand that marines were ‘not sufficient to supply even the guardships with their proper compliment, and do the duty that was allotted them on shore’.35 He called for doubling the number of marines in time of peace, asserting that it would be attended with no great additional expense to government. A writer in the Morning Chronicle agreed: ‘As this is a duty [guard duties] much wanted at present, to whom can it, with equal propriety, be entrusted as to the marines, who, as it were, are the natural guardians of all that relates to the Royal Navy.’36 Official marine presence in the community was not solely whilst on guard duty, there were other times when marines would be visible to the public. One of these important duties ashore was to be present as an honour guard when dignitaries like the monarch or military commanders were present. When the Danish King came to Chatham in 1768, a Marine guard detail entailing all their grenadiers was in ‘place in order to pay all military honors [sic] to His Danish Majesty on his arrival’. The remainder of the Division was to march from the common to the strand and ‘line the street from the water side as far as they can’.37 Marines also formed detachments for funeral parades for gallant marines recently deceased. For his funeral parade in the local commons, Private James Rembda, a musician in the 25th Company, was given a marine detail of one sergeant, one corporal and 12 privates. All marine honour guards were detailed with arms, accoutrements and three rounds of ammunition for ceremonial firings.38 Marines were also present at all military executions carried out in the dockyard towns of people sentenced by court martial. The Admiralty and Marine Corps understood the importance of their men being an example to the public. Marine officers and non-commissioned officers were given special orders to make sure anyone who ‘sees any marines drunk or dirty in the streets whether they belong to a ship or quarters, is to order them to be immediately confined in the barrack guard room.’39 The government was also concerned with any influence or negative effects of military units during election times. Marine recruiting

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parties and guards in Rochester on 4 March 1771 were ordered to march beyond the distance of three miles while the elections were being carried out.40 The regulation of marine behaviour on land was upheld by the yearly parliamentary vote on ‘Regulations and Instructions relating to the Marine Forces when on Shore’, akin to the yearly passage of the Mutiny Acts which controlled the other land forces’ interactions with the public. This, and the yearly voted Riot and Mutiny Acts, made it clear how the military and the marines should be used in public disturbances. Many times the Marines were used to quell disturbances by dockyard workers. They were also used in coastal communities on the periphery of Britain, those that were difficult to get to via inland transportation networks. In February 1773, three companies of marines in the Plymouth division were ordered to be made ready to assist in the suppression of the food riots in Cornwall.41 At various times, marines were also placed in policing patrols of the towns where marine barracks were located. These marines were ordered to patrol ‘such public houses where a noise is heard; but to be very cautious not to get into any disputes with the landlords’.42 These regulations also made it explicitly clear that marines must settle cases of criminality or misconduct between themselves and the civilian population within the civil court system. The case of Private Philip Watkins in 1803 is an example of these sorts of criminal cases. Private Watkins was accused of stealing from his ‘master’ (it is uncertain who this was) some ‘boots, a coat, and clothes’. The case was brought before the Mayor by Simeon Busigny, a Captain in the Royal Marines, attached to the Division in Plymouth.43 Drinking was also the cause of many criminal activities and attacks on the civilian population, particularly at places like public houses or theatres. These activities carried heavy punishments once the offenders were brought back to the barracks.44 There were also non-criminal tensions between the Marines and the local populations. Live fire was not always important for musketry training of this period and the use of ball and powder could be quite dangerous when in proximity to the civilian population. In 1763, Doctor Blackett of Plymouth made an official complaint to the commander of the Plymouth Division. He warned of ‘a Marine firing

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a ball across the water from Stonehouse which entered at one of his windows’. The officers and non-commissioned officers were given strict orders to ‘inspect into the men’s arms before they go to exercise [and] are to be sure that every piece is unloaded’.45 The growing fees and complaints about non/under-payment of publicans in the 1790s forced the government to act. In its newly passed Act for the Relief of Publicans, it established a new set fee that publicans could charge to recruiting parties, and conversely, the amount of money the officer could ask for in reimbursement. This Act was a public recognition of some of these problems and an attempt to ease some of the tensions between the recruitment services and the public. There were questions raised about whether the legal definition of ‘land forces’ extended to the Marines. The Admiralty’s Judge Advocate even stated ‘the said Act does not appear to me to extend to His Majesty’s Marine Forces’.46 This is an interesting legal dilemma, as it demonstrates that in law and some public sectors the Marines were seen as something separate from the other land forces. Tensions between the local population and the Marines were not all one way. The Solicitor of the Admiralty was commanded by their Lords of the Admiralty to handle all cases for the Admiralty adjudicated in civilian courts. These cases would consist of everything from press-gang disturbances to naval and marine personnel’s public debts.47 Unfortunately, the historical discussion of the record of the Solicitor’s duties in prosecuting offending civilians has been more muted. In August 1794, seven young marine drummer boys, not one over 14 years of age, were walking about the area of the Chatham barracks. At one moment in the afternoon, the boys were confronted by a farmer, John Bell, who happened to live near to the place where they had been recently walking. Bell accused the boys of ‘having his hedges broke and drove them into a field, made them strip to their shirts and beat them with a hedge stake, in a most unmerciful manner’, two of the boys in particular.48 The Admiralty dispatched their solicitor to investigate, who found that Mr Bell did indeed assault the boys and called for him to be prosecuted. However, the solicitor went one step further and asked the Admiralty ‘to direct me not only to carry on the prosecution already commenced [William Wolsten vs Bell], but also

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such others [my emphasis]’.49 The ‘others’ talked about were the six other boys, each of whom he wanted Mr. Bell tried for independently, thus receiving the maximum amount of punishment possible. While marines were capable of causing problems within the local community, the Admiralty also wanted it known to all that their men could not be abused freely by members of the public. Not all interaction with the public was negative. Throughout this period there were many cases of the public mourning for lost marines, especially in battle. The case of Major John Pitcairn of the Chatham Division is probably the death of a marine which was most commented on in the press of the eighteenth century. Major Pitcairn was the commander of the Marine battalions in North America from 1774–1775. He was the commanding officer of the detachment sent to Concord to seize American rebel munitions, and witnessed the opening shots of the American War of Independence. Pitcairn died leading the flanking companies during the Battle of Bunker Hill on 17 June 1775. His loss was especially traumatic for the Marine Corps. Major Tupper spoke of this loss to the Corps: the honor the Corps acquired in that day, was very much damaged by the loss of many brave Officers and then fell in particular that of the Major Pitcairn ... his loss is greatly regretted by the whole Corps who hold him in very great estimation.50 Major Pitcairn had four lead balls lodged in his body at the end of the day, and was taken off the field ‘upon his son’s shoulders’.51 It was said that when news of his death arrived in Chatham, it was the ‘chief topik[sic]’ of discussion. He was reputed to be a ‘Gentleman of a universal good Character, and beloved by his Officers and Men, and much esteemed by all ranks of people here for his Affability and genteel Address’. Various newspaper accounts make special mention of the community’s understanding that he was a tender husband and a very affectionate father of many children. The town lamented that; On the News being brought to his Lady last Tuesday evening, she immediately droped [sic] down, and for several hours it was

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thought she was dead; she has not spoke since, and her life is not expected; their mutual happiness were beyond conception’52 The public also openly celebrated with the Marines in times of joy. On 29 April 1802, marine identity was solidified with the royal approbation of the unit being restyled Royal Marines: His Majesty has also been graciously pleased to signify his commands that, in consideration of the very meritorious services of the Marines during the late war, the Corps shall in future be stiled [sic] the Royal Marines.53 The order signifying the creation of the Royal Marines was immediately sent to all Divisions.54 When the news of the Marines’ promotion was made public, many newspapers stated their ‘very peculiar gratification’ in announcing the confirmation that this ‘gallant and useful Corps, the Marines’ was finally being made a Royal unit.55 When the news finally reached the Marines in the various Divisions there were very vocal celebrations. On 2 May 1802, at Plymouth: ‘The King’s most gracious warrant, constituting the marines of Plymouth, Portsmouth, and Chatham, his Majesty’s royal corps of marines, for their eminent services during the late war’ was received by Major General Bowater, and then communicated in general orders.56 A grand dinner was planned to celebrate the occasion, and in the evening, the marines at quarters fired three ‘excellent vollies [sic]’ and the barracks were ‘beautifully illuminated in one instant, by the tap of the drum, which had a very fine effect’.57 The new Marine uniforms were to be made ready for the King’s Birthday on 4 June 1802 as a public acknowledgement of thanks to the King.58 A description of the events at Plymouth on 4 June 1802 recounts the public jubilation. The King’s birthday was to be celebrated by all of the military units in Plymouth at that time, along with musical accompaniments. Salutes were to be fired into the air and upon their cessation the crowd would give three cheers to the King. It was stated in the local papers that the populace were also

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said to have especially cheered on the new styled Royal Marines.59 ‘It was altogether a most animating scene, as the Royal Corps of Marines, both in war and peace, have ever been considered by the nation at large as a family and constitutional corps.’60

Conclusion This chapter has presented the role and existence of the only amphibious military organisation of the British state in the late-eighteenth century. Laying out the cultural contemporary understanding of the term ‘amphibious’ shows how the state and the Marines were seen through this terminology. Marines’ barracks were the most physical representation of their existence between the society and the service. By removing the Marines from the more negative effects of placing them in public houses, it was hoped that it would also ease relations with the public. The barracks were not a hermetically sealed place, and there were various places of official and unofficial contact between the men and the populace. The primary official contact was through the Marines’ guard details in the various Royal Dockyards and communities. These guard details, while fluctuating in size and responsibilities, were a continual representation of the state’s authority, as they were fully armed and uniformed at all times. There were moments of tension that existed between the civilian communities and marines, usually concerning cases of criminality. While this was a catalyst for tension on both sides, it was not unusual or unique to the Marines, as all military units including the militia reported similar incidents throughout this period. The important point to note is that while these criminal and non-criminal tensions existed, they did not adversely affect the public’s broader conception of the importance of the Marine Corps to the British state. Marines were mourned in public and celebrated during times of joy. It was this public association with the Royal Navy and the sea that further propelled the Marines towards being considered ‘constitutional’. This term gave them a legitimacy that was reaffirmed in 1802, when they were given the title ‘Royal’ and given their final affirmation of permanency.

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Notes 1. Daniel Defoe, The True-Born Englishman: A Satyr (London, 1701), p. 4; William Pittis, The True-Born Englishman: A Satyr, Answer’d, Paragraph by Paragraph (London, 1701), p. 18 2. ‘An Eulogium on the Earl of Chatham’ in The Westminster Magazine, [vol. 11], (February, 1783), p. 93 3. ‘Amphibious’ and ‘Marine’ in Samuel Johnson, A Dictionary of the English Language, Vol. I-II, [second edition] (London, 1756) 4. James Edward Oglethorpe, The Naked Truth (London, 1755), p. 17 5. Officer, A letter, to the Right Honourable the Lords of the Admiralty; setting forth the inconveniences and hardships, the marine officers are subject to ... (London, 1757), p. 19; Britt Zerbe, ‘ “That most useful body of men”: The Operational Doctrine and Identity of the British Marine Corps, 1755–1802’, University of Exeter Ph.D. thesis, 2010 6. Craftsman or Say’s Weekly Journal (London), 24 July 1773 7. Quondam Sub., Symptoms of advice, to the o*****rs of an amphibious corps; with notices of N***l character (London, 1789) 8. Gazetteer and New Daily Advertiser (London), 7 March 1770 9. The Crisis: A Collection of Essays Written in the Years 1792 and 1793, [Issue 22], p. 126 10. Navy Board to Admiralty, R. D. Merriman (ed.), The Sergison Papers [Naval Record Society Vol. 89], (London, 1950), p. 316 11. John Ehrman, The Navy in the War of William III, 1689–1697: Its State and Direction (Cambridge, 1953), p. 446 12. J. A. Houlding, Fit for Service: The Training of the British Army, 1715–1795 (Oxford, 1981), p. 39–40 13. The National Archives [hereafter TNA], ADM 2/1171, Request for Money for Plymouth Barracks, 2 May 1779, f. 438 14. TNA, ADM 183/2, Order Book of Chatham Division, 13 May 1772 15. TNA, ADM 2/1159, Admiralty to Principal Officer of Ordnance, 3 October 1763, f. 388 16. TNA, PC 1/7/54, Admiralty to Privy Council about Marine Barracks Portsmouth, 20 May 1765, ff. 3–4 17. J.A. Lowe (ed.), Portsmouth Record Series Records of the Portsmouth Division of Marines, 1764–1800 (Portsmouth, 1990), p. xviii 18. Lowe (ed.), Portsmouth Record Series Records of the Portsmouth Division of Marines, 1764–1800, p. xviii 19. TNA, ADM 2/1171, Request for Money for Plymouth Barracks, 2 May 1779, ff.438–40

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20. TNA ADM 96/13, Marine Pay Office Out-Letters, 21 February 1784 21. Houlding, Fit for Service, p. 40 22. Lowe (ed.), Portsmouth Record Series Records of the Portsmouth Division of Marines, 1764–1800, p. xxiii 23. TNA, ADM 1/3290, Letters from Commandants at Portsmouth, 2 September 1787, ff. 1–3 24. Lowe (ed.), Portsmouth Record Series Records of the Portsmouth Division of Marines, 1764–1800, p. 13 25. Lowe (ed.), Portsmouth Record Series Records of the Portsmouth Division of Marines, 1764–1800, p. 14 26. Gazetteer and London Daily Advertiser (London), Saturday 14 January 1764 27. TNA, ADM 2/1160, Admiralty to Commissioners of Dockyards, 13 October 1764, f. 375 28. TNA, ADM 2/1160, Admiralty to Commissioners of Dockyards, 13 October 1764, ff. 376, 378 29. TNA, ADM 2/1160, Admiralty to Commissioners of Dockyards, 13 October 1764, ff. 378–9 30. TNA, ADM 1/3290, Colonel-Commandant Tupper to Admiralty, 16 August 1787 31. TNA, ADM 183/1, Chatham Order Books, 17 July 1768 32. Roger Morriss, The Royal Dockyards during the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars (Leicester, 1983), p. 96 33. TNA, ADM 1/3290, Colonel-Commandant Tupper to Admiralty, 12 August 1787 34. TNA, ADM 1/3290, Colonel-Commandant Tupper to Admiralty, 17 January 1787 35. Diary or Woodfall’s Register (London), 30 July 1790 36. Morning Chronicle and London Advertiser (London), 5 October 1778 37. TNA, ADM 183/1, Order Book of Chatham Division, 12 October 1768 38. TNA, ADM 183/1 22, Chatham Order Book, June 1768 39. Lowe (ed.), Portsmouth Record Series Records of the Portsmouth Division of Marines, 1764–1800, p. 14 40. TNA, ADM 2/1165, Admiralty Commanding Field Officer of the Marines in Chatham, 4 March 1771, f. 444 41. R.A. Roberts (ed.), Calendar of Home Office Papers of the Reign of George III, 1773–1775 (London, 1899), p. 17, 125 42. Lowe (ed.), Portsmouth Record Series Records of the Portsmouth Division of Marines, 1764–1800, p. 79 43. Plymouth West Devon Record Office [PWDRO] 1/695/11, Indictment and Deposition of Pvt, Philip Watkins

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44. Lowe (ed.), Portsmouth Record Series Records of the Portsmouth Division of Marines, 1764–1800, p. 120 45. TNA, ADM 184/1 27, Plymouth Division Order-book, April 1763 46. TNA, ADM 1/3683, Letters from the Solicitor of the Admiralty, 12 September 1795 47. Nicholas Rogers, ‘Impressment and the Law in Eighteenth-century Britain’ in Norma Landau (ed.), Law, Crime and English Society, 1660–1830 (Cambridge, 2002), p. 84 48. TNA, ADM 1/3683, Colonel-Commandant Tupper to Admiralty, 10 August 1794 49. TNA, ADM 1/3683, Solicitor to Admiralty, 28 August 1794 50. TNA, ADM 1/485, Tupper to Graves in 21 June 1775 51. London Evening Post (London), 25 July 1775 52. St. James’s Chronicle or the British Evening Post (London), 29 July 1775 53. E. Johnson’s British Gazette and Sunday Monitor (London), 2 May 1802 54. TNA, ADM 2/1191, Marine Department to Col. Commandants, 29 April 1802, p. 66–67 55. Caledonian Mercury (Edinburgh), 3 May 1802 56. Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post (Exeter), 6 May 1802 57. Monthly Register of Naval Events, Naval Chronicle, Vol. VII, (January to June, 1802), p. 447 58. TNA ADM 2/1191, Marine Department to Col. Commandants, 29 April 1802, p. 67 59. Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post (Exeter), 10 June 1802 60. Monthly Register of Naval Events, Naval Chronicle, Vol. VII, (January to June, 1802), p. 528–9

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CHAPTER 9 GR AF VON SPEE’S UNTERGANG AND THE COR POR ATE IDENTIT Y OF THE IMPER IAL GER M AN NAV Y Mark Jones

Introduction On 8 December 1914, the Imperial German Navy’s East Asia squadron was comprehensively defeated by the Royal Navy off the Falkland Islands in the South Atlantic.1 In total, some 2,000 German sailors and officers lost their lives.2 The entire crew of the German flagship, the armoured cruiser Scharnhorst, went down with their ship. Of the 800 men on board the Gneisenau, the second German armoured cruiser to sink, the Royal Navy rescued 187 from the water. The survival ratios were worse on the smaller German warships. Out of more than 600 men on board the cruisers Leipzig and Nürnberg, only 25 survived.3 In contrast to the almost total losses on the German side, the British ships came out of the battle with nothing worse than minor damage. None of the British ships were sunk and the Royal Navy casualties were remarkably low: one sailor died on board the Inflexible, six men were killed and four wounded on board the Kent,

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and a further man lost his life and another four were wounded on board the Glasgow.4 The British victory was a result of the one-sided nature of the engagement. The British squadron, commanded by Admiral Sturdee, included ships which could sail five knots faster than anything in the German squadron which opposed them. Sturdee’s ships also had larger guns. In effect, they could shoot at the Germans from distances which rendered the German threat to their safety to an absolute minimum. Thus, once the German commander had squandered the advantage of surprise, a combination of good weather and high visibility ensured that only one of the five German warships the British encountered at the Falklands was able to escape. Rather than surrender, the other German ships chose to be blown to pieces. The German commander, Graf Count Maximilian von Spee went down with his ship. In Germany, he was celebrated as a hero and his squadron held as an example of heroic sacrifice. The wife of Graf von Spee told the German press that she was proud of her husband. With him she also lost two sons, Otto and Heinrich, who had been on board the Nürnberg and Gneisenau.5 She was not alone in, at least publicly, celebrating the squadron’s sacrifice. Over the following months, Spee’s squadron became emblematic of the sacrifice of the Imperial German Navy in World War I. As it did so, the German ships’ refusal to surrender was used to repackage an overwhelming defeat as a heroic and defiant moral victory. This chapter uses the example of the squadron to explore the corporate identity of the Imperial German Navy during the opening months of World War I.

The Imperial German East Asia Squadron When the war began in August 1914, the ships that Spee would lead to the Falklands a few months later were in the western Pacific at Pohnpei (Ponape). Given that they were so far away from Germany, Spee was entirely free to determine his own strategy. As Hans Pochhammer, the highest-ranking survivor from the ships sunk at the Falklands later put it, the squadron’s task was to avoid destruction at the hands of the Royal Navy and its allies, while doing as much damage as possible to

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allied shipping. It was to undertake trade war (Handelskrieg). With the added threat posed by Japanese entry into the war, Spee headed east to avoid the dangers his squadron faced in the western Pacific. In doing so, the squadron abandoned any hope of returning to defend its base at the German colony of Tsingtau. On 31 October, Spee learnt that an English warship had docked at Coronel (Chile).6 With the intention of intercepting this single ship, the Glasgow, Spee’s squadron sailed south. Unknown to them at that time, the Glasgow was part of a British squadron commanded by Admiral Cradock. Off the coast of Coronel, Cradock’s squadron met with Spee’s. In this encounter, Spee’s squadron possessed the superior arms. Yet, even though there was considerable risk that his squadron would be defeated, Cradock chose to take on the German ships. The result was the first defeat of a British naval squadron in more than 100 years. The Kaiser suitably responded by awarding 300 iron crosses to Spee to decorate his men. Against minor losses on the German side, more than 1,500 British officers and men, including Cradock, lost their lives. Cradock’s flagship, Good Hope and the Monmouth were both sunk. The Glasgow managed to escape. Having sailed into Valparaiso (Chile) on 3 November, Graf Spee stated that, because of the stormy conditions, no boats could be lowered to attempt to rescue any survivors.7 Later interwar histories on the German side made similar claims, adding that, because of the darkness, it was impossible to search for survivors.8 In contrast, British accounts accused Spee of leaving the survivors to their fate. Barry Bingham, at that time a lieutenant commander on board the Invincible, later wrote that the ‘thought of those gallant spirits left to perish worked us up to a boiling point of indignation’.9 The German public learnt of Spee’s victory at Coronel on 6 November. An official statement circulated the news through the German press.10 Many individuals responded enthusiastically to the victory. For example in Heidelberg, the history professor Karl Hampe was delighted. He wrote in his diary: ‘[Just think] what that all means for the German future! These first laurels at sea will spur us on to further increase the power of our fleet!’11 Ernst von Weizsäcker, at that time a naval staff officer, described the news as ‘very pleasing’.12 These distant responses were what Hans

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Pochhammer referred to when he later wrote that, as the ships went into battle, the German officers and men ‘felt the eyes of the fatherland and our royal Kriegsherrn resting upon us’.13 Those words reveal participants’ awareness of the performative nature of naval encounters such as those fought at Coronel. Even though the engagement took place in the South Pacific, it was a battle that had an audience which stretched across the world. Most immediately, the battle was news in Chile and the Americas and German officers were pleased with the way they had demonstrated German power to the neutral world. But the most important audience for the German ships was in Germany itself. The victory and the resulting increase in naval prestige came at a time when the corporate identity of the Imperial German Navy was in crisis.

Corporate Identity in Crisis: The Collapse of the Imperial German Navy’s Prestige Following the declaration of war between Britain and Germany, many people expected that both countries’ surface fleets would draw battle until one side emerged as a clear victor. Those pre-war expectations grew out of contemporary fascination with naval martial power. In the decade before 1914, hundreds of thousands of Germans had watched projections of naval power during fleet reviews and ship launches. The knowledge that fleet reviews, consisting of hundreds of ships, were taking place on both sides of the North Sea led to the expectation inside and outside of the Imperial German Navy that, should war occur, it would be accompanied by a naval battle of unprecedented proportions. In Germany, this battle was conceived of as an Entscheidungschlacht at sea – a decisive battle which would obtain a German victory over the Royal Navy, comparable to that achieved by the German Armies at Sedan (in Britain such expectations were coded as a modern day Trafalgar).14 However, when hostilities began, the German naval command was unwilling to risk the fleet in a battle of this scale and instead chose a less risky strategy. The new strategy was defined as Kleinkrieg. In contrast to the pre-war vision of Großkrieg – literally

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translatable as large war – the Kleinkrieg strategy foresaw isolated engagements by small numbers of German ships against small numbers of British ships. Through a combination of mine warfare, submarine warfare and limited operations by surface vessels, the Imperial German Navy hoped to weaken the overall numerical advantage of the Royal Navy until the point when naval commanders could launch Großkrieg on more equal terms. In Germany, this highly-debated naval strategy produced a wave of disappointment among many naval officers and men (with Tirpitz foremost among those voices speaking out against Kleinkrieg). That wave of disappointment was so great that it can be regarded as a corporate identity crisis. As the recent study by Nicolas Wolz has demonstrated, as the nation rushed to arms and Paris was soon within the sights of the most advanced German soldiers, the diaries of naval officers revealed their frustration and embarrassment that their contribution to the war was so limited.15 For example, following the declaration of war against France and Russia, Hermann von Schweinitz wrote that the declaration of war with Britain came as ‘almost redemption/release [Erlösung]’. ‘The feeling was too embarrassing,’ he continued, ‘that the navy would stand aside and have to watch, doing nothing, while the army strikes against two fronts. Now things are happening for us too!’16 In fact, with the Kleinkrieg strategy in place, nothing happened and only five days later, another officer, Ernst von Weizsäcker wrote to his mother: ‘We’re the ones who are the most ashamed that we still haven’t taken action and that it looks like we’re following a long strategy of waiting. My only wish is that later sea officers can appear in the country with honour.’17 The sailor Richard Stumpf wrote in his diary: ‘We will have to be rightly ashamed, if like in 1870 the army alone should win all of the laurels.’18 In contrast to his expectations at the start of the month, by 31 August, Hermann von Schweinitz wrote: ‘What must the people think about the Navy! We are all waiting for something to happen soon. Our mood is still positive, the leadership must take that into consideration above everything else.’19 Two weeks later, Albert Hopman, a naval officer who worked in the Reichsmarineamt, wrote that the ‘entire situation is terrible, the death of our honour and

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our fleet’.20 Over the course of the war, the refrain of one of Imperial Germany’s most important and popular war songs The Watch on the Rhine was parodied to mock the Navy’s contribution to the war. In this version, the image of the fleet ‘sleeping in harbour’ was contrasted with the more famous ‘guard on the Rhine’.21 Those sentiments were not entirely missing on board the ships in the western Pacific. Pochhammer later wrote that many men lamented that they were not fighting at home.22 The trauma created by their perception of the navy’s failure to contribute to the war was especially evident for those officers who longed to prove their military worth to their own families. As Wolfgang Schivelbusch has pointed out, the political and military elite which ruled Imperial Germany in World War I may be defined as a classic ‘post-heroic’ generation. This generation of men, born between 1853 and 1865, had been too young to participate in the perceived heroism of the wars leading to German unification. However, they had grown up under the shadow of those wars and their fathers’ achievements in them. This condition was enhanced by the constant celebration of military victory through a litany of cultural-political events of which Sedantag – the annual celebration of the Army’s victory over the French at Sedan – was the most famous.23 Schivelbusch argues that this psychological condition pushed this generation of men towards an ever greater desire to make their own mark through spectacular achievements.24 On top of this inferiority complex towards their fathers, once war began in August 1914, the ‘post-heroic’ generation had to also come to terms with the sacrifices made by the generation of their sons.25 No less a figure than Tirpitz provides an illustration of how the post-heroic generation came to terms with the sacrifices of their sons. On 28 August 1914, his son was presumed dead when the German Navy’s light cruiser, the Mainz, was among the German ships sunk at the Battle of Heligoland Bight. Tirpitz was recorded as telling other high-ranking officers: ‘We have disgraced ourselves. I knew that I would have to give away my son. But something like this is terrible. We are being bottled in and the end of our fleet is a consequence of that.’ Hopman added: ‘My heart bleeds for him, as he sees his life’s

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work destroyed at the same time as his family’s happiness.’26 In fact, Tirpitz’s son was among the survivors. However, the reaction to the news shows how personal loss fused with the loss of prestige caused by the fleet’s inaction. A similar dynamic was engendered by the example of brothers and other relatives fighting in the land war. For example, at the start of September, Weizsäcker learnt that his brother Karl had been killed. He told his parents that his brother’s ‘life had been worth living and that he had concluded it heroically for a great thing’.27 Two days later, he wrote: ‘Allow me to fulfil my soldier’s duty, to fight, and my wish for revenge.’ The next day he added: ‘Now too I feel hatred.’ With reference to his father’s role in the war of 1870–71, he continued: ‘The people who injured our father and took away our brother, if God will it, shall never threaten Germany again.’28 Not unpredictably, in his next letter, he again lamented the strategy of Kleinkrieg.29 For men like Weizsäcker, during the opening phase of the war, their own high degree of personal mobilisation could not be fulfilled by the Kleinkrieg strategy. More strikingly, as Weizsäcker’s correspondence reveals, the collapse of the Navy’s prestige was something which he took personally; it affected his family relationships, as well as his assessment of the general public’s attitude towards the Navy. Those sailors who lost family members at sea similarly wanted to abandon the strategy of Kleinkrieg. For example, the brother of Hermann Graf von Schweinitz was one of the first German submarine commanders whose boat was lost. As early as 12 August 1914, Hermann von Schweinitz’s diary entry reveals fear concerning his brother’s fate. Those fears were repeated in his diary entries until 24 August, when Schweintiz received confirmation that his brother’s boat had sunk.30 In this way, the loss of prestige which defined the corporate identity of the Navy in the war’s opening months was felt by officers as both a failing towards their own families as well as a failure towards the nation at war. As John Horne has argued, the opening months of World War I were accompanied by the widespread mobilisation of societies. While the state did all in its power to mobilise society from above, many protagonists were driven from below by their own self-mobilisation.31

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As individuals and society mobilised around them, the men of the Imperial German Navy faced a strange situation wherein they were prevented from performing their anticipated role as warriors for the nation. They thus faced a huge disjuncture between their own levels of self-mobilisation and their actual military relevance in the war’s opening phase. That disjuncture and the resulting crisis of the Imperial German Navy’s corporate identity explain why the news of Spee’s victory at Coronel was so important. Naval officers and many sailors desperately needed a prestigious naval victory, because of the crisis of corporate identity caused by the Kleinkrieg strategy. A similar dynamic had already occurred following the news of the submarine captain Otto Weddigen’s victory over three older British battlecruisers at the end of September 1914.32 From this point on, Weddigen was an exemplary hero.33 Hans Pochhammer revealed the importance of the sailors’ perception of naval prestige on board the ships of the East Asia squadron in his later recollections. In the days following Coronel, Pochhammer recalled wanting to make it back to Germany ‘even if damaged and with a flag shot to pieces to reach out our hands to our comrades at home’.34 The Royal Navy would ensure that this fantasy would never happen. As one participant in the Falklands Battle later wrote, for British naval personnel, learning of Cradock’s defeat was a ‘black day’.35 The Admiralty responded quickly. Sturdee was tasked with hunting down the Germans. To ensure a British victory, Sturdee was equipped with the Invincible and Inflexible, modern battlecruisers which outstripped anything in the German squadron. Barry Bingham, who served on board one of those ships, remembered that their mission was ‘to seek out and annihilate von Spee’s squadron; and there was to be no return home until these orders had been carried out to the letter’.36

The Falklands Raid Sturdee’s squadron formed at the Falklands on 7 December. Having assessed his options after Coronel, Spee had chosen to raid the Falklands. Pochhammer later recalled that, after the victory of

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Coronel, there had been lively debate on board the German ships about their next move. Some thought that they could trick their pursuers by hiding in the Antarctic Ocean or heading south to avail of the shorter distance to the Indian Ocean. Others thought that they should try to support Germany’s African colonies.37 In the end, Spee chose to travel to the South Atlantic to attack trade shipping. Crucially, he decided to keep the squadron together, rather than instruct his ships to disperse. Their first target was the Falkland Islands. There, he intended that the German squadron would raid Port Stanley, destroy the British telegraph station, seize coal and, in revenge for their discovery that the German governor of Samoa had been taken hostage a few months earlier, take the British governor of the Falklands hostage. The commander of the Gneisenau, Kapitän Maercker opposed the plan and remarked with concern that Spee’s chief of staff Otto Wilhelm Fielitz wanted ‘to see blood at all costs’.38 Spee himself believed that, upon arrival at the Falklands, his squadron would find the island defenceless. Arguably, Spee’s greatest mistake on 8 December was the tactic he chose for the raid rather than the raid itself. His squadron came within sight of the islands at 2 a.m. Rather than proceed as a group, Spee split the squadron. Gneisenau and Nürnberg were instructed to sail to Port Stanley to undertake the raid, while the other ships remained at a distance. Had they planned for all eventualities, including the prospect that they would find British warships in the harbour, Spee could have timed the raid so that his entire squadron arrived within range of the harbour under the cover of darkness, so as to open fire upon any British warships they should find there at first light. On the British side, this possibility was later the subject of reflection. Bingen even wrote that, had Spee done so, ‘things might have gone badly for those inside’.39 Instead, the Gneisenau and Nürnberg approached the islands after first light. At first, they thought that smoke rising from the harbour was the result of the islanders burning coal and oil so as to not hand them over to the Germans.40 It was not. In fact, that smoke was the result of the British crews’ frantic efforts to make their ships ready to leave port which, under normal circumstances, some of them required up to four

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hours to do. When the Gneisenau and Nürnberg were within distance, the Canopus, an older battleship which had recently been turned into a floating fortress in the Falklands harbour, fired the first rounds.41 Already at this point, however, the German ships had been called back by Spee, who planned to take flight. On board the fleeing Gneisenau, Pochhammer recalled that two of the ships pursuing the Germans began to stand out. They were bigger and quicker than the others, their smoke standing out against the skyline. The Germans first thought that they might be Japanese. Pochhammer described the realisation that they were being chased by British battlecruisers as ‘very bitter’.42 Between 1 and 2 p.m., the largest of the British ships were within range of the fleeing German ships and they began to fire upon the slowest German ship, the Leipzig. At 1.20 p.m. Spee ordered the small cruisers Leipzig, Dresden, and Nürnburg to try to escape.43 From this point on the Scharnhorst and Gneisenau were pursued by the Invincible and Inflexible. Behind them the slower Carnarvon followed.44 With most of the firing taking place at a distance of some 15,000 metres, the German guns posed little danger to the British ships. Although the smaller German guns could strike the British at this distance, when they did so, their shells fell at an almost vertical angle, which greatly reduced their destructive force. Thus, those shells which landed on the British ships only caused superficial damage. This was in stark contrast to the impact of British shells on the German warships. From the period of the heaviest shelling onwards, shortly before and after 3 p.m., records suggest that conditions on board the German ships deteriorated rapidly.45 The Scharnhorst sank at 4.17 p.m.46 Notably, for the final five minutes before it disappeared, the Carnarvon, which had caught up with the other British ships, added its fire to the final barrage. Later, German accounts would accuse the British of breaching the codes of honour. In their view, once the Scharnhorst had sunk, the Carnarvon should have searched for survivors rather than join with the fire against the Gneisenau. In accounts sympathetic to the British there was no order to search for survivors from the Scharnhorst because the Gneisenau continued to fire.47 There is little doubt however that, at this stage, Invincible and Inflexible could have sunk the Gneisenau without the aid of a third warship.

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At 5.30 p.m. the Gneisenau sank. Ten minutes earlier its commander had instructed all those still alive on board to abandon ship. The final hours of the smaller cruisers were similar. Spee’s attempt to draw the whole British squadron against the two largest German cruisers had failed. The Leipzig was pursued by the Glasgow and Cornwall. Although it was subjected to fire from 3 p.m. onwards, it was 9 p.m. before it sank.48 It was the last warship to sink, the Nürnburg having followed the Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, being sunk at 7.26 p.m.49 For good measure, and going against an explicit order to seize their contents, having brought their crews safely on board his own vessel, the commander of the Bristol also sunk two of the three German supply ships accompanying Spee’s squadron – a third German supply ship managed to escape.50 Of the German warships, only the Dresden could avail of its speed to disappear into a rainbow and out of the view of its British pursuers. Having made it to the South Pacific, the Dresden avoided detection until March 1915, when it was discovered in the process of internment in a Chilean harbour. Ignoring Chilean neutrality, the Dresden was sunk by British warships.51

‘The Glorious Sinking of our Cruiser Squadron’ The news of Sturdee’s victory was made public in London on 9 December.52 Learning of the battle through the London press, the German naval command confirmed the defeat in an official statement on 10 December.53 In its summary of how the German press responded to the news, the Coburger Zeitung captioned the event as the ‘glorious sinking of our Cruiser squadron’. The prestigious Vossische Zeitung attributed the loss of the squadron to the superior speed and artillery possessed by the British ships. To the right of the Vossische Zeitung, the conservative-nationalist Deutsche Tageszeitung wrote: We have followed the skilfulness and determination of the officers and men on our cruisers, their competence as sailors and warriors, with pride and joy. They have gained undivided recognition and amazement from the entire world, they have fought gloriously and have gone down gloriously.

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Another Berlin newspaper called upon Germans to mourn those ‘brave men, who sacrificed their lives for us’. The Social Democratic Vorwärts was reported as noting that: The same tragic fate, which off the coast of Chile overtook some one and a half thousand British sailors, has now been granted to the German sailors.54 In Magdeburg, the local Social Democratic newspaper, the Volkstimme, stated that in war at sea there was no ‘either-or’. Instead, on warships, the ‘flag may not be lowered’. ‘That cannot take place’ the newspaper continued, ‘the ship must be destroyed and usually the crew goes down with the ship.’55 Emphasising the sacrifice of the German sailors, the Volkstimme added: They have sunk into the depths of the ocean. At the bottom of the sea the polyps stretch out their arms: fresh nourishment is on the way. And in the deep currents of the oceans stiff bodies with lifeless eyes are carried along. [ ... ] And above in the light the fight continues, man against man.56 The next day, 13 December, the Volkstimme included another article on Spee’s defeat. It appeared under the headline: ‘The way German cruisers sink.’ It explained that, as they had no information about the final hours of Spee’s squadron, they would instead tell the story of the sinking of another German cruiser, the Magdeburg, which had already been sunk off the coast of Finland. The article which followed stressed the heroic sacrifice of the German crews and their refusal to surrender.57 Naval officers would have concurred with the contents of this Social Democratic newspaper. Hopman described learning of the defeat as ‘terrible news’. For him, the ‘only consolation remains their splendid success ... and the fact that they held out against expectations for so long’.58 On 13 December, after he had learnt that there had been no survivors from the Scharnhorst, he wrote that he would never forget Graf von Spee.59 Schweinitz described it as a ‘heavy blow for us’. He referred to the German ships as having been ‘destroyed,’ ‘going under,’ and

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‘going to the depths of the ocean’. He added that many people whom he personally knew had lost their lives.60 On 31 December, Wilhelm Souchon, the commander of the German Navy in the Mediterranean, whose ships had joined with Ottoman Turkey for the duration of the war, wrote to his wife. Of Graf von Spee, he told her: It was his tragic fate that he was found by the rascals. But once he met with them there was nothing else for him to do other than fight and afterwards to go down with honour.61 Ten days earlier, in another letter to his wife, he had told her: ‘But to disarm in a neutral harbour, thank God this does not exist for German naval officers, and hopefully it never will.’62 In February 1915, Hugo von Pöhl, the Chief of the Admiral Staff at the time of Spee’s sinking, also told his wife that Spee would not have understood any order to seek refuge through internment. In Pöhl’s view: ‘Disarmament would have been a disgrace for him and for the entire navy.’63 These responses reveal how Spee’s defeat was understood in terms which drew upon a wider cultural repository of sacrificial meanings. That cultural repository had been established in the decades before World War I. One of the key themes in this repository of sacrificial images was provided by the notion of Untergang. The historian Holger Afflerbach has described the preference to ‘go under with the flag flying’, as opposed to lowering the flag to indicate surrender as a product of ship commanders’ concept of honour and their cult of the flag.64 By 1914, that cult of the flag had been long established. In 1885, in instructions for the commanders of German ships based outside of Germany, Kaiser Wilhelm I stated that should war break out, he hoped that they would deploy their ships in the way commanded by ‘the interests of the German Empire and the honour of the flag’. ‘The more difficult the situation becomes’, the Kaiser’s decree stated, ‘the more hopeless it appears, the more the commandant should remain faithful to the call of military honour. [ ... ] even when facing the disaster of an honourable sinking, my ships will be spared having to take down the flag’.65 In 1914, Wilhelm II repeated the same message. It also featured in the German Navy’s operational instructions. Those

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instructions told officers that the ‘flag is for the man the symbol of loyalty. He may never leave it and when it is in danger he must defend it until his last drop of blood’.66 In addition to this cult of the flag, the German Navy had an added imperative to live up to Prussian and German military myths and their strong sense of the value of sacrifice. Those cults had a long history which is perhaps best surmised with a quotation from Bismarck who famously defined the course of nineteenth century German history as: ‘Without Jena, [there would have been] no Sedan.’67 This account of German history defined the sacrifices of those who fought against Napoleon as the starting point for German unification. As a consequence of the celebration of this view of nineteenth-century German history, the value of heroic sacrifice (Opferwilligkeit) was widely diffused among the German Empire’s military elites: it is more than historic irony that the Scharnhorst and Gneisenau – sunk by the British off the Falklands – were among a series of ships named after the men who had led Prussian resistance to Napoleon.68 Scharnhorst himself died in 1813 following an injury in battle. Thus he personally exemplified the kind of heroic sacrifice expected of sailors and officers on a ship bearing his name. On 22 March 1906, a centenary after Napoleon had humiliated Prussia, the official speech which accompanied the Scharnhorst’s launch proclaimed: ‘Just as this hero [ ... ] has fought to the last breath for Prussia’s victory, your fluttering flag shall symbolise Germany’s protection and honour.’69 On 20 December 1914, Sturdee came ashore in the port of Montevideo, in Uruguay. The news received by the press travelled fast. Cabled from Montevideo, the next day, the New York Times carried a report which brought the latest news of the battle. It included the description of the Gneisenau’s sinking. Having refused to surrender, the report added: ‘Her officers and men stood on the deck singing patriotic songs as she took her plunge beneath the waves.’70 The following day, the New York Times commented further on the subject. It suggested that the German Naval ‘recklessness’ in this battle was the result of their efforts to create a naval tradition. Up to that point, it noted, German military tradition was based entirely upon the successes of the Army. The New York Times added that the last trace of Graf Spee’s

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Scharnhorst was its flag. The Gneisenau refused to surrender and the newspaper stated that officers and men, ‘without a shot to fire, were grouped on the deck singing patriotic songs until the waves swirled around her’.71 The newspaper added that: ‘There is something of method in it, which suggests that a death chant is part of the German naval regulations.’72 Inside Germany, this news was interpreted very differently. Accounts of the sinking of all of the German warships stressed that they had gone down with their colours flying. A full two months after the sinking, many German newspapers published a long account of the battle. This account claimed: When the cruiser Leipzig had already sunk under water, it rose bottom up for a moment, a sailor swam up close to it, he climbed onto the ship and swinging a German flag he then went down with the ship.73 Hans Bohrdt, one of the German Empire’s foremost painters of ships and naval scenes took up this sentence and painted an image of the scene. Bohrdt’s painting was first circulated in early 1915. In contrast to the Kaiser’s wishes, Bohrdt refused to include an angel looking down on the sailor blessing his act of defiance. With the title, The Last Man (Der letzte Mann), this painting went on to become perhaps the most famous of all German pieces of art dealing with the sea.74 Bohrdt was not alone in representing heroic and death-defying loyalty on the part of the German crews. A painting by Claus Bergen represented four sailors on board the Nürnberg, flying the German war flag, as the last remaining parts of the ship were about to be covered by the sea’s waves. Another image was entitled, The Last Shot. It depicted an artillery piece remaining above water for long enough to fire a final shot at the enemy before it too was engulfed with water like the rest of the ship. Helmut Skarbina produced another image with the title Heldentod auf hoher See. Many of these paintings were reproduced as postcards or printed in contemporary books on the naval war, thus visually demonstrating the sacrifice of Spee’s squadron.75

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Consequences: Corporate Identity and the Meaning of Untergang in World War I By the time Hans Pochhammer came to write his account of the 8 December battle, the cult of Spee’s Untergang was firmly established. Thus, Pochhammer’s account emphasised that those on board the German ships were ready to sacrifice themselves. Before the first shots had been fired on 8 December, he wrote that, on board the German ships, the men had realised that they faced ‘a struggle for an honourable death’. To the same passage, he added that their lives belonged to the fatherland, before concluding that, in the late-morning of 8 December, the men were determined ‘to fight and die as Germans’.76 When he came to describe his experience in the water after the Gneisenau had already been abandoned, Pochhammer wrote that the mood of the men around him was what captured his attention most. ‘Of course’, he stated, ‘here one held on with difficulty, trying to gain support, grasping for life; there another fell backwards, striking his arms for a second, before sinking to the depths’. But for the most part, he claimed, the mood among the men was ‘as festive as if they were going to a party’. He stated that the men were cheering the Gneisenau so loudly that he had to give an order to them to calm down and save energy.77 Another German survivor, Carl Friedrich Meyer, perhaps appropriating a memory written elsewhere in later accounts, wrote that soon after he abandoned the Gneisenau, he watched the ship rise bottom-up from under the water: ‘On the torpedo tube there were four men, who waved and sang. With them the ship then disappeared for ever into the sea.’ He added that those around him in the water began singing patriotic songs at this point before they cried out three cheers for the Gneisenau.78 For the remainder of the war, Spee’s Untergang was a reminder of the kind of sacrifice expected from the Navy. Those expectations were crucial components in the corporate identity of the Germany Navy. The belief that doing nothing amounted to failure meant that many men sought more heroic opportunities. Even though his brother’s submarine had sunk in August 1914, Hermann von Schweinitz volunteered to join the submarine crews in 1918.79 He was not alone. Right

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up to the final days of the war, the Navy’s most senior commanders expected the ships of the German surface fleet to entertain the prospect of Untergang with full colours flying if it was necessary for the honour and prestige of the Navy’s corporate identity. What they did not realise was that, within a few days of issuing a command in 1918 which directed the surface fleet to do so, the senselessness of Untergang and the refusal to countenance sacrificial death was the issue which would define the total breakdown of a shared corporate identity between officers and men. That breakdown empowered the German Revolution of 1918. As a consequence, as officers sought to narrate the naval war in a more positive light, the image of Spee’s heroic 1914 death became even more important as a means of restoring the prestige of the Navy in the interwar years.

Notes 1. For a recent synthesis of the naval war see: Paul G. Halpern, ‘The War at Sea,’ in John Horne (ed.) A Companion to World War I (Oxford, 2008), pp.141–155; Robert K. Massie, Castles of Steel: Britain, Germany and the winning of the Great War at Sea (New York, 2003). 2. Holger Afflerbach, ‘Der letzte Mann,’ Die Zeit Nr.51, 17 Dec. 1993, p.78. 3. Geoffrey Bennett, Die Seeschlachten von Coronel und Falkland und der Untergang des deutschen Kreuzergeschwaders unter Admiral Graf Spee (Munich, 1980), p.195. 4. Bennett, Die Seeschlachten von Coronel und Falkland, pp.184–185; Barry Bingham, Falklands, Jutland and the Bight (London, 1919), p.84. 5. Afflerbach, ‘Der Letzte Mann’. 6. Hans Pochhammer, Graf Spee’s letzte Fahrt. Erinnerungen an das Kreuzergeschwader (Leipzig, 1924). 7. New York Times, 4 Nov. 1914: ‘Fleets Clash in Pacific.’ 8. Hugo von Waldeyer-Hartz, Der Kreuzerkrieg 1914–1918 (Wolfenbüttel, 2006 reprint of original version: Oldenburg, 1931). 9. Bingham, Falklands, Jutland and the Bight, p.65. 10. Coburger Zeitung Nr.262, 7 November 1914: ‘Eine Ruhmestat unserer Marine [Berlin, 6 November WTB amtlich].’ 11. Folker Reichert und Eike Wolgast (eds.), Karl Hampe Kriegstagebuch 1914– 1919 (Munich, 2007), 6 November 1914, p.152; See also Hampe’s diary entry for 7 November 1914, p.153. See further Kurt Graf von Schweinitz

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18. 19. 20.

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(ed.), Das Kriegstagebuch eines kaiserlichen Seeoffiziers (1914–1918) (Bochum, 2003), 7 November 1914, p.64. Leonidas E. Hill (ed.), Die Weizsäcker-Papiere 1900–1932 (Berlin, 1982), 8 November 1914, Letter to his Mother, p.154. Pochhammer, Graf Spee’s letzte Fahrt, p.100. See Jan Rüger, The Great Naval Game: Britain and Germany in the Age of Empire (Cambridge, 2007), especially pp.159ff. Nicolas Wolz, Das lange Warten: Kriegserfahrungen deutscher und britischer Seeoffiziere 1914 bis 1918 (Paderborn, 2008). Schweinitz (ed.), Das Kriegstagebuch, 4 August 1914, p.49. Cited by Gerhard P. Gross, ‘Eine Frage der Ehre? Die Marineführung und der letzte Flottenvorstoß 1918’, in J. Duppler and G.P. Groß (eds.) Kriegsende 1918: Ereignis, Wirkung, Nachwirkung (Munich, 1999), p.369; Wolz, Das lange Warten, p.416. Richard Stumpf, Warum die Flotte zerbrach: Kriegstagebuch eines christlichen Arbeiters (Berlin, 1927), p.27. Schweinitz (ed.), Das Kriegstagebuch, 31 Aug. 1914, p.56. Michael Epkenhans (ed.), Das ereignisreiche Leben eines “Wilhelminers”: Tagebücher, Briefe, Aufzeichnungen 1901 bis 1920 von Albert Hopman (Munich, 2004), 16 Sept. 1914, p.436. Cit. in Groß, ‘Eine Frage der Ehre?’ ‘Liebes Vaterland, magst ruhig sein, die Flotte schläft im Hafen ein.’ Pochhammer, Graf Spee’s letzte Fahrt, p.41. Volker Ullrich, Die nervöse Großmacht 1871–1918 (Frankfurt, 2007), pp.377ff, esp. p.379. Wolfgang Schivelbusch, Die Kultur der Niederlage (Frankfurt, 2003), p.233. See the statistics on the ages of soldiers killed in Germany during World War I, in Richard Bessel, Germany After the First World War (Oxford, 1993), p.9. Epkenhans (ed.), Das ereignisreiche Leben eines “Wilhelminers”, 29 August 1914, p.420. Hill (ed.), Die Weizsäcker-Papiere, 6 Sept. 1914, p.150. Hill (ed.), Die Weizsäcker-Papiere, 9 Sept. 1914, p.150. Hill (ed.), Die Weizsäcker-Papiere, 13 Sept. 1914, p.151. Schweinitz (ed.), Das Kriegstagebuch, 24 Aug. 1914, p.54. John Horne (ed.), State, Society and Mobilization in Europe during the First World War (Cambridge, 1997), pp.1–18. For reactions see Mark Jones, ‘From “Skagerrak” to the “Organisation Consul”: War Culture and the Imperial German Navy, 1914–1922’, in James E. Kitchen, Alisa Miller, and Laura Rowe (eds.), Other Combatants,

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Other Fronts: Competing Histories of the First World War (Newcastle, 2011), pp.249–274; Wolz, Das lange Warten, pp.326–7; Coburger Zeitung Nr.224, 24 Sep. 1914: ‘Ein Heldenstück unserer Marine. Das Unterseeboot U9 bohrt drei englische Panzerkreuzer in den Grund.’ Rene Schilling, ‘Kriegshelden’: Deutungsmuster heroischer Männlichkeit in Deutschland 1813–1945 (Paderborn, 2002), pp.257ff. Pochhammer, Graf Spee’s letzte Fahrt, p.133. Bingham, Falklands, Jutland and the Bight, p.45. Bingham, Falklands, Jutland and the Bight, p.49. Pochhammer, Graf Spee’s letzte Fahrt, pp.138–139; Afflerbach, ‘Der letzte Mann.’ Afflerbach, ‘Der letzte Mann.’ Bingham, Falklands, Jutland and the Bight, p.67. See also Waldeyer-Hartz, Der Kreuzerkrieg 1914–1918, p.90. Pochhammer, Graf Spee’s letzte Fahrt, pp.142–3; Waldeyer-Hartz, Der Kreuzerkrieg 1914–1918, p.75. Bingham, Falklands, Jutland and the Bight, p.69; Pochhammer, Graf Spee’s letzte Fahrt, pp.142–3. Pochhammer, Graf Spee’s letzte Fahrt, p.144. Bennett, Die Seeschlachten von Coronel und Falkland, pp.184ff. Bennett, Die Seeschlachten von Coronel und Falkland, pp.174ff. Bingham, Falklands, Jutland and the Bight, p.74; Afflerbach, ‘Der Letzte Mann,’; Bennett, Die Seeschlachten von Coronel und Falkland, pp.177–8; Pochhammer, Graf Spee’s letzte Fahrt. Bennett, Die Seeschlachten von Coronel und Falkland, p.179. Bennett, Die Seeschlachten von Coronel und Falkland, p.179. Bennett, Die Seeschlachten von Coronel und Falkland, pp.186–192. Bennett, Die Seeschlachten von Coronel und Falkland, p.195. Leuβ, ‘Meine Erinnerungen an Graf Spee und sein Geschwader,’ in Eberhard von Mantey (ed.), Auf See unbesiegt Vol.2 (Munich, 1922); Bennett, Die Seeschlachten von Coronel und Falkland, pp.171–174. Hugo von Waldeyer-Hartz, Der Kreuzerkrieg 1914–1918, pp.104ff. New York Times, 10 December 1914: ‘British sink Scharnhorst, Gneisenau and Leipzig off Falkland Islands’; See also New York Times, 10 December 1914: ‘Germany’s Naval Defeat.’ Coburger Zeitung Nr.291, 12 December 1914: ‘Drei deutsche Kreuzer gesunken (Berlin. 10 Dez.).’ Coburger Zeitung Nr.291, 12 December 1914: ‘Berlin. 11 Dez. 1914.’ Volkstimme [Magdeburg] Nr.290, 12 December 1914: ‘Vier Kreuzer verloren.’

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56. Volkstimme [Magdeburg] Nr.290, 12 December 1914: ‘Vier Kreuzer verloren.’ 57. Volkstimme [Magdeburg] Nr.291, 13 December 1914: ‘Wie deutsche Schiffe sinken.’ 58. Epkenhans (ed.), Das ereignisreiche Leben eines “Wilhelminers”, 10 December 1914, p.517. 59. Epkenhans (ed.), Das ereignisreiche Leben eines “Wilhelminers”, 13 December 1914, p.519. 60. Schweinitz (ed.), Das Kriegstagebuch, 13 December 1914, p.66. 61. Cit. in Wolz, Das lange Warten, p.412. 62. Cit. in Wolz, Das lange Warten, p.412 note 738. 63. Hugo von Pöhl, Aus Aufzeichnungen und Briefen während der Kriegszeit (Berlin, 1920), quoted in Wolz, Das lange Warten, p.412 note 738. 64. Holger Afflerbach, ‘ “Mit wehender Fahne untergehen” Kapitulationsverweigerungen in der deutschen Marine,’ Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte, 49:4 (2001) pp.595–612, pp.598ff. 65. Afflerbach, ‘“Mit wehender Fahne untergehen,”’ p.600; Wolz, Das Lange Warten, p.410. 66. ‘Leitfaden für den Dienst-Unterricht in der Hochseeflotte’, in Wolz, Das lange Warten, p.410; See also Jones, ‘From “Skagerrak” to the ‘Organization Consul’, p.250. 67. See further: Hans-Werner Hahn, ‘“Ohne Jena kein Sedan.” Die Erfahrung der Niederlage von 1806 und ihre Bedeutung für die deutsche Politik und Erinnerungskultur des 19. Jahrhunderts,’ Historische Zeitschrift, 285:3 (2007), 599–642. 68. Rüger, The Great Naval Game, p.162. 69. Cit. in Rüger, The Great Naval Game, p.161. 70. New York Times, 21 December 1914: ‘First Story told of Falkland Flight.’ 71. New York Times, 22 December 1914: ‘Heroes of the Falklands.’ 72. New York Times, 22 December 1914: ‘Heroes of the Falklands.’ 73. Aflerbach, ‘Der Letzte Mann.’ 74. Lars Scholl, Hans Bohrdt. Marinemaler des Kaisers (Hamburg, 1985); See further: Der Spiegel Nr.8, 1983. 75. Scholl, Hans Bohrdt, p.37. 76. Pochhammer, Graf Spee’s letzte Fahrt, p.144. 77. Pochhammer, Graf Spee’s letzte Fahrt, p.155. 78. Cit. in Bennett, Die Seeschlachten von Coronel und Falkland, p.181. 79. Schweinitz (ed.), Das Kriegstagebuch, 6 May 1918, p.110ff.

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CHAPTER 10 DEFYING CONFOR MIT Y: USING TATTOOS TO EXPR ESS INDIVIDUALIT Y IN THE VICTOR IAN ROYAL NAV Y Cori Convertito

This chapter examines the practice of tattooing amongst sailors in the Victorian Royal Navy, incorporating various elements including instruments used to tattoo in the nineteenth century, details about the tattooists and the prevailing motivations influencing the designs chosen by seamen. By investigating these tattooed sailors, one can better understand their immediate influences and appreciate their desire to disclose these influences so openly on their skin. Very few studies which focus on tattooing practices in the nineteenth century provide historians with statistical data. Two notable exceptions are Alexandre Lacassagne’s work, which documented both design and location of tattoos on a number of French prisoners, while Ernest Berchon’s work recorded medical implications associated with tattooing in the French Navy.1 Despite these two remarkable studies carried out in France, an equivalent study of British subjects in the nineteenth century has never been completed. At a time when most sailors in the Victorian Navy were illiterate and therefore very few written records of their thoughts and emotions

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exist, a comprehensive study of the tattoos that decorated these men provides tremendous insight into the mindset and the motivations that compelled sailors to permanently mark their skin. Description books were mandatorily kept, in which were recorded ‘distinguishing marks’ for each sailor aboard ships in the Navy and it is on this resource that this chapter is largely based. The books record an individual’s tattoos and their location on the body, thus allowing for an in-depth examination and breakdown of tattoo trends, patterns and motivations during the period 1840–1870. By using the description books, in conjunction with diary entries and contemporary publications, the noteworthy trends and patterns are placed in a more comprehensive perspective. This chapter focuses on the British sailors’ proclivity for tattoos which only begins to scratch the surface; however it lays the groundwork for a number of further studies in maritime, social and cultural histories. In order to determine the rate of tattoo occurrence during the 30 year survey period, a sampling method for the description books was established. Data from the ‘distinguishing marks’ field was systematically gathered from the books, for years ending in ‘0’ and ‘5’ meaning data was gathered for the years 1840, 1845, 1850, 1855, 1860, 1865 and 1870. Twenty ships were identified for each sample year, based predominantly on the survival of description books at The National Archives. Ships were of all rates and stationed all over the globe; as a result of their extensive travels, sailors were exposed to a variety of influences. Within each book, tattoos were recorded for members of the ship’s company. Overall, some 30,000 seamen were surveyed for the purposes of this chapter.

Tattoo History It was the Admiralty Board that was ultimately responsible for the practice of tattooing becoming popular in the Navy, when it commissioned Captain Cook’s voyages to the South Pacific in the 1770s. Both Cook and the naturalist on the first voyage, Joseph Banks, described the practice in their writings with the latter being the first to record the customs of the people with body markings, including various styles and techniques in his diary. Tattooing was not only limited to

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written observations; crew belonging to the Endeavour found themselves participating in the exotic practice. John Beaglehole, Cook’s biographer, remarked that Able Seaman Stainsby was the first European crewmember to engage in the ritual and ‘thus perhaps has the honour of inaugurating the long and noble tradition of the tattooed sailor.’2 Seamen adopted tattooing as a type of artefact or souvenir of the European encounter with ‘new’ worlds and, in making tattooing their own, they incorporated it into popular culture.3 The custom spread quickly in the Navy and before long, those very sailors, who had themselves been tattooed, experimented with tattooing fellow crew members. By the late-nineteenth century, a vogue for tattooing swept Britain, predominantly due to sailors and travellers who bore tattoo marks; the habit flourished and increased in general popularity and quickly spread amongst all classes of people.4 According to the data collected during the description book survey shown in Table 1, the practice of tattooing in the Victorian Navy was in overall decline between 1840 and 1870. Several explanations can account for this drop; the most obvious cause can be attributed to the switch from sail to steam. The reasons for the decline are more complex than simply the transition away from a sailing navy; however,

Table 1 Percentage of Tattooed Men in the Royal Navy, 1840–187028

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they are beyond the scope of this chapter. It is sufficient to mention the general downsizing of the fleet as the century drew nearer to its close as well as the lack of any major conflict after mid-century.

Naval Tattooists It is essential to briefly discuss who was tattooing sailors and what instruments they were using. Those who did tattoo regularly were sailors by profession, not artisans, who became familiar with the skill through imitation. They typically practiced in a social environment, either on board ships, in dockyard areas, pubs, prisons, markets or street corners. There were two distinct directions that skilled tattooists followed; one was to continue shipboard employment carrying out their expected duties and remaining on the Navy’s payroll, while others opted to leave shipboard life and tattoo on shore. This latter group did not operate from a shop with a permanent address, instead they wandered dockyard areas and sailor towns finding seamen inclined to partake in their services.5 Tattooists who worked shipside found themselves in the larger demographic. This scenario was more appealing since they remained on the Navy’s payroll while supplementing their income by tattooing fellow crewmembers. They generally learned their trade through practice and repetition rather than being trained by other tattooists. A number of these men spent their leisure time designing pattern books that fellow sailors made their tattoo selections from, although not all shipboard tattooists were so well-organised as to have such resources. Another benefit of being a shipboard tattooist was that all the materials necessary to administer a tattoo were at the sailor’s disposal on board ship. Those tools included sail needles, the colouring materials such as black ink and gunpowder soot, and the ‘canvas’. The tattooists on shore had a more difficult time sustaining their livelihood and their income was most likely supplemented with odd-jobs in and around dock areas. According to Ronald Scutt and Christopher Gotch, the landside tattooist: ... ha[d] no prestige address. He work[ed] where he [was] likely to find most business. His shop [was] therefore ... near the bars where young sailors, labourers, miners, and such-like congregate[d].6

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At the beginning of the nineteenth century, there were no professional landside tattooists working in England, but by the middle of the century, most British ports had at least one permanent tattoo artist in residence. Some tattooists emerged with distinct notoriety, particularly in the London area. Two of the first to become well known in that area were Tom Riley and Sutherland MacDonald. The latter became one of the most fashionable tattooists especially amongst the armed forces while ‘the Royal Navy at Plymouth treated him as a V.I.P., laying on the Flag Officer’s barge to allow him to visit the battleship in order to add to Admiral Montgomerie’s collection’.7 George Burchett, who gained an equally distinguished reputation as both Riley and MacDonald, also operated in the London area. His remarkable career began when he was just a young boy growing up in Brighton, feeling that he: must have been born a tattooist because [he] soon started to practice the art on the thin arms of [his] schoolmates at Jubilee Street ... using [his] mother’s darning-needles and some soot dissolved in sea-water, having heard this method from [his] sailor friends.8 He joined the Royal Navy in 1885 and found that his ability to tattoo (albeit admittedly substandard) was welcomed by his shipmates. Gaining a very good reputation on board ships during his stint with the Navy, he easily moved his new enterprise ashore and was able to become the most highly-regarded tattooist in London. A rare peek into the tattooist’s practice both on board and ashore is given by Alfred Spencer in his journal, The Wanderer: Being the Story of a Life and the Reminiscences of a Man-O’-War’s Man, from his service in the Navy which began in 1865. Following brief training periods aboard both HMS Fisgard and HMS St. Vincent, Spencer was assigned to HMS Rodney in 1867. In his journal, he described the practice of tattooing and its relevancy to him and his shipmates: During the first year of the Rodney’s commission tattooing became quite epidemical. The head painter of the ship was a man who had held a good position ashore, but had come down and down

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till he found himself unable to get a living and so had joined the navy as a painter. He was an artist of more than average ability and as soon as this became known, he was greatly in request as a tattooer.9 Spencer continued: Most of the men upon whom [the tattooist] operated were satisfied with a picture of some kind on arm or chest; but one man, a big Scotsman and a messmate of mine, was not content with this. He really kept the artist busy for many months, and how he endured the pain and went about his work as usual, puzzled me. He had a huge picture of St. George and the Dragon covering his back from the neck to the loins; a big three-decker was in full sail on his breast; figures of men and women and animals covered his arms; Tom Sayers and Heenan sparred at each other, the one on his right thigh the other on his left; and as a climax, he had a pair of tartan stocking tattooed on his legs, running from just under the knees to half way over the foot, and very real they looked too. The work was done during the last dog-watch, and night after night I sat and watched the artist jabbing the needles into that big Scotsman, who made no sign of impatience or suffering. The artist took a real delight in his work, and when at last the task was complete – which was when there was really not three square inches of unmarked flesh left on the patient’s body – he was quite a little picture gallery and felt inordinately proud of himself.10 Spencer’s description of tattooing on board the Rodney is not the lone example from his writing, he also mentioned what he saw when visited various ports: Indeed there were professional tattooers in every place we visited. So far as I could learn, they earned their living by the practice of this art alone. It was a common sight then to see a noble riding through the streets and his servant running after him on foot. When so occupied the servant wore nothing but a loin cloth, the

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body of the man being tattooed from the neck to the ankles with figures, scroll work, and designs which ran into one another, but all of them beautifully done.11 It is apparent from Spencer’s narrative that tattooists on board ships were extremely popular, particularly those that exhibited a flair for the practice, but specific techniques for tattooing must have varied from tattooist to tattooist as well as the instruments utilised in the procedure. Contemporary sources describing the process of tattooing during the Victorian era are rare. However, an excellent pamphlet published by Professor D.W. Purdy in 1896 provides particular insights into the practicalities of tattooing. His publication entitled Tattooing – How to Tattoo, What to Use and How to Use Them contributes significantly to tattoo history while providing an in-depth understanding and evaluation of the materials and methods necessary for tattooing. The uniqueness and rarity of such a source deserves special attention. Purdy’s narrative on the tattooing process started with his recommendation for materials including needles and pens. He advocated the purchase of ‘two very fine pens – you can buy them at a penny each – ‘Mapping Pens’ they are called, at any stationer’s and the finer that pen you can purchase so the better the work.’12 Purdy’s also suggested tattooists purchase ‘either silver or steel needles; just which will suit your pocket best. When buying the needles you will require 3 or 4 packets of No.7 needles, ask for that number and see that you get it ... but different needles should be used for different inks.’13 Certainly Purdy’s instructions satisfied people who had adequate finances to purchase these supplies, but to sailors who had little income to obtain these goods from the necessary shops, these items were almost certainly out of reach. More than likely the sailors continued to use sewing needles which were typically used to mend sails. The next crucial element in the tattooing process was the ink and here, again, Purdy’s suggestions give a remarkable indication of what was being utilised. He maintained that: Indian ink can be bought at almost any stationers, you can buy it from a penny and upwards, but the better the ink, so the

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better it looks. The red ink, or ‘Vermilion Red’ as it is named, can be bought at any chemist’s – you can buy a pennyworth at a time.14 Purdy’s mention of only two colours is not an oversight. At the time when he compiled his information, the Western world was unable to obtain suitable dyes to allow for a greater colour-scheme. Throughout most of the nineteenth century, colours were limited to black (the most durable), blue and red.15 In the Far East, in places such as Japan and Burma, tattooists were experimenting with other dyes which allowed for a more extensive colour range. Toward the close of the century, Western tattooists began to import dyes from these places meaning tattoos became more intricate and complex. As these dyes were not readily available on board ships, a reasonable conclusion is that sailors were using gunpowder, crushed charcoal, writing ink, bleacher’s blue, indigo, cinnabar, vermilion, soot and brick dust for the various colours with urine possibly used for mixing.16 When the tattooist had gathered all the necessary tools, the procedure commenced on the willing client after the latter selected a design. In his pamphlet, Purdy gave a description of the tattooing process: Before you commence drawing out your figure, or whatever you intend to prick in, you must see that hairs are all shaved off, or you will have some difficulty in trying to sketch with these in the way ... When drawing on any part of the body you must not keep the skin tight ... but must let the flesh hang natural ... When you have drawn your figure to your liking, you can say that it is then ready for pricking in, which you will find a rather tedious job ... It does not matter what part of the body you are going to tattoo, you must draw that part tight with the left hand; by keeping the skin tight it allows the ink to go into the flesh more direct, and another thing, it does not pain the patient quite so much, and you have a firmer surface to work upon ... When pricking in, you must always prick the needles

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in straight, and not sideways ... When you have pricked over all the outside lines you can wash (it) off with clean cold water and a sponge – too much water will not do it any harm as it is more healing to the flesh.17 Variations in the methods or procedures of tattooing on ships did not differ greatly from Purdy’s suggestion. Ernest Berchon, a French naval surgeon who studied the tattoo occurrence in his country’s navy, described a departure in technique that was occasionally employed. He deemed that the method required no drawing skill at all, as the tattooists had a series of needles embedded into wooden blocks which were set out in the shape of particular tattoo designs. These needles were then driven into the skin in one single stroke, however this method was considered too painful to be generally endured and was not commonly found.18 The typical time frame to administer a very simple tattoo was roughly 30 minutes or less, however, the more elaborate the design, the longer the process would take. Occasionally an extensive tattoo would be completed over a span of a few days or even weeks. The operation was painful only if large areas were being covered, or if certain sensitive parts of the body were tattooed. It usually occasioned only a mild temporary local inflammation, and within about fifteen days the tattoo would ‘take’ and would be permanent, visible and fixed just below the surface of the skin.19 With a brief investigation complete on those who carried out tattooing and what materials they used, it is time to examine the influences which persuaded sailors to undergo the tattoo process. As expected, there were a variety of motivations for sailors selecting particular designs, which will be investigated in more detail here. Aside from the design, there was one other consideration: where on the body sailors wanted to wear their ornamentation. Seamen preferred that their tattoos be visible. In all but one sample year, the same four locations are consistently the most popular: the left

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Table 2 Tattoo Locations, 1840–1870

arm, right arm, left hand and right hand. Locations on the body that are not as visible such as the breast, legs and back always rank continuously low in percentage, owing to the fact that sailors did not desire their tattoos to be kept private. Although both the left and right arms remained the most demanded location, their dominance is slighted by the growing emergence of tattoos on the left and right hands. Location was not the only consideration made by the sailors. They, of course, had to choose what image would decorate their bodies. Using data collected during the description book survey, it is possible to identify five specific themes that the sailors’ tattoos can be grouped into: nautical, personal, religious, nationalistic/military and ‘other’.20 Those tattoos included in the nautical theme are the more discernible symbols such as anchors, ships/brigs, mermaids, stars, sailors and birds. Personal themes are more difficult to properly assess mainly due to the fact that it is impossible to know what each tattoo meant to each sailor. Included in this category are initials, images of men and women, hearts, rings and bracelets, names and what could be deemed as travel mementos. Religion played a significant role in tattoo selection and sailors chose illustrations such as crucifixes, trees of life and images of Adam and Eve with the occasional serpent. Grouping the nationalistic tattoos with the military tattoos is logical since there is a

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great deal of overlap, especially when some of the most common tattoos were flags, banners of war, Britannia, coats of arms and Union Jacks, as well as various ethnic identifying tattoos such as harps, thistles and highlanders. The final category described as ‘other’ is the collection of tattoos that were unable to fit into the other four categories and it is also where the unidentified tattoos were placed. Occurrence rates for all five themes are presented in Table 3. It is worthwhile to note that for the year 1860, there was an increase in the ‘Nationalistic/Military’ themed tattoos. In 1855, these particular types of tattoos accounted for 8.9 per cent of the total for that year, in fact in all years aside from 1860, the percentage was consistently below 8.9 per cent. In 1860, it rose significantly, reaching 12.6 per cent, which was almost certainly related to Britain’s involvement in the Crimean War. It seems that wartime sparked a greater interest among sailors in choosing tattoos that were of the nationalistic/military genre. The motivations for each tattoo design are as unique as the sailors themselves. These motivations can be broken down into two separate categories: one which can be identified as a ‘group endeavour’ and the other where the motivation is based on ‘individual inclination’. Designs can be broken down further into subcategories. Tattoo subcategories belonging to the ‘group endeavour’ include ‘conformity’, ‘boredom’,

Table 3

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‘religion’ and ‘military and war’ while the subcategories falling under the ‘individual’ motivations are ‘materialism’, ‘sentimentality’, and ‘travel/postcards’. A brief investigation into these motivation subcategories provides historians with an indication of the influences inspiring sailors to permanently mark their skin.

Conformity Most young entrants in the Royal Navy looked up to the older members of ships’ companies with admiration and sought to mimic their behaviours in order to assimilate. One of the behaviours they imitated was the tradition of acquiring tattoos. The practice was not only limited to new recruits. An excellent example of tattoo conformity originates from a naval officer who explained how his bodily decorations came into being when he was a lower deck rating: When I was an able seaman about twenty-one, in a ship in the Far East, I was the only member of my mess-deck of about twenty-five men who wasn’t tattooed. We went ashore in a crowd in Hong Kong and I succumbed to the temptation to go along with the rest and get tattooed. I had a big bunch of roses put on the left arm, and a big dagger with ‘Scotland the Brave’ on my right arm.21 Conformity as a motivation exists not only through peer-pressure situations as the story from the unnamed naval officer; it is also exhibited in scenarios where large groups of men establish camaraderie. The best exemplar of this existed aboard HMS Russell when, in 1855, 28.7 per cent of the tattooed members of the ship’s company possessed ‘Blue Ink Marks’. This percentage is astounding when put into perspective during that particular year. Of the twenty ships’ description books sampled, only five vessels had seamen listed as having ‘Blue Ink Marks’. The other four vessels who recorded seamen with this particular marking did not yield as high percentages as the Russell which is illustrated in Table 4. HMS Castor’s seamen are a distant second with 17.5 per cent, followed by HMS Majestic with

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35% 30%

HMS Russell HMS Castor

25%

HMS Majestic

20%

HMS Geyser

15%

HMS Duke of Wellington

10% 5% 0%

Table 4

‘Blue Ink Marks’ Tattoos, 185529

8.0 per cent, then HMS Geyser with 7.1 per cent and finally HMS Duke of Wellington with 2.6 per cent. A large portion of the Russell’s crew was new recruits and in all probability did not join the ship with those marks. Some unwritten and undisclosed bond between the men, perhaps an overwhelming sense of solidarity, led them to mark themselves in an identical way.

Boredom Time spent aboard vessels, especially those whose orders involved lengthy time at sea, offered sailors some leisure time which was incorporated into their schedules. During these leisure periods, some crewmembers chose to participate in various activities which included pricking tattoos onto one another’s bodies. In a paper entitled Tattooing Among Civilized People Read before the Anthropological Society of Washington on December 19, 1882, Robert Fletcher asserted that, ‘where large bodies of men are thrown together, with much idle time, it is among them that we should expect to find a custom of tattooing most prevalent.’22 In his journal, The Wanderer: Being the Story of a Life and the Reminiscences of a Man-O’-War’s Man, Alfred Spencer reflected on a tattooing experience during his Royal Navy service where boredom

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can clearly be identified as the motivation for the members of his ship’s company to be tattooed: ... We touched at a small place on the coast of Japan ... [and] about thirty of us were allowed to go to shore for a day’s holiday. A naturalist would have found plenty there to interest him I have no doubt, but we were not naturalists; we were simply ignorant sailormen looking for something to amuse us ... As we sat upon the beech idly throwing stones into the sea, a bright spirit among us suggested suddenly that we should all be tattooed! Happy idea! No sooner said than put into execution. We at once jumped up, marched straightway to the wooden ‘hotel’, bought up all the liquor there was to be had, and then descended upon the hut of the tattooer and took it by storm. The place was small and the day exceedingly hot, but we all managed to get inside ... We were tattooed according to age and seniority in the Service. Some had pictures put on their breast, others on the back, but most of us were tattooed on the arms. As each one was finished with, he sat down on the matted floor along with the rest and joined in the singing. By the time all were done, the place resembled the operating theatre of a hospital. We left the hut and went down once more to the beach, for we could find nothing to do to pass away the time. Presently it was suggested that we should return to the tattooer and each have a certain picture put on our arms! Back we trooped and made the artist get out his tools once more, and that too, in spite of his objections, for the poor man was quite tired out. When about half of the men were finished with the boat came off for us and we joyfully returned to the ship. That indeed was one of the strangest holidays I ever had, and for as long as I live I shall carry about with me pictorial evidence of my participation in it.23 In Spencer’s case, there are other motivations present which can be easily identified; the most prevalent being conformity. Sentimentality also factored in to a lesser extent, although it became more apparent

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to the author in hindsight while reflecting on this particular day in his journal.

Religion Religion was an essential component of Victorian society and the sailor’s world was no exception. Religion was ingrained into the seamen’s lives from a young age ashore and was tenaciously reinforced when they took to the sea. Not surprisingly, religious tattoos appeared in abundance throughout the Victorian era. Several tattoos are classified within the ‘Religious’ category with the ‘Crucifix’ appearing the most frequent’. They accounted for a substantial portion of tattoos during the survey period which is represented in Table 5.24 It is worth noting the decline in popularity of religious tattoos over the sample period which is in direct contrast with increases in other types of tattoos emphasising the social dynamics of the era. A handful of seamen opted for other religiously-themed tattoos. In 1840, John Duckham on HMS Thunderer illustrated his passion for religion by tattooing a ‘crucifix and Adam and Eve with a tree’ on himself. In 1855 Thomas Jones, a gunner’s mate on HMS Exmouth, underpinned his faith by tattooing a ‘crucifix on his left arm’ along

Table 5

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Crucifix Tattoo Popularity, 1840–1870

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with an image of ‘Jesus weeping’ on his right hand. A ‘Virgin Mary’ was pictured on the left arm of AB Jonathan Partridge while Sam Pearce bore the image of the ‘Saviour’ and ‘Jesus on crucifix’ belonged to a sailor on board HMS President. Even the scene of ‘The Ascension’ appeared in 1850. Death at sea was a common occurrence, as was death in foreign lands. In order to receive proper burial rights in keeping with their religious beliefs, seamen placed identifying marks on their bodies to reveal their inclinations. A clergyman named Rev. Robert S. Hawker, parson at Morwenstow Church, penned a book entitled Footprints of Former Men in Far Cornwall in which he noted his responsibility for burying many of the dead in his parish. He wrote: I have myself said the burial service over forty-two such men [sailors] rescued from the sea, were so decorated with some distinctive emblem and name: and it is their object and intent, when they assume these pictured signs, to secure identity for their bodies if their lives are lost at sea, and then, for the solace of their friends, they should be cast on the shore and taken up for burial in the earth. What a volume of heroism and resignation to a mournful probability in this calm foresight and deliberate choice to wear always on their living flesh as it were the signature of a sepulchral name!25 Hawker’s book offers excellent insight into the mentality and attitude of sailors when it came to religion, death and funeral rites.

Military and War Military forces have a unique way of uniting people, especially during times of war. Britain’s involvement in the Crimean War reveals a significant rise in nationalistic and military-themed tattoos. It appears that wartime sparked a greater interest in these types of tattoos and allowed seamen to exhibit their enthusiasm and support for their country on their skin. Table 6 confirms this increase of those tattoos most closely associated with the military which peaked

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6% 5% 4%

Flags Britannia Banners of War Coat of Arms

3% 2% 1%

Table 6

70 18

65 18

60 18

55 18

50 18

45 18

18

40

0%

Military/Nationalistic Tattoo Occurrence, 1840–1870

nearest the dates of the war: flags, banners of war, Britannia and coats of arms. Where flags are concerned, there was a steady rise between 1850 and 1860 with the overall occurrence growing from 1.8 per cent to 4.8 per cent. In 1850, flags were the fifteenth most frequently occurring image in the survey, but due to the war’s influence, they propelled into the ninth position. A similar pattern exists for banners of war; they rose from 0.7 per cent to 3.4 per cent between the same dates. Their survey ranking also increased from twenty-third position to twelfth overall. As for the other two designs, Britannia and coats of arms, their increase was nominal during this period, however there was a slight increase demonstrating the effects of war on seamen’s mentality. Once the war was over, there was a sharp decline in these types of tattoos with figures slowly reverting to the percentages displayed prior to the war.

Materialism The previous section explored motivations employed by sailors when acquiring tattoos in a group setting. However, tattooing was not only limited to group motivations; individual motivations were just as

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prevalent and it is possible that individual inspiration was, in fact, more popular. Some of the most interesting, distinctive and unusual tattoos were individual creations that reflected a sailor’s influences and emotions. A significant development in the Victorian era was an increase in materialism among the upper and middle classes. Poorer members of British society were witness to the upper echelon’s inclination to possess expensive and elaborate items. Those who could not afford a fraction of what the rich adorned themselves, and their homes, with looked on with envy. Sailors attempted to obtain similar objects, but with a slight variation. While those in high society collected rings, bracelets, pins and necklaces, sailors collected comparable items, except theirs became permanent tattoos on their skin. Owning the tangible items was not practical in the sailors’ line of work. Wearing them on board proved dangerous since rings and bracelets easily became tangled in rigging. Sailors opted to tattoo their jewellery on their bodies and ‘once a sailor had a tattoo, he never need worry about losing it as he moved from ship to ship, something that could not be said of any other ... personal adornment’.26 Table 7 illustrates the growing materialistic demands of sailors during the sampling period. By grouping the incidences of bracelets,

Table 7 Materialistic Tattoo Occurrence, 1840-1870

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rings and necklaces, it is very easy to observe how rapidly these types of objects became more appealing to sailors. In just a 25 year period, bracelet popularity grew from less than 2 per cent to over 12 per cent and became the second most prevalent design (these specific figures are not reflected in Table 7). This trend is directly opposite to that of religious tattoos which were in decline throughout the survey period. It appears that sailors’ predilection for holy and sacred images gave way to their even greater desire to appear on par with the upper classes.

National/Ethnic Identity The Royal Navy’s enlistees were not limited to sailors solely from Britain. The countries represented in the Navy included people from as far away as America, China, Spain and the West Indies. Most sailors almost certainly felt devotion to their homeland and desired to lay bare their nationalism. Tattoos provided these men with an outlet to express their allegiance in creative ways. Throughout the sample period, ‘roses’, ‘harps’, ‘thistles’ and ‘shamrocks’ figured prominently on the bodies of seamen. More unique were images of ‘Highlanders’ which appeared on the bodies of Scotsmen, averaging about one or two sailors in each sample year. The motto ‘My Country’ appeared on the right leg of William Gateshill in 1840. In that same year, Alex Ferguson had ‘Let Glasgow Flourish’ inscribed on his left arm. The flags and coats of arms of other nations also appeared with relative frequency; typically it was an American flag or American ensign.

Sentimentality and Memories Affection and adoration for loved ones were crucial factors to seamen when choosing tattoos. Sailors tended to be quite sentimental and expressed this through their tattoos. Figures of women appeared throughout the survey period and sometimes included a woman’s name or a set of initials alluding to either a woman the sailor knew from home or perhaps someone he encountered during his travels.

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Other sentimental alternatives included figures of men and women together, hearts, the word ‘Love’ or lover’s knots on their bodies. Some chose to be more imaginative like James Edwards from HMS Canopus who tattooed the scene of the ‘Sailor’s Happy Return’ on his right arm which revealed his desire to return home and be in the company of his significant other. During the same year, but on board HMS Hibernia, John Parker wore a similar memento on his left arm, but instead of the reuniting scene, Parker had a ‘Sailor’s Farewell’ scene, along with a ‘man, woman and three ships’ on his left arm. Sentimentality was not solely expressed towards women; images also depicted other people in the sailors’ lives. For example, in 1850 John Burt opted to ink the likeness of his three children on his right arm indicating his fondness for those people he left at home. Sailors not only collected tattoos to serve as remembrances from home, they also acquired them in order to carry commemoratives from the locations visited on their travels. While wealthy people travelled the world and returned home with exquisite and exotic items, so sailors behaved in a similar fashion, except their souvenirs were permanent drawings on their skin. Enlisting in the Navy provided young men with the opportunity to travel to the far reaches of the globe and experience a number of cultures and landscapes. Areas previously unexplored by sailors appeared fascinating and undoubtedly appealed to many. In Robert Fletcher’s Anthropological Report of 1882, he described sailors embracing this particular motivation of travelling to foreign lands and obtaining tattoos: sailors who have visited many countries furnish, in some instances, by the marks on their bodies, a chronology of their carrier; a certain tree indicates a tropical country; a certain colour, some particular island; tattooing by incisions, instead of pricking, indicates a visit to New Zealand or to some parts of Africa.27 An impression was made on seamen inspiring them to replicate their experiences through tattoos. In 1840, Jonathan Morgan, born in Scotland, was moved enough by the Great Pyramids of Egypt to have

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them tattooed on his body; one on each leg. The same year, John Power tattooed a palm tree on his left arm. Thomas Blockley donned a breadfruit tree while serving on board HMS Hibernia, indicating the sailor’s familiarity with the object. ‘Chinese Figures’ appear in 1865 on the left arm of David Hopkins, who was not of oriental heritage, but who developed the idea while serving aboard HMS Princess Royal when the ship was stationed in China that year. Perhaps the most exciting and the most unique tattoo belonged to a 26 year old able seaman from Dublin serving on HMS Superb: John Wright was recorded as having ‘Native Tattoo of New Zealand’ on his right arm. Throughout the sampling period, Wright is the only sailor wearing this distinctive type of decoration, clearly indicating his first-hand observation of this type of tattoo whilst visiting New Zealand and, in all probability, his tattoos were not done by a fellow shipmate, but by a native tattooist.

Conclusion Through a survey of Royal Naval seamen during the Victorian era, it is possible to identify the percentage of sailors who participated in the act of tattooing. Description books recorded an individual seaman’s distinct markings and locations, including tattoos. Using the data extracted from this source, it is possible to identify the popularity of tattooing in the Navy between 1840 and 1870. At the practice’s height in 1845, it was determined that over 25 per cent of seamen were tattooed with designs that ranged from traditional symbols, like anchors and crucifixes, to more unique designs, such as a full pair of tartan stockings and native New Zealand tattoos. It is true that a good portion of seamen were tattooed and the data that can be harvested from these men provides a glimpse into their mentality through the various designs that appear frequently, as well as those tattoos that incorporate more thought and creativity. The motivations act as a vehicle for a broader study into their social history, but as with many subjects where the information is not written down, it is nearly impossible to know for certain what drove them to acquire these particular designs. It is possible at times to decipher

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what message the sailor was sending via his tattoos, especially when they were religious in nature or when it is apparent that they were militarily driven. Certain trends emerge throughout the survey period. Military action did, play a significant role in the tattooing process as is evident by the rise in military/nationalistic tattoos coinciding with the British involvement in the Crimean War. The sailors’ participation in the conflict influenced their mentality, therefore influencing their tattoo motivations. Another significant trend which emerged is the rise of materialistic tattoos over the course of the Victorian era. The occurrence of bracelets, rings and necklaces rose considerably among the lower deck, revealing the influence that society held over the motivations for sailors’ tattoos. And it is no surprise that, during this rise in materialistic tattoos through the latter part of the century, there was a distinct decline in all religious themed designs, certainly a reflection of the overall Victorian attitude. What emerges through this study is an excellent illustration of how examinations like this one into the various motivations attracting sailors to tattoo themselves can continue to develop and expand our understanding of the Victorian sailor.

Notes 1. Alexandre Lacassagne was a professor of medical jurisprudence at the University of Lyon, whose work was entitled Les Tatouages: Étude Anthropologique et Médico-Légale (Paris, 1881). Ernest Berchon was a French naval surgeon whose work was entitled Histoire Médicale du Tatouage (Paris, 1869). 2. Ronald Scutt and Christopher Gotch, Skin Deep: The Mystery of Tattooing (London, 1974), p. 89. 3. The practice of tattooing existed in England prior to the Norman invasion of 1066. In fact, King Harold and many of the Anglo-Saxon kings before him were heavily tattooed. Following the invasion, Judeo-Christian bans forced the practice to become rare. See Samuel M. Steward, Bad Boys and Tough Tattoos: A Social History of the Tattoo with Gangs, Sailors, and Street Corner Punks 1950–1965 (Binghamton, 1990), p. 187. 4. Hanns Ebensten, Pierced Hearts and True Love: An Illustrated History of the Origin and Development of European Tattooing and a Survey of its Present State (London, 1953), p. 21.

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5. It should be noted that, during this time, tattooing was exceedingly unorganised and non-regulated both on board ships and ashore 6. Scutt and Gotch, Skin Deep, p. 58. 7. Ibid., p. 54. 8. Peter Leighton (ed.), Memoirs of a Tattooist: From the Notes, Diaries and Letters of the Late ‘King of Tattooist’ George Burchett (London, 1958), p. 38. 9. Alfred Spencer, The Wanderer: Being the Story of a Life and the Reminiscences of a Man-O-War’s Man (Leicester, 1983), p. 78. 10. Ibid., p. 78. 11. Ibid., p. 77. 12. D.W. Purdy, Tattooing – How to Tattoo, What to Use and How to Use Them (London, 1896), p. 2. Purdy is considered the first British professional tattooist. He established a tattoo shop in North London around 1870. His title of ‘professor’ is most likely a self-imposed designation. 13. Ibid., pp. 3–4. 14. Ibid., p. 1. 15. Jane Caplan, ‘Speaking Scars: The Tattoo in Popular Practice and MedicoLegal Debate in Nineteenth Century Europe’ in History Workshop Journal, 44 (Oxford, 1997), p. 121. 16. Ebensten, Pierced Hearts, p. 19. 17. Purdy, Tattooing, pp. 6–10. 18. Berchon, Histoire Médicale, unpaginated. 19. Caplan, ‘Speaking Scars’, pp. 121–3. 20. Since it is difficult to assess the exact motivations or individual thoughts that went into the tattoo selection process, these groupings are not precise. 21. Scutt and Gotch, Skin Deep, pp. 182–183. 22. Robert Fletcher, Tattooing Among Civilized People Read before the Anthropological Society of Washington, December 19, 1882 (Washington, DC, 1883), p. 8. 23. Spencer, The Wanderer, pp. 79–80. 24. The percentage figures in this table represent the popularity of crucifixes for each of the sample years among the tattooed men surveyed. 25. Robert S. Hawker, Footprints of Former Men in Far Cornwell (London, 1870), p. 217. 26. J. Welles Henderson and Rodney P. Carlisle, Marine Art and Antiques: Jack Tar A Sailor’s Life 1750 – 1910 (Suffolk, 1999), p. 260. 27. Fletcher, Tattooing Among Civilized People, p. 11. 28. Figures for the compilation of all tables in this chapter are taken from the description book record series at The National Archives (ADM 38). Description books 1840: Thunderer ADM 38/9180, Vanguard ADM 38/9230, Vernon ADM 38/9236, Southampton ADM 38/9053, San Josef ADM

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38/8959, Rodney ADM 38/8884, Pearl ADM38/8671, Persian ADM 38/8700, Monarch ADM 38/8573, Medea ADM 38/8519, Magicienne ADM 38/8495, Hecates ADM 38/8249, Iris ADM 38/8391, Indus ADM 38/8364, Howe ADM 38/8311, Impregnable ADM 38/8343 & ADM 38/8344, Endymion ADM 38/8036, Cambridge ADM 38/7742, Andromache ADM 38/7521, Blenheim ADM 38/7646. 1845: Agincourt ADM 38/7465, Albion ADM 38/7490, Caledonia ADM 38/7728, Canopus ADM 38/7759, Crocodile ADM 38/7872, Eagle ADM 38/8009,Endymion ADM 38/8037, Excellent ADM 38/8065, Nimrod ADM 38/8618, Juno ADM 38/8416, Hibernia ADM 38/8286, Herald ADM 38/8269, Queen ADM 38/8798, President ADM 38/8765, Retribution ADM 38/8864, St. Vincent ADM 38/8939, Siren ADM 38/9038, Styx ADM 38/9112, Superb ADM 38/9119, Rodney ADM 38/8885. 1850: Britannia ADM 38/7691, Cumberland ADM 38/7887, Contest ADM 38/7840, Ganges ADM 38/8173, Indefatigable ADM 38/8362, Inflexible ADM 38/8383, Meander ADM 38/8490, Monarch ADM 38/8574, Excellent ADM 38/8068, Dauntless ADM 38/7940, Poictiers ADM 38/8754, Queen ADM 38/8799, Resistance ADM 38/8857, St. George ADM 38/8928, Retribution ADM 38/8865, Trafalgar ADM 38/9189, Victory ADM 38/9264, Wellesley ADM 38/9334, Ajax ADM 38/7474, Albion ADM 38/7489. 1855: Conquerer ADM 38/7833, Cornwallis ADM 38/7855, Castor ADM 38/7773, Calcutta ADM 38/7725, Royal Albert ADM 38/8907, Russell ADM 38/8925, Nile ADM 38/8613, Penelope ADM 38/8688, Duke of Wellington ADM 38/7998, Neptune ADM 38/8604, Hawke ADM 38/8246, Colossus ADM 38/7817, Majestic ADM 38/8503, Exmouth ADM 38/8081, Geyser ADM 38/8184, Hannibal ADM 38/8221, St. Vincent ADM 38/8941, Indefatigable ADM 38/8363, Boscawen ADM 38/7668, Caesar ADM 38/7721. 1860: St. George ADM 38/8931, Nile ADM 38/8615, Geyser ADM 38/8185, Formidable ADM 38/8147, Blenheim ADM 38/7654, Bacchante ADM 38/7600, Edinburgh ADM 38/8021, Marlborough ADM 38/8512, Madagascar ADM 38/8489, Excellent ADM 38/8074, Royal Albert ADM 38/8908, Orion ADM 38/8645, Terror ADM 38/9164, Brisk ADM 38/7685, Forte ADM 38/7974, Abourkir ADM 38/7434, Sans Pareil ADM 38/8964, Donegal ADM 38/8149, Emerald ADM 38/8031, Charyldis ADM 38/7791. 1865: Urgent ADM 38/9222, Terrible ADM 38/9161, Trafalgar ADM 38/9191, Octavia ADM 38/8635, Niger ADM 38/8612, Scout ADM 38/8992, St. George ADM 38/8932, Royal Adelaide ADM 38/8904, Magaera ADM 38/8538, Narcissus ADM 38/8596, Irresistible ADM 38/8394, Donegal ADM 38/7976, Caledonia ADM 38/7730, Cumberland ADM 38/7895, Liverpool ADM 38/8458, Aboukir ADM 38/7435, Formidable ADM 38/8145, Gibraltar ADM 38/8186, Princess Royal ADM 38/8779, Implacable ADM 38/8337. 1870: Wivern ADM 38/9353, Wolverene ADM 38/9362, Vanguard

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ADM 38/9232, Trafalgar ADM 38/9193, Thistle ADM 38/9176, Sphinx ADM 38/9077, Serapis ADM 38/9008, Repulse ADM 38/8852, Resistance ADM 38/8859, Pembroke ADM 38/8683, Narcissus ADM 38/8597, Ocean ADM 38/8634, Monarch ADM 38/8579, Jumna ADM 38/8415, Euphrates ADM 38/8056, Clio ADM 38/7806, Columbine ADM 38/7823, Caledonia ADM 38/7731, Cadmus ADM 38/7720, Boscawen ADM 38/7673. 29. The National Archives, ADM 38/7773, Castor; ADM 38/8925, Russell; ADM 38/7998, Duke of Wellington; ADM 38/8513, Majestic; ADM 38/8184, Geyser.

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CHAPTER 11 ‘THEY THOUGHT THEY WER E NOR M AL – AND CALLED THEMSELVES QUEENS’: GAY SEAFAR ER S ON BR ITISH LINER S, 1945–85 Jo Stanley1

‘We were the norm. Queers ruled. They [straights] were the outsiders.’2 (Dave, a P&O head waiter) Glam frocks, gay sex, comedian Kenneth Williams and Hollywood torch singer Ethel Merman are not the usual ingredients of maritime historiographies, nor are sea yarns of Sailor Jack ‘mincing his tits off across the Atlantic’ in a floating Queer Heaven, then disembarking to shop for elbow-length evening gloves to wear at Hello Dolly on Broadway. This chapter is about these hidden histories that challenge ideas of a ‘normal’ male seafarer. Simple, macho ‘Jack Tar’, mythical symbol of robust working-class British masculinity with his legendary girl in every port (ho ho) was just one possible identity. It has already been investigated and, where appropriate, challenged as concealing as much as it discloses and being an ineffectual tool for exploration.3

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Dancing on the moonlit deck, 1970s; homosociality didn’t necessarily involve cross-dressing. Picture courtesy of anonymous donor.

Given such a virile image, how could homosexuality in all its variations be ‘admitted’ to? Non-heterosexual practices and attitudes undoubtedly and openly existed among men working aboard ships throughout history. There are, after all, many ways to be a human being, and many ways to not be hegemonically ‘masculine’. In the 40 years after World War II, merchant – as opposed to naval – seafaring offered unprecedented opportunities for men of all sorts of sexual orientations to transcend fixed sexual and gender identities. They could, for example, sidestep the obligation to look like a ‘Proper Man’ in a way that would now be seen as post-modern. Writers have already explored homosexuality on some ships, ranging from pirate vessels to US ships and early British naval craft.4 But such works do not ask the question crucial to this chapter: What was it about the sea that enabled members of a pilloried subculture to finally feel that they were ‘normal’? How did conventions become so inverted that members of the shipboard Gay, Bisexual and Transgender (GBT) culture saw heterosexuals and men without frothy petticoats as the

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odd ones out, even as inferior beings? A cultural history approach will allow a nuanced examination of how it was for Jacks who inclined towards Jill-ishness at this particular moment in history.5 In the period 1945–85, British merchant ships were uniquely liberating spaces for what can broadly be called ‘gay’ or ‘queer’ men. They were the main workplace where men could be out and camp, with the theatre and art industries following next. Queered seafarers conservatively estimate that there were maybe 10,000 gay seafaring men, and at least as many again who were ‘trade’ (meaning they became bisexual at times).6 So 10 per cent of the 110,750-strong Merchant Navy (1951 census) were possibly ‘gay.’ The figure accords with the broad calculation that one in ten people is homosexual.7 GBT people at sea worked mainly in the hotel side of ships, as stewards. Some steward populations could be between 25 to 95 per cent GBT, especially on P&O passenger ships; ‘It was almost de rigueur, darling,’ according to 1960s P&O head waiter Dave.8 At least one gay steward estimates that, if 30 men on a ship were gay, then 25 of them would be camp.9 Despite male homosexual acts on land being totally illegal until 1967 and homosexual acts at sea being punishable by prison sentences until 1999, people were openly gay, without being sacked or formally censured. ‘It [illegality] didn’t seem to matter really’ said steward Terry/Tracy.10 This chapter does not focus on covert, non-camp gay seafarers, including captains, pursers and engineers who needed to hide queered identities to avoid dismissal. Nor does it deal with lesbian and bisexual women, who were not part of this subculture. Instead, the subject is the frisky Out (meaning non-closeted) majority of camp gay men, the ‘sea queens’, who liked to wear female clothes, behave in hyper-feminine ways, and be the adored ladylike partners of ‘real men’ (hegemonic males), who, with luck, might be rugged ‘Jack Tar’ look-alikes. Such queens lived in cabins nicknamed Clarence House (at the time, the Queen Mother’s official home).11 It wasn’t just that some men had intercourse with some other men, but that they all built an entire subculture. This was playful fun, theatrical, joyous, ironic and implicitly adversarial. Many hotel-side crew, whatever their sexual orientation, treated their passenger ships as floating parties with a few jobs irritatingly attached (while at the same

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time acknowledging that the word ‘sweatships’ was an appropriate description of their 70 to 90-hour working weeks). Camp men went further. Every working day was deliberately treated as the equivalent of today’s carnivalesque Gay Pride marches: blatantly visible, celebratory, noisy and as outrageously costumed as any 1970s Glam Rock gig. The phenomenon is all the more fascinating and counter-intuitive, because ships were essentially carceral and hegemonically heterosexual institutions where the few women workers could be treated with hostility as trespassers. Their subculture even had its own language. Polari had an exclusive role similar to Nancy Mitford’s 1950s distinctions between U and non-U ways of speaking.12 Such camp men not only thought themselves normal, because they were in the majority on some ships, they also believed themselves as being part of an elite group. Members formed individual identities as part of the process of flamboyantly (and defensively) forming a collective identity. Many gay men of that period tended to replace the then-stigmatising term ‘queer’13 with the more omnipotent ‘queen.’ By replacing ‘r’ by ‘n’ in ‘queer’ they proudly named themselves as the very opposite of odd, discrepant, and peculiar. Working on floating palaces, surrounded by celebrity passengers whose glow could be appropriated, meant that this regal self-identity was strengthened. The majority of camp men emulated Hollywood divas – with varying degrees of parody. While real queens might don crowns and ermine-tipped cloaks, sea queens paraded in a mix of Broadway’s answer to haute couture and the kind of flashy lurex stage frocks that adorn leading burlesque artists. Thus the euphoric and indulgent climate on celebrated liners and cruise ships, including the Queen Elizabeth, enabled thousands of members of this casual workforce to establish satisfyingly solid individual identities. Those who chose to do so could proceed towards self-actualisation.14 Although identity in general has been discussed in the introduction to this book it is worth briefly noting some key points about sexual identity. Homosexuality and heterosexuality are not necessarily biologically determined.15 People change, not least in response to social circumstances – such as those on lonely or gay-friendly ships. Nor did seafarers remain consistently the same sort of queer. Sometimes the identity was just contingent. Identity is a performance and gay

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Figure 11.2 Time off ashore could mean some camp men cross-dressed in acceptant ports. Picture courtesy of Miss Youens.

seafarers had a range of choices of roles from Screaming Queen to quiet backstage electrician for the crew shows; many enjoyed a wife on land and another ‘wife’ at sea. They chose identities for helpful reasons.16 To be that-particular-shade-of-queer could be a strategy for gay seafaring

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men to avoid stigma, win the desired type of partner, gain admiration, prepare for gender reassignment treatment (sex change operations) or simply to be adulated as the ship’s most stunning diva.

The Sea, the Ship and the Carnivalesque Seafarers’ ability to forge new identities, such as camp, appears to be moulded by the sea, that large wet space/place, per se, the condition of mobility, and by ships. On the vast ocean away from land for weeks, a metaphysical sense of transcendence and reflections about priorities can lead to a sense of boundlessness and transcendence of old norms. It is expressed by such typical phrases as ‘You get to think about what really matters, out there. Who am I? What’s my life about?’ This includes thoughts about ‘truly being oneself’, despite fears of ridicule and ostracism. More practically, the loneliness of months away from home, and being on ships where there are no available women, can lead to contingent mating. Some seafarers have the attitude ‘Any port in a storm will do’. In this way, people can slide into a temporary homosexual or bisexual identity. Additionally, the sea – as connector to other countries – has an educative function. The sea (and the ship) enables seafarers to visit foreign places that are more acceptant of homosexuality and transvestism. For example Bangkok with its Kathoeys (lady-boys), New York with its bath houses as sites of casual gay sex and Sydney with its Pink quarter were a liberating education. Seafarers repeatedly said ‘Going there really opened my eyes.’ It taught them that British hostility to homosexuality was only one possible attitude, and that queered people were not everywhere positioned as pariahs. They learned it was possible to safely and happily inhabit a queer identity – and that was inspiring. Working at sea in the many casual jobs then readily available in that period of full employment for white people, meant many veteran seafarers became ‘at home in movement’ in Nigel Rapport and Andrew Dawson’s terms.17 Geographical mobility was normalised – and it appears that this created a corresponding sense of psychic mobility: the ability to be many things and think of their identity in many ways.18 Ships are clearly exceptional spaces or heterotopias (other places), in French philosopher Michel Foucault’s terms;19 they are like Alice’s

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inverted Wonderland in which people behave in unexpected ways. That floating community – and prison – could produce liberating effects. Then-closeted gay purser Robert Readman now believes seafarers ‘saw it in some way [as some]where where they could explore themselves and exp ... not in sexual sense, but expose themselves without ... risk and ... condemnation.’20 Passenger ships are a major site – like aeroplanes – of people making a geographical transition. Such a spatial change can be mirrored by a sense of psychic transition, indeed of seemingly infinite possibility to ‘re-make themselves’. Passengers, particularly post-war emigrants and metropolitan elites, acted as if they had choice about their future locations, roles and identities. The observing crew member could not but think ‘maybe I have a choice too?’ Anthropologist Arnold van Gennep saw voyaging ships as places of transition between two ‘worlds’ (the old home and the New World to which one is migrating), in which initiation rites occur and newcomers ‘graduate’.21 Cultural theorists such as Kevin Hetherington, Rob Shields, Victor Turner and John Walton subsequently expanded van Gennep’s concept to argue that there are liminal zones, physical places that could be seen as heterotopic or other.22 Such zones are typically borderlands, like beaches, piers and ships. In these places interplay, transgression and cultural resistance can occur. Places like Blackpool and Brighton – that classic site of adultery and dodgy characters with false names getting up to furtive crimes on the pier – are categorised as liminal. On the other hand, cruise fiction23 maintains the idea that people on ships – albeit passengers – try on new identities, especially in response to the ritualised splendour and snobbery of some liners. They lie about who they are and they fantasise about what they can now do. The commonly-understood meanings of a sea passage thus informed potentially queer seamen of the possibility of transformation and transcendence of the past, for example of old adherence to inappropriate heterosexuality or outgrown tolerance for being ‘in the wrong (i.e. male) body’ or for leading a non-glamorous, non-elite life. They could be an ‘other’ but feel mainstream, indeed ideal and exemplary. Significantly, tightly-packed crews established firm bonds. Homosociality further strengthened such bonds, so ships enabled

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implicit allegiances to develop. These were most overtly expressed when heterosexual seafarers took queered shipmates’ part against landlubbers threatening to gay-bash them: ‘He may be queer but he’s our queer.’ Gay seafarers were thus part of a community within a community (which is not to maintain that there was bulkhead-to-bulkhead rosy affinity). In order to encourage repeat custom, shipping lines such as P&O, paid their shipboard service workers to help produce what philosopher and literary theorist Mikhail Bakhtin would define as a carnivalesque atmosphere.24 By this he meant a holiday mood, thrills, fun, and behaviour that challenged established norms about status. All seafarers prized ‘happy ships’ and camp men both added to this altered state happiness and utilised it as a play space. One camp steward affirmed: People’s sort of mentality and philosophy seems to change when they are at sea. I think it was [that] you’re all part of a community and ... the captain and everyone else were happy that everyone else ... was happy with each other ... because on a ship it could be a very friction place.25 It was in such intervals of ludic or carnivalesque freedom that cultural resistance could occur, argue theorists of borderlands, such as Kevin Hetherington26 Fancy dress parties were an established way of passing time and sanctioning ludic identity exploration. On these carnivalesque occasions, people could ‘become’ anything they wanted, often opposites. The lowly became Julius Caesar; the high became jailbirds and ships’ greasers; whites became African tribal chiefs; men became milkmaids and belly dancers; women became highwaymen and pierrots.27 This practice of masquerading as an ‘other’ confirms Peter Stallybrass and Allon White’s observations that carnivalesque situations often include reversals of identities and usual positions.28 On ships and in the forces, for example, officers wait on lesser mortals at Christmas. Camp, comedic behaviour enhanced that fun. Indulging in the long-established tradition of shipboard theatricals was also part of the carnival. Crew shows – like Royal Naval Sods’ Operas – became the main way that seafaring men cross-dressed in

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flamboyant frocks and ‘became women’ in a collective act of daring that could produce mass approval for what would be typically deemed perverted and had in the past carried a death sentence. The new self could be undone or later shrugged off as only a joke; but it could also be a major encounter with a lurking, hidden aspect of the self that had long been seeking expression. In addition, daily and continuing informal private dramas were performed by waiters in discreetly feminised uniforms for diners at their tables in the dining saloon.29 These ranged from camp flirtations to pirouetting and dancing cancans on sanctioned occasions, for example, when a ship was on its last voyage.30 Similarly, camp men held soirees in their cabins, where ball gowns and posh rituals were essential parts. All such formal and informal dramatic performances underlined that play, masquerade, and appropriation of other identities – especially if accompanied by humour – were acceptable on these ships. This was not the case on trains, planes, coaches, or in other residential workplaces, except to a lesser degree in some hotels.

Figure 11.3

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1960s crew show on the Andes, ‘the queerest ship afloat.’ Picture courtesy of Bella, the leading lady and a steward.

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Figure 11.4 Blacking up, like cross-dressing, could be a way of trying on new identities: 1960s crew show on the Andes. Picture courtesy of Bella, one of the performers.

Changing Sexual Orientation So why was sexual orientation, rather than class, such a big focus of identity change? Changes in sexual orientation and even gender were possible on ships for three outstanding reasons: it was normal, it was desirable, and it was possible. Consider first ‘normality’. For centuries on ships, dressing as a woman, for entertainment, was normal. Seafarers have always sewn clothes. ‘Homosociality was domesticity’ on ships, Mary Conley points out.31 Employing gay stewards on twentieth-century passenger ships was normal. Indeed, it was so normal that on some vessels there were so many homosexuals, bisexuals, transvestites and would-be transgendered peoples that there was a common seafarers’ slogan, ‘Everything’s queer once you’ve left that pier’ or ‘Everything’s gay when you’re under way’. Indeed, in some ship’s catering departments, to be straight was unusual. Homosexual identity was taken for granted. P&O baggage steward Chris declared ‘I’ve met everyone from the captain to the bell-

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boys who were gay ... It went across the board.’32 Heterosexual seafarers accepted homosexual men. ‘Nobody questioned what you did, as long as you did your job well and ... you didn’t do people down,’ Alan, a steward.33 The wartime increases in LGBT activity, outlined by gay historian Allan Bérubé, had left an enduring legacy of acceptance of gay activity including cross-dressing in theatricals.34 In the 1970s, before gay rights activists critiqued effeminate performance as degrading, men camping around as divas were not seen as traitors who let down others by acting with insufficient gravitas. On women-free ships, there could be strong sexual needs for something approximating a female. Seafarers brought back long-playing records of shows they had seen, such as Funny Girl. Camp men then mimed to these. It was part of prolonging the memories of ports they had enjoyed. It entertained and it continued that sense of pleasure and empowerment. Indeed, to look and act like one of the spectacular Broadway or Kathoey stars so recently worshipped at previous destinations, or even while travelling on the same ship, was to be desired or admired by fellow seafarers. And in the post-war period, where celebrity culture was growing, many queered seafarers emulated hyperfeminine stars such as Liz Taylor, Liza Minnelli and Dusty Springfield. So to be a ‘girlfriend’ who could be mistaken for such a diva was a bonus. On passenger ships in the 1950s and 1960s, male crew could outnumber women by a hundred to one or more. Therefore anyone who was broadly ‘a woman’ (in physical terms a recipient not a giver during the sex act) was in demand.35 So too were masculine men who would accept a ‘feminine’ male partner. Heightened femininity was celebrated in movies. Ships, as places of amateur showbiz, similarly welcomed such flaunting and glamour. This was not least as an antidote to grey Britain and the seediness of the urinals where some men cottaged. Therefore to be camp was to be like a star – in other words, desired by millions. Such desiring audiences included the majority of passengers who were delighted to be served by ‘Out’ gay stewards. Indeed, many specifically requested a table or cabin serviced by camp men, because the standard of service was so high and gay men were usually so gratifyingly intuitive about what a guest needed. Shipowners liked anything that

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brought return custom, therefore any worker who could add to passengers’ happiness was not just accepted, but prized and indeed pandered to. The parodic and humorous way some camp men represented themselves made homosexuality seem unthreatening; it was easier to be a raving sea queen than a dignified homosexual man who had a more nuanced persona, or any of the more diverse gay identities on the rainbow spectrum of sexual orientation. A further factor could propel seafaring men to seek a female identity: it was so easily achievable. This was beginning to be the post-modern period in which, as Zygmunt Bauman argues, people were becoming responsible for their own identity.36 They were no longer acceptant of given or ascribed identities, and everyone’s project was to work themselves up into their precise singular self, and to self-actualise. For seafarers, this process was influenced by general democratisation (which many, as arch snobs, disdained) and by the Hollywood-obsessed popular culture (especially pre-television). Since the 1930s, advertisers encouraged consumers to think they could ‘become’ the stars with whom they identified by buying the beauty products that such glamorous icons publicly endorsed, according to film theorist Jackie Stacey.37 In the case of camp male crew on ships the link was further inscribed through renaming and role play: Most [gay] people adopted a gay name ... took up ... a famous movie star like Ava Gardner or Jane Russell if they looked a bit like them.38 Shipmates routinely used camp men’s adopted names, such as Languid Lily, the Black Widow, Jayne and so on. For cross-dressers and wouldbe transsexuals, such a culture was a clear message that it was possible to ‘become’ a starry woman. After all, this was an established age of mechanical reproduction, in which multiple replications were possible. Therefore ‘anybody’ could become another Liz Taylor, could they not? ‘Becoming female’ was less of a problem for seafarers than for stay-athomes because clothing, such as bouffant ball gowns, elbow-length gloves, stiletto heels and wigs, was easily acquired abroad. In shops far from the local high street where neighbours might report them

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to families, they faced no enduring stigma. This was especially the case in New York, where anonymity coincided with affordable fashion wear to a far greater extent than in Britain during the 1950s and early 1960s. Those men wanting to go beyond superficial transformation shopped for a hormone treatment, Sorbistol, to help their breasts grow. It was available without prescription in some ports, such as Madeira and Lisbon.39 For transgendered people, it was a particularly optimistic period because new medical technology enabled the first male-tofemale transitioning. Christine Jorgensen was the first in 1952 and April Ashley the second in 1961. It was well-publicised that Ashley had him/herself been to sea. For seafarers habituated to buying whatever they fancied in foreign countries, the fact that the treatment was available only abroad (Ashley had her operations in Paris) was less of a deterrent than the prohibitive cost. Camp men were in the right industry if working on the hotel side of the ship. Waiting at table was a performance, with diners as the audience. Coupled with the tradition of amateur entertainment on ship, this climate made ‘impersonation’ and forays easy. By extension, it enabled at least superficial transitions. Authenticity was not relevant. The very casual nature of catering work affirmed that continuity of employment was not something to be expected.40 Turnover in the catering industry in general was high, and more so in seafaring, because each voyage was done on a separate contract. Indeed, some crew even jumped ship or lived in another country for a while. Therefore, these seafarers were living a life where much seemed contingent, in a period that seemed to anticipate the post-modernist fluidity of the late 1980s and onwards, as identified by Bauman.41 Anything could change. In addition, the relative luxuriousness of shipboard service meant the men were operating in a culture where fancy consumer needs were met, which signalled that they too might achieve their goals (which they had been skilled in enabling passengers to attain). This was especially true for stewards, who triumphantly retell the apocryphal story about a captain arriving at the quay on his bike to find the chief steward (who’d become rich on tips and fiddles) rolling up in his limousine. Progress ashore in the gay rights movement meant that, during the

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1970s and 1980s, queer culture was established. However, such was the solidarity on ships that several story-givers felt seafarers didn’t need the Gay Liberation Front. If you were at sea, you were already liberated. Seafarers ‘were there already’. 42

Conclusion The answer to the question, ‘What was it about the sea that enabled members of a pilloried subculture to see themselves as “normal”?’ is that there was a range of overlapping causes. The very nature of identity is that it is constructed, rather than fixed; it can change. As the selection of identities is affected by social circumstances, so ships as gay-friendly liminal zones and heterotopic places enabled queer choices. A performative culture was present in catering and on ships, as carnivalesque spaces permitted both crew and passengers to play with identity, both in formal and informal theatrical situations, such as crew shows, ‘Crossing the Line’ ceremonies and in the dining-room-as-theatre. Such light-hearted and non-stigmatised ‘rehearsals’ allowed those who wished to go further in transcending their old social identities to do so – at least temporarily or superficially. Similar opportunities were not available on any other mode of transport. And they were partly determined by class, sexual orientation and gender. However, explorations in constructing a new sexual identity, specifically, were probably the main area of possibility. Feeling relatively free of restrictive heteronormativity meant male seafarers, who were unhappy with their assigned heterosexual identities, were able to explore a range of sexual orientations and identities, including moving towards surgical transformations. Some additional explanations for why gender conventions become so inverted on these ludic passenger ships include normalcy, desirability and possibility. It was absolutely unexceptionable to be queer, and it was desirable to look, and act, like a female movie star; it won lovers and applause. Also, ‘being a woman’ was achievable, because the necessary theatrical ‘properties’ could so easily be bought and because popular entertainment offered so many models of hyperfemininity, indeed queenliness, albeit sometimes trashy.

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This was a very specific window of opportunity in history. The postwar period, with its consumerism, early understanding that individual identity could be shaped, advances in sex-reassignment technology, and the inadvertently-enabling effects of theatre, radio and cinema meant it was possible to perform a range of queer identities in that safe space, the ship on the ocean. High employment and the vestiges of gendered and racial job segregation meant that white male diningroom stewards were still preferred to women and Black men, both of whom were still a minority on ships. Shipping lines might otherwise have been chary about employing men who engaged in illegal activity, for all that gay stewards were so very valued that even captains preferred their Tigers (personal stewards) to be queer. The phenomenon is remarkable proof that tolerance by straight people is possible, and that identity is indeed fluid and situation-specific. That evidence continues to surprise and impress me. Ships uniquely allowed the creation of a supportive subculture, including a positive relationship with heterosexuals. However, they also took men to places where they could access other ways of thinking about homosexuality and indeed ways to achieve permanent physical transformation. Ships also enabled seafarers to bring back new attitudes and thereby affect the development of Britain’s gay culture ashore. It may well have contributed to the reduction of homophobia on land. In the process, some seafarers built up their homosexuality as queenly and far superior to quotidian heterosexuality, and thereby brought pride long before the growth of the Gay Pride movement. Some such men represented heterosexuals and men without frothy petticoats as the odd ones out, even as inferior beings. They ‘normalised’ themselves and each other in a situation where ‘normals’ often did not seek to normalise, but it should also be remembered that heterosexuals were the majority in the maritime workforce, although not in some ships. What is important is that this celebratory and proud claim is such a reversal of heteronormative assertions. By examining ships as institutions that allowed some values to become so deeply topsy-turvy, we can wonder all the more at the over-stated polarisations of land/ sea (implicitly ‘constrained’ versus ‘free’). The exceptional potential for identity change that is possible at sea suggests that societies may well

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need offshore opportunities of this kind as a way to embrace the actual diversity of human identity.43 The interesting question is why is the period remembered in this way? What needs for homosexual dominance are being expressed? How do they connect with the needs of homophobes and others who continue to believe that seafaring – and indeed life – is a solely heterosexual business? Gay protests that they were the normal people may be unconsciously overstated in a desire to make sure the remarkableness of this phenomenon is fully understood, as well as being a later-life rosy celebration of youthful victories. Queer claims to queenly and superior status are also clearly a rebellious riposte to the lowly position ascribed to hotel-side staff by those who staffed the ship as a vehicle, and by passengers who saw servants as lesser mortals. Just as the writer bell hooks sees modern black feminists as ‘talking back’, rather than accepting the old silenced position to which non-white, non-elite, non-males were assigned, so to be a proud queen or diva was to holiday back (meaning to take a vacation even though one was not of a class that was supposed to do other than labour), or to assert superiority back, in the face of vacationing and snobbish passengers.44 They refused abnegation by identifying as happy, frisky players in metaphorically technicolour heavens. Queer seafarers’ representations of their histories are of value not only because they implicitly suggest that we need to develop a genuinely exploratory maritime historiographical practice that explores the myths of macho Sailor Jack. There is a wider relevance too. Their histories can also enable scholars to better understand queered – and straight – subjectivities in the world. This is part of the academic move towards exploring how different situations produce different sexualities, and how such situations can enable every human being to self-actualise and become all the selves they desire to become. Such knowledge can help us approach the question of what heteronormativity cost hundreds of thousands of seafarers and people ashore. Comparisons between ship and shore life illuminate the way heteronormativity reduced their identities and lives. Seafarers’ access to relative freedom of sexual orientation illustrates the fascinating and puzzling exceptionality of ships at sea.

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These hidden histories, therefore, raise important questions about geographical mobility’s connections with psychic and social mobility. Queer theorist Thomas Piontek argues that it can be productive to think of queer ‘not as an identity but a questioning stance ... that lets us explore the taken-for-granted and the familiar from a new vantage point.’45 In looking at seafarers from such a questioning perspective, we can better see beyond the binary and explore the possibilities for human freedom and fulfilment that could be beyond such limited horizons. Understanding the world of queens at sea adds to queer studies (the study of issues relating to sexual orientation and gender identity; it is based on critical theory), as well as studies of LGBT people’s lives. It thereby enables not just academic understanding, but human progress towards self-actualisation, whether on land or sea, and whether or not LGBT peoples’ choices are hegemonically approved. In relation to seafarers, a queer studies approach means asking not just the question that a historian of homosexuality might ask, such as ‘why were men on ships gay?’ but instead ‘What caused some of the seafarers to be heterosexual?’ and ‘Why is sexuality so central in some seafarers’ perspectives?’ Scholars are only at the start of investigating and rethinking that over-simplistic construction ‘Jack Tar’, but are now well armed with questions.

Notes 1. I would like to thank those who have contributed to shaping this piece. Above all they include Paul Baker, with whom I researched and co-wrote Hello Sailor! The Hidden History of Homosexuality at Sea (London, 2003) and all the museum professionals in Liverpool, Nova Scotia, Newcastle and Southampton who enabled the follow-up work on this subject. The seafarers who gave their stories are enormously appreciated. Some have been anonymised at their request. Quotation marks round a name indicate that it is a pseudonym. Arne Nilsson and Maggie Rich were of great assistance in this particular article. 2. Notes from informal briefing by ‘Dave’, Jo Stanley, April 2002. 3. Daniel Vickers, ‘Beyond Jack Tar’, The William and Mary Quarterly Vol 50:2 (April 1993) pp.418–424; Valerie Burton, ‘The Myth of Bachelor Jack: Masculinity, Patriarchy and Seafaring Labour’, in Colin Howell and Richard Twomey (eds.), Jack Tar in History: Essays in the History of Maritime Life and Labour (Fredericton, New Brunswick, 1991), pp.179–198; Mary A. Conley,

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From Jack Tar to Union Jack: Representing Naval Manhood in the British Empire, 1870–1914 (Manchester, 2009) p3. 4. B.R. Burg, Sodomy and the Pirate Tradition (New York, 1984); Hans Turley, Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash: Piracy, Sexuality, and Masculine Identity (New York, 1999); Steven Zeeland, Sailors and Sexual Identity: Crossing the Line Between ‘Straight’ and ‘Gay’ in the US Navy (Haworth Gay & Lesbian Studies) (New York, 1995); B.R. Burg, ‘The HMS Africaine Revisited: The Royal Navy and the Homosexual Community’, Journal of Homosexuality, Vol. 56, No. 2, (February 2009) pp.173–194; Arthur Gilbert, ‘Buggery and the British Navy, 1700–1861’, Journal of Social History Vol. 10 (1976) pp.72–98, and ‘The “Africaine” Courts-Martial: A Study of Buggery in the Royal Navy’, Journal of Homosexuality, Vol. 1 (1974) pp.111–22; Laura Rowe, unpublished work and paper, Homosexuality and the Royal Navy in the Era of the Great War, given at the British Commission for Maritime History, King’s College London (14 October 2010); Simon J. Bronner, Crossing the Line: Violence, Play and Drama in Naval Equator Traditions (Amsterdam, 2006); Bert Bender, Sea Brothers: The Tradition of American Sea Fiction from ‘Moby Dick’ to the Present (Philadelphia,1989); Allab Bérubé, Coming Out Under Fire: The History of Gay Men and Women in World War II (New York, 1990); Arne Nilsson, ‘Såna’ på Amerikabåtarna (‘Those Ones’ on the American Boats) (Stockholm, 2006). 5. For example see Miri Rubin, ‘What is Cultural History Now?’, in David Cannadine (ed.), What is History Now? (Basingstoke, 2002), p.81; also consider Michel Foucault’s work on the body in asylums, hospitals etc, such as The Birth of the Asylum (London, 1984). Followers have particularly used his texts to turn towards the embodied subject in society. 6. Baker and Stanley, Hello Sailor! p.17. The majority of the men ranged in class background, were aged 50–80, and at sea in the 1950–90s, mainly for periods of six-to-ten years. Few went to sea thinking they were gay although most felt there was something ‘different’ about them, especially after early experiences in boarding school and catering. Two served in World War II. One was partIndian; one was Australian-born; none would define themselves as Black. Their shipping lines include P&O, British India and, to a lesser extent, Cunard. They mainly operated out of Southampton rather than northern ports. The most closeted were officers from the pursers’ and deck departments. 7. It is generally agreed that it is impossible to give an accurate percentage. The figure 10 per cent is often used, partly because pioneering biology professor Alfred Kinsey’s 1948 study on male sexuality found that 13 per cent of men were exclusively gay. Since then, further studies vary between arguing that the figure is as high as 27 per cent and as low as 3 per cent. 8. ‘Dave’, briefing session with Jo Stanley, 29 March 2009.

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9. Michael Rudder, interview by Jo Stanley, 5 February 2006. 10. ‘Terry’, interview by Jo Stanley, 2 February 2006. 11. ‘Queen Mother’ is a term some, especially senior, drag queens were happy to apply to themselves 12. Paul Baker, Polari – The Lost Language of Gay Men (London, 2002). Nancy Mitford evolved these linguistic distinctions in 1956 (U stood for Upper class). They became popularly used, including on ships and in hotels, where staff were ultra-status conscious about their guests. A fledgling purser, for example, would be guided by it in working out whether a passenger should be placed on the Captain’s Table. Their use of the word ‘serviette’ (good) instead of ‘napkin’ (bad) was every bit as indicative of ‘us-ness’ as someone’s use of, say, the word ‘bona’ for ‘fine’ in Polari. See http://www.debretts.com/ etiquette/british-behaviour/t-to-z/u-and-non-u.aspx, accessed 26.3.2012. 13. The word ‘queer’ has today been reclaimed with pride, and to many older gay men’s surprise queer studies is a university subject. Some queer theorists use ‘queered’ to indicate that ‘queerness’ is a normative judgement imposed by others who believe their own position – ‘straight’ – is the only correct position. 14. The term self-actualisation was originated by psychologist Abraham Maslow to mean the highest point in human development, when one has all needs met (such as for food, shelter) and becomes someone who fulfils their full potential: independent, autonomous, able to resist external pressure and indeed to transcend the environment rather than just coping with it. Above all, it means accepting one’s own nature and that of others, without prejudice. Abraham H.Maslow, ‘A Theory of Human Motivation’. Psychological Review, No. 50 (1943) pp.370–396. 15. For a discussion of whether people are ‘born gay,’ including Richard Isay’s theories, see Ona Nierenberg, ‘A Hunger for Science: Psychoanalysis and the “Gay Gene”’, differences, Vol. 10, No. 1 (1998) pp.209–242. 16. Michael Warner, ‘Homo-Narcissism; or Heterosexuality’, in Joseph Boone and Michael Cadden (eds.), Engendering Men (London, 1990) p.191. 17. Nigel Rapport and Andrew Dawson, (eds.) Migrants of Identity: Perceptions of Home in a World of Movement (Oxford, 1998) p.27. 18. Dominic, interview by Jo Stanley, 5 February 2006. 19. The author has argued this most strongly in a number of articles and papers, most recently in her chapter: ‘Queered Seafarers in Heterotopic Spaces’, in Proceedings of the Xth North Sea History Conference (Göteborg, 2012). 20. Robert Readman, interview by Jo Stanley, 3 February 2006. 21. Arnold van Gennep, The Rites of Passage (Chicago, 1960).

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22. Kevin Hetherington, The Badlands of Modernity: Heterotopia and Social Ordering (London, 1997); Victor Turner, Process, Performance and Pilgrimage (New Delhi, 1979); John Walton, The British Seaside: Holidays and Resorts in the Twentieth Century (Manchester, 1998); Rob Shields, ‘ “The System of Pleasure”: Liminality and the Carnivalesque in Brighton’, Theory, Culture and Society, Vol. 7 (1990) pp.39–72; and Places on the Margin: Alternative Geographies of Modernity (London, 1991). 23. The author herself has created this term. It refers to fiction written about the passengers on voyages on passenger ships and private yachts. Quite often the genre, which began in the late 1920s, is romance or crime or both. 24. Mikhail Bakhtin, Rabelais and his World, translated by Hélène Iswolsky (Bloomington, Indiana, 1984). 25. Michael, interview. 26. Hetherington, Badlands. 27. It was also done for serious intent, in at least one cruise novel, Luxury Liner. Milli Lensch, a migrating Cinderella from Posen, is taken up by a wealthy solo male passenger. He transforms her with new clothes, and she enters the dining saloon looking ‘like a Spanish princess ... Several months later she was actually introduced as an aristocrat of Latin origin.’ Gina Kaus, Luxury Liner (London, 1934) p.288. 28. Peter Stallybrass and Allon White, The Politics and Poetics of Transgression (London, 1986). 29. Ships’ dining rooms mirror restaurants; see Philip Crang, ‘Performing the Tourist Product’, in Chris Rojek and John Urry (eds.), Touring Cultures: Transformations of Travel and Theory (London, 1997) pp.137–154. 30. Paul, interview by Jo Stanley, 3 March 2006; Michael, interview. 31. Conley, From Jack Tar to Union Jack, p129. 32. Chris, interview by Paul Baker, July 2001 33. ‘Alan’, interview by Paul Baker, January 2002. 34. Bérubé: Coming Out Under Fire. 35. However, it is important to be aware that heterosexual assumptions about binary polarisations are limited, incorrect and omit the key role of oral intercourse As gay steward Kevin Smith recently joked, ‘I’m like a Dyson vacuum cleaner, I have attachments for every purpose.’ Jo Stanley, conversation with Kevin Smith, 23 March 2012. 36. Zygmunt Bauman, Freedom (Milton Keynes, 1988). 37. Jackie Stacey, Stargazing: Hollywood Cinema and the Female Spectator (London, 1994) p.171. 38. Michael, interview. Also many interviews with gay seafarers attest to the significance of glamorous female renaming. See testimony at the Sailing

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39. 40.

41. 42. 43.

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Proud archive at Merseyside Maritime Museum, and in Baker and Stanley, Hello Sailor! pp.84–86. ‘Terry’, interview. It is important to note economic pressures. Demand for stewards appeared to exceed supply. Shipping lines could not have afforded to sack all camp stewards, because that would have decimated the workforce and made ships inoperable. And gays were perceived as having desirable traits: they did not (visibly) use illegal drugs. They were clean and reliable; their cabins ‘were always neat and tidy and beautifully done ... they were really particular about their personal affairs.’ Interview with Jenny Kemp by Jo Stanley, 9 June 2005. Zygmunt Bauman, Identity (Cambridge, 2004). ‘Terry’, interview. In her study of camp amateur theatre in Cherry Grove, New York, Newton indicates that Fire Island’s geographically separate status enabled the large lesbian and gay population there to put on shows and develop queer culture. Esther Newton, Margaret Mead Made Me Queer (Durham and London, 2000), pp.34–62 bell hooks, Talking Back: Thinking Feminist, Thinking Black (Boston, 1989). Thomas Piontek, Queering Gay and Lesbian Studies (Champaign, 2006) p.2.

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CHAPTER 12 FROM TR AFALGAR TO SANTIAGO: THE NAV Y AND NATIONAL IDENTIT Y IN NINETEENTH-CENTURY SPAIN Carlos Alfaro Zaforteza

On 20 October 1845, the frigate Perla and the brig Héroe sailed into Montevideo Bay, Uruguay. They were the first Spanish official presence in the area since independence had been declared. Before they could even drop anchor, boatloads of elated Spanish residents and sailors crowded the deck of the Perla. Some embraced and kissed the guns, others kneeled before the flag; all shed tears of joy as they stepped on to this piece of the motherland.1 All Spanish-flag merchantmen in the harbour were decorated with bunting, and the leading Montevideo newspaper welcomed the two ‘portions of the homeland’ that had come to protect its citizens.2 This minor incident shows that the link between seapower and national identity is apparent in a wide range of naval activities. The chronological limits and thematic focus of this chapter, however, are set by two well-known events: the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805 and the Battle of Santiago de Cuba in 1898, which constitute milestones

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of Spain’s imperial history. The first, together with the effects of the Spanish War of Independence or Peninsular War (1808–1814) entailed vast territorial losses, which meant the loss of great-power status. Still, Spain retained substantial overseas possessions for the rest of the nineteenth century, including Cuba and Puerto Rico. The second battle marked the end of Spain’s overseas empire and a further reduction in international status. Both generated strong emotions and constitute significant elements of the Spanish historical memory. This chapter explores two related, widespread beliefs in Spanish nineteenth-century society. First, seapower was considered an essential factor in the country’s past greatness. It was seen as a crucial factor in the founding of the Spanish Empire, and in the eighteenth century it constituted the country’s chief military asset as a great power. Defeat at Trafalgar was perceived as a major cause of the loss of the American colonies and the subsequent reduced status of second-rate power. Second, a sizeable navy was held as an indispensable element of Spain’s international status. These two complementary ideas merit study because they underpin naval policy decision-making and were used to gather popular support for naval development. Until 1898, Spaniards perceived themselves as citizens of a transatlantic monarchy, with valuable imperial possessions in every continent and worldwide interests. If Spain was no longer strong enough to matter in Europe, it still cared about extra-European affairs. For ideological reasons Spanish historiography on national identity is narrowly focussed on domestic issues, and tends to gloss over the topic of international interests;3 however, naval historians have given some attention to it.4 This chapter examines three aspects of the subject. Firstly, naval reviews constituted an effective nation-building instrument; a study of them provides parallels with the existing, essentially Anglo-centric, scholarship on naval pageantry. This chapter uses the Alicante celebrations of June 1862 as its main example.5 Secondly, this chapter addresses the use of history and literature in the construction of national narratives, represented by the historian Pedro Novo y Colson and the novelist Benito Pérez Galdós. The final section considers the debate over the need for a navy in the wake of the Spanish-American War (1898). The main sources are contemporary

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printed materials: literary fiction, newspapers, journals, books and pamphlets. This chapter contends that the Navy was a significant element of national identity in nineteenth-century Spain, thus showing that the link between seapower and national identity was limited to neither the Anglo-Saxon nations, nor the great powers.

Naval Reviews Naval reviews are a traditional method of interaction between the Navy and society. The direct contact of the people with the ships and men of the fleet has a great potential for nation-building. The naval review at Alicante in June 1862 is a good demonstration of this point.6 The government organised a two-day exhibition to showcase the latest ships added to the fleet, which had been built in the Royal Dockyards. The large expansion programme of 1859–1861 was then in full swing. This entailed the construction of six armoured and 12 screw frigates, which by the late 1860s transformed the Spanish Navy from a small to a medium-sized force, comparable to the Italian or Austrian navies, but designed to operate overseas as well. At the same time, squadrons were operating off Morocco, Mexico, Santo Domingo, Indochina and the Philippine Archipelago, and a Pacific Station on the South American coast was about to be established. The Navy Minister, General (army) Zavala,7 took advantage of the recently-inaugurated Alicante-Madrid railway. This was the only existing railway connection between the capital and the sea; it provided the only fast, comfortable communication with the coast. The event was widely reported in the press and elicited an enthusiastic popular response. To facilitate mass attendance, the rail company advertised reduced fares. The prospect of a railway journey – then a thrilling experience by itself – to the seaside and a patriotic event must have been attractive enough for the Madrid middle-class citizens; as many as 8,000 passengers travelled in one day to see the ‘great naval celebration’ at Alicante.8 This level of public attendance attests to the appeal of the Navy as a powerful cultural symbol and element of national identity. The use of naval reviews for nation-building was not limited to the great powers, or to the period of high imperialism just before World War I. The

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organisation consisted of three phases: a naval review proper, a combat simulation and a party. A fleet of 19 ships under General (navy) Pinzón was assembled for the occasion. It included one ship of the line, the Reina Doña Isabel II (86 guns), now obsolete due to the advent of steam power, but always appealing to the public on account of its bulk and awesome batteries, five screw frigates and five screw gunboats.9 The frigates and gunboats, all home-built, reflected the capacity of the navy dockyards to build state-of-the-art ships. Three of the frigates, just commissioned, were entirely home-produced: their hulls, engines and boilers were built at the navy dockyards, and their guns were supplied by the Trubia gun factory in Santander. The Madrid residents could thus admire the most advanced pieces of engineering ever produced by domestic industry, and take pride in their country´s naval development and industrial progress, as this piece of reporting shows: The frigate Resolución is built wholly in our dockyards. The powerful engines that give her movement are not made in England, but in Spain. They have been built in the Ferrol foundry, where Spanish workers are presently working on another engine of 1,000 horsepower for the armoured frigate Tetuán, which before the end of the year will show the Spanish flag on the world’s oceans.10 The fleet conveyed images of modernity and the power of the state that were in tune with the optimism of the times. From 1858, domestic politics were more stable, the country was in the middle of an economic boom and the government was conducting an active foreign policy in America and Asia. The general feeling was that, after decades of political strife and economic depression, Spain was at last recovering, and was on the way to becoming a great power again. The Navy embodied these expectations. On 8 June Zavala reviewed the fleet, with crews manning the yards and guns saluting. The public watched the spectacle from the beach, where the local authorities had set up a large wooden structure with seats, and from the merchantmen at anchor in the harbour. Afterwards, 40 boats manned by sailors showed visitors around the fleet. The event

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was unanimously reported as magnificent, a stimulus to Spanish patriotism and evidence of the country’s recovery of her lost naval power, and hence her rank among nations.11 The following day, Pinzón staged a simulated sea combat. The sailing vessels were defending the coast, anchored in a parallel line to the shore. The screw ships overcame them by sailing inshore. It was a recreation of Nelson’s famous manoeuvre at the Battle of the Nile, which implied that the Navy now had the skills, as well as the ships, to carry out its duty. An amphibious landing followed: 20 ship’s boats landed on the beach and stormed a fortified position.12 A journalist who admitted being a stranger to naval affairs, was impressed by the spectacle of the four ‘beautiful’ frigates of the attacking force, the sheer size of the defending battleship and the multitude of spectators in the quays, balconies and rooftops. He could not help recalling those times in which a formidable navy guarded our coasts and undertook grandiose endeavours. It was impossible not to feel subjugated by the enthusiasm that raises the idea that we can still repeat past glories.13 The combined feelings of modernity, power and national sentiment are evident. The third phase was an evening party. It began on board the flagship, the frigate Resolución, where Zavala presided over a banquet for 58 guests. These included General (Army) José de la Concha, twice captain general of Cuba in the 1850s and particularly interested in the security of the island, José de Salamanca, the railway and realestate tycoon, deputies and senators (members of the lower and higher houses), and the editors of the leading newspapers.14 The toasts given under the immediate effects of the two-day demonstration give an idea of the expectations and feelings that the event evoked. Zavala toasted the Queen and her support of naval development; then he was himself toasted by the fleet commander, General Pinzón, an obvious sign of navy approval to a minister who came from the Army, rather than from the Navy. Concha showed his enthusiasm for the role of the Navy in America, an implicit support by the Army, and the establishment

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of the Pacific station; Antonio Rivero Cidraque, a deputy for Alicante, keen on naval affairs, celebrated that the review had taken place in his hometown and highlighted the potential of the new Navy as a representative of the country. Carlos Navarro Rodrigo, another deputy for Alicante, journalist and Premier O’Donnell’s mouthpiece, stressed the status symbol of a powerful navy and celebrated the fact that the country at last could afford it; Fernando Calderón Collantes, deputy for Corunna, brother of the State Minister, saw the fortunes of the Navy linked to those of liberal constitutional government.15 After dinner, a ball for a more numerous public was organised on board the corvette Ferrolana. The ship was moored, so that the guests had easy access through a gangway. Two other vessels lay alongside, one on which guests could rest, drink or have a snack; the other was set up as a lounge for those people who preferred conversation and smoking. All three ships were lavishly decorated for the occasion. Among those present were navy and army generals, deputies and senators, bankers such as Daniel Weisweiller, the Rothschilds’ agent in Spain, journalists, grandees and government officials.16 Together with the approximately 12,000 citizens who gathered in Alicante, they represented the ruling elites and the bourgeoisie, the small portion of the population with the right to vote. By the standards of the time, this was truly a mass event; even an opposition paper conceded that ‘an immense crowd’ had attended the celebrations.17 The government showcased the Navy before this audience, conveying a message of power and reinforcing the identity link between the Navy and the Madrid ruling elites. The idea of ‘maritime festivity’, entertainment and celebration, and its patriotic character, are common features of the reporting, and show emotional involvement on the part of journalists. The role of the press was essential: it ensured that it received widespread publicity and that those who did not attend the event to some extent shared the emotions of those present.

Historical narratives and literature Historical narratives are fundamental elements in the construction of national identity. In understanding Spanish perceptions, two authors

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are key: the historian Pedro Novo y Colson (1846–1931), who wrote the official version of the war against Chile and Peru (1864–6), and the novelist Benito Pérez Galdós, who dealt with the same conflict and the Battle of Trafalgar. Both reflect the same values, the former as part of the establishment, and the latter as an independent intellectual. Novo was a career naval officer with wide interests, including literature, journalism and history; his Historia de la guerra de España en el Pacífico (History of the War of Spain in the Pacific) (1882) is his bestknown work, dealing with a contentious but glorious episode. The book is an example of promotion by the Navy of its role as the custodian of national honour. Although it is, overall, a balanced account, it was written as an official history, to defend the Navy’s conduct in the war. The thrust of the book is that the Navy achieved its duty to uphold national honour. The main hero is Admiral Méndez Núñez, who commanded the fleet during the bombardments of Valparaiso and Callao. Novo justifies the attack on Callao, whose batteries were more than a match for the Spanish fleet, by the need to defend the country’s reputation, then embodied in the fleet. The American and most of the European press had condemned the bombardment of the undefended port of Valparaíso ‘with notorious injustice and self-righteousness’ as an act of cowardice. Méndez Núñez chose to attack the Callao forts to disprove this. Novo justifies this quixotic measure by the successful outcome: Before his illustrious figure and the souvenir of his glory, the pen stops and only the heart speaks out. Méndez Núñez, pride of the motherland, because you conquered, your actions were the best and your triumph the most complete!18 He praised the achievements of the Navy, which endured a long campaign of more than two years, thousands of miles away from a friendly base. In these difficult circumstances its sailors fulfilled their duty as the ‘depositaries of Spain’s honour and dignity’, and achieved ‘victory in unequal combat’.19 Due to the controversial nature of the war, Novo differentiates the conduct of the Navy from that of the government. The latter’s was held as ‘inept and miserable’, while the former’s was

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‘glorious, noble and fecund’.20 The book ends with a glorification of the naval officers that took part in it: May Méndez-Núñez, Lobo, Barcáiztegui,21 and their likes in the Spanish Navy, look for honourable uses of their valour and garner eternal laurels ... ! In this way they will be blessed not only with the motherland’s gratitude, but also with the praise of the historians and the people.22 The memory of Méndez Núñez and Callao survives to this day in everyday life. Street and square names still commemorate the episode in many Spanish cities. The best-known example is the Plaza del Callao (Callao Square) in downtown Madrid, right in the centre of one of the city’s most vibrant areas. Although they are literary fiction, Benito Pérez Galdós’s Episodios Nacionales (National Episodes) portray Spanish nineteenth-century society with a great degree of realism. This widely acclaimed series of 46 historical novels, written between 1873 and 1912, has become a classic; it has even been used by historians as source material. The volumes on Trafalgar and the Battle of Callao are briefly examined here.23 The importance of Trafalgar in Spanish memory is the chief reason why Galdós chose to start his series with this episode. Although by 1873, it was widely acknowledged that the Spanish nineteenth century began with the French invasion of 1808, the memory of Trafalgar is as significant a landmark. It was the last time that the Spanish Navy featured in great-power combinations. The sheer drama of the battle overshadowed the more deleterious effects on the service caused by the war against Napoleon (1808–1814). The consequent lack of naval power was believed to have greatly facilitated the independence of the American colonies. To come to terms with defeat, Romantic poets portrayed it as a glorious deed, in which national honour had been upheld and some heroes added to the national pantheon.24 Galdós’s Trafalgar, published in 1873, reflects this tradition and disseminated it to a wider public. The novel’s narrative is woven around the professional skills and heroic behaviour of the three heroes who succumbed in the battle:

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Federico Gravina, commander of the Spanish fleet, Cosme Damián de Churruca, commander of the San Juan Nepomuceno, and Dionisio Alcalá Galiano, commander of the Bahama.25 Their memory was so powerful that Galdós, in a later episodio, written 34 years later, has one of his characters observe: ‘... but those heroes, Churruca, Gravina, Alcalá Galiano, aren’t they as valuable as a victory? This kind of victims is the envy of all nations.’26 In another episodio, published in 1906, Galdós described the voyage around the world of the ironclad frigate Numancia.27 This book appealed to Spanish national sentiment on three grounds. The ship carried the name of the ancient city, close to modern-day Soria, which was taken by the Romans in 132 BC after a prolonged siege. It is one of the Spanish national myths, and is similar to Trafalgar in that it was a glorious defeat, with abundant heroic deeds. The remains were located in 1860, one year before the ship was ordered, hence the name. Moreover, excavation work began in 1906, the same year that La Vuelta al mundo en la Numancia was published. Another historical parallel was Juan Sebastián Elcano’s Victoria, which formed part of Magellan’s expedition and was the first ship ever to sail around the world. The Numancia was the first ironclad warship to sail around the world, roughly following the same route that Elcano did. Many sailors and naval architects had expressed doubts that armoured ships could do this kind of sailing. Finally, the Battle of Callao was considered a victory, it produced the latest great national heroes, and gave a far more favourable image of the Navy than the events of 1898 did. Here was a novel that combined a great national myth, it seemed to repeat the achievements of the great Spanish navigators of the sixteenth century and dealt with a recent victory that contrasted with the recent humiliating defeats at Santiago de Cuba and Manila Bay. In the aftermath of a disastrous war, it certainly seemed uplifting. One review spoke thus: And now we come to the memorable combat of Callao, which constitutes the stirring pages of the new book. They read with such deep bitterness, now that we no longer have ships and have suffered so many defeats! With less than 3,000 men and with

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the Numancia as the only armoured ship, Spain triumphed and its sailors covered themselves with glory.28 The indirect allusion to the Spanish-American War is evident. The effect was magnified by Galdós’s reputation as the leading Spanish contemporary writer.

The Legacy of 1898 Besides the loss of the overseas empire, defeat in the Spanish-American War of 1898 dealt a heavy blow to Spain’s self-esteem and challenged basic assumptions of national identity. Two of these assumptions are especially pertinent to our topic. The first was pride in the traditional Spanish fighting prowess and spirit. The regeneracionista journalist Damián Isern reflected this perception as he observed that it might seem odd to foreigners not familiar with the Spanish national character that [the] victor of Napoleon ... [the] victor of the Moroccan Empire in the 1859 campaign, [the] victor at Callao ... yielded almost without a fight to the forces of the North American republic, certainly more of an industrial than a military power, with an army and navy that have no glorious traditions, hence no national spirit.29 The second was the legacy of Columbus, Cortés and Pizarro, sailors and conquistadores, symbolised by Spain’s remaining colonial possessions, Cuba and Puerto Rico. For the whole of the nineteenth century, the Navy´s raison d’être was essentially the defence of these islands; this duty of colonial defence ensured that the Navy played a prominent role in the conflict with America. Indeed, the decisive, climactic event of the war was the Battle of Santiago de Cuba. The outcome caused surprise and outrage: the Spanish force had not only been completely annihilated, but had been unable to inflict any appreciable damage on the enemy. For this reason, contemporaries compared it to the Italian defeat at Lissa (1866) and the French at Sedan (1870). The lay public

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could understand the result of the Battle of Manila Bay/Cavite: the enemy’s overwhelming superiority was evident. Commodore Dewey’s squadron of modern cruisers simply blew Admiral Montojo’s motley collection of colonial gunboats out of the water. No such difference existed at Santiago de Cuba. As in the cases of Lissa and Sedan, no one could foretell such a one-sided result. The Spanish fleet was made up of four armoured cruisers and two destroyers, all modern, stateof-the-art ships. It was expected that, if skilfully handled, the fleet should have given a fair account of itself. Some enemy losses and a few heroes would have satisfied national honour. That is exactly what was perceived to have happened at Trafalgar, which the Spanish thus considered a glorious defeat. Nothing of the kind happened at Santiago de Cuba; for Joaquín Costa it did not deserve to be called a battle, but an American target practice exercise.30 The bewildering outcome shattered Spanish morale and led the government to ask for peace terms. This defeat loomed large in the public´s perception of the war. The Navy was held responsible for a humiliating defeat and the loss of the last remains of the Spanish Empire in America; in other words: the Navy failed in its duty to the country. This dismal performance came as a shock to Spanish society. It emerged that, not only did the conduct of operations leaved a lot to be desired, but the state of readiness of the fleet as the war broke out was also a problem. The two largest units, the battleship Pelayo and the protected cruiser Carlos V, were being refitted, and three armoured cruisers that should have been completed three years before were still under construction. Moreover, Admiral Cervera’s ships were in notoriously poor condition. This implied negligence and ineptitude at all levels of command and administration. It also meant an indictment of the naval policy of the last two decades.31 After the war, the need to rebuild the Army and the Navy was a major issue in domestic politics. All parties agreed that the Navy had proved incapable of fulfilling its duties, but also that a strong navy was a necessity for the country; the arguments centred on the level of urgency. The question was influenced by the international scene. The turn of the century was the heyday of navalism, with Alfred Thayer Mahan’s ideas at their most popular; most states with maritime interests, great or small, favoured naval

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development. The public debate that followed, between ‘Navalists and Antinavalists’,32 was decisively influenced by these developments. Within the context of Spanish history, it constituted an aspect of the ‘denationalisation’ process triggered by the post-1898 soul-searching. Henceforth, the chief symbols of national identity were called into question by significant segments of Spanish society, in particular by Socialists and peripheral Nationalists. This is illustrated by the three attempts to rebuild the Navy addressed here. They were promoted by conservative cabinets in the immediate aftermath of the war, in 1903 and in 1907. Francisco Silvela, the leader of the Conservative Party from 1897 and twice prime minister (March 1899 – October 1900 and December 1902 – July 1903), was as disappointed as anyone: shortly after the news of the Battle of Santiago de Cuba arrived in Spain, he issued one of the first and most famous indictments of the government’s pre-war policies, with explicit reference to the Navy.33 However, he also believed that the lesson to be learned was the need to have a navy capable of defending and asserting national independence and honour. To think otherwise was, he argued, simply ‘to renounce nationhood’.34 He was so aware of the need to ‘regenerate’ the institution, and of the difficulties lying ahead, that when the incumbent in his cabinet resigned, Silvela himself took over the Navy portfolio. He declared that it was: essential that the Spanish Navy is reborn and recovers from its present condition, so that it is able to resume its history, regain its former prestige and live up to the expectations of its traditions.35 To this end, he started work on a naval bill that included the construction of eight battleships, but the government fell before he could present it to Congress. Silvela enjoyed considerable support. Navalists were active as early as June 1900, when a learned society in Almeria organised a conference and issued a call for papers on ideas to rebuild the Navy. Institutional support came in the form of a squadron that visited the port during

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the event.36 That same year, they founded the Liga Marítima Española (Spanish Maritime League), to cater for the interests of the maritime world. Prominent statesmen were involved in it from the outset: Antonio Maura, who succeeded Silvela as leader of the Conservative Party in 1905, was its first president. The journal El Mundo Naval Ilustrado (The Illustrated Naval World) (1897–1901), founded by Pedro Novo y Colson, covered its activities in detail; authors included naval officers and well-known intellectuals, such as Juan Valera or Rubén Darío. In 1902, it was merged with the journal Vida Marítima (Maritime Life), the organ of the Liga Marítima. Opposition to naval development was supported by a substantial sector of public opinion, and it was embodied in Joaquín Costa, the main figure of the Regeneracionismo37 and the chief representative of antinavalism. In 1883, this lawyer, politician and essayist had laid the intellectual foundations of Spanish navalism after the 1868 revolution,38 but after the war he was so disappointed that he led the opposition against the government’s plans. Naval spending, he argued, would divert resources from economic recovery, and a new fleet would lead to an adventurous foreign policy and, hence, to new defeats. Costa went as far as to propose the abolition of the Navy Ministry.39 Another famous regeneracionista journalist, Luis Morote, had similar views. He conceded that Spain had a tradition as a maritime nation,40 but at the same time he was critical of the performance of the Navy.41 As a consequence of the latter, he did not see the Navy as an essential component of the ‘new’ country’s identity: The new Spain that rises and claims its right to live has a design, an objective: to save national energies in blood and treasure ... which ... [is] totally opposed to those [ideas] that sank at Cavite and Santiago, [which is] the reckless waste of blood and treasure that makes up the entire course of our history.42 In his second term, Silvela enlisted the help of Joaquín Sánchez de Toca, an avowed navalist who had supported his 1900 bill, and appointed him Navy Minister.43 Toca´s 1903 bill included seven battleships and three armoured cruisers; the alleged reasons were again national security,

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honour and status, and the need to obviate the risk of another sterile sacrifice of ships and men.44 However, economically and politically this bill was as unrealistic as the previous one, and was also met with stiff opposition from progressive opinion. A leader in a Republican opposition newspaper reflected the prevailing mood: it disparagingly called Toca ‘the Pindaric poet of paper fleets’, but argued for a sensible mid-course solution between such chimerical projects and complete inaction.45 The third attempt was at last successful. It was carried out during Antonio Maura’s second term as prime minister (January 1907 – October 1909); it included three dreadnought battleships and 24 torpedo boats as the first stage of naval reconstruction. By then, the international situation had changed; the First Moroccan Crisis and the subsequent Algeciras Conference (1906) demanded that Spain assert its rights on the southern shore of the Gibraltar Straits. Maura was, together with Antonio Cánovas, the most prominent statesman of the Restauración.46 He was elected prime minister five times and had always taken a keen interest in naval and colonial affairs. He was one of the most consistent critics of naval policy in the nineties, and was acknowledged as an expert in the matter. In this instance, he appealed to the demands of the present international situation, as well as to Spanish nationalism. The issue attracted the interest of public opinion. On 27 December 1907, an expectant audience – both deputies and visitors benches were full – listened to Maura’s famous speech. He contended that the rebuilding of the Navy was an essential step to take full advantage of the outcome of the Algeciras Conference and to recover the country’s international status. He framed his argument in nationalistic, social Darwinist terms, in tune with the prevalent ideas and attitudes. Spain, he argued, had been a great country, and its vitality was the force that would help it recover from recent catastrophes: We need to live with vigour to thrive, maintain our personality and preserve the foundations of the Spanish nationality. In the dilemma whether to have a navy or not ... we must bequeath national dignity to our descendants.47

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The bill passed, but extra-parliamentary opposition in the press was considerable. Costa wrote the most extensive, and arguably most representative, criticism, which was published in the Republican newspaper El País.48 Costa reiterated his famous dictum from 1900, ‘double lock to the Cid’s sepulchre, never to ride his horse again’,49 by which he meant an end to assertive foreign policy. In short: fewer guns and more butter. He even adapted it for the occasion: ‘double lock to Ensenada’s sepulchre, never again to build [ships]’.50 Using Mahan as his authority, he observed that Spain simply lacked the conditions to be a sea power.51 The war had heightened the social and political awareness of the working classes, and socialist intellectuals, which were now voicing their demands. Costa expressed such demands forcefully in opposing the government’s navalist policy: the top priorities, to his mind, were education, better living conditions for the working classes and transparent, democratic government.52 National honour was not to be bought at the expense of the disadvantaged. The naval programme did not mean the resumption of national history, as Maura had argued, but of the flawed policies that had led to disaster. ‘The only way to honour our past’, Costa continued, ‘is to put an end to it’.53 The dichotomy of class war and nation-building is evident in his indictment of the ruling elites: ‘Neither they nor their children have to sail in those battleships or sink with them.’54 This debate marks the beginning of the socialist challenge to the traditional symbols of national identity, which developed in the following decades. As seen here, in the early twentieth century, the Navy was at the centre of this debate.

Conclusions In this chapter the relationship between the Navy and society in Spain has been analysed in three contexts: direct contact, cultural and political. Naval reviews had the power of the image, the experience of actually seeing what ships were like, being on board them and talking to the crew. History and literary works appealed initially to the literate, educated public, which included the ruling elites. Towards the end of the nineteenth century, as literacy increased, the influence of such

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works extended. By 1898, a large newspaper-reading public was able to follow current affairs; it was also vulnerable to political propaganda and nationalism. In the age of navalism, the relevance of the Navy as an illustration of past grandeur and as a present symbol of international status ensured its continued place in the national identity debate.

Notes 1. Gaceta de Madrid, 8 January 1846. 2. El Comercio del Plata, 21 October 1845. 3. I. e. José Álvarez Junco, Mater dolorosa. La idea de España en el siglo XIX (Madrid, 2001), pp. 517–518. 4. I. e. José Álvarez Junco, Mater dolorosa. La idea de España en el siglo XIX (Madrid, 2001), pp. 517–518; Antonio de la Vega Blasco, El resurgir de la Armada: certamen naval de Almería (25 de agosto de 1900) (Madrid, 1994), passim. Agustín R. Rodríguez González, La reconstrucción de la Escuadra: planes navales españoles, 1898–1920 (Madrid, 2010), pp. 24–25. 5. Jan Rüger, ‘Nations, Empire and Navy: Identity Politics in the United Kingdom, 1887–1914’, Past and Present, No. 185 (2004). Jan Rüger, The Great Naval Game. Britain and Germany in the Age of Empire (Cambridge, 2007); cf. Duncan Redford, The Submarine: A Cultural History from the Great War to Nuclear Combat (London, 2010), pp. 19–55. 6. José Ramón García Martínez, ‘La demostración naval de Alicante (junio de 1862)’, Revista General de Marina, 243 (2002), pp. 303–12. 7. Before 1868, flag ranks were the same for military and naval officers. The term admiral came into use only after that date. 8. La Iberia, 29 May, 4, 8 and 15 June 1862, La Época, 3 June 1862, Gaceta de Madrid, 7 June 1862. 9. Gaceta de Madrid, 10 June 1862, La Correspondencia de España, 10 June 1862. 10. La Época, 14 June 1862. 11. Ibid., El Diario Español, 10 June 1862, La Época, 9 and 11 June 1862 (newspapers which supported the government); Las Novedades, 10 June 1862, La Iberia, (opposition newspapers). 12. La Época, 11 June 1862, La Correspondencia de España, 11 June 1862, El Diario Español, 12 June 1862. 13. La Época, 11 June 1862. 14. La Correspondencia de España, 12 June 1862. 15. La Época, 13 June 1862.

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16. Ibid., La Correspondencia de España, 12 June 1862, La Época, 11 June 1862. 17. La Iberia, 10 June 1862. 18. Pedro Novo y Colson, Historia de la guerra de España en el Pacífico (Madrid, 1882), p. 474. 19. Ibíd. 20. Ibíd., p. 510. 21. At the engagement with the Callao forts, Miguel Lobo was Méndez Núñez´s chief of staff and Victoriano Sánchez Barcáiztegui was the commander of the frigate Almansa. 22. Novo, Historia de la guerra, p. 517. 23. Benito Pérez Galdós, Trafalgar (Madrid, 1873) and La vuelta al mundo en la Numancia (Madrid, 1906). 24. Carlos Alfaro Zaforteza, ‘Trafalgar, el Marqués de Molíns y el renacimiento de la Armada en 1850’, Revista de Historia Naval No. 97 (2007), pp. 46–49. 25. Galdós, Trafalgar, passim. 26. Benito Pérez Galdós, La de los tristes destinos (Madrid, 1907). 27. Benito Pérez Galdós, La vuelta al mundo en la Numancia (Madrid, 1906). 28. ‘El nuevo libro de Galdós’, El Heraldo de Madrid, 25 March 1906. 29. Damián Isern, ‘España después de la guerra’, Revista Contemporánea 122 (1901): p. 337. 30. Joaquín Costa, Marina española o la cuestión de la escuadra (Huesca, 1912), p. 136. 31. For one of the most detailed indictments, see Damián Isern, Del desastre nacional y sus causas (Madrid, 1899), passim, especially pp.329–355 for prewar naval policy. 32. The expression is taken from Craig L. Symmonds, Navalists and Antinavalists: The Naval Policy Debate in the United States, 1785–1827 (Newark, 1980). 33. Francisco Silvela, ‘España sin pulso’, El Tiempo, 16 August 1898. 34. Francisco Silvela in preface to Joaquín Sánchez de Toca, Del poder naval en España (Madrid, 1898), c [sic]. Speech at the Círculo Conservador, 7 Jan. 1899, in Francisco Sivela, Artículos, discursos, conferencias y cartas (Madrid, 1923), vol. 2, pp. 510–11. 35. El Mundo Naval Ilustrado, 30 April 1900, p. 162. 36. Vega, El resurgir de la Armada. El Mundo Naval Ilustrado, 20 September 1900, pp. 391–404. 37. Regeneracionismo was the intellectual and political movement at the turn of the century that dealt with the causes and solutions of Spanish decline, especially those of the 1898 defeat.

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38. Agustín Rodríguez González, Política naval de la Restauración (1875–1898) (Madrid, 1988), pp. 149–58. 39. Joaquín Costa, ‘Manifiesto de la Liga Nacional de Productores’, Revista Nacional, 10 April 1899, pp.7, 8, 21. 40. Luis Morote, La moral de la derrota (Madrid, 1900), pp. 293–299. 41. Ibíd., pp. 496–497, 595–596. 42. Ibíd., pp. 531–532. 43. Miguel Ángel Serrano Monteavaro, ‘El poder naval en la España de entre siglos, 1890–1907’, Militaria, No. 2 (1990), p. 125. 44. Sánchez de Toca, Nuestra defensa naval. Primer programa (Madrid, 1903), pp. ix-x. 45. ‘Una política naval’, El País, 3 August 1903 46. Restauración is the period of Spanish history between 1874 and 1931. 47. Antonio Maura, 27 December 1907 Congress session, La Vanguardia (Barcelona), 28 December 1907. 48. Joaquín Costa, ‘Construcción de la Escuadra’, El País, 25 December 1907, reprinted in id., Marina española, pp. 91–137. 49. ‘doble llave al sepulcro del Cid, para que no vuelva a cabalgar’. Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar, nicknamed El Cid Campeador, was a medieval war-lord, and is a major popular Spanish national myth. 50. Costa, Marina española, pp. 118–119, 130. The Marquis of La Ensenada was a minister from the mid-eighteenth century, famous for his expansive naval shipbuilding programme. 51. Ibíd., pp. 98–99, 119–120. 52. Ibíd., pp. 91–2, 102, 106, 107. 53. Ibíd., pp. 97–98, 101. 54. Ibíd., p. 107.

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CHAPTER 13 NAVALISM AND GR EATER BR ITAIN, 1897–1914 John C. Mitcham

In the summer of 1897, a magnificent demonstration of British naval power assembled at Spithead to celebrate Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. Over 165 warships entertained the masses with fireworks, searchlight displays and carefully orchestrated drills.1 Within this ‘invented tradition’, colonial representatives occupied a prominent position.2 The leaders of the self-governing colonies accompanied the Prince of Wales, behind the procession of the royal yacht Victoria and Albert, while chartered trains transported several hundred white colonial soldiers from the Jubilee contingents to attend the naval spectacle. The usually satirical Punch celebrated this gathering for its message of imperial unity, chiefly the importance of seapower as part of a shared maritime heritage. Its cartoon depicted a rowing boat full of lion cubs wearing naval cadet uniforms and waving the pennants of Australia, New Zealand, Canada and the Cape Colony. An adult British Lion directed the boat through the assembled fleet, while exuberantly proclaiming ‘this is the proudest moment of my life!’3 The meaning was clear to contemporaries: Great Britain was spreading the lessons of naval power to the young Dominions in order to foster interest in the common bond of empire.

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The end of the nineteenth century witnessed a wave of intense public interest in the Navy. This phenomenon – what contemporaries termed ‘navalism’ – transcended mere matters of propaganda and party politics to play a central part in the ongoing construction of ‘British’ identity. Recent scholarship has shown how Britons eagerly embraced their historical connections to the sea, with warships, sailors and other maritime icons occupying sacred places in the national pantheon.4 This self-identification as an ‘Island Race’, possessing the world’s greatest navy and commercial fleet, influenced the development of a sense of global ‘Englishness’ and ‘Britishness’ during the ‘long eighteenth century’.5 Imperialists in the age of Gladstone and Disraeli continued this trend, with prominent theorists such as James Anthony Froude, John Seeley and Charles Dilke depicting the Empire as a transoceanic entity of white self-governing states linked by a common race, culture and connection to the sea.6 Within this imperial community of ‘Greater Britain’, the Royal Navy was a highly visible symbol, safeguarding the interests all Britons. This popular association of the Navy with imperial unity became an easily identifiable motif in late-Victorian middle-class discourse; it was no coincidence, after all, that organisers of the first Empire Day celebration in 1902 adopted the slogan ‘One King, One Flag, One Fleet, One Empire’. The challenges of the Anglo-German naval arms race reinforced these connections between race, empire and navalism. As the ‘Weary Titan’ struggled under its burden, many Britons looked to the Dominions for assistance in maintaining naval supremacy. Government authorities, journalists and colonial statesmen alike employed all manner of propaganda and education to promote the Navy as a vital imperial institution, worthy of the towering levels of expenditure. The resulting outburst of navalism in the Dominions was widely interpreted through a racial lens, stressing the natural solidarity of the British people. Popular discourse celebrated Dominion financial assistance, during the 1909 dreadnought crisis, as the prophetic awakening of seafaring traits throughout the global British diaspora. Moreover, the emergence of independent Australian and Canadian navies, which had historically evoked fears of imperial dissolution, now sparked widespread discussions of a new maritime

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alliance between free ‘British’ states. Colonial nationalism embraced these new navies as ample proof of the Dominions’ autonomy and evolving presence on the world stage. Yet, by ensuring imperial coordination in wartime, and by maintaining exceptionally close links with the Royal Navy, these forces symbolised traditional connections within the Empire, often blurring the line between ‘national’ and ‘imperial’ allegiances. In this light, British efforts to procure greater naval cooperation in the years 1897–1914 centred on identifying and cultivating a supposed common maritime inheritance in the Dominions – an inheritance that satisfied colonial nationalism, while at the same time positing a distinctive ‘Britishness’. Navalism thus became a powerful discursive tool, offering amended versions of the same message to staunch imperialists and colonial nationalists alike.

Navalism and the Empire Modern warships constituted the most visible tool for reinforcing the connections between the Empire, the sea and the global British diaspora. These massive steel bastions of state-of-the-art technology served as floating symbols of progress and modernity, and as a visual reminder of why ‘Britannia’ ruled the waves. It was also a reminder of an imperial network in which ‘Britannia’ increasingly encompassed the white residents of Australia, New Zealand, Canada and South Africa, where the modern warship also represented a common link traversing the global highways of the Empire. The naming of individual warships reflected this cultural association of the Navy as an agent of imperial unity. Admiralty officials christened new vessels with names such as HMS Commonwealth, HMS Dominion and HMS Prince of Wales, emphasising a mutual loyalty to monarchy and Empire. More specific names such as HMS New Zealand, HMS Natal and HMS Canada established a special connection between the colonies and individual ships.7 By reserving these titles for the Navy’s most powerful battleships and cruisers, they ensured that colonials ‘would take much greater pride and interest in knowing that HMS “So and So” and HMS “Something-Else” were their Ships and a visible tangible object lesson of the Dominion’s part in the Empire’s defence.’8

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Fleet reviews and naval demonstrations provided venues for the Admiralty to display seapower to a wider imperial audience. This public celebration of the Navy – what Jan Rüger terms ‘naval theatre’ – constituted a form of mass spectacle while ‘offering an icon, at once modern and romantic, for the imagination of a shared imperial vision’.9 Much of this imperial propaganda focused on high-ranking white colonial visitors to the United Kingdom. Royal celebrations and coronations offered periodic opportunities to expose Dominion leaders to the lessons of navalism. After the successes of the Golden and Diamond Jubilees, even larger and more grandiose reviews took place for the 1902 and 1911 royal coronations. When King Edward VII fell ill only days before his coronation, the naval review proceeded without him. Denied the ceremonial participation of the monarch, the review became a spectacle solely for the assembled masses, including many visitors from the Dominions. Indeed, Admiralty officials alluded to this important colonial audience in justifying the expenses of the Diamond Jubilee.10 The review for the 1911 coronation of the ‘Sailor King’ George V surpassed all other naval pageants in its scope and imperial connection. The Colonial Office requested accommodation for over 750 colonial guests and arranged specially-chartered trains to Portsmouth on the day of the review.11 Upon arrival, spectators gazed upon a magnificent display of 167 warships, arranged in seven rows each over five miles long. A Times correspondent revelled in its impact on Dominion guests, one of whom admitted ‘I have seen some sights in my time ... but never [with deep emphasis] have I dreamed of anything like this.’12 The 1911 coronation also featured a new imperial dimension: the participation of several hundred sailors and naval cadets from the recently formed Royal Australian and Royal Canadian navies.13 Though small in number, their appearance represented to many contemporaries the first indication of navalism’s influence in the self-governing communities across the seas. The Admiralty also took this message of navalism abroad to the Dominions. Upholding a long-standing tradition of ‘showing the flag’ in far-flung possessions, the Royal Navy employed warships to serve as goodwill ambassadors and symbols of imperial unity. Many spectacles combined naval pageantry with that other emblem of imperial

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loyalty, the monarchy. British warships routinely conveyed members of the Royal Family on grand imperial tours of the Empire. The Navy played a highly visible role in the Royal Tour of 1901 and the 1911 Delhi Durbar. Indeed, the appearance of the sleek new battle-cruiser HMS Indomitable at the 1908 Quebec Tercentenary attracted as much attention as its most prominent passenger, the Prince of Wales.14 In a more common scenario, the Navy acted as a representative of royal authority in distant colonial locations. Admiralty instructions for the 1902 Coronation of Edward VII required warships on colonial stations to visit the principal cities and perform small-scale reviews for the local inhabitants.15 At the appointed hour of the coronation, naval vessels would coordinate with land batteries in firing a royal salute. In this manner, the residents of Auckland, Vancouver and Melbourne could share in the cloistered ceremonies of Westminster Abbey through the common intermediary of the Royal Navy. Despite the concerted efforts of the Admiralty to foster navalism in the Dominions, it is a mistake to view these policies as an imperial propaganda campaign fuelled solely within the corridors of Whitehall. Non-governmental actors were equally crucial in ‘selling’ the Navy to overseas audiences. Extra-parliamentary organisations, such as the Imperial Federation (Defence) Committee, the Imperial Maritime League, the Society of Islanders and the British Navy League flourished amidst the anxieties of the Anglo-German naval arms race. The last organisation, with a membership of over 100,000 by 1914, made significant efforts to reach out to white subjects throughout the empire. In 1902, Navy League member H.F. Wyatt embarked upon a tour of the Dominions to preach the gospel of imperial defence cooperation. His efforts saw considerable success in establishing overseas chapters and influencing public opinion.16 He emphasised the Navy’s role in protecting all Britons and characterised it as ‘the engine that was externally responsible for the well-being of the race’.17 Most importantly, Wyatt appealed to popular emotions and ‘sentiment’ by highlighting the romantic aspects of navalism.18 Subsequent trips by Navy League envoys mirrored this approach, showing lantern slides of famous warships and encouraging schools to establish prizes for essays on British naval history.19

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British and Dominion journalists also assumed major roles in propagating the message of navalism to an imperial audience. In 1909, leading members of the British press orchestrated the empire’s first Imperial Press Conference in order to strengthen the bonds of imperial unity. Conference organisers worked in conjunction with government officials to advertise the Navy through lectures, informal discussions and a massive naval review at Spithead. The powerful ‘press baron’ Lord Northcliffe informed First Sea Lord Sir John Fisher that: this is one of the most important gatherings that has [sic] ever taken place in England, and your demonstration will be the most important part of that gathering.20 Unlike previous events, this review lacked a celebratory raison d’être and instead focused solely on ‘educating’ the Dominion delegates. In this regard, the event was a success. Conference leaders noted that their colonial cousins gleefully: picked out the ships whose names made an appeal to their respective geographical interests – the Dominion, the New Zealand, Africa, Commonwealth, Natal, and so forth.21 British journalists such as Arnold White, Archibald Hurd and J.L. Garvin reinforced this theme in their detailed coverage of the review – with full knowledge that Dominion papers typically republished their articles. White’s editor encouraged him to make his account ‘as picturesque as possible, conveying to the reader vivid impressions of the magnificent display.’22 Hurd of the Daily Telegraph characterised the review as ‘a broad lesson in Imperial Duty’ and hoped that delegates were ‘intent upon finding some means by which the whole undeveloped capabilities of the race might be gathered together and organised for the protection of the common highway.’23 Australian author Frank Fox serves as a prominent example of how personal dialogue between the British press, the Admiralty and Dominion journalists could establish imperial networks of

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cooperation with the common goal of promoting navalism. An Australian nationalist, Fox wrote for the anti-imperial Sydney Bulletin and produced several books critical of British leadership, including the famous Bushman and Buccaneer about Australian national martyr Harry ‘Breaker’ Morant.24 Possibly influenced by the emotional appeal of the Imperial Press Conference, Fox soon secured employment with the powerful Northcliffe press organisation and composed articles with imperial and naval themes for The Times and the Daily Mail.25 His subsequent proposal to write a book about the Navy ‘from an imperial standpoint’ prompted Northcliffe to lobby on his behalf for Admiralty support. Northcliffe lauded Fox as ‘the man who completely converted the Sydney Bulletin from its anti-English views to its present patriotic note’.26 The result was a brief work aimed at a Dominion readership and promoting the Royal Navy as a common instrument of Empire. Fox employed colourful illustrations and paid the requisite homage to Britain’s naval hero, Admiral Horatio Nelson. He connected England’s naval heritage to a broader imperial audience and described its warships as being ‘wonderful as manifestations of human energy and human genius, more wonderful as manifestations of pride of race.’27 Significantly, Fox – an avid supporter of an independent Australian navy operating in conjunction with imperial forces – avoided controversial claims and instead focused on the popular fascination with warships. His book was generally well-received in Australia, where reviewers noted its particular appeal to children.28 It is misleading to imply that the Admiralty, the Navy League and other imperialist groups forced this propaganda campaign on unresponsive colonials. On the contrary, Dominion populations actively consumed the message of navalism. In preparation for the 1909 Cowes Naval Review, colonial press representatives experienced trouble securing credentials from the Admiralty. An agitated member of the New Zealand Associated Press pleaded: that it would be an excellent thing for the Imperial Nay [sic] movement if a colonial writer could send out a series of articles on the work of the Navy written from observation.29

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Another press agency specialising in photographs and illustrations for overseas audiences appealed to the Admiralty for press credentials by providing a substantial list of colonial patrons. They insisted ‘at the present the navy is extremely interesting to the Colonies where these Newspapers circulate and they would much appreciate the photographs which we could send them.’30 Dominion organisers of the 1910 Canadian National Exhibition in Toronto even sought to transport the spectacle of British naval reviews to the Great Lakes, albeit in a reduced scale. Citing the clauses of the Rush-Bagot Treaty demilitarising the Great Lakes, they requested the Admiralty loan the large and intricate ship models used for naval construction. They admitted to widespread Canadian ignorance of naval affairs, and hoped that the models would trigger popular interest in this common imperial institution.31 The 1913 world tour of the HMS New Zealand demonstrates the popular appeal of the Navy in the overseas Dominions. A gift from the New Zealand Government to the Royal Navy, the battle-cruiser embarked upon an imperial goodwill cruise after Dominion authorities voiced repeated complaints about the lack of British warships in the Pacific.32 The voyage provided the Admiralty with an opportunity to advertise this sleek new vessel as a physical manifestation of imperial loyalty. In planning the itinerary, Captain Lionel Halsey suggested visiting as many New Zealand ports as possible. He insisted ‘it would be the means of creating a great wave of Imperial Loyalty.’33 New Zealand’s Prime Minister Joseph Ward agreed, emphasising the need for people of ‘all ages having an opportunity of seeing warships and having the advantage of witnessing Naval parades’.34 Shortly before departure, South African officials submitted their own request to be added to the warship’s itinerary, explaining that the battle-cruiser’s image ‘could not fail to have excellent effect in impressing popular imagination and quickening interest in the Navy’.35 Further requests arrived from Australia, forcing the Admiralty to choose between several locations and expressing deep regret that time constraints precluded a more thorough tour.36 Far from being passive victims of ‘imperial propaganda’, naval enthusiasts in the Dominions vied for the honour (and the visual splendour) of hosting the Navy’s newest warship.

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The New Zealand’s arrival in ‘home’ waters in April 1913 represented the pinnacle of British and Dominion cooperation in the promotion of navalism. The vessel spent three months cruising the islands and visiting many coastal cities.37 In most ports, the Navy opened the battle-cruiser to public tours. Approximately 400,000 New Zealanders out of a total population of one million explored ‘their’ ship, surely making this event the largest spectacle in the Dominion’s history.38 Local organisations and government agencies also came together to promote this historic event. Extravagant parties, parades, and dances greeted the men of the New Zealand at every port of call. The Dominion’s Education Department worked in conjunction with the New Zealand Navy League to print and distribute free half-tone picture cards of the battle-cruiser to school children.39 In Wellington, the Navy League and the local education authorities cooperated to transport over 5,000 children to an auditorium, where Halsey lectured on naval history and suggested an exchange of flags between British and New Zealand schools.40

1909: Year of Crisis Public interest in the Navy reached its climax during the height of the 1909 dreadnought crisis. On March 16, First Lord of the Admiralty Reginald McKenna announced in the House of Commons that the acceleration in German naval construction required a substantial increase in the Navy Estimates for the coming year. In a compromise reached with the economic wing of the Liberal Party, McKenna proposed to lay down four dreadnoughts, with an additional four at the end of the year contingent on German progress. This platform failed to mollify the Unionist opposition, who joined their navalist allies in the press and launched a vitriolic campaign under the battle-cry ‘We Want Eight and We Won’t Wait!’ With discussions of peacetime defence policy typically confined to a small and informed populace, the 1909 ‘scare’ drew widespread attention to the questionable state of naval supremacy. Amidst this public dialogue, dreadnought fever spread across the seas to the Dominions. On March 22, New Zealand Prime Minister

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Joseph Ward announced his government’s intention to finance ‘a battleship of the latest type’ for the Royal Navy.41 Within two weeks, the Australian states of New South Wales and Victoria joined their counterparts across the Tasman Sea in promising funds for a second dreadnought.42 Even in Canada, public agitation caused the government to begin exploring options to improve the collective security of the empire.43 These unprecedented displays of imperial solidarity left an indelible mark on a British public hungry for support against a perceived German naval threat. Joyous acclimations in the popular press lauded the Dominion actions, prompting one British journalist to exclaim: once more a national emergency has called forth those feelings of loyalty and affection for the Motherland which animate the people of our colonies, and which, when rightly welcomed and appreciated, form a stronger bond of Empire than any that could be forged by legislation.44 The initial reaction to the dreadnought gifts celebrated the naval ‘coming of age’ of the young Dominions. Indeed, this popular discourse of racial solidarity through naval cooperation often transcended the dominant issue of German competition. Two days after Ward’s announcement, The Times insisted that ... there can be no Briton worthy of the name who has not felt a redoubled pride in his lineage this week ... The Mother Country can make no answer to this splendid demonstration which would do full justice to its significance. She can only welcome it with pride.45 The Pall Mall Gazette noted that ‘it is an event which ought to silence the last of those who asperse the genuine spirit of Imperial Unity, and accentuate the determination of all true Englishmen to let nothing come between them and the Empire’s common welfare and security.’46 Other commentators emphasised the familial links of the imperial race. J.L. Garvin of The Observer proudly proclaimed that ‘in the

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struggle for sea power ... we shall not stand alone. Seaborn, this Empire of ours remembers its common birthright.’47 The Liberal organ, the Westminster Gazette, emphasised the symbolic nature of colonial contributions and maintained that: such a voluntary and timely demonstration of loyalty and affection for the Motherland on the parts of these great British Colonies or Commonwealths should be regarded by England as of incalculably more significance and intrinsic worth than the building of a hundred ‘Dreadnoughts’.48 Paramount in this discussion of Dominion navalism was an emphasis on the white settler communities as part of a new global maritime alliance. The popular press in Great Britain employed discursive terms such as ‘Sea-United British’, ‘Empire of the Sea’, and the ‘Britannic Alliance’ to describe the imperial partnership.49 As one critic noted, ‘it comprised a declaration to all the world of the unity of the British Empire, and the determination of all parts of it to offer a united front to schemes of foreign aggression.’50 A writer for the Fortnightly Review eagerly looked forward to an ‘imperial patrol’ of colonial dreadnoughts, as the future manifestation of this racial solidarity. Reflecting the sentiments of many Edwardian contemporaries, he insisted ‘it is plain that the Sea League of All the Britons is essential to Imperial Unity.’51 Popular discourse in New Zealand largely mirrored that in Great Britain. In their unanimous vote for the dreadnought contribution, politicians in the New Zealand Parliament repeatedly emphasised their loyalty to the ‘Mother Country’ and the ‘Old Country’. One politician noted that New Zealanders ‘in offering to do this work, and to do it for the love of the Old Country and their kinsmen, they recognised that they were Britishers, that they were part and parcel of the British Empire.’52 Another New Zealand citizen looked forward to the day when: England will yearn for an ally of her own blood, for a race of Anglo-Saxons who can sail their own ships and range their own seas and defend their own hearths, fearlessly and with

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self-respect, and all to uphold the same flag that the Imperial Navy flies today.53 In Australia and Canada, prevailing sentiments supported the development of independent naval forces working in conjunction with the Royal Navy. In the summer of 1909, Australian authorities adopted a British proposal to create a self-contained ‘fleet unit’ as the mainstay for the nascent Royal Australian Navy.54 An autonomous force under the control of the Dominion government, the fleet unit could join with British naval forces in wartime to form the basis of a powerful Pacific fleet. Canada eschewed such a large naval contribution. In lieu of a dreadnought, the Canadian House of Representatives unanimously passed a resolution in favour of an independent naval service.55 Though Canadians insisted upon assisting the Empire on their own terms, their rhetoric largely reflected the imperialist tone fuelled by the naval panic. As the liberal Manitoba Free Press insisted, ‘the British Empire is one and indivisible; and that on the seas, as on the land in the past, the sons of the race will be found in the battle line, if the need arises.’56 The new Dominion navies often blurred the lines between imperial and national identities. As Rüger has noted, the ‘homecoming’ passage of the HMAS Australia and its accompanying vessels entailed all the pomp and circumstance of imperial propaganda.57 This rite of passage – the possession of a modern navy – welcomed the Dominion into the confraternity of the modern nation-state. As the future Prime Minister Billy Hughes explained, ‘Australia has assumed the toga of nationhood.’58 At the same time, many Australians cherished this new force as their special contribution towards a shared maritime and imperial heritage. References to the Navy constantly enjoined a reminder of its avowedly ‘imperial’ role. At the launching of the cruiser HMAS Sydney, a Commonwealth representative insisted that ‘the navy of England has always been justly the Englishman’s pride; that pride and that interest should now be extended to embrace the navy of the Empire.’59 This sentiment became manifest in the ceremonies welcoming the fleet unit into Sydney Harbour. Massive crowds cheered their arrival with alternating choruses of ‘Rule Britannia’ and ‘Advance Australia.’60 Many

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Australian newspapers celebrated the event as a momentous occasion for both ‘nation’ and ‘empire,’ and the Sydney Morning Herald included a large illustrated print of the fleet unit between the Union Jack and the Australian national flag.61 This imperial devotion was also reflected in the Commonwealth’s decision to adopt the Royal Navy’s ‘White Ensign’ on board Australian warships and to request the designation ‘Royal’ as a prefix for an inherently ‘national’ navy. This would demonstrate ‘the oneness of the Imperial fleet’, explained Admiral George King-Hall, and remind Australians: that they have inherited the fine traditions of the past, and have entered into the heritage won for them by their forefathers, and be filled with the zeal and devotion to duty which distinguished our great seamen in the past.62 This fusion of imperial and national identities is apparent throughout a popular book by Australian nationalist C.E.W. Bean. Though best remembered as the wartime progenitor of the ‘Digger Myth’ of Australian national identity, Bean’s Flagships Three (1913) chronicled the birth of the Royal Australian Navy as the natural product of an Anglo-Saxon maritime culture. He traced this racial lineage from its Scandinavian origins to its most recent expression in the Antipodes and concluded that, as part of the global diaspora of Britons, the white residents of the Dominions ‘all were of the blood of sea peoples’.63 His descriptive work posited an ancient Viking vessel as ‘the first flagship of our race’, provided a long summary of English naval history, and culminated in the launch of the powerful HMAS Australia as ‘the first born of the Royal Navy’.64 To the remaining critics who opposed this decentralisation of naval authority, Bean assured them that ‘so long as this despised sentiment gives the British race the same enemies to fight and the same enemies to fight about, there is no question as to the destiny of the Royal Australian Navy.’65 Similar debates over the proper balance of ‘imperial patriotism’ occurred in Canada. In 1912, the new Conservative ministry of Sir Robert Borden announced its intentions to provide the Royal Navy with an unprecedented gift of three dreadnoughts. Though the bill

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ultimately failed in the Liberal-dominated Senate, the episode reveals fascinating trends about the nature of identity in Canada. Conservatives insisted that direct contributions to the Royal Navy placed the interests of the Empire above all others, and they savaged their opponents for their lack of imperial patriotism.66 Yet a close reading of the opposition response reveals a similar devotion to imperial cooperation. Liberals such as Sir Wilfred Laurier advocated increased expenditure towards an independent navy operating in conjunction with the Royal Navy. Indeed, Laurier surprised his opponents by proposing the creation of two fleet units (one for the Atlantic and one for the Pacific) in lieu of the dreadnought offer. He publicly denounced accusations that a Canadian navy might be ‘neutral’ or ‘separatist’ and assured the Dominion Parliament of his ‘devotion and loyalty to the British Empire’.67 Privately he assured the Governor General ‘when the naval supremacy is in question ... I am a Britisher to the core.’68 Other liberal critics even lambasted the government plan as placing an undue burden on the ‘Mother Country’, as the naval bill made no provision for annual maintenance or manning requirements.69 For many Liberals, the continuance of a Royal Canadian Navy served a dual purpose of satisfying national pride while upholding Canada’s share in the defence of the common empire. Their actions and rhetoric both in the debates and in the public arena reflected a common allegiance to the Empire, albeit one which adhered to the realities of colonial nationalism. ‘Only in that way,’ one editor maintained, ‘can Canadians show themselves worthy of the great traditions of their Anglo-Saxon and Norman ancestors.’70

Navalism: The White Man’s Burden The Edwardian obsession with navalism and the Empire reinforced one overarching feature of imperial unity: that navies remained the preserve of a Westernised, European population. It is significant that this concept of a ‘Sea Empire’ stressed the racial union of its white leadership and precluded the participation of non-white elements. After all, Indians, Africans and West Indians might serve as colonial auxiliaries, but no one expected them to establish naval academies or

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represent the Empire on the high seas. Despite a historical tradition of employing African and Caribbean sailors, the Admiralty maintained strict racial policies towards non-white personnel.71 It even resolutely refused a suggestion to name a battleship ‘HMS Maori’.72 In India, where colonial authorities operated a small coastal flotilla, opportunities for indigenous ratings were extremely limited, to say nothing of commissioned officers. Even the Navy League maintained strict racial boundaries on membership. When ‘native gentlemen’ in Bombay approached the Navy League in 1905 with a request to form a chapter, the organisation politely declined.73 The League later amended its tone towards a future Indian navy, but hoped its sailors would be drawn from resident ‘Englishmen’.74 A 1902 article in the Contemporary Review best epitomised this cultural barrier limiting non-white participation in imperial naval defence. The author reminded readers of the historical maritime achievements of Indian ‘Lascars’ and admitted ‘we have never utilized them for work for which they were far better suited in some respects than Europeans.’ He urged their limited employment as stokers on board British warships (a manual labour position requiring little maritime experience) and posited that their abstention from alcohol made them better suited to the harsh and dangerous conditions of the engine rooms. The author preserved the racial integrity of the Navy’s image by assuring his audience that ‘the main work of our navy, like that of our army, must of course be done by the British races.’75 The case of the HMS Malaya further demonstrates the tension caused by non-white infringement into the sphere of navalism. In 1912, the Federated States of Malaya offered to fund a powerful new battleship for the Royal Navy. Though the Admiralty and the Colonial Office eagerly accepted this magnanimous gift, the incident is revealing due its lack of popular response. Unlike the Dominion ‘gift’ ships, which dominated headlines for weeks with proclamations of racial solidarity, the Malayan offer garnered only a brief announcement in the national press.76 Indeed, the only substantial publicity emanated from critics, who denounced the acceptance of naval assistance from native potentates. Navalists and advocates of naval disarmament alike protested ‘the dangerous character of the precedent involved’.77 This attitude re-emerged when reports

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arrived from India that several princes were considering a pecuniary gift of three dreadnoughts and a fleet of armoured cruisers – a massive force that would double British naval construction for 1913. Once again, this rumour (which proved unfounded) failed to attract significant attention or support. Contemporaries clearly sought to limit the participation of non-white populations in the shared spirit of navalism. As one white colonial dryly noted: The example of the Malay Rulers is being used as an argument to rub into the Indian Princes that they are remiss in performing–Heaven help us–what the arguers are pleased to call their ‘duty’ to the Empire ... Such relations as those invited by a claim, or even an expectation, of subsidy from a Protected State are incompatible with real Imperialism.78 Certainly this policy of racial exclusion had its benefits, as the discourse of imperial solidarity became a leading feature of the Anglo-German naval arms race. As the only European imperial power with a significant overseas white population, Britain relished the unique opportunity to share the burden of naval defence with its Dominions. Commentators routinely portrayed the Dominion naval contributions as a bulwark against the larger domestic population of Imperial Germany. Perhaps the most salient examples of this navalist expression emanated from political cartoons in satirical papers such as Punch. One image entitled ‘Call of the Blood’ depicted a lonely ‘Germania’ gazing from the rampart walls at a steaming warship. The caption read ‘A Dreadnought for Britain from New Zealand? These Lion Clubs are Splendid! I wish I had an Eaglet or Two Like That!’79 A later edition depicted the proposed Canadian dreadnoughts as the ‘Gift of the Sea King’s Daughter’, and lampooned Germany’s colonial enterprise: ‘we have not had to wait long for Germany’s answer to Canada. The German colony of the Cameroons has, it is rumoured, offered to present the Imperial Navy with a dingy, free from all “restrictions” ’.80 In this context, the symbolism of the Dominion navies became a powerful cultural expression in the discursive war that preceded the actual outbreak of Anglo-German hostilities.

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Though popular discourse emphasised the ‘Anglo-Saxon’ features of Britain’s maritime heritage, historians should exercise caution in viewing navalism as an inherently ‘English’ affair. This strict interpretation of race fails to account for the significant Boer and French Canadian populations, to say nothing of the Celtic periphery. Within the context of the ‘four kingdoms’ of Great Britain, great efforts were made to stress the ‘Britishness’ of the Royal Navy, and its identification as an imperial symbol synonymous with the Monarchy, the Union and the Empire. Smaller vessels, such as cruisers of the Devonshire-class bore the names of Scottish, Welsh and Irish localities.81 In addition, the concentration of major shipbuilding firms in Glasgow, Edinburgh and Belfast promoted local interest in the Navy as the financial provider for thousands of workers. The Navy thus shed its purely ‘English’ traditions and reached out to the British Isles at large. ‘It was,’ argues Rüger, ‘a powerful vehicle aimed at “reconciling the Celt” .’ 82 The case of white subjects of non-British descent is a bit more difficult to assess. The Boers and French Canadians historically expressed little interest in a navy that represented a continuance of the imperial link. French Canadians even likened Borden’s naval bill to imperial tribute, lamenting the ‘imperialist, who, shutting his eyes to the lessons of human history, work to relive the traditions of Carthage!’83 Nonetheless, naval enthusiasts extended their arms to the white residents of Quebec and the Transvaal in an effort to foster navalism to all white branches of the Empire. British-Canadians endeavoured to establish Navy League branches throughout Quebec and Governor General Earl Grey secretly approached a Roman Catholic Archbishop in an attempt to educate French Canadians on the importance of seapower.84 Borden even suggested naming the contingent dreadnoughts ‘Acadia’, ‘Quebec’ and ‘Ontario’ in order to mollify diverse national sentiments.85 Similarly, imperialists targeted the inland veldt in an attempt to reconcile Boer sentiments towards imperial participation. The Navy League worked with High Commissioner Lord Alfred Milner to attract Boer support for naval defence schemes.86 One writer evoked the memory of the Dutch ‘Golden Age’, reminding Britons that ‘maritime traditions are not the monopoly of the British race. Are

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not the Boers themselves more or less descended from those dreaded “Beggars of the Seas’... ?”87 These attempts further underline the colour boundaries prohibiting proper entry into the ‘Sea League of All the Britons’. Nineteenthcentury racialist discourse of ‘Anglo-Saxonism’, with its emphasis on maritime tradition and democratic governance, constituted a powerful cultural element, identifying and connecting geographically-diverse populations from throughout the British world. Yet, for many imperial enthusiasts, ‘colour’ represented a far simpler association than complicated Darwinian genres of ancient racial lineages. French Canadians, Boers and even the Irish might become ‘British’ through active participation in the Navy, but Indian princes remained confined to producing ‘bejewelled’ colonial auxiliaries. Navalism, like other ‘sacred’ privileges and responsibilities of imperial leadership, was to be a whites-only affair.

Conclusion Late-Victorian efforts to spread navalism throughout ‘Greater Britain’ achieved considerable success. Policymakers and imperial enthusiasts in the ‘Mother Country’ cooperated with their counterparts in the Dominions to promote the Royal Navy through fleet reviews, educational programmes and warship visits to distant colonial cities. Accompanying this aggressive propaganda campaign was a constant employment of racialist discourse that depicted seapower as the historical heritage of all Britons. By 1902, however, the realities of colonial nationalism threatened this utopian vision of imperial solidarity. The decision by Australia and Canada to form separate navies went against the traditional image of the Royal Navy as the sole shield of the Empire. Proponents of navalism responded by altering their rhetoric to embrace colonial navies as the natural product of evolving ‘British’ states and a symbol of the future of imperial cooperation. They characterised the Royal Australian Navy and the Royal Canadian Navy as inherently ‘national’ institutions, while at the same time interpreting these forces as propitious indications that ‘British’ seapower would continue to serve as a binding link between the white self-governing

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states of the Empire well into the new century. Far from merely adding to the collective security of the Empire, this shared navalist discourse provided a common means to express both a colonial identity and a patriotic devotion to a wider imperialism.

Notes 1. The Times, June 25 1897. 2. Eric Hosbawm and Terrance Ranger (eds.), The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge, 1983); The Times, 28 June 1897. 3. Punch, 26 June 1897. 4. See Jan Rüger, The Great Naval Game: Britain and Germany in the Age of Empire (Cambridge, 2007); Mary A. Conley, From Jack Tar to Union Jack: Representing Naval Manhood in the British Empire 1870–1918 (Manchester, 2009). 5. Kathleen Wilson, The Island Race: Englishness, Empire, and Gender in the Eighteenth Century (London, 2003); P.J. Marshall, ‘Empire and British Identity: The Maritime Dimension’ in David Cannadine (ed.) The Empire, the Sea, and Global History (New York, 2007). 6. See, for example, Charles Dilke, Greater Britain (London, 1868); John Seeley, Expansion of England (London, 1883); James Anthony Froude, Oceana, or England and Her Colonies (London, 1886). 7. For the identification of warships with various components of the empire, see Jan Rüger, ‘Nation, Empire and Navy: Identity Politics in the United Kingdom 1887–1914’, Past and Present, November 2004, pp. 170–176. 8. The National Archives, Colonial Office Papers [Hereafter cited as CO] 209/270 Governor General of New Zealand Lord Plunkett to Colonial Office, 14 June 1909. Emphasis in original. 9. Rüger, The Great Naval Game, p. 13. 10. Ibid., p. 178. 11. The National Archives, Admiralty Files [Hereafter cited as ADM] 116/1157 Hartman Just (Assistant Undersecretary of State for the Colonies) to Secretary of Admiralty, 16 March 1911. 12. The Times, 26 June 1911. 13. The Times, 21 February 1911. 14. For South Africa, see Philip Buckner, ‘The Royal Tour of 1901 and the Construction of an Imperial Identity in South Africa’, South African Historical Journal, vol. 41 (2000), pp. 324–348. For the Delhi Durbar arrangements, see ADM 116/1126. For a survey of the imperial dimensions of the Quebec

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15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32.

33. 34. 35.

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Tercentenary, see H.V. Nelles, The Art of Nation-Building: Pageantry and Spectacle at Quebec’s Tercentenary (Toronto, 1999), pp. 213–233. ADM 116/1148 Copy of Admiralty Instructions dated 14 May 1902. W. Mark Hamilton, The Nation and the Navy: Methods and Organization of British Navalist Propaganda, 1889–1914 (New York, 1986), p. 129. The Advertiser (Adelaide), 15 September 1903. The Evening Post (Wellington), 14 June 1912. See, for example, the 1909 New Zealand tour of Navy League member T.C. Knox in The Colonist (Nelson); Wanganui Herald, 20 January 1909. British Library, Northcliffe Papers. No. 62159 Northcliffe to Fisher, 12 March 1909. Thomas H. Hardman, A Parliament of the Press: The First Imperial Press Conference (London, 1909), p. 70. National Maritime Museum, Arnold White Papers [Hereafter cited as WHI] 77 Robert Donald to Arnold White, 10 May 1909. Cambridge University, Churchill College Archives, Archibald Hurd Papers 2/3 Clipping from Daily Telegraph of 14 June 1909. Morant was an Australian volunteer executed by British authorities during the South African War. He allegedly participated in the execution of several Boer prisoners of war. Northcliffe Papers, 62178 Fox to Northcliffe, 22 June 1909; Northcliffe to Fox, 24 July 1909. Northcliffe Papers, 62159 Northcliffe to Fisher, 29 July 1909. Frank Fox, Ramparts of Empire: A View of the Navy from an Imperial Standpoint (London, 1910), pp. 102–103. The Sydney Morning Herald, 9 July 1910; The Mercury, 11 July 1910; The Sydney Mail, 13 July 1910; Brisbane Courier, 20 July 1910. ADM 1/8049 G.H. Schofield to First Lord of the Admiralty, 5 July 1909. ADM 1/8049 Halftones, Limited to First Lord of the Admiralty, 22 July 1909. CO 42/937 J.O. Orr to Governor General Edward Grey, 11 February 1910. See, for example, ADM 116/1148 Governor General New Zealand to Secretary of State for Colonies, 25 October 1910; CO 209/271 Governor General New Zealand to Secretary of State for Colonies, 11 October 1910. ADM 116/1285 Lionel Halsey to Admiralty Secretary Graham Greene, 12 October 1912. CO 209/273 Governor General New Zealand to Secretary of State for Colonies, 6 January 1911. ADM 116/1285 Governor General South Africa to Secretary of State for the Colonies, 3 January 1912.

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36. ADM 116/1285 Admiralty Memo, 21 February 1913. 37. ADM 116/1285 Halsey to Admiralty, 1 July 1913. 38. ADM 116/1285 Estimates of People who visited on board ship. For a detailed account of the tour of the HMS New Zealand, see National Maritime Museum, JOD/213 Diary of Bandsman A. E. Crosby (Royal Marines) on HMS New Zealand November 1912 – January 1915. 39. The Navy, Vol. XV. No. 9, September 1910. 40. The Evening Post (Wellington), 14 June 1912. 41. CO 209/270 Governor General New Zealand to Secretary of State for Colonies, 22 March 1909. 42. CO 418/70 Governor General Australia to Secretary State for Colonies, 4 June 1909. 43. Gordon, 215–241. 44. The Illustrated London News, 27 March 1909. 45. The Times, 24 March 1909. 46. Pall Mall Gazette, 25 March 1909. 47. The Observer, 28 March 1909. 48. Westminster Gazette, 9 June 1909. 49. The Spectator, June 17 1911; Times, May 24 1909; Richard Jebb, The Britannic Question: A Survey of Alternatives (London, 1913), Chapter IV. 50. Edinburgh Review, July 1909. 51. The Fortnightly Review, April 1909, 607. 52. New Zealand Parliamentary Debates Vol. 146–147, 11 June 1909, 12–13. 53. The Times, 29 March 1909. 54. See Nicholas Lambert, ‘Economy or Empire? The Fleet Unit Concept and the Quest for Collective Security in the Pacific, 1909–1914’ in Greg Kennedy and Keith Nielson (eds.) Far-Flung Lines: Studies in Imperial Defence in Honour of Donald Mackenzie Schurman (London, 1996), pp. 54–83. 55. Marc Milner, Canada’s Navy: The First Century (Toronto, 1999), pp. 13–16. For a survey of the Australian experience, see David Stevens, The Royal Australian Navy: A History (Melbourne, 2006). 56. Donald Gordon, Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914 (Baltimore, 1965), p. 227. 57. Rüger, ‘Nation, Empire and Navy’ pp. 179–183. 58. Ibid., 183. 59. Institute of Commonwealth Studies, Richard Jebb Papers, Speech by R.M. Collins. Collins to Jebb, 25 August 1912. 60. The Sydney Morning Herald, 6 October 1913; The Sydney Mail, 8 October 1913.

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61. The Sydney Morning Herald, 6 October 1913; The Mercury, 6 October 1913; The Western Australian, 10 October 1913; The Advertiser, 6 October 1913; Brisbane Courier, 6 October 1913; The Sydney Mail, 8 October 1913. 62. From an Empire Day speech on 24 May 1911, in ‘Addresses and etc. on Australian Naval Policy’, by George King Hall (privately printed, October 1913) in Oxford University, Bodleian Library. Lewis Harcourt Papers 467. 63. C.E.W. Bean, Flagships Three (London, 1913). 64. Ibid., p. x. 65. Ibid., p. 366. 66. See for example: Albert Carman, ‘Canada and the Navy: A Canadian View’, Nineteenth Century and After (LXXI) May 1912, pp. 822–828; Ottawa Citizen, 6 December 1912; The Mail and Empire (Toronto), 6 December 1912; The Gazette (Montreal), 6 December 1912; Ottawa Evening Journal, 6 December 1912; The News (Toronto), 6 December 1912. 67. Debates of the House of Commons of the Dominion of Canada, 2nd Session, 12th Parliament Vol. CVII, 12 December 1912, pp. 694, 1034. 68. Library Archives of Canada, George Albert Grey Papers Volume 15. Grey to Lord Crewe, 8 December 1908. 69. Ottawa Free Press, 6 December 1912. 70. The Globe (Toronto), undated clipping in CO 42/961. 71. CO 418/65 Colonial Office to Admiralty memo by Graham Greene 14 April 1908. 72. Rüger, ‘Nation, Empire and Navy’, p. 175. 73. Hamilton, The Nation and the Navy, p. 128. 74. ‘India and the Navy’, The Navy XVI No. 7 July 1911, 183. 75. Demetrius C. Boulger, ‘Eastern Navy,’ Contemporary Review, October 1901, pp. 539, 544. 76. See for example The Times, 13 November 1912. 77. Arnold White, a leading navalist in the British press, conducted a grass roots campaign to uncover the ‘truth’ behind the Malaya offer. Also see, ‘Native States and the Navy: What the Malay Dreadnought Means’, Peace Council Document, found in WHI 77. 78. Singapore Free Press, 30 January 1913. 79. Punch, 31 March 1909. 80. Punch, 18 December 1912. 81. Rüger, ‘Nation, Empire and Navy’, pp. 170–171. 82. Ibid., p. 171. 83. Le Clarion (Saint-Hyacinthe), 6 December 1912. Le Nationaliste described the bill as ‘Imperialistes contre autonomistes’. Le Nationaliste (Montreal), 15 December 1912.

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84. Churchill College Archives, Leo Amery Papers 2/5/8 Grey to Amery, 15 May 1909. 85. Churchill College Archives, Winston Churchill Papers 13/18 Borden to Churchill, 2 November 1912. 86. The Times, 20 June 1904. 87. Jebb Papers, clipping of The Morning Post, 10 August 1908.

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CHAPTER 14 IMPER IAL IDEOLOGY, IDENTIT Y AND NAVAL R ECRUITMENT IN BR ITAIN’S ASIAN EMPIR E C.1928–1941 Daniel Owen Spence

‘Martial race theory’ rose to prominence following the 1857 Sepoy Mutiny, as Britain reorganised the Indian Army according to the perceived innate military characteristics of particular ethnic groups. The stereotypes which developed from this ideology reinforced Britain’s imperial ordering of the world and her ordained right to lead, filtering out groups who had rebelled during the mutiny, whilst elevating those who had remained loyal. Martial race theory spread to other areas of the Empire, from which a large number of colonial soldiers fought for Britain in both World Wars.1 The focus of academic study has thus far remained predominantly fixed on colonial army regiments. Yet, beyond the ‘White Dominions’, naval forces were also established in 16 of Britain’s colonial territories from the 1930s until World War II, totalling almost 40,000 men. In a period of imperial overstretch, the mobilisation of colonial manpower and finance was strategically vital for a burdened Admiralty no longer able to guarantee the security of its further-flung outposts, where local reserve units helped release

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Royal Navy regulars for higher technical work and more pressing operational theatres. One of the characteristics that bound many of these colonial naval recruits together was a belief that they possessed ‘the call of the sea’, an innate maritime connection developed over generations amongst certain coastal peoples, drawing them to seek a life on the waves and imbuing them with natural seafaring qualities. British naval and colonial authorities drew on this ideology in their deductions of local manpower and its suitability for naval service. Though the cultural stereotypes cultivated by martial race theory clearly held some credence for naval planners, they did not adopt its doctrine entirely. A martial race would not necessarily make a good naval recruit, nor did a seafaring race possess the ideal attributes for military service. Instead, a distinctly naval ideology evolved around a theory of ‘seafaring races’. As in nineteenth-century India, twentieth-century ‘seafaring race theory’ utilised pseudoscience and anthropology to legitimise discriminatory recruitment, so as to preserve the imperial status quo. Consequently, the officer class of colonial naval forces remained almost the exclusive domain of white Europeans, while ratings were chosen from select indigenous groups considered loyal to the British, sidelining those elements seen as threatening to colonial rule and the chain of command. Naval recruitment thus acted as a tool of British imperialism in the years leading up to World War II, which this chapter will now explore in the cases of India, Southeast Asia and Hong Kong.

India Renowned for its military tradition, India’s naval heritage is less well known. The origins of its modern navy date back to 1686 with the establishment of the Bombay Marine, becoming the Royal Indian Marine in 1892. It was not until 1928, however, that the first Indian officer was commissioned into the service. There was, of course, the competing prestige of the Indian Army, which siphoned off the better candidates. More tellingly, however, is the fact that British naval chiefs

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held doubts over Indians’ ties to the sea, their motives for enlisting and the degree to which they could be relied upon: Since India has not been a sea-going nation, the recruits, both officers and men, will for some time not join the Navy merely for the love of the sea, but for what the Navy has to offer them in the way of a career. I think this is bound to result in more failure and wastage than if the call of the sea was inherent.2 Maritime aptitude and the ‘call of the sea’ were framed here in Darwinian terms, characterised and inherited along ethnic lines, with the British having evolved as a seafaring people. Indians were depicted as needing Britain’s naval paternalism, not having developed such qualities themselves, which reaffirmed British hegemony. Within India, there were exceptions to this national preconception. The majority of ratings in the Indian Marine were made up of Ratnagiri Muslims from the Konkan coast, men with fishing backgrounds and the descendents of pioneering Indian Ocean traders. One British officer describes his personal experience of these sailors: I had a very good example of this old seafaring instinct on the long passage from Mombassa to Cochin with seven ships in company ... the Boys Training Ship TIR using every stitch of canvas was some two miles ahead of the rest, with steerage way and making about one to one and a half knots. Her old Commissioned Boatswain was Mr. Ali Mohaddin, a Konkani Muslim whose ancestors had sailed in the trade winds to Africa for about 2000 years.3 In 1934, the Royal Indian Marine was awarded full combatant status to become the Royal Indian Navy (RIN). From this point, martial aptitude superseded seafaring experience as a desired attribute, a reflection of the force’s new front-line role. This evinced itself in a shift in recruitment preference from Ratnagiri to Punjabi Muslims, perceived as among the higher martial races. It was stated that ‘as a

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gunnery signal or any other kind of specialist the Punjabi Mussalman was way ahead of the Ratnagiri’,4 and although they were undoubtedly ‘good seaman’, Ratnagiris were considered ‘of a low standard of education and with few natural martial qualities’.5 Instead it was ‘a better I.Q. plus guts which count[ed]’,6 and the ‘instinct for leadership which [was] implicit in the men from the Punjab’,7 something of increased importance with the new demands of the force. Admiral Godfrey, the chief of the RIN, wrote that, in some regards, even over the British sailor, the Punjabi Muslim was pre-eminent: Given good leadership and training he can withstand the sun and climate better, he is more easily fed, he is not at prey to skin diseases, and gastric troubles, he needs little comfort, and his sleeping arrangements are extremely simple ...8 It was noted that the Punjabi Muslim was only expected to rise through ‘good leadership and training’ from British officers, thus reaffirming Britain’s leadership role in the subcontinent. Moreover, this echoes the martial race supposition that warlike attributes were closely tied to climate, specifically, the colder regions of the north. Godfrey was particularly taken by the belief that environment affected character, reflected in a booklet he produced which introduced new British officers to the creeds and customs of Indian sailors, where pseudoscientific stereotypes were reinforced: The people of the North are fairer of skin than those of the South and the climate in which they live, generally speaking, is more conducive to energetic modes of living than that of the south. In South India, the majority of people are dark in countenance and inclined to be less martial minded, although in years gone by, the south of India has her warriors too. Modern education is very much further developed in South India. The climatic conditions of Assam and Bengal are not conducive to strenuous or energetic work, and the long connections with western civilisation and education have tended to produce an astute people.9

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As with martial race theory, the willingness to follow orders unquestioningly was considered a much more desirable attribute than intelligence or education for naval ratings. This had been graphically expressed by George MacMunn, a British army officer serving in India in the late-nineteenth century, who lauded the Sikh for ‘as a fighting man, his slow wit and dogged courage give him many of the characteristics of the British soldier at his best’.10 The recruitment preference towards more martial Punjabi Muslims can also be explained by the Navy’s different strategic priorities to those of the Indian Army. Whereas martial race theory still prescribed those deemed less-martial a role within the Army, as combatants against inferior, non-European foes, this outlet did not exist aboard a naval vessel which had to operate as a cohesive unit. Naval rivals were, by their nature at this time, technologically-advanced, either European, or the Japanese who combined martial tradition with modern Western naval tactics and technology. To combat such foes, only the best quality of fighting man would suffice. The 1935 Government of India Act decreed that, no subject of His Majesty domiciled in India shall on grounds only of religion, place of birth, descent, colour ... be prohibited from ... carrying on any occupation, trade, business or profession in British India.11 The impact of this legislation upon the RIN was a need for the force to become more representative of the country’s demography, by widening recruitment to incorporate increased numbers of Hindus, previously neglected because they were seen to be neither seafaring nor martial. Naval ideology and ethnic preference had not fundamentally changed, but had become more difficult to enforce in the wake of new political pressures. This can be viewed as a microcosm for British imperial rule in the subcontinent at this time, prolonged only through concessions introduced through the Act, such as provincial autonomy. The RIN’s recruitment shift towards higher-educated Hindu castes from the south of India was also dictated by operational imperatives, as the force expanded under the pressures of war, acquiring increasingly

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sophisticated warships, which required more technically-skilled personnel to operate them. Hindus faced inherent prejudice from British officers who questioned not only their ability to fight, but also their willingness to follow orders and respect for the chain of command. To Godfrey, ‘it was always realised that they [southern Hindus] were Nationalist minded ... probably more so than the Army on account of the higher standard of education’.12 Commodore Jefford also described these matriculates, with their ‘veneer of book learning overlaying their gullible nature’ as ‘God’s gift to the unscrupulous politician’.13 To British naval chiefs, education encouraged independent inquisitive thought, which was antithetical to the unquestioning loyalty demanded by naval service. Exposure to political ideas was seen to make such men susceptible to the pernicious influences of nationalism, potentially leading to a conflict of professional loyalty. To an extent, these fears were realised when the RIN experienced a significant mutiny in 1946, though there were additional contributing factors, most notably discontent over racial abuse, poor leadership and prolonged demobilisation. Religion also acted as a key marker of ‘otherness’. By emphasising religious differences, with Godfrey conjuring up the image of a disordered land, still gripped in the primitive vice of irrational superstition, the sense of ‘otherness’ was accentuated, and with it British cultural superiority and the moral justification for their civilising presence: To a casual observer and to anyone who is not fully conversant with Indian conditions, India is a land of mystery, full of apparently strange contradictions. The prevalence of fundamentally divergent religious beliefs and social practices and the existence of a number of distinctly separate communities with different dialects and languages make the problem of everyday life all the more difficult and at times perplexing.14 Neither was ‘otherness’ a purely British construct. Divisions along religious lines were more defined within the RIN than India’s other armed forces, due to its early recruitment policies. The emphasis on Muslims prior to 1935 created a disparity in the RIN’s chain of

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command, where they would generally occupy more senior positions than Hindus, particularly amongst the Petty Officers. Godfrey himself commented on the discord this caused between the ranks: ‘it led to accusations of discriminations, and there is little doubt that these Muslim Petty officers were not really in touch with men from the South of India speaking a different language and of a different religion’.15 He thus believed that the British were more ‘in touch’ with the men below them, informed by imperial pseudoscience and a paternalistic self-confidence that they knew the Indians better than the latter could understand themselves. The example of the Royal Indian Navy is a complex one. Of the groups outlined, the only race considered truly ‘seafaring’ were the Ratnagiri Muslims. RIN chiefs actively recruited them for their maritime skills and traditions and the ‘call of the sea’ they recognised as inherent in them. They were not considered martial, in fact they were specifically cited as lacking in ‘guts’ next to the Punjabis. Yet their value as naval seamen was apparent. From 1934, with the RIN facing the increased prospect of combat, there was a shift in recruitment preference towards Punjabis, whose courage and leadership qualities were valued in the heat of battle. Punjabis were also seen to be more intelligent than Ratnagiris, though both were surpassed by southern Hindus in this regard. Traditional martial race stereotypes, relating the willingness to follow orders to natural ‘slow wit’,16 evince themselves here, though British chiefs feared the potentially destabilising influence that the integration of the more educated Hindus into the Navy could bring to their authority. These shifts were forced by political and operational necessity rather than service preference, as summarised in an Admiralty report: Courage must remain doubtful in the case of the ‘soft’ races – Madrassi, Bengalis and South Indians from Travancore-Cochin – until it has been proved in modern action. No one has any doubt about the known fighting qualities of the Sikhs or Rajputs, or the seamanship of the Konkani Muslims, but unfortunately these races generally do not have the brain to compete with electronics, radar, fire control, etc. which are mainly done by other races.17

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Southeast Asia From 1902, the military authorities in Malaya pressed for the creation of locally-recruited volunteer forces. They were constrained, however, by a belief that Malays were ‘soft’, ‘indolent’, and not a ‘martial’ race.18 This view was influenced by the fact that the Malays had not put up fierce resistance to colonialism as the Indian martial races had done, and that they were too ‘easy going’ to be martial.19 The governor, Arthur Young, argued that Malays would ‘resist routine and also prolonged barrack life with continual discipline’, though as an alternative he suggested that ‘a naval unit would appeal to the Malay, he would feel perfectly at home on the water. His objection to discipline and hard work on land would not be the same when on water.’20 This proposal was considered unfeasible at this time, however, due to the expense in providing ships, and the interference it would cause economically to their ‘padi planting and harvest’.21 It was not until April 1934 that a Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve (RNVR) force was finally established in Singapore, with a second formed in Penang in October 1938. They were supplemented at the outbreak of war by a full-time Royal Navy (Malay Section), colloquially known as the ‘Malay Navy’, which provided Malay ratings for Royal Navy warships on deployment in the Far East. Recruitment to all three forces was restricted exclusively to Malays, omitting the significant Chinese and Indian populations (a Chinese majority in Singapore). This racial preference was again justified by the view that Malays were a ‘seafaring people and along the coasts of the Peninsula there are hundreds of sturdy fishermen suitable for training’.22 Like Ratnagiris, the British considered maritime aptitude to be innate in Malays, believing that ‘the sea attracts the Malay like water does a duck’.23 Though some possessed seafaring experience as fishermen or merchant seamen, the majority of recruits were drawn from further inland with backgrounds as clerks, tambies24 and motor engineers. This illustrates how the ‘call of the sea’ was considered an innate racial characteristic, not exclusively determined by a person’s upbringing, training or work background.

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There were aspirations that the local naval services would not only defend the colony from external threats, but they would act as forces for social, economic and moral change, notably by providing an outlet for the colony’s unemployed Malay youths: ... the pay is enough to satisfy the easy-going Malay (a dollar a day), the work suits him, the discipline also apparently suits him – very much better than anyone expected it would – and he likes the sea and boats and everything associated with them.25 Here, the Malay love of the sea is built upon another traditional racial stereotype, that of the ‘lazy Malay’, reflected in their ‘easy-going’ nature which supposed they would work for less pay and would be less likely to antagonise the chain of command. This conception had been ingrained in British thinking by the writings of Frank Swettenham, first Resident General of the Federated Malay States, who professed that ‘the leading characteristic of the Malay of every class is a disinclination to work’.26 Yet, he also concluded that ‘if you can only give him [the Malay] an interest in the job, he will perform prodigies; he will strive, and endure, and be cheerful and courageous with the best’.27 Colonial discourse thus argued that, by cultivating Malay interest in naval service, the local forces could play a role, not just for the colony’s external defence, but also its internal development, by providing avenues to elevate Malays from positions of oriental stagnancy into productive members of society: It is another step towards employing the ‘sons of the soil’ in the defence of their own country. First there was the Malay Regiment. Then – as a venture, one might say – came the SSRNVR which confirmed the belief that coffee-shop loungers and office peons could be turned into good sailors, and that in the country there was plenty of material that could be absorbed into the RN proper.28 The Navy was seen as a transformational force, culturally as well as socially, simultaneously and subliminally reinforcing the validity of the imperial civilising mission and British rule. Under Britain’s

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tutelage, the traditional image of the ‘lounger’ or ‘lazy Malay’ thus became transformed into that of an alert, dedicated professional: On a visit to HMS Pelandok yesterday, we saw the ratings at their training, noticed the concentrated looks on their faces as they listened to lectures on boxing, the compass, anchor and cable work, and the rule of the road at sea; watched their nimble fingers making bends and hitches and splicing wires; heard the dots and dashes of an electronic ‘buzzer’ as they were being taught signalling and telegraphy, and appreciated their quickness at the guns.29 The Chinese in Malaya, by contrast, were seen as naturally hard-working, but more commercially-orientated, and less inclined to work for the lower colonial naval wages. The British were also suspicious of the influence wielded by Chinese secret societies and the spread of leftist political sentiments, including Communism, among immigrants from mainland China, and the competing loyalties these fostered which could undermine the chain of command. The Navy’s discriminatory recruitment policy drew criticism from the Eurasian community in Malaya, with the issue becoming politicised and adopted by Eurasians to highlight their wider campaign for greater political and social rights: ... the Eurasian position is tragic, due to the fact that we are brought up in European environment, with European traditions and living standards. As a rule we are not an agricultural race, so we cannot go back to the land, as some suggest. Neither do we get a dole ... The pro-Malay policy in Malaya as a whole has crushed our hopes, and we are being entirely ‘cabined’. Our Malacca lads would jump at the chance, if given the opportunity to enrol in the Navy or the RNVR, as they are on par with the Malays, where the sea is concerned, having come from a long line of seafaring forebears.30 Seafaring ancestry here was not enough to qualify Eurasians as a ‘seafaring race’ or to override imperial prejudices to make them appealing

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recruits for the Navy. Such maritime heritage had been passed on from British ancestors predominantly. Eurasians served as troubling reminders to British administrators who feared the dilution of British racial stock, and the erosion of their moral and political authority. Furthermore, in the hierarchy of the Navy, they would have distorted the relationship between class and colour which demarcated the chain of command and reinforced the authority of the European officer class. By refusing to provide legislative recognition or cultural validity to Eurasian ethnic identity, both within the Malay Navy and the broader colony itself, it helped maintain the illusion of British racial superiority and the imperial hegemony that went with that. The generalised conception of Malays as a ‘seafaring race’, however, is itself flawed, though it prevails today because, as Malaysian independence was gained without struggle, ‘there was no intellectual break with British ideological thinking at the deeper layer of thought’.31 This seafaring identity is rooted in the fundamental role played historically by Malay merchants and pirate mercenaries in shaping the fortunes of the Malacca Straits, upon whose favour the power and influence of the region’s Sultanates traditionally rested. The most celebrated of these maritime heroes was Hang Tuah, who has become an icon for Malay nationalism for his famous rallying cry: ‘Malays will never vanish from the face of the earth’. Yet, Hang Tuah was not ‘Malay’ in the contemporary sense, nor were his fellow privateers. They were ‘Orang Laut’, or ‘People of the Sea’,32 boat-dwellers, who lived a rootless and nomadic existence from coast to coast, working either as a sultan’s hired navy, or as fishermen, traders and even tax collectors.33 The Malay rulers bound the Orang Laut to them by forging kinship ties and bestowing titles and emblems of office, vital because of the Orang Laut’s reputation for transferring their allegiance if it served their interests. By the mid-nineteenth century, with the declining influence of the Sultanates and the influx of British power, a large number of Orang Laut were forced to settle and find alternative work ashore, and became a minority not just among the indigenous peoples of Malaya, known collectively as the Orang Asli, but also the growing population of predominantly Muslim Malay immigrants from Sumatra and Java. The 1874 Treaty of Pangkor tied the concept of Malayness or ‘Malayu’ to

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the Islamic faith,34 simultaneously disenfranchising the Orang Laut and Orang Asli from their Malay ethnicity. The Orang Laut became viewed negatively by the Malayu, as a ‘dangerous, dirty and unprogressive people’, whose nomadic life was deemed unconducive to adhering to the Islamic faith, which could only be observed if one led a sedentary lifestyle.35 Social scientists have examined the political nature of ethnicity, and how colonial and post-colonial states have been instrumental in its social construction, flourishing under nationalism.36 The identification of Malays as a ‘seafaring race’ fits within this paradigm, creating a distorting representation, based upon the collaborative appropriation and manipulation of a minority group’s cultural heritage and ethnic identity. The cultivation of an ‘imagined community’ of seafaring Malays benefitted the British as, by instilling a distorted sense of cultural pride and tradition, it broadened the popular resonance and appeal of naval service to a wider pool of potential recruits across the peninsula. It also acted to disbar the Orang Laut, for though they possessed nautical skills and had a reputation as feared fighters, these had been used to undermine British trade and the Royal Navy in previous centuries through piracy.37 They were also known for their transient loyalty, and the Orang Laut were continually viewed with suspicion, seen to lack both the disciplined character and the reliability demanded by the Navy. This ‘invented tradition’ was embraced by Malayu nationalists as, by tying into the deeper cultural heritage of the indigenous Malay populations, it legitimised their own claims for racial primacy in the decolonisation process, when in reality they were immigrants as much as the Chinese and Indian communities they sought to exceed.

Hong Kong Whereas, in Malaya, the Navy had alternative sources of manpower allowing them to forego the Chinese community, this was not an option in Hong Kong, where a RNVR branch was formed in September 1933. Ratings were sought with maritime backgrounds, in particular ‘Chinese boat “Boys”, sampan owners and launch hands’. It was believed

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that they possessed a basic ‘sea sense inherent in them’, but that it needed refining, ‘developed by training in western equipment and routine, gunnery, signals, etc.’38 Under British tutelage, they were said to have gained a ‘fair’ general knowledge of seamanship, and ‘their bearing at the various parades which they attended showed them to be keen and smart’. The ‘credit for this progress is entirely due to the unfailing patience and tact’39 of their Royal Navy instructors, the report concluded, thus re-emphasising the paternalistic and civilising mission that colonial naval development played within the Empire. Despite the ‘great progress ... made by the Chinese ratings, who are now able to form an efficient minesweeping personnel’, ‘very serious objections’ were raised at the potential liability for the European element if they were to serve outside the Colony. Concerns over local security reflected deeper prejudices regarding the Chinese population and their potential unreliability during wartime, should they be left unsupervised: The European man-power of the Colony is strictly limited and in a serious emergency every available European will be required to man the defences and essential services. If at such a time an important part of this man-power were to be called elsewhere as members of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve ... the sudden withdrawal of only a few officers or Cadets would disorganise the whole Hong Kong Naval Volunteer Force, very grave concern would be caused to those responsible for the Colony’s defence.40 Consequently, local naval authorities were worried about diluting the pool of European manpower and relying too much on Chinese personnel. One reason for this was that, like Singapore, colonial authorities in Hong Kong were wary of subversive leftists, notably the prominent ‘communistic element’ known to be rooted in the Chinese Seamen’s Union.41 Difficulties in maintaining this delicate balance arose when additional auxiliary craft were acquired on dormant contracts and requisitioned by the Admiralty, prompting concerns that, ‘as no European crews are available it is necessary to enlist in many cases the Chinese crews who usually man them’. Furthermore, additional European officers would have to be found for the ‘Asiatic crews’. It was

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therefore suggested that combatant status could be granted to ‘Tug Masters and Commanding Officers of Police launches’ as a possible solution to this shortfall. Recruitment was consequently spread outside of the colony, with officer commissions being granted to Europeans living in Shanghai.42 The fear that the naval defences of Hong Kong could potentially be left entirely manned by Chinese should European personnel be mobilised to fight elsewhere, was placated by the formation of an additional ‘European Seamen Branch’, authorised ‘primarily for the defence of the Colony’.43 After war broke out in Europe in September 1939, there was a significant amount of ‘restlessness’ amongst the British members of the HKRNVR, who were worried about the situation back home. In contrast, ‘to the Seamen Ratings the first few weeks seemed as sublimely uneventful as life in general seems to the mass of Chinese’.44 They simply did not possess the same personal attachment to Britain, or concerns about her fortunes in the European war fought on the other side of the globe, and a number of Chinese members of the force were struck off for not attending drills.45 Such perceived apathy, cowardice and disloyalty sparked public outrage, and was seen to reflect a mercenary mentality, and fuelling racial prejudice: While any decent foreigner (our opponents excepted of course) will fight for or help willingly the country which gave him hospitality, nearly all Chinese seem either not to mind a bit or are ready to rush elsewhere, for safety. The native population is composed of what? Eighty per cent of coolies, shop fokis and the like; hardly with a brain and of course without any sense of country; they are hardly over the animal class and must be treated as such. Those remaining (real Hong Kong Chinese apart) are composed of taipans, retired officials or generals, traders, and tens of thousands of little sneaks who ran away from their country to escape their military duties. The whole lot (or nearly) is full of corruption, ready to sell anything to anyone or acclaim any flag for a few dollars ...46 Though this view was no doubt an extreme one, it does reflect some of the identity issues associated with Hong Kong’s history as an entrepôt.

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Lord Palmerston famously denounced the island as ‘a barren rock with nary a house upon it’, though Hong Kong was technically home to around 7,450 fishing folk in 1841.47 Those ‘few fishing hamlets’, who came to enjoy ‘a degree of prosperity unknown before the advent of the British flag’, and ‘in morality, too, it has undergone change’, were considered uncivilised because of ‘their relish for buccaneering’.48 Despite the potential boons this maritime skill-base offered prospective naval recruitment, as in the case of the Orang Laut of Malaya, traditions of piracy disbarred such groups because the act itself was unconducive to notions of Western modernity, being both anti-trade and against the civilising values that trade brought with it. The Colony’s nature as a free port meant that a transient community developed there, bearing a cosmopolitan commercial outlook. Chinese businessmen followed the opportunities that Hong Kong presented, but generally chose not to settle there, instead returning to their ‘homelands’ and the families they’d left behind with money made from their transnational ventures: ... Few, if any, having been born at the place. The majority of these men are engaged in trade, and only reside in Hong-Kong long enough to obtain a competency with which they may return to their native land. The facilities of transit now afforded by the various lines of steamers render a trip home so inexpensive and expeditious, that those who can afford it frequently avail themselves of a run to the old country.49 The very ideology of free trade capitalism cut across national borders and allegiances, yet what strengthened the colony during peacetime with the wealth that it cultivated, potentially compromised Hong Kong at war, with such transiency causing the British to question the loyalty and willingness of the Chinese to defend the colony which did not constitute their ‘home’: From the point of view of defence it would be no exaggeration to say that all Chinamen in Hong Kong would be open to suspicion of anti-British intentions should they be present in a siege of

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Hong Kong as part of a beleaguered populace. We feel that their reactions would immediately turn to the side which appeared likely to be the probably winner. The world situation and other such things we feel are unlikely to influence the transient loyalty of a Chinaman.50 What is not considered in British dispersions of Chinese loyalty is that Confucianism instilled a clan-orientated outlook. It also questioned the value of direct military action: The traditional view held by Confucius is that caution is the better part of valor and that it ill behooves the wise man to risk his own life inappropriately. The profound pacification of the country, especially after the rule of the Mongols, greatly enhanced this mood. The empire became an empire of peace.51 The position of the soldier came to occupy ‘the lowest rung of Chinese society’ and gave rise to the Chinese proverb: ‘good iron is not used for nails; good men do not become soldiers’.52 The military became a ‘despised’ occupation’, and ‘a cultivated literary man would not engage in social intercourse on an equal footing with army officers’.53 Classed lower than merchants, the soldier was excluded from the standard Confucian list of the four occupations established in Chinese lore, constituting, in descending order, the scholar (shi), farmer (nong), artisan (gong) and merchant (shang): The military were not listed as a fifth occupational class because the Confucian wenren (literati) who did the listing regarded the practitioners of wu (violence) as their mortal enemies, incarnating the very evil of brute force that it was the Confucians’ moral duty to extirpate in the cause of civilized behaviours. To list them as a fifth profession would seem to condone them, legitimize their existence, give them moral stature.54 Demonstrations of violence and militarism were deemed antithetical to Confucian notions of civilisation, and therefore also to China’s

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perceptions of its own cultural superiority over the Western ‘barbarians’. It has been argued, by Charles Hucker among others, that China consequently ‘became so civilized they lacked the martial values and sense of ethnicity (as opposed to culturalism) with which to fight off the invaders, who ordinarily promised to rule in the Chinese fashion’.55 In this sense, they came to view themselves as a non-‘martial race’, an identity which was then reflected to the outside world through Orientalist representations. British preconceptions regarding Chinese unreliability were reinforced by wide-scale desertions from the HKRNVR following the Japanese invasion of Hong Kong on 8 December 1941. By failing to keep the non-European population informed about the war situation, the colonial authorities effectively confirmed Chinese assumptions ‘that the war was a British affair that had nothing to do with them ... Faced with this crisis, their instinct was to run’.56 The HKRNVR practice of mooring vessels in lots of two down Aberdeen Harbour seemed ‘disturbingly idiotic to Chinese after [the] first bombing’,57when HMS Indira was sunk by such ‘morale-shaking bombing’, all the crew of the adjacent HMS Perla ‘bolted’. Panic usually spread from the engine room ratings, who were trapped within the bowels of the ship, unable to see what was going on outside.58 Aboard HMS Minnie on 11 December, two men were unconscious from fear, mess boys and engine room ratings rioted, the crew refused to go to sea again, and every time Aberdeen was raided and the dockyard police disappeared into the shelters, the crew would take advantage and run. Minnie’s commanding officer managed to gather replacement crew by 16 December, only for them to arrive at the dockyard gates at noon, just in time to witness a large air-raid. They immediately reversed their decision to join.59 Though a number of Chinese remained loyal, some British officers retained a suspicion, even of these. When the crew of HMS Frosty rendezvoused at the Aberdeen Industrial School to receive their evacuation orders, the CO was told by the on-duty RN officer: ‘tell all your Chinese to fuck off, and you to get up into the hills ... I’m not standing any truck from a two and a half wavy navy ... your messman might be a fifth columnist’.60 The suspected Chinese messman had 15 years service in the RN to his name.

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The reasons behind the desertions were not the result of any innately unreliable characteristic amongst the Chinese, despite the British harbouring such assumptions. In fact, many of the conditions which prompted Chinese naval personnel to desert from the force were created by the naval and colonial authorities themselves. There was disenchantment with the round-the-clock work and meagre rations. There had been particular resentment at the fact that they had been ordered to fire upon fellow Chinese – they had been tasked with destroying several junks suspected to be carrying Japanese infiltrators, but this proved to be false information.61 Mooring vessels next to one another, and thus concentrating targets for the Japanese bombers, fuelled panic and lowered morale. The suddenness of the Japanese attack meant that billeting of HKRNVR families could not be sanctioned in time to move them from the mainland and into safe houses on the island. Fear for their families’ safety thus increased amongst the men when the Japanese entered Kowloon and unopposed air raids escalated, exacerbated by ‘over-optimistic assurances of families being looked after’ which were ‘too often quickly found to be false’.62 With a lack of opportunities to visit and check on their families, many deserters took matters into their own hands. Those ratings ‘without families usually seemed comparatively undisturbed by danger’,63 ironic considering it was those Chinese without roots in Hong Kong who the British originally believed could not be relied upon in war.

Conclusion As in the case of martial race theory, there existed no definitive ethnocultural framework for defining a ‘seafaring race’. Instead, such conceptions varied between regions and evolved according to local conditions and imperial requirements. ‘Seafaring race’ theory was but one of several pseudoscientific racial ideologies utilised over the previous century to reaffirm British racial primacy and legitimise their imperial authority. Within the context of the armed forces, this implicit hegemony played an additional role in enforcing discipline and preserving the chain of command. Seafaring race theory provided a convenient excuse to sideline those groups seen as potentially

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disruptive influences to this ordering and British authority, such as Hindu nationalists in India, Chinese leftists and secret societies in Singapore, and the Orang Laut in Malaya. It served to divide and rule, particularly in Malaya, where maritime heritage and ethnicity were manipulated to buttress colonial collaborators, leaving a post-colonial cultural legacy where Malayu ruling elites were able to supplant British racial primacy with that of their own. Yet, where there were no alternative sources of manpower, such as in Hong Kong, the innate prejudices that this imperial ideology helped to cultivate, fuelled distrust within the ranks, which undermined force cohesion and discipline when subjected to wartime duress. Ultimately, for British colonial and naval authorities, the perceived imperial loyalty of their naval recruits was considered much more important than any actual seafaring ability they may have possessed, inherent or otherwise.

Notes 1. See David Omissi, ‘‘Martial Races”: Ethnicity and Security in Colonial India 1858–1939’, War and Society, Vol. 9, No. 1 (May 1991), pp. 1–27; Heather Streets, Martial Races: The Military, Race and Masculinity in British Imperial Culture, 1857–1914 (Manchester, 2004); Gavin Rand, ‘‘Martial Races” and “Imperial Subjects”: Violence and Governance in Colonial India, 1857–1914’, European Review of History, Vol. 13, No. 1 (March 2006), pp. 1–20; David Killingray, Fighting for Britain: African Soldiers in the Second World War (Woodbridge, 2010), pp.40–3. 2. National Maritime Museum (hereafter NMM), MLS/10/1, MS 81/006, D.O.61, G Miles to Sir Claude Auchinleck (C-in-C, India), 24 September 1946. 3. The National Archives (hereafter TNA), ADM 205/88, ‘India and the Sea’, 1953, p. 1. 4. NMM, GOD/34, MS 80/073, Jefford, para.34. 5. Godfrey cited in Patrick Beesly, Very Special Admiral: The Life of Admiral J. H. Godfrey (London, 1980), p. 266. 6. NMM, GOD/34, MS 80/073, Jefford, para.34. 7. Godfrey in Beesley, Very Special Admiral, p. 266. 8. NMM, GOD/41, MS 80/073, Godfrey to Somerville, 29 August 1943, p. 4. 9. NMM, RIN/74, MS 81/006, John H. Godfrey, V.Adm. FOCRIN, Creeds and Customs in the RIN, Naval Headquarters (India), 1 January 1945, pp. 6–7.

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10. Quoted in David Omissi, The Sepoy and the Raj: The Indian Army, 1860–1940 (London, 1994), p. 26. 11. ‘Government of India Act 1935’, 2 August 1935, Legislation.gov.uk, http:// www.legislation.gov.uk/ukpga/Geo5and1Edw8/26/2/enacted, accessed on 26 June 2012. 12. NMM, GOD/43, J. H. Godfrey, Naval Headquarters, ‘Future of the RIN: First Impressions’, India 1943–1946, Vol. III., 8 March 1946, p. 2. 13. NMM, RIN/5/3 (6), MS88/043, Jefford to Mr. Justice Ayyangar during Commission of Inquiry, The Times of India, 24 April 1946. 14. NMM, RIN/74, MS 81/006, Godfrey, Creeds and Customs in the RIN, 1 January 1945, pp. 1–2. 15. NMM, GOD/43, Godfrey, ‘Future of the RIN’, 8 March 1946, p. 1. 16. Omissi, The Sepoy and the Raj, p. 26. 17. TNA, ADM 205/88, India and the Sea, p. 5. (original underlining) 18. Thomas R. Metcalf, Imperial Connections: India in the Indian Ocean Arena, 1860–1920 (London, 2007), p. 77. 19. Kevin Blackburn, ‘Colonial Forces as Postcolonial Memories: The Commemoration and Memory of the Malay Regiment in Modern Malaysia and Singapore’, in Karl Hack and Tobias Rettig (eds.), Colonial Armies in Southeast Asia (London, 2006), p. 302. 20. Nadzan Haron, ‘Colonial Defence and British Approach to the Problems in Malaya 1874–1918’, Modern Asian Studies, Vol. 24, No. 2 (May, 1990), pp. 275–295, p. 287. 21. Idem. 22. The Straits Times, 26 January 1937, p. 11. 23. The Straits Times, 29 April 1940, p. 11. 24. ‘Tamby’: Tamil noun; an endearing term for a younger brother that, since colonial times has referred to Tamil office boys. As the ratings were uniformly Malay, ‘Ahmad’, the term for Malay office boys and chauffeurs, perhaps should have supplanted this in the original source. 25. The Straits Times, 23 May 1937, p. 2. 26. F.A. Swettenham, British Malaya: An Account of the Origins and Progress of British Influence in Malaya (London, 1955), p. 136. 27. Ibid., pp. 139–140. 28. The Straits Times, 23 May 1937, p. 2. 29. Idem. 30. Ibid., 25 May 1937, p. 12. 31. Syed Hussein Alatas, The Myth of the Lazy Native: A Study of the Image of the Malays, Filipinos and Javanese from the 16th to the 20th Century and its Function in the Ideology of Colonial Capitalism (London, 1977), p. 152.

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32. Cynthia Chou, The Orang Suku Laut of Riau, Indonesia: The Inalienable Gift of Territory (London, 2010), p. 1. 33. Geoffrey Benjamin, ‘On Being Tribal in the Malay World’, in Geoffrey Benjamin and Cynthia Chou (eds.), Tribal Communities in the Malay World: Historical, Cultural and Social Perspectives (Singapore, 2002), pp. 41, 45. 34. Ibid., pp. 43–44. 35. Cynthia Chou, Indonesian Sea Nomads: Money, Magic and Fear of the Orang Suku Laut (London, 2003), pp. 2, 143. 36. Leonard Y. Andaya, Leaves of the Same Tree: Trade and Ethnicity in the Straits of Melaka (Honolulu, 2006), p. 5. 37. Ibid., pp. 192–4. 38. TNA, ADM 116/4343, ‘Annual Report – 1st April 1936 to 31st March, 1937’, From Commanding Officer, HKNVR, to Commodore, Hong Kong, 2 April 1937. 39. TNA, CO 129/557/7, Item 50, From Commodore, Hong Kong, to the Governor, Hong Kong, 17 April 1936. 40. TNA, CO 129/555/9, ‘Letter from Officer Administering the Government to the Right Honourable Malcolm Macdonald, M.P.’, 28 August 1935, pp. 2–3. 41. Ibid., p. 30. 42. The National Archives, CO 129/584/8, Items 21–22, From the Governor to the Right Honourable Lord Lloyd of Dolobran, 16 May 1940, pp. 1–2. 43. TNA, CO 129/584/8, Item 24, ‘Hong Kong Royal Naval Reserve and Hong Kong Naval Volunteer Force – Annual Report: 1st April, 1939 to 31st March, 1940’, p. 2. 44. TNA, CO 129/588/15, Item 9, Hong Kong Naval Volunteer Reserve – A.S.R. 71/40 (Auxiliary Services Routine), 30 August 1940, p. 1. 45. TNA, CO 129/588/15, Item 7, ‘Annual report by the Commanding Officer, 1st April 1940 to 31st March 1941’, p.1. 46. South China Morning Post, 1 September 1939, p. 8. 47. John Thomson, Illustrations of China and its People (London, 1873–74), http:// irc.aa.tufs.ac.jp/thomson/vol_1/mother/102.html, accessed on 26 June 2012. 48. Idem. 49. Idem. 50. TNA, FO 371/27622, Letter from Lieutenant-Colonel F.C. Scott of the War Office to Gent of the Colonial Office, 22 August 1941, p. 185. 51. Max Weber, ‘The Chinese Literati’, in H. H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills (eds.), From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology (London, 1948), p. 422. 52. Morton H. Fried, ‘Military Status in Chinese Society’, American Journal of Sociology, Vol. 57, No. 4 (January, 1952), pp. 347–357, 348.

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53. Max Weber: ‘The Chinese Literati’, p. 422. 54. John King Fairbank and Merle Goldman, China: A New History (London, 2001), p. 109. 55. Ibid., pp. 109–10. 56. Philip Snow, The Fall of Hong Kong: Britain, China and the Japanese Occupation (London, 2003), pp. 55–6. 57. Public Records Office of Hong Kong, HKRS 6–1–1706, J.C. McDouall Papers, p. 7. 58. Ibid., p. 10. 59. Idem. 60. Ibid., p. 24. 61. Lieutenant-Commander Gandy, HKRNVR, quoted in Snow: The Fall of Hong Kong: Britain, p. 69. 62. Public Records Office of Hong Kong, HKRS 6–1–1706, J.C. McDouall Papers, p. 10. 63. Ibid.

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INDEX

Page references in bold refer to extensive discussion or complete chapter Act of Union (1707), 13–16, 18 Afflerbach, Holger, 195 Afghanistan, 73 Africa, 129, 191, 224, 237, 273, 276, 278, 284–285, 296 Algeciras Conference (1906), 266 America, 22, 43, 47–48, 50, 52, 53, 65, 70–71, 109, 129–130, 133, 136–139, 169, 177, 186, 223, 254, 256–257, 259–260, 262–263 American Revolution, 130 American War of Independence, 169 New York, 235, 242 Anderson, Benedict, 2, 131 Anglo-German naval arms race, 134, 145, 272, 275, 286 Anson, George, 18, 22–24, 26–27, 29–32 Antarctic, 122, 129, 191 Arctic, 122–123, 129 Ashley, April, 242 Asia, 38–39, 44, 129, 183–184, 190, 256, 294–312 Atlantic Ocean, 94, 99–100, 111, 114, 120, 123, 126, 136–137, 183, 191, 230, 284 Australia, 271–289 Melbourne, 275 New South Wales, 280 Royal Australian Navy, 272, 282–283, 288

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Sydney, 235, 277, 282; Victoria, 280 Australia (HMAS), 282–283 Australia (HMS), 69 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 237 Baldwin, Stanley, 70 Ballads, 13, 15, 20, 22, 24, 31, 102, 107 Baltic Sea, 128 Bangkok, 235 Banks, Joseph, 206 Banks, Monty, 147 Barents Sea, 123 Barracks, 164, 167–179 Barrow-in-Furness, 51, 142, 151 Battle of Britain, 74 Bauman, Zygmunt, 241–242 Baxter, John, 152–153 Beachy Head, Battle of (1690), 17 Beaglehole, John, 207 Bean, C.E.W., 273 Beeler, John, 63, 65 Belgium, 136 Bellamy, Martin, 146 Benbow, John, 17 Berchon, Ernest, 205, 213 Berg, Maxine, 28 Bergen, Claus, 197 Bérubé, Allan, 240 Bikini Atoll, 39 Billig, Michael, 2 Bingham, Barry, 185, 190

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328

M ARITIME HISTORY

Bisexuality, 231–232, 235, 239 Bismarck, Otto von, 196 Black Death, 125 Black, Jeremy, 3 Black Sea, 128 Blackpool, 236 Blake, George, 152–153 Blériot, Louis, 69–70 Blue Riband, 145 Blue water strategy, 63 Bohrdt, Hans, 197 Borden, Sir Robert, 283, 287 Braudel, Fernand, 121 Brazil, 101–102 Brewer, John, 16 Briggs, Henry, 109 Brighton, 209, 236 Bristol, 28 Bristol (HMS), 193 Britannia, 14, 26, 215, 221, 273, 282 British Army, 17, 64–65, 67–68, 72, 163, 167, 169, 172 British Army of the Rhine (BAOR), 73 British attitudes to war as an instrument of policy, 73 British Empire, 3, 8, 67, 72, 129, 145–146, 155–156, 271–289, 294–312 British Empire Exhibition, 145 Empire Day, 272 Empire Marketing Board, 143–144 Imperial Maritime League, 275 Imperial Press Conference, 276–277 British Industries Fair, 144 Britishness, 13–15, 19–20, 30–31, 63, 65, 69, 272–273, 287 British Pathé, 144 Brox, Ottar, 125 Bunker Hill, Battle of (1775), 177 Burke, Arleigh, 52 Burma, 212 Byng, John, 32 Caesar, Julius, 20, 237

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IDENTITY

Callao, Battle of (1866), 259–262 Camp (style), 232–235, 237–238, 240–242 Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND), 73 Campbell, John, 19–20 Canada, 271–289 Acadia, 287 French Canadians, 287–288 Ontario, 287 Quebec, 128, 275, 287 Quebec Tercentenary (1908), 275 Royal Canadian Navy, 274, 284, 288 Toronto, 278 Vancouver, 275 Canadian National Exhibition (1910), 278 Canopus (HMS), 192, 224 Cánovas, Antonio, 266 Cape Colony see South Africa Cape Finisterre, Battle of (1747), 22, 24 Captain (HMS), 62 Caravaggio, Polidoro da, 92 Caribbean, 113, 285; West Indies, 16, 223, 284 Carnarvon (HMS), 192 Carnivalesque, 235–239 Cartagena, Battle of (1741), 18 Castor (HMS), 216–217 Cervera, Pascual, 263 Channel Tunnel, 68 Charles I, King, 103–104, 108 Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor, 92 Chatham, 167–169, 173–174, 176–178 Chile, 185–186, 193–194, 259 Coronel, 185–186, 190–191 Valparaíso, 185, 259 China, 40–41, 223, 225, 301, 303, 305–312 Shanghai, 307 Churruca y Elorza, Cosme Damián de, 261 Cold War, 53, 136–137 Collantes, Fernando Calderón, 258

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INDEX Colley, Linda, 2, 5, 13 Colls, Robert, 3 Columb, Sir Phillip, 63 Columbus, Christopher, 262 Commonwealth, 72, 155, 281–283 Commonwealth (HMS), 273, 276 Conan Doyle, Sir Arthur, 70 Concha, José de la, 257 Confucianism, 40, 309 Congress of Paris (1856), 128 Conley, Mary, 3, 239 Constitution (USS), 53 ‘Consumer Revolution’, 28 Conway, Stephen, 14 Cook, James, 206–207 Corn Laws, 68 Cornwall, 175, 220 Cornwall (HMS), 193 Coronel, Battle of, 185–186, 190–191 Cortés, Hernán, 262 Cortés, Martín, 100, 108 Costa, Joaquín, 263, 265, 267 Cradock, Christopher, 185, 190 Crimean War, 128, 215, 220, 226 Cromwell, Oliver, 67 Cruise fiction, 236 Cuba, 253–254, 257, 261–264 Darío, Rubén, 265 Dawson, Andrew, 235 Death, 47, 102, 197–199, 220 burial at sea, 102, 220 Declaration of Paris (1856), 136 Defoe, Daniel, 165 Delhi Durbar (1911), 275 Dening, Greg, 105 Denmark, 128, 130, 136, 174 Description Books, 206–207, 214, 216, 225 Dewey, George, 263 Dilke, Charles, 272 Disraeli, Benjamin, 66, 272 Dockyard workers, 16, 142–157, 167, 172, 175

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329

Dominion (HMS), 273 Dominions see entries for Australia, Canada, New Zealand and South Africa Don John of Austria, 93 Drake, Sir Francis, 18 Dreadnought, 266, 272, 279–284, 286–287 pre-dreadnought era, 51, 53, 55 Dresden (German battleship), 192–193 Drifters (1929 film), 142 Duke of Wellington (HMS), 217 Edgerton, David, 145–146 Edinburgh, 24, 287 Education, 31, 39, 50, 143, 157, 267, 272, 279, 288, 297–299 Edward VII, King, 274–275 Egypt, 224 Ehrman, John, 167 Elcano, Juan Sebastián, 261 English Channel, 69–70 English Civil Wars, 108 Enlightenment, 130 Falklands, Battle of (1914), 8, 183–184, 190–192, 196 Fields, Gracie, 148 Fielitz, Otto Wilhelm, 191 Film industry, 7, 142–157, 241 Finland, 132, 136, 194 First Moroccan Crisis, 266 Fisgard (HMS), 209 Fishing industry, 90, 100, 107, 120, 123, 125–127, 135, 151, 156, 296, 301, 304, 308 Fisher, Sir John, 68, 133, 276 Flather, Amanda, 105 Fortress Britain, 63–65 Food supply, 68, 90, 152, 175 Foucault, Michel, 235 Four-Power Treaty (1921), 43 Fox, Frank, 276–277

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330

M ARITIME HISTORY

France, 17–20, 26, 32, 43, 64, 113, 124, 128, 165, 187–188, 205, 213, 260, 262 Paris, 128, 136, 171, 187, 242 Free trade, 68, 127–130, 132, 308 French Revolution, 130 French Revolutionary Wars, 13 Friedmann, Wolfgang, 136 Froude, James Anthony, 272 Fukuzawa, Yukichi, 40 Funny Girl, 240 Galdós, Benito Pérez, 254, 259–262 Galiano, Dionisio Alcalá, 261 Gardner, Ava, 241 Garvin, J.L., 276, 280 Gas, 120, 126–127 Gaumont Graphic, 144 Gellner, Ernest, 132 Gender, 3, 14, 102, 231, 239, 243–244, 246 Gender reassignment treatment, 235 Gennep, Arnold van, 236 Genoa, 87 Gentleman’s Magazine, 18, 22, 24, 68 George V, King, 274 German Navy see Imperial German Navy German Revolution (1918), 199 Germany, 47, 72, 73, 91, 113, 123, 127, 130, 133, 135, 137–138, 145, 183–199, 286 Geyser (HMS), 217 Gibraltar, 266 Gladstone, William, 62, 67, 272 Glam Rock, 233 Glasgow, 24, 146, 152–153, 156, 223, 287 Glasgow (HMS), 184–185, 193 Gleason, Phillip, 1 Gneisenau (German battleship), 183–184, 191–193, 196–198 Godfrey, John, 297, 299–300 Good Hope (HMS), 69, 185

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IDENTITY

Goschen, George, 1st Viscount, 66 Gotch, Christopher, 208 Gravina y Nápoli, Federico Carlos, 261 Great Depression, 126, 144, 146, 148–150, 152 Greenland, 125 Grierson, John, 142–143 Groβkrieg strategy, 186–187 Guarracino, Scipione, 88 Hague Conventions, 136 Halsey, Lionel, 278–279 Hampe, Karl, 185 Hanseatic League, 125 Hatfield, April Lee, 109 Haversham, John Thompson, 1st Lord, 16 Hawke, Sir Edward, 31–32 Heligoland Bight, Battle of, 188 Hello Dolly, 230 Heterosexuality, 231, 233, 236–237, 240, 243–246 Heterotopia, 235 Heywood, Thomas, 103 Hibernia (HMS), 224–225 Hicks, Robert, 100 Holland, Robert, 3 Hollywood, 230, 233, 241 Homophobia, 244 Homosexuality, 230–246 Gay Liberation Front, 243 Gay Pride, 233, 244 Gay rights, 240, 242 Hong Kong , 216, 295, 305–311, 312 Hong Kong Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve (HKRNVR), 307, 310, 311 Kowloon, 311 hooks, bell, 245 Hopman, Albert, 187–188, 194 Horne, John, 189 Hucker, Charles, 310 Hughes, Billy, 282 Hull, 109

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INDEX Hunt, George, 66 Hunting, 120, 125–126, 135 Hurd, Archibald, 276 Iceland, 123, 124, 127 Ichirō, Hatoyama, 49 Imperial German Navy, 8, 183–199 East Asia Squadron, 183–184, 190 Hochseeflotte, 134 Reichsmarineamt, 187 In Which We Serve (1942 film), 152 India, 284–286, 288, 294–300, 301, 305, 312 Government of India Act (1935), 298 Hindu population, 298–300, 312 Indian Army, 294–295, 298 Indian Mutiny (1857), 294 Konkan Coast, 296, 300 Muslim population, 298–300 Punjab, 296–298, 300 Ratnagiri, 296–297, 300–301 Royal Indian Navy (RIN), 285, 296–300 Indian Ocean, 101, 191, 296 Indochina, 255 Indomitable (HMS), 275 Industrial Revolution, 132 Inflexible (HMS), 183, 190, 192 Inoue, Shigeyoshi, 47 International Whaling Commission see Whaling Interwar period, 7, 38–39, 43, 54, 62, 70, 126, 129, 133, 135, 144–145, 185, 199 Invincible (HMS), 185, 190, 192 Iraq, 73 Ireland, 22, 125, 138, 167, 287–288 Isern, Damián, 262 Italy, 7, 47, 255, 262 Itō, Masanori, 6, 38–55, 185, 192 The End of the Imperial Japanese Navy, 44 ‘Jack Tar’, 3, 32, 230, 232, 246 James, Robert, 147

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331

Japan, 6, 38–55, 185, 192, 212, 218, 298, 310–311 Anglo-Japanese Alliance, 43 Combined Fleet (Rengo Kantai), 41, 45, 48, 53 Hokkaido, 42 Invasion of Hong Kong (1941), 310 Japan Defence Agency, 49 Japan Naval Association, 51 Maritime Self-Defence Force, 52 Mito, 40–41 Self-Defence Forces, 49, 52 Yokosuka, 51–52 Jefford, J.W., 299 Jena, Battle of (1806), 196 Jenkins, Charles, 14 Jiji Shinpō, 40 Johnman, Lewis, 149 Johnson, Samuel, 22, 165–166 Jordan, Gerald, 13 Jorgensen, Christine, 242 Jutland, Battle of (1916), 42 Kaiten, 47 Kamikaze, 47 Kathoeys (lady-boys), 235 Katō, Tomosaburō, 42 Keio University, 53 Kent (HMS), 183 Kikuchi Kan Prize, 46 King-Hall, George, 283 Kirkby, Richard, 17 Kishi, Nobusuke, 49 Klein, Bernhard, 100 Kleinkrieg strategy, 186–187, 189–190 Koizumi, Shinzō, 53 Kola Peninsula, 136 Kongō (Japanese battleship), 38 Korea, 40 Kumar, Krishnan, 3 La Rochelle, 99 Lacassagne, Alexandre, 205 Landy, Marcia, 148

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332

M ARITIME HISTORY

Laurier, Sir Wilfred, 284 League of Nations, 135–136 Leghorn, 87 Leipzig (German battleship), 183, 192–193, 197 Lepanto, Battle of (1571), 93 Lestock, Richard, 20–21 Liddell Hart, Sir Basil, 49 Lincoln, Margarette, 32, 143 Lissa, Battle of (1866), 262–263 Liverpool, 28 London, 7, 14, 16, 18, 22, 24, 98–114, 128, 145, 148, 193, 209 Deptford, 111–112, 167 London Bridge, 7, 99, 108–109 Pool of London, 109 River Thames, 7, 99, 107–110, 114 St Katherine’s by the Tower, 111 St Magnus Corner, 108–109 Wapping, 110 Luxembourg, 136 Mack, John, 105 McKendrick, Neil, 27–28 McKenna, Reginald, 279 Mackinder, Halford, 73 MacMunn, George, 298 Madeira, 242 Magellan, Ferdinand, 261 Mahan, Alfred Thayer, 263, 267 Mainz (German battleship), 188 Majestic (HMS), 21–217 Malaya, Federated States of, 285, 301–305, 308, 312 Hang Tuah (legend of), 304 Java, 304 Orang Asli, 304–305 Orang Laut, 304–305, 308, 312 Penang, 301 Royal Navy (Malay Section), 301 Sumatra, 304 Malaya (HMS), 69, 285 Manchuria, 40 Mandler, Peter, 1–2

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AND

IDENTITY

Manila Bay, Battle of (1898), 261, 263 Martello towers, 65, 74 Martial race theory, 8, 294–312 Material culture, 27–28, 31, 113 Mathews, Thomas, 18, 20–21 Maura, Antonio, 265–267 Maurolico, Francesco, 93 Mediterranean, 7, 20, 81–94, 101, 121, 195 Meiji period, 40–41, 51, Méndez Núñez, Casto, 259–260 Merchant shipping, 4, 122, 128–129, 133, 137–139, 144–147, 154, 156, 165, 231–232, 254, 256, 301, 304, 309 Merman, Ethel, 230 Messina, 6, 81–94 Customs Bridge, 92 Fountain of Neptune, 93 ‘Galley’ for the feast of the Assumption of St Mary, 92–93 Imperial Gate, 93 Santa Maria della Lettera, 82, 88–89 Santa Maria di Porto Salvo, 90 Silk Guild, 86 Straits of Messina, 87, 90, 92–94 Mexico, 255 Meyer, Carl Friedrich, 198 Michelangelo, 93 Midway, Battle of (1942), 48 Mikasa (Japanese battleship), 38, 51–55 Milner, Lord Alfred, 287 Minnelli, Liza, 240 Minorca, Battle of (1756), 32 Missionaries, 129 Mitford, Nancy, 233 Monmouth (HMS), 185 Montagu, Elizabeth Robinson, 27 Montojo, Patricio, 263 Montorsoli, Giovannangelo, 93 Morant, Harry ‘Breaker’, 277 Morocco, 255 Morote, Luis, 265 Muckelroy, Keith, 109

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INDEX Murphy, Hugh, 149 Myths of sacrifice, 8, 47, 155, 184, 188, 194–199, 266 Myths of survival, 61 Nagato (Japanese battleship), 39 Napoleon, 196, 260, 262 Napoleonic Wars, 65, 126, 130 Natal (HMS), 273, 276 National identity, 3, 6, 13–15, 18–20, 30–31, 39, 49, 52–53, 55, 62, 65, 73, 75, 121, 131–132, 156, 253–255, 258, 262, 264, 267–268, 282, 283 Naval Defence Act (1889), 62–63 Naval hero, 6, 13–32, 48, 51, 54, 66, 151, 184, 188, 190, 196–198, 259–261, 263, 277, 304 Naval Review, 254, 255–258, 267, 274, 276–278 1909 Cowes Naval Review, 277 Naval scares; of 1884, 61–62, 66, 74 of 1888, 64 of 1909, 62, 70 Navigation Acts, 128 Nelson, Horatio, 55, 66, 74, 257, 277 Netherlands, The, 91, 128, 130, 136, 174 Amsterdam, 99 Newspapers, 22, 31, 39–43, 49, 51, 144, 148, 177–178, 194, 197, 253, 255, 257, 266–268, 278, 283 New Zealand, 224–225, 271–289 Auckland, 275 New Zealand Navy League, 279 Wellington, 279 New Zealand (HMS), 69, 273, 278–279 Nile, Battle of the (1798), 257 Nimitz, Fleet Chester, 52 Nomura, Kichisaburō, 43, 52 North Atlantic Planning Board for Ocean Shipping (NAPBOS), 136–137

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333

North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO), 136–137 North Sea, 123, 126, 137–138, 142, 186 North West Passage, 109 Northcliffe, Alfred Harmsworth, 1st Viscount, 276–277 Norway, 7, 120–139; constitution, 130 economy, 121, 124, 127 Ekofisk oil field, 126 Jan Mayen Island, 123 Knivskjellodden, 123 Lindesnes Lighthouse, 123 Oslo, 137 Oslo Fjord region, 123 Sognefjord, 122 Svalbard archipelago, 123 welfare state, 127 Norwegian Sea, 123 Novo y Colson, Pedro, 254, 259, 265 Nuclear warfare, 39, 71–73 Nuestra Senora de Covadonga, 22 Nürnberg (German battleship), 183–184, 191–192, 197 Oglethorpe, James Edward, 165–166 O’Hara, Glen, 1 Oil, 120, 126–127, 191 Oléron, Laws of, 106 Oslo States, 135 P&O Cruises, 230, 232, 237, 239 Pacific Ocean, 43–44, 184–186, 188, 193, 206, 255, 258, 278, 282, 284 Pageantry (naval), 254, 274 Pall Mall Gazette, 66, 74, 280 Palmerston, Henry John Temple, 3rd Viscount, 67, 74, 308 Pangkor Treaty (1874), 304 Parishes, 7, 27, 98–99, 110–111, 113–114, 220 Parkes, Oscar, 63

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334

M ARITIME HISTORY

Patriotism, 14, 18–19, 21, 24, 27, 29–32, 40, 44, 88, 143, 147, 196–198, 255, 257–258, 277, 283–284, 289 Peace Pledge Union, 70 Pearl Harbor, 48 Peninsular War, 254 Performance, performativity, 233, 238, 240, 242–243 Peru, 259; Callao, 259–262 Philippines, The, 255 Piontek, Thomas, 246 Pittis, William, 165 Pizarro, Francisco, 262 Plymouth, 14, 167–169, 173, 175, 178, 209 Pochhammer, Hans, 184, 186, 190, 192, 198 Poetry, 13, 22, 27, 89, 260, 266 Pöhl, Hugo von, 195 Polari, 233 Polaris missiles, 73 Porto Bello, Battle of (1739), 15, 18, 22, 25, 30–31 Portsmouth, 14, 167–170, 173, 178, 274 Hilsea Barracks, 167 Portugal, 128; Lisbon, 101, 242 Post-heroic generation (Germany), 188 Pottery, 28, 113 Powell, Michael, 146 President (HMS), 220 Prince of Wales (HMS), 273 Princess Royal (HMS), 225 Puerto Rico, 254 262 Pugh, David, 124 Punch (magazine), 271, 286 Purdy, D.W., 211–213 Queen Elizabeth (RMS), 233 Queen Mary (RMS), 148, 155 Queer, 230, 232–240, 243–246 Quiberon Bay, Battle of (1759), 32 Raleigh, Sir Walter, 18

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IDENTITY

Rapport, Nigel, 235 Red Clydeside, 146–147 Red Ensign (1934 film), 146–147 Rediker, Marcus, 99–100 Reiger, Bernhard, 145 Religion and religious identity, 3, 82, 85, 87–88, 90–94, 102–103, 105, 114, 214, 216, 219–220, 223, 226, 298–300 Riste, Olav, 136 Robbins, Keith, 3 Rodger, N.A.M., 63 Rodney (HMS), 209–210 Rodrigo, Carlos Navarro, 258 Rogers, Nicholas, 13 Roman Catholicism, 91, 287 Romanticism, 130–131, 260 Rooke, George, 17 Roskill, Stephen W., 45–46 Rotha, Paul, 142 Royal Air Force (RAF), 71–73 Royal Dockyards, 167–168, 171–175, 179, 255 Royal Family, 145, 275 Royal Marines, 7, 163–179 Royal Indian Marine, 295–296 Royal Navy, 4, 6, 8, 13–32, 45, 61–75, 126, 130, 133–134, 144, 174, 179, 183–184, 186–187, 190, 205–226, 237, 271–289, 294–312 Admiralty, 17, 66, 100–101, 106, 108, 164, 168–169, 171, 174, 176–177, 190, 206, 273–279, 285, 294, 300, 306 Admiralty Board, 164, 206 Admiralty Court, 100–101, 106 Board of Ordnance, 164, 167–170 British freedoms, 61 Empire, 66–67, 72 Great Power status, 66–67 Home defence, 67–69 Mediterranean Fleet, 20, 275 Navy Board, 113, 168, 170 Navy League, 73, 275, 277, 285, 287 Parliament, 61, 67

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INDEX Prestige, 66–67 Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve (RNVR), 301, 306 Rüger, Jan, 274, 282, 287 Rush-Bagot Treaty (1818), 278 Russell (HMS), 216–217 Russell, Edward, 17 Russell, Jane, 241 Russia, 40, 53, 123–124, 127, 132–133, 135, 138, 144, 187 Baltic Fleet, 53 Russian Revolution, 144 Russo-Japanese War, 42, 52 Sailors without Uniform (1940 film), 151 St. Vincent (HMS), 209 Sakonji, Masazo, 52 Salamanca, José de, 257 Saltonstall, Charles, 110 Sankei (newspaper), 39, 43, 49, 52 Santiago de Cuba, Battle of (1898), 253, 261–265 Santo Domingo, 255 Sawamoto, Yorio, 52 Scharnhorst (German battleship), 183, 192–194, 196–197 Schivelbusch, Wolfgang, 188 Schweinitz, Hermann von, 187, 189, 194, 198 Scotland, 14–15, 18–19, 22, 68, 156, 216, 224, 287 Scutt, Ronald, 208 Sea blindness, 6, 61–75, 139 Seafaring Race Theory, 295, 303–305, 311 Second Anglo-Dutch War, 163 Second London Naval Treaty (1936), 46 Sedan, Battle of (1870), 186, 188, 196, 262–263 Seeley, John, 272 Self-actualisation, 233, 241, 245–246 Seven Years War, 32, 168, 171 Shakespeare, William, 67 Shepard, Alexandra, 102 Shiba, Ryōtarō, 39 Shigemitsu, Mamoru, 49

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335

Shipbuilders, The (1943 film), 147–148, 150, 152–155 Shipyard (1935 film), 142 Shipyard Sally (1939 film), 147–148, 155 Shovell, Cloudesley, 17–18 Shōwa period, 41 Silvela, Francisco, 264–265 Singapore, 301, 306 Skagerrak strait, 123 Smith, Anthony D., 2 Sonnō Jōi, 40 Souchon, Wilhelm, 195 South Africa, 271–289 Boer population, 287–288 Transvaal, 287 South Pacific, 186, 193, 206 Spain, 8, 18, 22, 26, 61, 84–85, 101, 113, 127–128, 150, 223, 253–268 Alicante, 254–255, 258 Almeria, 264; Corunna, 258 Liga Marítima Española (Spanish Maritime League), 265 Madrid, 255–256, 258, 260 Santander, 256 Spanish-American War, 254, 262 Spanish Armada, 61, 150 Spee, Maximilian von, 7–8, 183–199 Springfield, Dusty, 240 Stallybrass, Peter, 237 Steel Goes to Sea (1941 film), 150 Steinberg, Philip, 100 Stewart, David, 102 Stow, John, 111 Strath Report (1955), 72 Stumpf, Richard, 187 Sturdee, Doveton, 184, 190, 193, 196 Styles, John, 29 Submarines, 70, 72, 138, 187, 189–190, 198 U-boat, 138 unrestricted submarine warfare, 70, 138 Superb (HMS), 225 Swanley, Richard, 105

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336

M ARITIME HISTORY

Sweden, 128, 131–132, 135 Swettenham, Frank, 302 Swift, Jonathan, 14 Sydney (HMAS), 282 Taishō period, 41, 51 Tattooing, 8, 205–226 Taylor, Elizabeth, 240–241 Taylor, Philip M., 143 Thames, River see London Thunderer (HMS), 219 Till, Geoffrey, 121, 124, 127, 133 Tindal, Nicholas, 21 Tirpitz, Alfred von, 187–189 Toca, Joaquín Sánchez de, 265–266 Tōgō, Heihachirō, 45 Tōjō, Hideki, 46 Tokyo Tribunal (1946), 44 Trafalgar, Battle of (1805), 66, 186, 253–254, 259–261, 263 Transcendence (of old identities), 231, 235–236, 243 Treaty of Paris (1763), 171 Trident, 73 Trinity House, 5, 107 Tsushima, Battle of (1905), 42, 45, 48, 51–52, 55 Tyneside Story (1943 film), 149, 151 Untergang, 195, 198–199 Uruguay, 196, 253 Montevideo, 196, 253 Valera, Juan, 265 Vann’Antò, 89 Vernon, Edward, 13–15, 17–19, 21–22, 24, 27–32 Victoria and Albert (royal yacht), 271 Victoria and Albert Museum, 144 Victoria, Queen, 144, 271 Diamond Jubilee of, 271 Victory (HMS), 51, 53 Viking era, 125, 283

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IDENTITY

Wade, Cooper, 17 Wales, 14, 20, 22, 68, 287 Walpole, Horace, 32 War of the Spanish Succession, 18 Ward, Joseph, 278, 280 Ward, Paul, 2 Warren, Peter, 18, 26–27, 29, 31–32 Washington Naval Conference and Treaty (1921–22), 42, 70 Waters, David, 109 Weddigen, Otto, 190 Weisweiller, Daniel, 258 Weizsäcker, Ernst von, 185, 187, 189 Whaling, 125–126 White, Allon, 237 White, Arnold, 276 Wiener, Martin, 152 Wilhelm I, German Emperor, 195 Wilhelm II, German Emperor, 195 Williams, Kenneth, 230 Wilson, Kathleen, 13 Wolfe, James, 167 Wolz, Nicolas, 187 World War I, 8, 39, 42, 66, 68, 70, 73, 134, 135–138, 144, 146, 184, 188–189, 195, 198, 255 World War II, 6–7, 38, 44–45, 68, 73, 122, 126, 135–137, 139, 144–147, 149, 152, 156–157, 231, 294–295 Wyatt, H.F., 275 Yalu, Battle of (1895), 48 Yamanashi, Katsunoshin, , 43, 51–52 Yamamoto, Isoroku, 43, 47–48, 54 Yamato (Japanese battleship), 38, 46 Yōnai, Mitsumasa, 47 Yoshida, Shigeru, 49 Young, Arthur, 301 Zavala, Lorenzo de, 255–257 Zeppelin, 70

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