The Real Jack Tar

Julian was invited to contribute an essay for the prestigious nautical journal Maritime Life and Traditions. The full text is reproduced below, with kind permission of the publisher

Grog in the mess he zenith of the Age of Sail (1793-1815) coincides with the monumental strugle for empire between Britain and Napoleonic France. From as early as the Battle of the Nile in 1798, Napoleon was confined to the continent of Europe until he was forced to surrender by the Royal Navy’s domination at sea, where they won all the major battles and most of the minor. The legendary heroes of the quarterdeck – Nelson, Howe and Pellew – are deservedly famous, but what of the men of the fo’c’sle? Why is it that 99% of every ship’s company has been overlooked to such a degree that today it is exceptional to be able to bring to mind the name of any of that band of heroes hailing from before the mast? And why is the common sailor such a universally one dimensional walk-on stereotype in modern cinema and other treatments?

Jolly Jack Tar has been a stock figure in theatre since before Johnson’s day, known for his over-the-top salty wit and direct speaking, loved by all and instantly recognisable with his pigtail and sea rig, including those exotic ‘trousers.’ The general populace, grateful for their deliverance from the French and others, sentimentalised him, transforming him into a quaint caricature – not that this stopped them, at the end of the wars turning him by the thousands onto the streets to starve.

Only single figure numbers of autobiographical works have survived, but these must be taken with caution; many were edited polemics for reform, and fed the early Victorian appetite for moralising and scandal. To put it kindly, most were losers, who did not take to the life and remained lowly and bitter – but all have been accepted unquestioningly as an authentic picture of mainstream life at sea. This view raises awkward questions. How can a crew of brutalised jailbirds have operated a ship-of-the-line, the most complex machine on the planet at the time? Why would ‘mere cyphers’ fight like tigers for such a way of life? With such brutal conditions, who then would volunteer for a life on the ocean wave, as so many did?

The renewed attention this period of maritime history is receiving is throwing fresh light on these conundrums and illuminating a fascinating sea world.

To appreciate the real Jack Tar you have to understand who he was not. He was not the landlubber, the quota-man, the jailbird – they came mainly from ill-conceived political measures to meet the chronic shortage of men, and were shipped aboard with no training whatsoever to be heartily despised by all true seamen. Their presence was primarily to provide brute labour for the decks of guns that gave a man-o’-war her purpose. Few did well; they had little to offer and there was little incentive to rise above themselves to break into the larger community. In store for them, therefore, would be a life of unremitting and uncomprehending misery.

A pressed man was a different matter. Legally the only ones who could be pressed off the street were those ‘who used the sea.’ This reflected the notion that merchant ships were a kind of floating reserve for the Navy, for a skilled seaman could easily pass between them and often did, but even so the press-gang was loathed. There were often spirited fights ashore before sympathetic bystanders, and magistrates could convict the lieutenant of a press-gang if injuries resulted. However, before we condemn, it is worth considering how unfair is this really, compared to more recent times when wholesale conscription and the lottery of the draft were tolerated.

It is true that many Navy men deserted, but this was probably not so much as a result of brutal conditions as a desire to see if the grass was greener, and the simple fact that the odds against recapture were so low. Moreover, savage penalties were usually set aside in a captain’s eagerness to retain the seaman’s services. The merchant service paid wages up to four times those on offer in the Navy and without the prospect of a battle, but there was a down-side; ship-owners were tight-fisted and with small crews sailors had to work harder, and if ever they came up against a predator they were virtually defenceless.

It is important as well to take account of the historical context in which Jar Tar lived. Conditions aboard were hard, but for the times by no means extreme. On the land there was no real security for the working man; a full belly at the end of a hard day was never certain, and food was generally of poor quality. At sea, the meanest hand could rely on three square meals a day regularly and grog twice – and free of charge, something a ploughman in the field or redcoat on the march could only dream about. Accommodation at sea was far cleaner than the crowded bothies and stews of the city and with half the men on watch it has been remarked that the 28 inches of hammock space per man compares favourably with that of a modern double bed. While in absolute terms it is not a life we could tolerate today, for the eighteenth century in general it was not horrific – and as modern ocean yachtsmen and mountaineers have found, a lot of hardships can be borne if you believe you are achieving something.

Brutality in discipline is often cited to imply a cowed crew; but in reality the captain was like a country justice-of-the-peace at sea, and had broadly similar powers – never life and death. Ashore there were the stocks and the local bridewell, but at sea there was no provision for the idleness of incarceration – the punishment must deter, but also be summary in effect; the man must be quickly returned to duty. At a time when a woman could be ‘whipped at the cart’s tail’ up the town’s High Street for a misdemeanour, flogging was the sea alternative. Captains varied in its use; statistical examination shows both extremes, but if repeat offenders and hard-case quota men are excluded it is clear that the majority of seamen never did receive a ‘red checked shirt at the gangway.’

One thing is emerging; the men of the fo’c’sle were not faceless nonentities going through rote drills, as on a parade ground. A 74 gun ship-of-the-line at sea had only a single commissioned officer on watch; the whole subsequent complexity of operations with hundreds of men could only be possible if the men had the initiative and intelligence to work individually out there on the yard or any one of the huge number of everyday technical tasks. Under the tiny officer corps, a well-tried hierarchy of merit existed – the petty officers and warrant officers – ‘the backbone of the Navy.’ It was highly successful, and it remains effective to this day. It ensured work-place excellence at all levels, and could only be achieved with sea skills won in a culture of pride and work satisfaction.

In general, officers were no fools – they knew that in man-management terms it were better to lead a well-conditioned and motivated team than drive a sullen and unreliable rabble. A recently discovered Royal Navy ship’s order-book dating from the desperate situation of the later 1790s shows well over half the entries concerned measures for the welfare of ship’s companies. This was appreciated by the seamen, who, as any serviceman will testify, can put up with much if officers are seen to be trying their best. It is worth pointing out that the grievances of the great fleet mutiny of 1797 at Spithead were not about the system, but abuses.

The world of the lower deck was a unique, colourful and deeply traditional way of life, carrying customs and attitudes hallowed over the centuries. A young sailor learned many things along with his sea skills: handicrafts ranging from scrimshaw to ships-in-a-bottle, well-honed yarns whose ancestry is lost in mists of superstition, and most valuable, the social aptitudes to get on with his fellow man under sustained hard conditions.

Individualism – a trait shared by all nations in a universal sea ethos – made for strong characters and sturdy views and makes a nonsense of portrayals that have them otherwise. There could be no doubts about the man next to you on the yard or standing by your side to repel boarders, they were your shipmates, and a tight and supportive sense of community arose which only deepened on a long commission, far waters and shared danger. Then, as now, the sea was a place to find resources of courage and endurance from within yourself, to discover the limits, both in you and in others.

Prize money was an obvious incentive to Jack Tar, and with reason – all seamen would have before them the example of the capture of the Spanish Hermione, which left the humblest seaman with forty years’ pay for just a few hours work. In 1779 Lieutenant Trollope was in command of the cutter Kite when he took two enemy prizes laden with seasoned ship timber. He was awarded 3/8ths – £30,000 – so in one hour he had earned the equivalent of 300 years' worth of pay. As no other ship was present and he was not a member of any particular Admiral’s Fleet he was able to secure the full amount. Such riches were rare, but by no means unknown – yet this does not explain why the blockading squadrons, storm-tossed and lonely with never a chance of a prize, still performed their sea duties to a level that has rarely been seen, leagues out to sea and out of sight, executing complex manoeuvres without ever an admiring audience.

A more universal reason is perhaps the fact that there was a simple and sturdy patriotism at work; in the years since Drake, the seamen had evolved a contempt for those foreigners who dared a challenge at sea, and in the years of success that followed, it became a given that the Royal Navy would prevail, whatever the odds. In the century up to Nelson this became a ‘habit of victory’ that gave an unshakeable confidence in battle, every man aware that he was a member of an elite with a splendid past that it would be unthinkable to betray, a spirit that in truth has endured to this day. This habit of victory produced some incredible results. I’ll mention just one extraordinary fact. In the whole 22 years of war the Navy lost 166 ships to the enemy. In the same period no less than 1204 of the enemy hauled down their colours in return – seven times their number!

The men on the lower deck who helped achieve these odds were exceptional seamen, tough and loyal characters who have contributed to a sea culture that has flowered and endured over the centuries. But there is still much we do not know about Jack Tar. It is time for the real men to step out from the shadows and take their place among the heroes of the age. Nelson was adamant, and I have his words as the dedication to my first book, speaking of the officers aft on the quarterdeck and the men forward in the fo’c’sle; ‘Aft the more honour, forward the better man!’