The Spithead Mutiny

Storynotes on the Spithead Mutiny of 1797, when men aboard several ships the line mutinied, with some success, against poor pay and conditions.

A Telling (Work in Progress)

It’s 1797. Look out from Ryde towards Spithead, and you would see Lord Bridport’s Channel fleet — the Grand Fleet of 16 ships of the line, and sundry other smaller vessels — assembling there, making ready to head out on patrol against the French fleet preparing to sail out of Brest, just below the entrance to the English Channel, this being a time with war… again…

These were not the happiest of times for the sailors in His Majesty’s Royal Navy. Many would have been pressed into service against their will,others taken or relieved from bankruptcy in exchange for serving as one of His Majesty’s men.

The rations would rarely pass muster, their provisions short-served: 12 ounces to the pound, not sixteen, short measures, in kind, on rum, the excess held back by the purser whose own reward was determined by how much he could save. Salt beef that would be months, if not years, old, so hard you could polish it, so foul tasting you’d suspend it in on a line a pull it through the sea to try to wash the worst of it out; ship’s biscuit as hard as stone, although that rarely put off the weevils.

Since 1757, the Articles of War, the laws that regulated life on board, would have been read out regularly to the men. As well as describing what was expected in time of battle, the articles also defined a variety of physical punishments for various offences, including capital punishments. Mutiny, as you might expect, was severely punished. But they also provided a means to express discontent, allowing the men to raise concerns with their Caption, or the Commander-in-Chief.

As for the pay? Well, that hadn’t changed since the time of Charles II, a hundred or more years before. That didn’t matter so much in times of low inflation, but the current war, and perhaps the early onset of the industrial revolution, meant that inflation was now a thing: prices were increasing and the men could no longer provide for their families as they had even a few short years before.

Round-robin letters of discontent started to make their way around Bridport’s fleet, ferried by small boars criss-crossing between the ships of war, as it moored at Spithead that month of February.

Copies of the same letter were sent from several of the ships, unsigned, but several of them dated by the same hand, to Bridport’s predecessor, the well-loved Lord Howe, invalided out a couple of years ago and currently resting up, in Bath, with a painful bout of gout — the rations for the officers were not so bad as those of the men, which was another cause for complaint.

Howe, thinking the letters had come from the same mischievous and trouble making source, discounted them, although he did have enquiries made by one of his old officers about the state of mind of the fleet at Portsmouth: “all’s well”, came back the reply.

But all was not well.

The round-robin letters had called for increased better, better provisions — and a fairer share of them — an improved share of prize money — for at that time, his Majesty’s ships often acted in pirate mode, taking what prizes they could from boarded ships, then sharing them: mostly amongst the officers, to a letter extent, amongst the crew.

When the men sailed that first week of March for Brest, to keep a watching eye over the French fleet assembling there, they were hopeful that on their return Howe would have acted favourably on behalf their plea. But when they returned at the end of that same month: nothing.

And so the mood got worse.

Dissatisfaction grew, particularly on board Howe’s old flagship, the Queen Charlotte, a ship whose discipline now had the reputation of being rather lax and turbulent.

Small boats started criss-crossing out from the Queen Charlotte to the other ships, and soon a plan was made.

That weekend would be Easter, and on Holy Thursday — Maundy Thursday — and Good Friday, petitions started to be put together, petitions that would be sent this time to the Admiralty itself. And on Easter Monday, the crews would take action, hoist a flag, and refuse to sail when next told to weigh anchor.

Realising that all was not well, an order was made on Easter Sunday for one of the squadrons to sail round to St Helens, for final preparations before sailing on into the Channel.

Even though the petitions were not ready, this was even to prompt the men to take action immediately, and the mutiny began.

Not a violent or riotous mutiny, mind you: the officers were still to be respected, and discipline maintained. But the ships would not sail (at least, not unless the French came calling: the men were still loyal to Britain, and the King). Ropes were hung over the yard arms as a sign that breaches of discipline would be punished harshly — when there was hanging, it was typically from the yard arm — although doubtless some of the officers feared that the rope was intended for them. As it was, the ropes would become a public sign that a ship was in mutiny. If a red flag flow, that was a sign to send a boat to the Queen Charlotte, bringing a couple of elected delegates from each ship, to sit in committee.

Bridport tried to be reasonable, telling his Captains to get a list of grievances from each ship. The demands were all much the same: better pay, a fairer share of provisions, and prize money, pensions for wounded seamen, improved shore leave, and better treatment from the officers.

The next day, on Easter Monday, the men took an oath to the cause: if the men wer unanimous, and united, it would be impossible to punish them all for transgressing the Articles of War. They had tried petitioning their old commander, and now they would try the Admiralty: they had tried raising concerns, as the Articles of War said they could, but they had not been heard. So they would try again, but this time in combination.

The patients at Haslar, the naval hospital that looks out towards Spithead from the mouth of Portsmouth harbour, hearing cheers from the fleet, and news of the mutiny, raised their voices in three cheers too, hanging banners made of handkerchiefs tied together and waving flags from their windows in a sign of support.

By 5pm that day, a delegation that included Lord Spencer, first Lord of the Admiralty, set out from London, arriving at the Fountain Inn, on the High Street in Portsmouth — the inn is no longer there — by noon the following day. It immediately formed a board to rule on the men’s demands.

Slightly improved wages, and better pensions, were soon agreed to. But the men wanted more: fairer provisions, better treatment and so on. And a pardon: every man should receive a pardon from taking part in the mutiny.

At this point, the Board grew suspicious: was this a tactic the seamen would continue to play out - get a concession, ask for more, get another concession, ask for more again — so they told Bridport to tell the men: take it or leave it, with the pardon, or suffer the full consequences of being a mutineer as stipulated in the Articles of War.

The Admiralty men also believed that if the less mutinous ships could be sailed round to St Helens, splitting the fleet, the mutiny could be more easily brought to an end. But Bridport and his Rear Admirals advised against it, telling the Admiralty men that the only solution was to make the additional concessions.

The fleet seemed happy, but it would require a unanimous decision from the committee summoned to the Queen Charlotte to accept the offer. The delegates sailed from each ship to the Charlotte, but then had to wait for the delegates from the Quen Charlotte itself, and the Royal George, Lord Bridport’s flagship, who had been ashore. On board his ship, Rear Admiral Gardner was tired of waiting, and took a boat over to the Queen Charlotte.

The decision was made: accept the terms, BUT the pardon should be a King’s Pardon, with a Royal Seal. At this point, Gardner exploded, grabbing one of the delegates, and telling him that he’d have them all hanged, each and every one of them, along with one of five of every seaman in the fleet.

As you can imagine, his did not go down well.

But, somehow, Gardner’s men managed to get him off the ship, alive.

Until this point, Bridport’s flag had still been flying on the Royal George, but as the men started to prepare guns and set a watch, fearing some sort of reprisal, Bridport’s officers took the flag down, so it would not be further sullied.

Provoked in part by Garner’s outburst, the men’s suspicions about the good faith of the Admiralty increased further, and they added a further demand: that Parliament should sign off on the concessions too. But they were also concerned about losing Bridport’s support, and the men of the Royal George wrote to him as the “father of the fleet”, not to abandon them and to reassume his command.

The Admiralty Lords went back to London, where a letter was sent to the privy Council. From there, Pitt, the Prime Minister, went to see the King at Windsor.

A Royal proclamation was signed, and sealed, and one hundred copies printed off, and sent, post haste, to Portsmouth.

On board the Charlotte, the men were still suspicious. It looked like a Royal Pardon, but was it? Thy demanded to see the original, which then had to be brought over from the Royal George.

A week or so after they had first been hung, the ropes were taken down from the yard arms, and the Spithead mutiny was over.

Or at least, the first Spithead mutiny was over.

Several ships were sent round to St Helens, and the fleet as a whole prepared to sail. But the wind conditions weren’t favourable, too strong a wind from the East, and the fleet waited still.

The provisions on offer had started to improve — that much could be accommodated on-board each ship — but as the fleet remained at anchor, the Admiralty felt the need to also put an official stamp on the return to discipline with the issue of new orders: an enforcement of the regular reading of the Articles of War, regular musters of the ships crew, and increased supervision over shore leave.

The mutterings started again.

A couple of days later, word started to get out about a debate in the House of Lords, ten days after the end of the mutiny, ten days after the end of the first mutiny, a debate in which the Duke of Bedford had asked Lord Spencer, first Lord of the Admiralty, whether that House could expect to see any papers relating to the affairs at Portsmouth, for if not, he would have to formally request them. Spencer said, that as far as he was aware, there were no papers.

Parliamentary approval of the concessions was the final demand of the mutineers, and now it seemed as if this would not be forthcoming.

Although not reported in the papers, behind the scenes, estimates were being prepared, and would have been tabled in the House of Commons that Friday — if it had been sitting. But when the newspapers arrived on board the ships that Saturday, reporting Bedford’s question and Spencer’s reply.

The next day, the Sunday two weeks after the end of the first mutiny, three weeks after the start of the first mutiny, the ropes were back on the yard arms, and red flags flying to summon boats, and delegates, to committee.

The second Spithead mutiny was on.

On board the London, Rear Admiral Colpoys had seen the boats starting to dot back and forwards between the Queen Charlotte and several of the other ships. He rightly suspected something mutinous was going on. In an attempt to maintain order, he told his men he would stand by them, but they should go below deck. The officers and marines would stop any delegates coming aboard and discipline would be maintained.

The men went below deck.

Had a drink…

And started to get a bit rowdy. They tried to come up on deck, and were pushed back. The marines were ordered to point their guns at the hatches, and then an order to fire was given. A short gun battle ensued, in which men on both sides were wounded. (Three of the seamen later died, the coroner’s verdict: justifiable homicide).

Monday. Across the fleet, the seamen started to take control. Officers were sent ashore, and several more ships sailed round to St Helens.

Some of the more credulous and revolutionary men started to gossip that the fleet would sail to Brest, and join with the French, but the great majority of the fleet were still loyal to the flag, to the King, even if they were suspicious of the Admiralty, and of Parliament.

That same day, in London, a Bill was tabled in Parliament, completing all necessary stages the following day, including Royal Assent.

This time, 30 copies of the Act were hastily printed and rushed to Lord Bridport, who received them on the Wednesday.

As a further placatory measure, the beloved Lord Howe also set out from London, to Portsmouth, where he visited the two ships at the heart of the mutiny — Bridport’s flagship the Royal George, and his own old flagship, the Queen Charlotte — as well as several others.

But still the seamen added to their demands. This time, they required that the worst of the officers, whom they had already sent ashore, should not be allowed back. A court-martial would not be required, they should just not be allowed to return.

And so it was agreed.

A celebration was organised, with processions through Portsmouth. To Bridport’s chagrin — there was little love lost between him and Howe, and now it was Howe who was for having brought an end to the mutiny — the celebrations would delay the sailing of the fleet, now the men had returned to his full command, for a further.

As the celebrations continued, four men from the Nore fleet, anchored at the opening of the Thames Estuary, had arrived in Portsmouth. They had started to mutiny three days before and had come to co-ordinate with the Portsmouth mutineers. Their mutiny would not end so happily, but that, as the old saying goes, is another story, for another day.