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. They were making ready to head out on patrol against the French fleet preparing, which itself was preparing to set sail out of Brest, just below the entrance to the English Channel. This was, of course, a time of war with the French… 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, and their provisions were short-served: 12 ounces to the pound, not sixteen; short measures, in kind, on rum. The excess was held back by the purser whose own reward was determined by how much he could apparently 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; and 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 ship, 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 the articles also allowed a means for the men to express discontent, allowing them to raise concerns with their Captain, 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. The previous century had been a time of low inflaction, but now prices were rising. 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.

And amidst Bridport’s fleet, moored at Spithead in that month of February, 1797, small boats started to ferry round-robin letters of discontent between the ships of war.

For sure, several copies of the same letter were sent from several of the ships, unsigned, but dated by the same hand, to Bridport’s predecessor, the well-loved Lord Howe. Rations for the officers were not so bad as those for men perhaps, and Howe had been invalided out a couple of years ago and was currently resting up, in Bath, with a painful bout of gout.

Thinking the letters had come from the same mischievous and trouble making source, Howe largely discounted them, but his concern was piqued enough to have one of his old officers make enquiries 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 pay, better provisions — and a fairer share of them — and 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 spolis out between officers and crew, albeit with the lion’s share to the officers.

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. On Holy Thursday — Maundy Thursday — and again on Good Friday, petitions started to be put together, petitions that would be sent this time to the Admiralty itself. On Easter Monday, the crews would then 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.

But even though the petitions weren’t yet ready, this attempt to disrupt any action by the men prompted them to take action immediately. And the mutiny began.

But not a violent or riotous mutiny.

The officers were still to be respected, and discipline was to be maintained. But the ships would not sail when commanded to (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. And if a red flag flew? Well, that was a sign to send a boat to the Queen Charlotte, and to bring a couple of elected delegates from each ship to sit in committee.

Bridport tried to be reasonable, and he told his Captains to get a list of grievances from each ship. The demands were all much the same and much as you might expect: better pay, a fairer share of provisions, a fairer share of any 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 were unanimous, and united, it would be impossible to punish them all for transgressing the Articles of War. They had tried petitioning their old commander, which had got them nowhere; but 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, could hear cheers from on board the ships of the fleet. When news of the mutiny reached them, they 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, still Easter Monday, a delegation that included Lord Spencer, the first Lord of the Admiralty himself, had set out from London. It arrived at the Fountain Inn, on the High Street in Portsmouth — the inn is no longer there — by noon the following day. Immediately, a board meeting was held to rule on the men’s demands.

Slightly improved wages, and better pensions, were both 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, and you can have your pardon. Or suffer the full consequences of being a mutineer as stipulated in the Articles of War.

At the same time, the Admiralty men believed in a strategy of divide and conquer. If the less mutinous ships could be sailed round to St. Helens, splitting them from the rest of the fleet, the mutiny could be more easily brought to an end.

Bridport, and his Rear Admirals, advised against it. They knew their men, and they told the Admiralty folk that the only real solution was to make the additional concessions.

But whilst most of the fleet seemed happy with the original suggestion, it would still 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 they had to wait for the delegates from the Queen 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 Charlotte.

The decision was made: to 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, this did not go down well. But, and I don’t know quite how, 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 fearing some sort of reprisal, the men started to prepare the guns and set a watch, and Bridport’s officers took the flag down, so it would not be further sullied.

Provoked in part by Gardner’s outburst, the men’s suspicions about the good faith of the Admiralty increased further. So they did what you do under such cicrumstances, and doubled down, adding a further demand: that Parliament should sign off on the concessions too. But at the same time, they were still Bridport’s men, and being concerned about losing his support, the men of the Royal George wrote to him as the “father of the fleet”, asking him not to abandon them, and to reassume his command.

The Admiralty Lords went back to London, and 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. Then it was 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.

And so it was that a week or so after the ropes had first been hung over the yard arms, they were taken down, 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 set sail. But the wind conditions weren’t quite right — the wind was too strong from the East — and the fleet waited still.

The provisions on offer had started to improve — that much, at least, could be accommodated for on-board each ship. But as the fleet remained at anchor, the Admiralty felt the need to put an official stamp on the return to discipline. And so they issued new orders: the regular reading of the Articles of War would be enforced, there would be regular musters of the ships’ crew, and there would be 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. It was now ten days after the end of the mutin; which is to say, ten days after the end of the first mutiny. In the Lords debate, 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? If not, he would have to formally request them. Spencer had said, that as far as he was aware, there were no papers.

Now you might remember that 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 — which is to say, costings — and these would have been tabled in the House of Commons that Friday if it had been sitting. But it didn’t sit that day. So when the newspapers arrived on board the ships on the Saturday, reporting Bedford’s question and Spencer’s reply, and no mention of any decisions been made in the Commons, well, you can imagine the men weren’t happy.

So the next day, the Sunday, now two weeks after the end of the first mutiny, which is to say, three weeks after the start of the first mutiny, the ropes were back on the yard arms, and the red flags flying, and delegates were being ferried over again to restart the committee.

The second Spithead mutiny had begun.

On board the London, Rear Admiral Colpoys had seen the boats starting to dart backwards and forwards between the Queen Charlotte and several of the other ships. He rightly suspected something was going on. So 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.

And 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 an order to fire was given. A short gun battle ensued, and men on both sides were wounded. Three of the seamen later died. And 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, loyal to the King. Even if they were suspicious of the Admiralty. And of Parliament.

That same day, in London, a Bill was tabled. It completed all the necessary stages the following day, including Royal Assent, and was passed into law.

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. He made his way 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, but they should just not be allowed to return back on board.

Perhaps surpisingly, their conditions were agreed to.

A celebration was organised, including a procession through Portsmouth, although it was a slightly bill for Bridport: not only had Howe take the glory for resolving the dispute, but the celebrations had also further delayed the sailing of the fleet.

But even 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 their own mutiny three days before, and had come to co-ordinate with the Portsmouth mutineers. They would return to continue their mutiny without the support of the Spithead fleet, a mutiny that would not end so happily. But that, as the old saying goes, is another story, for another day.