Nelson: Britannia's God of War (65 page)

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The Entente that Britain had signed with France in 1904 settled the squabbles of the preceding thirty years, and allowed the two powers to cooperate in the face of the growing German threat. It had the added effect of muting the celebrations of the centenary of Trafalgar, since the Foreign Office was concerned to avoid upsetting French sensitivities. The Admiralty ordered the fleet not to make any special display;
the Navy Records Society, which had naturally planned to commemorate the event, also took the Admiralty’s advice and restricted its activities. Earl Spencer, the Society’s President, agreed to a public lecture on some aspect of Nelson’s career, but stressed that it was ‘important that … the address should not include anything which might wound the susceptibilities of France or of any other foreign nation’.
¹⁴
Admiral Lord Charles Beresford, then commanding in the Mediterranean, was similarly instructed to avoid triumphalist display, but ignored the order and reviewed three thousand men on the parade square at Malta. The event was handled with becoming dignity, and reflected more on the loss of the hero than the victory.
¹⁵
The idea that we should forget our past merely to avoid upsetting the sensitivities of our current friends is absurd, and does not show the country in a particularly favourable light – Trafalgar is a matter of historical fact.

The apologetic tone adopted by the Government left the centenary of Trafalgar to be marked by relatively unimpressive events. There was a Navy League wreath-laying ceremony in Trafalgar Square, and an exhibition of relics at the Royal United Services Institution on Whitehall. New books appeared, although few of any significance. One exception was the tribute of the Polish novelist, Joseph Conrad, who reminded Britons that Nelson was a supremely professional seaman. For Conrad, the attack at Trafalgar was a wonderful example: from his own experience as a seaman, he realised how great were its chances of failure, and how faint the wind on which it relied. In general, however, the nation was still content to attribute Nelson’s achievements to ‘character’ and get by on myths and make-believe. It was his courage and self-sacrifice that the Victorians and Edwardians found so ennobling about Nelson: his devotion to ‘duty’ chimed in with the service ethic of the age, while his Christian values were modernised to suit current tastes. Nelson was portrayed for the general public in remarkably simplistic terms: the educational efforts of Mahan and Laughton had not reached a popular audience.

Nelson’s greatest importance continued to reside in the way in which he influenced those responsible for ensuring the Navy’s continued readiness to meet a maritime threat. The two leading figures of the Edwardian Navy, John Fisher and Lord Charles Beresford, were particular devotees of Nelson, in ways that reflected their very different personalities. Both earned their public fame at the bombardment of Alexandria in 1882. Beresford, son of an Irish peer, had every advantage
money and social rank could bestow. He was a fine leader and a fair sailor, brave and loyal. He enjoyed politics, and often took an independent line. Not over-blessed with intellect, he made the best of what he had, and while he spoke well, he tended to prolixity. Fisher, five years older, had a head start, and the brains and determination to keep his lead. Son of a failed tea-planter in Ceylon, he entered the Navy with few friends, and made his way almost entirely on merit. A human dynamo of ideas, activity and administration, he mastered the new technologies of electricity, torpedoes and artillery to become the leading voice in debates on new weapons and tactics. Both men favoured reform, but fell out when they reached the highest ranks.

Beresford co-wrote a charming illustrated Nelson book to promote the Navy League.
¹⁶
Its aim was to widen access to the story of Nelson, who ‘taught the lesson which all our people should take to heart, that while the British Empire maintains its naval strength, the freedom of its people and the security of its borders may be successfully preserved against any hostile combination of military powers.’ Rather than investigate Nelson’s supposed faults, Beresford asked his audience not to concern themselves with ‘that which is small and pitiable, and regrettable’.
¹⁷
Fisher also understood the essence of Nelson: he frequently quoted his correspondence and ensured that the Edwardian navy was well aware of the Nelson heritage. He built the fleet that fought the Battle of Jutland, and the battleships that served on that day used, quite deliberately, many of the same names as those at Trafalgar, for he was planning a second Trafalgar. The names associated with Nelson had huge symbolic power for the Navy, but were not always appropriately used, as the chequered history of the name ‘HMS
Nelson
’
demonstrated.
¹⁸
Only Fisher had the confidence to associate himself with Nelson. The first two battleships ordered by his Admiralty Board were the
Lord
Nelson
and the
Agamemnon.
He went on to add
Dreadnought
,
Temeraire
,
Neptune
,
Superb
,
Vanguard
,
Bellerophon
,
Colossus
,
Orion
,
Conqueror
,
Thunderer
,
Ajax
,
Colling
wood
,
St
Vincent
and
Audacious.

As far back as 1871, Commander Fisher had demonstrated a sound grasp of the Trafalgar memorandum and how it would be applied to steam ships. Fisher knew Mahan’s works, chose 21 October 1904 as the ideal day to take up the office of First Sea Lord, and cited Nelson as the example for new measures wherever possible. The fact that his first Commander in Chief had been Sir William Parker also gave him
a living link with Nelson.
¹⁹
At the heart of Fisher’s naval reforms lay the new cadet college at Dartmouth, a striking building replacing the old wooden hulks that had been the entry point for officer cadets for half a century. The college was consciously laid out as a shrine to two gods, Nelson and the King. The opening of Dartmouth prompted a sudden rush to donate suitable Nelsonian artefacts and pictures to the college,
²⁰
reinforcing the buildings’ quasi-religious atmosphere.

In one vital respect, however, Fisher completely misunderstood Nelson. Seeking an admiral to emulate the hero in the next war he chose a mild-mannered, self-effacing technocrat: ‘Sir John Jellicoe. Phenomenally young and junior. He will be Nelson at Cape St Vincent until he becomes “Boss” at Trafalgar when Armageddon comes along in 1915 or thereabouts – not sooner!’
²¹
It must surely have been obvious to Fisher that Jellicoe was quite unlike Nelson: he was closer to Lord Howe in his approach to the service, and afflicted by a level of uncertainty, doubt and caution quite alien to his supposed model. Nonetheless, Fisher made the Nelson–Jellicoe connection again in 1911 when reporting to the new First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Spencer Churchill, and reminded him of the point in July 1914.
²²
Only great men like Fisher can make such big mistakes.

On his retirement in 1910, Fisher was created a baron: like Nelson he had risen on his own merit. Despite their differences of character and areas of expertise, Nelson and Fisher were the two admirals of genius to serve the Royal Navy between the eighteenth century and the twentieth. In 1913 Fisher was annoyed to hear that the statue of a general was about to be moved into Trafalgar Square, to make a space for his old friend King Edward VII outside the Athenaeum:

The nineteenth century had produced no naval heroes worthy of a statue in Trafalgar Square. It remained to be seen whether the twentieth would do so.

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In 1914 the Royal Navy went to war with more ships, men and guns than the enemy. Buoyed up by an almost sublime self-confidence the British accepted risks, made mistakes, and in almost all cases escaped
punishment. The public expected a second Trafalgar, entirely unaware of the very different situation pertaining in 1914. In Nelson’s day the British had to pin the French fleets in harbour, to secure their ocean communications. In 1914 they had only to wait and watch: if the Germans wanted to go anywhere other than the Baltic, they would have to come right past the main British base at Scapa Flow. Britain, as the historians had demonstrated, could cripple Germany by staying at home. Furthermore, Nelson could take risks because he never commanded the main British fleet, but the second or, in 1801, the third fleet: if he lost it would not be fatal. In 1914–18, by contrast, the defeat of the Grand Fleet would have meant the end of the war for Britain, and her allies: Jellicoe, as Churchill pointed out, was the one man who could have lost the war in an afternoon. This was an awesome responsibility to place on any man, let alone a constitutional worrier who was overly concerned by technical flaws. Furthermore, Jellicoe did not have a ‘Band of Brothers’ to work with: he had a collection of solid fellows who would do as they were told, but who lacked the wit and the confidence to function in the fast-moving and complex situations the war would throw up. Unlike Nelson, these men had grown up in a peacetime navy of neatness, drill and good order. Without experience of war to fall back on, they needed clear instructions, and solid routines.

As a result, the one great naval battle of the war – Jutland, 31 May 1916 – saw Jellicoe hammer the High Seas Fleet. Rather than risk his own fleet late on a gloomy afternoon, however, he was satisfied that he had driven the enemy away from their ports, and planned to complete the task the next morning. This was sound, judicious and avoided unnecessary risk; but it also gave the Germans an opportunity to scuttle home, and the next morning Jellicoe found the enemy had gone. Jellicoe’s counterpart, David Beatty, had by contrast been more aggressive in commanding his Battlecruiser fleet, pushing home his attacks, but Beatty lacked the calm professional detachment that Jellicoe used to keep control. He sacrificed advantages in numbers and firepower in a thoughtless quest for action, which cost him two of his ships and the lives of over two thousand sailors. Beatty was striving, misguidedly, to emulate Nelson: his failed attempt reflected a comprehensive misunderstanding. Though Beatty looked the part, and took big decisions with confidence, he lacked the reflective mind and professional dedication that informed Nelson’s judgements.

The Great War at sea was won by sound, reliable officers, men who might have found Sir William Cornwallis and Earl St Vincent more suitable models than Nelson. For more than four years they blockaded Germany, and at the end Germany collapsed.

However, the lack of a great sea battle left many dissatisfied with the Navy’s performance. There was little sacrifice to set against the massive cost of victory on land. Without a smashing battle victory, a second Trafalgar, the whole myth of Nelson and the Navy seemed to be diminished. Rather than celebrating their victory over everything that the Germans had thrown at them during the war, the Royal Navy’s officers fell into a nasty, futile feud over who was responsible for not winning at Jutland. Jellicoe, who made no mistakes and took no risks, was contrasted with Beatty, who had done both. Beatty started the argument, but Jellicoe’s quiet dignity and professionalism won more support than Beatty’s blatant rewriting of the battle.

Fisher’s
Lord
Nelson
served throughout the war with her sister, the
Agamemnon.
Both ships took part in the ill-fated Dardanelles offensive, where
Lord
Nelson
was slightly damaged. Later Lord Kitchener used her as his headquarters. For much of her career she was a flagship; she finally went for scrap in 1920, long rendered obsolete by the Dreadnoughts. By then the
Victory
was in a parlous condition, her time afloat over. Fortunately the Admiralty was prepared to sacrifice a dry-dock to give her a permanent home. In January 1922 the old ship made her last voyage. An eminent committee of admirals and experts raised money and oversaw the restoration. They wanted to reconstruct the actual ship, and devoted their efforts to tearing away the things that had been inspired by Trafalgar: the stronger bow and stern that would have reduced casualties had she, or her type, ever repeated the bow-on attack. In this way the physical aspect of the story was preserved, to be seen by millions, and would inspire fresh generations to worship at the shrine of the hero. This was an age of literal, accurate reconstructions, putting the pursuit of detail above understanding. The men of 1922 should not be condemned, for without them there would be no ship. But they left it a bare shell: hull, rig, guns and a few trifles to support the plaque on the quarter-deck marking the spot where he fell.

In 1928, the reconstruction complete, she received royal approval from another sailor King, George V. The temple of Nelson worship was now easily accessible to the public, which had not been the case while
she lay out in the harbour. Millions could go on board and gain direct access to Nelson’s story. Nelson had been reinvigorated as a national, naval deity, but only time would tell if the ‘war to end all wars’ was the end of strife. If it was then the antiquarian reconstruction of
Victory
would serve as a suitable epitaph for an age; if not, the Navy and the nation would need rather more of Nelson than a memory.