USE OF FLAGS IN NAVAL WARFARE.

Such are the principal naval flags. Of the circumstances in which they may or may not be legitimately used, especially in naval warfare, some interesting stories might be told.

Although it is prohibited to merchant ships to carry the colours used in the navy, this may be done in time of war to deceive an enemy. I may mention one instance when it was practised with happy effect. In the French war in 1797 the French Rear-admiral Sarcy, when cruising with six frigates in the Bay of Bali, came in sight of five of our Indiamen—one of them, the Woodford, Captain Lennox. They were homeward bound, and all richly laden, and to all appearance they had no chance of escape, when Captain Lennox rescued them by an act of great judgment and presence of mind. He first of all hoisted in his own ship a flag which the French admiral knew well—that of the British Admiral Rainier, blue at the mizen, and he made all the other ships in his company hoist pendants and ensigns to correspond. But he did more. He detached two of the Indiamen to chase and reconnoitre the enemy; and as these advanced towards the French reconnoitring frigate the Cybèle, the latter, completely deceived, made all sail to join her consorts with the signal at her mast-head—"The enemy is superior in force to the French." On this the French admiral, believing that he was in the presence of a powerful British squadron, made off with his frigates under all sail, and Captain Lennox and his consorts completed their voyage in safety. When Admiral Sarcy discovered afterwards the ruse that had been practised on him, and which had lost him a prize of such great value, his mortification may be imagined.

In going into action it is the custom with the ships of all nations to hoist their national colours. Nelson at Trafalgar carried this to excess, for he hoisted several flags lest one should be shot away. The French and Spaniards went to the opposite extreme, for they hoisted no colours at all, till late in the action, when they began to feel the necessity of having them to strike.[41] Nelson on that occasion ran his ship on board the Redoubtable, a large seventy-four gun ship, and fought her at such close quarters that the two ships touched each other. Twice Nelson gave orders to cease firing at his opponent, supposing she had surrendered, because her great guns were silent, and as she carried no flag there was no means of instantly ascertaining the fact. It was from the ship which he had thus twice spared that Nelson received his death wound. The ball was fired from the mizen-top, which, so close were the ships, was not more than fifteen yards from the place where he was standing. Soon afterwards the Redoubtable, finding further resistance impossible, hoisted her flag, only to haul it down again in sign of surrender, within twenty minutes after the fatal shot had been fired. In this great battle each of the Spanish ships had in addition to her ensign a large wooden cross hung to the end of her spanker boom.

When a ship surrenders the fact is usually intimated by her hauling down her flag, but in Lord Cochrane's spirited attack on the French fleet in Basque Roads in 1809, two of the French ships, the Varsovie and Aquilon, made the token of submission by each showing a Union Jack in her mizen chains; and in other instances during the war French ships hoisted a Union Jack as the signal of their having struck.

Of course when a ship has surrendered the fire of both ships ceases. In an action off Lissa between British ships and a Franco-Venetian squadron, the French ship Flore surrendered to the British frigate Amphion. Immediately afterwards the Venetian frigate Bellona bore up and commenced a heavy fire against the Amphion, and some of the shot struck the captured ship on the other side. Supposing, erroneously, that the shot came from the British ship, one of the officers of the Flore, in order to make more clear the fact of her having absolutely surrendered, took the French ensign, halliards and all, and holding them up in his hand over the taffrail to attract the attention of the Amphion's people, threw the whole into the sea. Having captured the Bellona also, the captain of the Amphion temporarily left the surrendered ship while he pursued another of the enemy, the Corona, which he also captured. When thus engaged, however, he was mortified to see his first prize, the Flore, notwithstanding her emphatic act of submission, dishonourably stealing away, and she actually effected her escape into the harbour of Lessina. Captain Hoste, who commanded the British squadron, afterwards sent a letter by a flag of truce to the captain of the Flore, demanding restitution of the frigate in the same state as when she struck her flag and surrendered to the Amphion; but the commander of the French squadron replied by a letter, neither signed nor dated, denying that the Flore had struck, and falsely asserting that the colours had been shot away. The letter was sent back and the demand repeated, but no answer was returned.

I may mention another instance in which captured colours were thrown into the sea in token of surrender under different circumstances, but not more creditable to the vanquished party. In the war between America and the Barbary States in the early part of the century, the United States schooner Enterprise, under the command of Lieutenant Sterrett, fell in with and engaged a Tripolitan polacre ship, and in the course of the action the colours of the latter were either shot away or struck—in all probability the latter, for the Americans believed she had surrendered and quitted their guns. The Corsair, however, re-hoisted her flag and continued the action. Thereupon the Enterprise poured in so destructive a fire that her opponent this time unequivocally hauled down her colours, and Lieutenant Sterrett ordered her under his lee quarter. This order was obeyed, but the Tripolitan, when he got there, thinking his position favourable, re-hoisted the red flag, and having poured another broadside into the Enterprise, prepared to board. The Americans, justly incensed at this treacherous act, delivered a raking broadside which effectually terminated the affair. The Tripolitan captain now abjectly implored the quarter which he had justly forfeited, and bending over the waist barricade of his ship, and as an indication of his sincerity, raised his colours in his arms and threw them into the sea.

In contrast to the conduct of the captain of the Flore in carrying off his ship after he had surrendered, may be mentioned the very different course taken by the officer in command of a French 40-gun frigate, the Renommée, which was captured off Madagascar in 1811, after an action between a French squadron, and a British squadron under Captain Schomberg. From the state of the British ships after the action, Captain Schomberg, when night was coming on, could only send on board the prize a lieutenant of marines and four seamen, in a sinking boat. At this time the Renommée had a crew of nearly 400 effective officers and men, and they could have had at once retaken the ship and got off during the night. The crew wished to do so, but Colonel Barrois, who—the captain having been killed—was now, according to the etiquette of the French service, the commanding officer, acting on a high principle of honour, refused to give his sanction, as they had surrendered by striking their flag. The lieutenant and his few hands remained accordingly in quiet possession of the prize, till the prisoners were taken out next morning, and a proper prize crew placed on board.

When an action takes place at night, when flags cannot be seen, other modes of intimating surrender have to be reverted to. In the war with America, in 1815, when a British ship in a disabled state found she had no alternative but to surrender at midnight to an American ship of superior force, she did so by firing a lee gun and hoisting a light. In another case a French frigate, the Néréide, after a severe action during night with the British frigate Phœbe, surrendered to the latter by hauling down a light she had been carrying, and hailing that she surrendered. In another case a French ship intimated the fact of her surrender by hoisting a light and instantly hauling it down.

When a ship has surrendered and is taken possession of, the captor hoists his ensign over that of the enemy. In one instance a mistake in this produced disastrous results. In the celebrated capture of the Chesapeake off Boston in 1813, when the American flag was struck, the officer of the Shannon who was sent on board the Chesapeake to take possession, inadvertently—owing to the halliards being tangled—bent the English flag below the American ensign instead of above it. By this time the two ships were drifting apart, and when the Shannon's people saw the American stripes going up first they concluded that their boarding party had been overpowered, and at once reopened their fire, by which their first-lieutenant and several of their own men were killed. The mistake was discovered before the flags had got halfway to the mizen peak, when they were hauled down and hoisted properly. In this brilliant but short action—for between the discharge of the first gun and the conclusion of the fight only fifteen minutes elapsed—the American ship, by way of display, carried more than the ordinary number of flags. She flew three ensigns, one at the mizen, one at the peak, and one, the largest of all, in the starboard main rigging. She had besides, flying at the fore, a large white flag inscribed with the words "Sailors' Rights and Free Trade," with the intention, it was supposed, of damping the energy of the Shannon's men by this favourite American motto. The Shannon had the Union at the fore and an old rusty blue ensign at the mizen peak, and besides these she had one ensign on the main stay and another in the main rigging, both rolled up and "stopped" ready to be cast loose in case either of the other flags should be shot away.

A similar display of flags occurred on the occasion of the encounter off Valparaiso in 1814 between the British 36-gun frigate Phœbe and the United States 32-gun frigate Essex, which resulted in the capture of the latter. Captain Porter, who commanded the American ship, made an attempt, as in the case of the Chesapeake, on the loyalty of the Phœbe's seamen, by hoisting at his fore top-gallant-mast head the stock motto, "Free Trade and Sailors' Rights." This, in a short time, the British ship answered with the St. George's ensign and the motto, "God and Country—British sailors' best rights: Traitors offend them." Subsequently the Essex hoisted her motto flag at the fore, and another on the mizen mast, with one American ensign at the mizen peak and a second lashed on the main rigging. Not to be outdone in decorations the British ship hoisted her motto flag with a profuse display of ensigns and union jacks, and all these were flying when the American ship was captured.

To hoist false colours in time of war in order to entice an enemy within reach has always been considered legitimate, but it is not allowable to engage, or to commit any hostile act, under them. While it is considered legitimate to mislead, however, it is not legitimate to cheat. An example of what might appear to be a distinction without a difference is afforded by a case which occurred in 1783, when the French ship Sybille, a powerful 36-gun frigate, was sighted off Cape Henry by the Hussar of 28 guns. The Sybille had, a few days before, had a drawn fight with one of our ships of the same force, and, in consequence of injuries she had then received, had been dismasted in a puff of wind, and was under jury masts. As she was unable to chase the Hussar, she sought to entice her alongside, in order to take her by boarding, and accordingly she hoisted at the peak the French ensign under the English, as if she had been captured. All this was legitimate, and the Hussar might or might not have been deceived by it. But the French captain did something more. He hoisted in the main shrouds an English ensign reversed, and tied in a weft or loop. Now this was a well-known signal of distress—an appeal to a common humanity, which no English officer was ever known to disregard, and the Hussar closed at once. But fortunately her crew were at quarters, and the Sybille, hauling down the English flag at the peak and hoisting the French above, endeavoured to run her on board. Her extreme rolling, however, steadied by no sufficient sail, exposed her bottom, and several shots from the Hussar went through her very bilge. By this time another of our ships, the Centurion of 50 guns, had come up, and the Sybille struck her flag—the reversed ensign with its weft, so dishonourably hoisted, remaining in the main shrouds. The English officer who took possession sent the French captain on board the Hussar, and he presented his sword to Captain Russell on the quarterdeck. Russell took the sword, broke it across, and threw it on the deck; and sending the Frenchman below, kept him in close confinement in the hold till his arrival in port some days later.[42]

I may mention another case where a legitimate ruse was successfully practised on an enemy by our great naval commander, Lord Cochrane. It occurred in the early part of his brilliant career, when he was cruising in the Mediterranean in his little brig the Speedy. This small craft, under her daring and skilful commander, had made herself so much an object of terror by the many captures she had made that a Spanish frigate, heavily armed, was fitted out and sent after her. In order to get near the Speedy the Spaniard was disguised as a merchantman. For the same reason, Lord Cochrane, to lull suspicion and enable him to get near the merchant craft of the enemy, had also disguised his small vessel, and was sailing as a merchant brig under Danish colours. Perceiving the supposed Spanish merchantman, Lord Cochrane at once gave chase, and he only discovered his mistake when his formidable antagonist opened her ports and showed her teeth. At the same time the Spaniard lowered a boat to go on board the Speedy and see what she was. Discovery and capture were apparently now unavoidable, but Lord Cochrane was equal to the occasion. Hoisting the yellow flag—the dreaded signal of sickness and quarantine—he made straight for the frigate, and, having dressed a petty officer in Danish uniform, on the gangway, he ordered him to hail the boat with the intimation that they were out just two days from Algiers, where it was well known the plague was then violently raging. This was enough. The boat pulled back, and the frigate at once filled and proceeded on her course.

It was a narrow escape; yet the crew of the Speedy complained loudly that they had not been allowed to fight the frigate! They had been admirably trained, and had implicit confidence in their brave commander, and thought he was equal to anything. Lord Cochrane was not a man to disregard murmurs uttered in such a direction, and he told them that if they really wanted a fight they would get it with the first enemy they came across, whatever she might be. They had not long to wait before they fell in with a large Spanish zebec, the Gamo, which, to the astonishment of the big ship, Lord Cochrane immediately attacked. A fight with the guns could not have lasted long, for the Spanish ship carried 30 heavy guns with a crew of upwards of 300 men, while the Speedy had only 14 four-pounders and a crew of 54 all told. Lord Cochrane, therefore, notwithstanding this immense disparity of force, determined, as his only chance, to board the frigate, and this he succeeded in doing, taking his entire crew with him and leaving only the surgeon at the wheel. A deadly hand-to-hand conflict ensued, when, just as his small band were nearly overpowered, Lord Cochrane ordered one of his men to haul down the Spanish colours. This was promptly done, and the Spaniards—their commander having been killed—thinking that their own officers had struck, ceased fighting, and Lord Cochrane became master of the frigate. How to take care of his numerous prisoners was not a small difficulty, but he succeeded in doing so, and brought his prize safely into Port Mahon. It was one of the most brilliant affairs in the glorious life of this great seaman.

Another interesting example of an enemy's ship being taken in consequence of her colours being hauled down, not by her own officers but by the party assailing, occurred at a much earlier period in an action between the British and Dutch fleets off the English coast. A runaway boy—Thomas Hopson—an apprentice to a tailor in the Isle of Wight, had just before come on board the admiral's ship as a volunteer. In the midst of the action he asked a sailor how long the fight would continue, and was told that it would only cease when the flag of the Dutch admiral was hauled down. The boy did not understand about the striking of colours, but he thought if the hauling down of the flag would stop the fight it might not be difficult to do. As the ships were engaged yard-arm and yard-arm, and veiled in smoke, Hopson at once ran up the shrouds, laid out on the mizen-yard of his own ship, and having gained that of the Dutch admiral he speedily reached the top-gallant-mast head and possessed himself of the Dutch flag, with which he succeeded in returning to his own deck. Perceiving the flag to be struck the British sailors raised a shout of victory, and the Dutch crew, also deceived, ran from their guns. While the astonished admiral and his officers were trying in vain to rally their crew the English boarded the ship and carried her. For this daring service the boy was at once promoted to the quarter-deck, and he rose to be a distinguished admiral under Queen Anne.