Intelligence in War: The Value--And Limitations--Of What the Military Can Learn About the Enemy by John Keegan
Authors: John Keegan
Ads: Link
and bloody-mindedness did. The British were masters of their craft, to a degree that the relatively inexperienced French, officers and men alike, were not; the code of revolutionary correctness had robbed the French navy of many good officers, conscription to the army of much of its manpower. The diet of victory on land in particular had sapped the French navy’s will to win. Victory at sea was not essential to France. It was crucial to the British as a people and to the Royal Navy as a service.
Bonaparte, as Sir Arthur Bryant, the great popular historian of Britain’s role in the wars of the French Revolution and Empire, was to remark, never saw and therefore could not imagine “the staggering destructive power of a British ship of the line in action.” The Royal Navy had been a ferocious instrument of war ever since the seventeenth century. Its defeat in the American War of Independence, however, had infused it with a ruthless killer instinct. It had been outraged by the French and Spanish seizure in 1780–81 of command of the sea, its birthright, as it saw it, and had not relented since the resumption of hostilities in 1793 in the determination to humble its enemies. Bonaparte, the mastermind of the Egyptian expedition, was now far from the fleet, winning new victories over feeble enemies in the interior of Egypt.* Had he been nearer, he might have sent his fleet away, to be out of danger, perhaps at Corfu, from which it could have been recalled quickly at need, and where it would have constituted a threat to Nelson’s lines of communication. The concept, however, of a “fleet in being,” affecting events by doing nothing, may have been alien to Bonaparte’s active and aggressive mind. He therefore ordered Brueys to remain in Egyptian waters but to put the fleet under the guns of Alexandria. It was then anchored in Marabout Bay, where the landings had been staged, a clearly unsatisfactory roadstead. Alexandria, however, was a difficult harbour, shallow and easily blocked. It was therefore eventually decided to transfer the ships to Aboukir Bay, nine miles to the east.
Brueys had anchored his ships in a position he thought made a successful attack by the British—which he expected—impossible. They lay in a shallow crescent formation, bows on to Aboukir Castle with Aboukir (Bequières) Island to starboard and shoal water between them and the land to port. They could be approached from only two directions: from below Aboukir Island, though the northerly wind denied the British that course; or through the gap between the island and the castle. Brueys had apparently judged the gap impracticable, believing that, even if negotiated, the water beyond was too shallow for the British to pass on either side of his ships; that is, between his line and Aboukir Island or between his line and the shoreward shoals. He had strengthened his defences by having cables run between most of his ships, which were about 175 yards apart, and by ordering springs to be attached to their anchor cables; springs, ropes taken to the capstan, could be tightened to swing the ship by the bow or stern, so that they were manoeuvrable even though at anchor. Not all the French captains, however, had attached springs by the time the battle began.
Nevertheless, the French position was formidable enough to deter a cautious enemy; but the British were not cautions, nor were they unobservant. Foley, captain of
Goliath,
had one of the only two charts of the coast in the fleet, and a good one; it showed the depths of water right up to the shoreline. 13 More important, Foley made a snap judgement about the way the French were anchored. Nelson himself would shortly come to the same conclusion, saying to Berry, his flag captain in
Vanguard,
“where there was room for an enemy’s ship to swing, there was room for one of ours to anchor.” 14 Foley saw that instantly as he passed the gap between the castle and the shoals and so pointed
Goliath
inshore, to
Bonaparte, as Sir Arthur Bryant, the great popular historian of Britain’s role in the wars of the French Revolution and Empire, was to remark, never saw and therefore could not imagine “the staggering destructive power of a British ship of the line in action.” The Royal Navy had been a ferocious instrument of war ever since the seventeenth century. Its defeat in the American War of Independence, however, had infused it with a ruthless killer instinct. It had been outraged by the French and Spanish seizure in 1780–81 of command of the sea, its birthright, as it saw it, and had not relented since the resumption of hostilities in 1793 in the determination to humble its enemies. Bonaparte, the mastermind of the Egyptian expedition, was now far from the fleet, winning new victories over feeble enemies in the interior of Egypt.* Had he been nearer, he might have sent his fleet away, to be out of danger, perhaps at Corfu, from which it could have been recalled quickly at need, and where it would have constituted a threat to Nelson’s lines of communication. The concept, however, of a “fleet in being,” affecting events by doing nothing, may have been alien to Bonaparte’s active and aggressive mind. He therefore ordered Brueys to remain in Egyptian waters but to put the fleet under the guns of Alexandria. It was then anchored in Marabout Bay, where the landings had been staged, a clearly unsatisfactory roadstead. Alexandria, however, was a difficult harbour, shallow and easily blocked. It was therefore eventually decided to transfer the ships to Aboukir Bay, nine miles to the east.
Brueys had anchored his ships in a position he thought made a successful attack by the British—which he expected—impossible. They lay in a shallow crescent formation, bows on to Aboukir Castle with Aboukir (Bequières) Island to starboard and shoal water between them and the land to port. They could be approached from only two directions: from below Aboukir Island, though the northerly wind denied the British that course; or through the gap between the island and the castle. Brueys had apparently judged the gap impracticable, believing that, even if negotiated, the water beyond was too shallow for the British to pass on either side of his ships; that is, between his line and Aboukir Island or between his line and the shoreward shoals. He had strengthened his defences by having cables run between most of his ships, which were about 175 yards apart, and by ordering springs to be attached to their anchor cables; springs, ropes taken to the capstan, could be tightened to swing the ship by the bow or stern, so that they were manoeuvrable even though at anchor. Not all the French captains, however, had attached springs by the time the battle began.
Nevertheless, the French position was formidable enough to deter a cautious enemy; but the British were not cautions, nor were they unobservant. Foley, captain of
Goliath,
had one of the only two charts of the coast in the fleet, and a good one; it showed the depths of water right up to the shoreline. 13 More important, Foley made a snap judgement about the way the French were anchored. Nelson himself would shortly come to the same conclusion, saying to Berry, his flag captain in
Vanguard,
“where there was room for an enemy’s ship to swing, there was room for one of ours to anchor.” 14 Foley saw that instantly as he passed the gap between the castle and the shoals and so pointed
Goliath
inshore, to
Similar Books
