[The wars] abounded in supremely important lessons for the . . . twentieth century. Problems of blockade; the right use of Intelligence; defence against invasion; the conduct of conjoint operations; . . .—on all these, and others besides, much light is shed by the history of the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars.
Prof. G. J. Marcus
The wars demonstrated the use of intelligence, but did little to institutionalize it.
Prof. Michael Herman
LONG BEFORE THE CLOSE OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY MANY nation-states, including England, had institutionalized diplomatic information systems, developed cryptography and cryptanalysis, established networks of spies and informers, arranged for clandestine mail opening, and created infrastructures to record, distribute, and file the resulting information. In fact, “until almost the middle of the seventeenth century, none of the three great Western powers [England, France and Spain] possessed diplomatic archives as orderly and usable as those of the Florentines and Venetians two hundred years before.”1 In England, “the most important function vested in the Secretaries of State in the seventeenth century was the management of‘the intelligence.’ The term denoted not only the provision of extraordinary information concerning enemy countries or domestic plotters, but also a regular, settled supply of every kind of news from abroad.”2
This mass of information contained varying degrees of sensitive material, or secret intelligence. As we look back in history, secret intelligence was not particularly differentiated from any other forms of governmental information; governments—certainly including the English—generally regarded all information as proprietary. Prior to the “emergence of private newspapers and press freedom, governments tended to see all information as their property, secret to some extent; the distinction between information ‘in the public domain’ and ‘classified’ official information is a modern one.” In fact, “the present-day London Gazette was founded . . . to disseminate home and overseas news of every kind for government.”3
Eighteenth-century intelligence remained organizationally centered in the diplomatic establishment, with an embassy and consular network of overseas correspondents. This was well-supplemented by a vibrant program of espionage, postal interception, cryptanalysis, and foreign-trade analysis. There were rudimentary efforts, by other organizations, to get into the intelligence business; indeed, by midcentury the Admiralty was itself sharply focused on French and Spanish bases regarding naval preparations and operations. Nevertheless, outside of the diplomatic structure, “other information collection and handling was largely ad hoc, without permanent institutions.”4 “Rather than there being any sharp break between diplomatic and intelligence material, the two were closely intertwined, a situation that owed much to the absence, with the exception of the [post office] deciphering branch, of any espionage institutions or establishment.”5
Moreover, there is one other enormous difference between the eighteenth-century national-level intelligence operation and that which we find today: “Nowhere was the control of collection and the evaluation of results a specialized activity, separated from policy-making and action. For kings and ministers ‘intelligence’ in all its aspects was part of statecraft, inseparable from the exercise of power.”6
The Admiralty, due in no small degree to its own efforts, was clearly involved in the flow of intelligence information. Because the first lord was at the cabinet level—and the first secretary was a high minister—the Royal Navy was continuously privy to national-level intelligence from the diplomatic, postal, and trade sources, information that was passed to the fleet as individual first lords, first professional lords, and first secretaries saw fit. This was, of course, a two-way channel as information from overseas naval commanders in chief and from detached ships moved to the Admiralty. Not only did the first lord and the first secretary share this intelligence with their fellow ministers, but quite often admirals deployed around the world would correspond directly with various ministers external to the Admiralty—not excluding the prime minister.
Without doubt, the collection, assessment, dissemination, and use of intelligence information was present throughout the fleet. Equally clear is that, subordinate to the Admiralty at whatever operational level one cares to consider, the most senior officer present on a given station was de facto the local premier intelligence officer. No other person had the time, availability, access to information, responsibility, qualifications, experience, or overview. Finally, no senior officer had anything resembling adequate staff support to even partially share such important responsibilities: “For centuries the rudimentary headquarters of generals sufficed for handling information in war, and the same applied even more to war at sea. . . . Organizing and using intelligence was a very personal matter, like other aspects of generalship; there was no standard wartime organization, and no perpetuation of wartime experience in peacetime. Eighteenth-century intelligence was still set in a military framework described by one writer as the ‘stone age of command,’7 slowly changing but still in transition through the Napoleonic Wars.”8
Indeed, as the French Revolutionary Wars began, British governmental processes struggled to meet the challenge. For the first several years, in particular, there were formidable problems “in the vital areas of intelligence and planning. Departmental arrangements and staff-work were mediocre, co-operation between different arms virtually non-existent. . . . And good intelligence, in both London and the theatres, was conspicuous by its absence.”9
In the last analysis, it may have not made a great deal of difference had there been a significantly better beginning. Even when there was good intelligence, all too often not a lot could be done with it in the era of goose-quill pens. Intelligence triumphs could only rarely be turned into military or naval victories: “Eighteenth-century states did not have the responsiveness—in both a bureaucratic and communications sense—to translate intelligence into action.”10 And, in spite of the firm opinion of Frederick the Great, superior intelligence could rarely overcome superior forces. “In general,” note Keith Neilson and B. J. C. McKercher, “the military and naval establishments of the eighteenth century lacked the [ability] to exploit intelligence rapidly enough to be decisive. What ultimately mattered were the talents of commanders—their strategic, operational, and tactical skills; their leadership; and the fighting quality of their troops. These, together with what Clausewitz termed the elements of friction—chance and the fog of war—usually decided the outcome. Perhaps these matters still remain decisive in war today.”11
While fundamentally true, Neilson and McKercher might be altogether too pessimistic. There has been some evidence, in the previous pages, of a reasonable amount of successful intelligence exploitation during this period.
Nevertheless, it is very hard to draw many practical lessons, or applications, for our modern age from methodology and technology two hundred years old; after all, theirs was not only another time, another system, and another navy, but also another world. Still, naval philosopher Rear Adm. Alfred Thayer Mahan insisted that “there are certain teachings in the school of history which remain constant, and being, therefore, of universal application, can be elevated to the rank of general principles.” So, “it is not therefore a vain expectation, as many think, to look for useful lessons in the history of sailing-ships. . . . [It is] impossible to cite their experiences or modes of action as tactical precedents to be followed. But a precedent is different from and less valuable than a principle.”12
THIS BOOK WAS NEVER INTENDED to be a biography, nor in any way a comprehensive analysis, of Horatio Nelson. If it had been, much found between its covers would have had to go, while another three to four hundred pages would need to be inserted. If nothing else, the three-year campaign of Trafalgar would have needed central attention, for it certainly was a campaign bursting with intelligence issues and incidents; indeed, a reasonable intelligence study of Trafalgar demands its own book.
Having written that, Nelson’s dominance in this book is certainly acknowledged. It could hardly be otherwise: Nelson dominates the entire period, while thousands of his letters are readily accessible for evidentiary documentation. Above all, Horatio Nelson was a superb intelligence officer, and even if there had been another admiral as good at it as he was, there truly was no one else on his level regarding the translation of intelligence information into at-sea command decisions.
Without belaboring the point—and still avoiding comprehensive analysis—a few more words about Nelson are in order. The reader has already been exposed to many attributes that made Admiral Nelson unique (St. Vincent himself always acknowledged that “there is only one Nelson”). It may be useful to parade several other evaluations as to his abilities, skills, and character.
Lord Hood, perhaps the greatest English admiral of the American Revolutionary War period, personally saw in the young Captain Nelson an officer who was clearly both a sound and original thinker.13
Prof. G. J. Marcus saw, in his study of the older Captain Nelson, characteristic qualities of “instant decision, unfailing resource, unshakeable tenacity of purpose, brilliant tactical insight, swift and audacious action—combined with [an] all-consuming, over-mastering urge towards victory.”14
Prof. Arthur Bryant and Rear Adm. A. T. Mahan both believed that the foundation of Nelson’s ever-present readiness for battle was his “minute imaginative attention to detail: the sure hall-mark of a great leader. ‘No man was ever better served than Nelson by the inspiration of the hour; no man ever counted less on it.’”15 C. S. Forester certainly agreed, believing him “uniquely superior in his untiring patience and his extreme attention to the details of organization.”16
As an admiral and as the commander in chief in the Mediterranean, Nelson’s abilities for operational readiness and logistical legerdemain were spectacularly displayed: “He was always troubled by the danger which threatens every blockading fleet—that it may be attacked at its ‘average moment’ by the enemy at his ‘selected moment.’ He had to keep his forces massed and ready for instant action. For a period of nearly two years he did so, beginning . . . with every ship in bad order. During those two years the squadron as a body never saw the inside of a port. At the end of those two years the whole force at a moment’s notice went off across the Atlantic and back again with a battle imminent at any moment. The achievement stands as nearly the greatest, and by far the least known, of all Nelson’s claims to fame.”17
Lord Nelson’s professional reputation reached a remarkable pinnacle in the last few months of the Trafalgar campaign. During his short leave in August-September 1805, the government received him with considerable deference. On top of a spectacular career, his recent performance as commander in chief Mediterranean had riveted their attention. “The uncanny way in which Nelson had divined his enemy’s movements had impressed them deeply, and he was called upon repeatedly for his opinions and advice” in many subject areas.18
Forester also crystallizes a point generally popular among the admiral’s biographers. Nelson almost always evidenced a sincere willingness to be pleased, which was certainly “not a decided characteristic of the naval officer of that or any other age.” Anything under his command—whether crew, ship, squadron, or fleet—generally received nothing but praise. Unquestionably this was the root cause of the popularity, cooperation, inspiration, and devotion that he always found in and from his subordinates. This was in remarkable contrast to, say, Wellington; whereas Nelson was loved, the Iron Duke’s successes were more based in respectful dislike, if not fear.19 Prof. Brian Lavery elaborates on this issue: “Nelson must take full credit for his tactical instinct and more important, for the initiative he gave to his captains, the leadership which made them aware that they would be backed up and encouraged to find any weakness in the enemy position. In a navy where many admirals were too old to absorb new ideas, or were bound by the cautious tactics and practices of an earlier generation, Nelson was a truly innovative figure.”20
It must be emphasized, however, that he was also—despite his popularity and despite the cooperation and devotion of his subordinates—very much a “man alone.” C. S. Forester particularly emphasized this concept with his Horatio Hornblower series. Most naval commanders of this age were just so, bearing enormous individual responsibility, physical solitude, and mental isolation, to a degree that is unparalleled today in any walk of life. “Nelson, despite the legendary ‘Band of Brothers,’ was very much alone,” particularly during the three months of the Nile campaign and the three years leading to Trafalgar.21
Slight of stature, frequently seasick, and often otherwise ill, he was nevertheless incredibly tough, both physically and mentally. He liked combat. Any man who had been in over a hundred actions, and who had been severely wounded three times, was remarkably brave to still relish walking shot-torn decks amid tremendous death and destruction—“mind you,” he said at Copenhagen, “I would not be elsewhere for thousands.”
He was very hard. He was always focused upon not just the defeat but the annihilation of the enemy’s fleets, without too much apparent regret for the huge numbers of dead and wounded sailors (theirs and his) that went along with it. Taking this a little further, Jan Morris, biographer of Adm. Lord Jackie Fisher, makes this interesting comment: “It seems to me . . . that Nelson was organically ruthless, as against ad hoc—professionally and in private life. [For example,] he was not merely faithless, but heartless toward his wife: ‘opened by mistake by Lord Nelson,’ was written on one of her letters, returned to her from far away, ‘but unread.’ ”22
C. Northcote Parkinson heavily underscored two telling points. The first, already emphasized here, is that though Nelson’s stature is such that the entire period is referred to as his “age,” in fact the period saw tremendous naval activity—and naval intelligence activity—for ten full years after his death. The second point summarizes Nelson’s key to success, even though this passage was meant to describe some other notable commanders as well:
Books on naval history must tend to concentrate on battles, ignoring other aspects and events. Readers are given a diagram and told a story of tactical brilliance. They are spared an account of the process by which the fleet was fitted, recruited, provisioned, disciplined, inspected, encouraged and inspired.
It is a fact, nevertheless, that the Commander-in-Chief’s orders and example on the day of battle may matter less than the work he has done over the previous months or years.23
Nelson was the quintessential master, whether one considers preparation or the actual day of decision. In 1805, his decision to return the Mediterranean Fleet to Europe—after the extremely bold gamble to follow French Admiral Villeneuve to the West Indies in the first place—was a model of extraordinary operational readiness and flexibility. It was also a model of brilliant intelligence analysis translated into action. In fact, C. S. Forester may have had the last word on Nelson as intelligence analyst: “It is hard to decide which to admire most: the accuracy of the deduction, the self-confidence which believed in it, or the force of mind with which he brought himself to [expose] England’s most valuable colonial possessions solely on deductions made from a series of individually inconclusive facts.”24
LIKE HORATIO NELSON HIMSELF, the incredible challenges of communication with quill pens and speaking trumpets have long ago disappeared. The enormous frustrations of gathering information without benefit of satellite imagery, aerial reconnaissance, photography, or electronics can hardly be imagined. Indeed,
the hazardous difficulties of handling a fleet under canvas have passed beyond our conception. The difference in the character of the ships is so enormous that the modern naval man must feel that the time has come for the great sea officers of the past to be laid in the temple of august memories.
Those who from the heat of Trafalgar sank together in the cool depths of the ocean would gaze with amazed eyes at the engines of our strife. All passes, all changes: the animosity of peoples, the handling of fleets, the forms of ships; even the sea itself seems to wear a different and diminished aspect from the sea of Nelson’s day.25
It might also be stressed that their low technology actually simplified some things, for “in the days of the sailing ship, when weapons and ship designs were common property for all navies, the discipline and efficiency of the officers and crews, and the strategic disposition of the ship concentrations were the determining factors in naval warfare.”26
Still, there remains an undeniable constant whether we consider operations in 1801, 2001, or 2201. Aside from the quality and quantity of forces, and irrespective of the fundamental talent and leadership of the commander, what often matters very profoundly is how that commander uses, ignores, or misuses available intelligence.
The admiral may be standing on a wooden deck, estimating the enemy’s position himself with a brass telescope, while personally writing dispatches with a quill pen and blotter. The admiral, on the other hand, may be standing upon a steel deck, receiving an all-source briefing from an experienced, career intelligence officer, while viewing an electronic graphic displaying the tactical situation. Or the admiral may even be ergonomically seated on the bridge of a starship, viewing a multimedia intelligence analysis—produced by a “conscious” computer system with terabyte memory and running at billions of instructions per second, while simultaneously teleconferencing the analysis (and his orders) to his fleet dispersed about a solar system.
Whatever the specific case, in the final analysis the degree to which the naval commander uses, or fails to use, available intelligence in the decision-making process is crucial. Indeed, the commander’s possession and use of intelligence have been decisive in history, they are decisive now, and they will be decisive in the future.