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This week, I’m giving a plug to a conference that I’m involved in co-organising. Just over fifty years ago, the future of Brunel’s iconic steamship SS Great Britain was in serious doubt. The ship had been a hulk in the Falkland Islands for many years, and was slowly deteriorating. There was a proposal to take it to the USA and moor it alongside the Queen Mary, but nothing was being done in the UK, the country where the ship was built. In November 1967, though, Ewan Corlett, a prominent member of the Society for Nautical Research, wrote a letter to The Times, suggesting that something should be done to save the ‘SSGB’. This idea went forward, with the inaugural meeting of the ‘SS Great Britain Project’ taking place at Bristol in May 1968. In its early days, this leaned heavily on the SNR, which held its funds and provided substantial moral support, and during 1969, it was Dr Corlett who organised the salvage tugs which brought the ship back to the UK.

To mark the 50th anniversary of the society’s role in securing SSGB’s future, a conference is being held at Bristol on 6-7 September of this year under the joint auspices of the SNR and the SS Great Britain Trust. Entitled Connecting the Oceans: the Impact of Global Steam in the Nineteenth Century, this promises to be a lively and stimulating occasion, with a very wide range of contributions. The keynote speakers are Dr Helen Doe, Dr Graeme Milne and Captain Peter King, and session papers cover such diverse themes as migration, the experience of steamship travel, health at sea, female maritime entrepreneurship in Greece, the impact of steam on the German and US navies, and Brunel’s Crimean War ‘stealth’ gunboats. The conference venue is immediately adjacent to the ship itself, so there’ll be plenty of opportunity to explore this astonishing survival of the Victorian era. Booking is now open at Eventbrite, where further details can be found. (If you’re reblogging or retweeting this post, then please use the conference hashtag, #connectingoceans)

From a personal point of view, this conference sees me come full circle, in one sense. Today, I’m a vice-president of the SNR and chair of its Research and Programmes Committee, which initiates the society’s role in conferences such as this. But back then, I was a schoolboy whose interest in all things maritime was already all-pervasive, and I managed to track down this photo of me aboard SSGB not long after the hull arrived back in Bristol, alongside my grandfather, who was undoubtedly the biggest influence on my younger self. I also have scrapbooks from the time with newspaper cuttings chronicling the saga of the ship’s long tow and its triumphant return to Bristol. So it’s nice to be in a position to do something to mark the anniversary of a remarkable story that so absorbed me at the time!

This week, I’m delighted to welcome back guest blogger Gijs Rommelse to introduce the book on naval ideology that he, Alan James and I have co-edited. This is now available for pre-order from Routledge. In addition to the symposium in Vlaardingen, mentioned in the blog, the three of us are forming a panel at the Bangor Restoration Conference at the end of this month, and I’ll be talking on a similar theme at a conference in Rostock, Germany, in September.

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It was a complex painting that the famous Renaissance painter Titian produced for King Philip II on the occasion of the Spanish-Venetian-Papal victory at the Battle of Lepanto in 1571. At the same time, however, it was easy for politically aware viewers to interpret. We see the Spanish prince raising his new-born son, Don Fernando, to Heaven, to make it clear that both the victory over the Ottomans and the birth of the potential heir to his throne must be seen as a clear proof of God’s favour. An angel has descended from Heaven to salute the offer of the young prince, carrying in his hand a palm branch with the accompanying text “maiora tibi”. To emphasize the fame, the civilization and the brilliance of the victorious Spanish royal dynasty, Titian has portrayed a captive Ottoman in the left foreground, complete with a turban, a shield with a green crescent and a Turkish drum. The unfortunate Ottoman is seated on the ground and handcuffed, as a result of which he is at the mercy of the victor. His nakedness conveniently contrasts with the splendid armor and precious clothing of Philips. In the background we see the famous naval battle taking place.

The painting by Titian is of course unique, but at the same time it in not. Indeed, many hundreds or perhaps even thousands of paintings from the early modern age have been preserved that fit naval events into a political-cultural framework in a similar fashion. Princes like Philip were eager to showcase their military successes at sea in order to emphasize the viability and legitimacy of their rule and dynasty. The battle was then depicted in combination with all kinds of allegorical symbols and metaphors that had to express this association. But such ideologization of naval power was not the exclusive domain of princes. Republics, city authorities and admiralties too used maritime successes as an occasion to express or confirm a collective political-cultural self-image and to underline the validity of certain political claims. A good example of this was the annual parade over the Venice Lagoon from the Piazza San Marco to the Sant’ Andrea Fort. The Doge then threw a golden ring in the waves to perpetuate the marriage between the city-state and the sea, thereby speaking the words “Desponsamus te mare, in signo veri perpetuique domini,” “We marry you, o sea, as an expression of real and eternal rule ‘. This dominium was said to have been granted to the Venetians in 1177 by the grateful Pope Alexander III.

Not only princes or governments ideologized naval power, enterprising artists played an equally important role in this. Reputable painters such as Titian understood very well why and how those in power wanted to see their naval claims depicted and subsequently earned a good income from their propagandistic services. But this also applied to the etchers, pamphleteers, poets and songwriters who served the lower end of the market. They too understood very well that large sections of the public considered the navy to be the tool of the nation’s real political and economic interests, and knew fully well what chunk of the state’s fiscal means were taken up by the incredibly expensive warfleet. Patriotism was easy to sell, especially to the urban middle classes, particularly in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. That is why countless media products appeared in the maritime-orientated parts of England, the Dutch Republic and Germany. Together these gave a sense of purpose to the existence of navies, to the strategies used, to the organization and infrastructure, and to the actual course of operations. There was thus a continuous discourse on naval power, a social debate in which all social classes participated, explicitly or implicitly, and which was necessarily conducted within the context of discourses on national identity.

Countless books have been written about early modern naval power, from all sorts of perspectives. States have been portrayed as creative forces, the role of technological innovation has been scrutinized, as has the emergence of permanent bureaucracies, tactics such as the line of battle, and the ways in which navy boards attempted to manipulate the maritime labor market. However, only very occassionally have authors considered navies to be cultural constructs. What cultural significance did governments give to their war fleet and to the large-scale infrastructure needed for their construction and maintenance? Why did maritime societies attribute so much importance to their own naval organization and was there a relatively large preparedness to continue baring the fiscal burden? How did governments use the idea of ​​naval power to legitimize their political ideas, agendas and profiles? How did opposition forces capitalize on naval events to bring political alternatives to the fore? In what ways did discourses on the war fleet influence developments within the concept of a collective identity?

Such questions are extensively addressed in Ideologies or Western Naval Power, c. 1500-1815, the new edited volume of David Davies, Alan James and Gijs Rommelse. The three editors first discuss the long overdue emancipation of naval history as a scholarly subdiscipline, and then clarify what naval ideologies may be and how studying these might increase the overall relevance of naval history. It then treats the reader to fifteen essays, each of which deals with a national case or takes a thematic approach. Among the authors are well-known specialists such as John Hattendorf, Patrick Villiers, Steve Murdoch, David Trim and Richard Harding. Andrew Lambert provided the concluding remarks. The hardback edition is now available at Routledge for a mere £92. A paperback and an e-book will also be available.

Furthermore, an English-language symposium will be held on 27 September in Museum Vlaardingen, in the Netherlands, on the happy occassion of the publication of our edited volume. The organization is partly in the hands of the Netherlands Institute of Military History, based in The Hague. In addition to the three editors, Andrew Lambert will also talk about “seapower cultures”. Professor Michiel van Groesen (Leiden) will chair the day. It promises to be an intellectually stimulating afternoon, while it is expected that an evening in one of the local restaurants and some of the local pubs will be equally enjoyable.

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The big news this week is the publication of Destiny’s Tide, the first in my new trilogy set in the sixteenth century! But all things in their place, so I’ve talked about that in more detail on the ‘news’ page of this site. That being the case, here’s this week’s blog post…

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I grew up in the United States of America.

Now, regular readers of this blog know that in a narrow sense, this is an enormous whopper – my physical self grew up in west Wales. But mentally and emotionally, quite a large chunk of me was always across the pond, a fact that I’ve already alluded to in this blog. My grandfather evidently went on a book-purchasing spree in the early 1930s, and most of the titles he acquired were American, ranging from encyclopedias to detective novels. As a child I devoured all of these avidly, developing a strong grasp of American geography (all those ‘name the state from its outline’ quizzes? 100%, every time) and above all of its history, especially the Civil War, which fascinated me. But the culture of early 1930s USA was also intimately familiar to me – Al Capone, Lindbergh, Joe Louis versus Primo Carnera, and so on – as was what was then still called the Wild West, thanks to the relentless diet of Western B-movies served up by my local cinemas. My complete absorption in American culture prompted my first communication with a major organisation, when, aged nine or ten, I wrote to the local independent TV company, demanding to know why they weren’t showing the Adam West ‘Batman’ series when other stations in other areas were. (This made me the hero of the day at school, to the extent that my classmates eagerly participated in a Batman play that I wrote and directed. And no, I didn’t cast myself as Batman. Hmm? Oh well, since you ask…the Riddler.) As I mentioned in the previous post, referenced above, American history from Independence to the Civil War became effectively my second specialisation at university. The Federalist Papers, John Adams’ midnight appointments, Kansas-Nebraska and the Dred Scott Case? Been there, done them.

All of this makes it even more inexplicable that, for the first sixty-two years of my life, I had never actually been to the United States.

Fortunately, over the course of ten days in the last fortnight, I finally rectified that bizarre omission from my CV.

While the trip involved some serious sightseeing in both New York and Washington, together with catching up with some old friends, the central element was the Historical Novel Society conference at the vast Gaylord resort (1,996 bedrooms!) at National Harbor, just outside DC. This was a terrific event, with several hundred participants; having been to several of the equivalent UK events, though, it was noticeable how the demographic was much more female-dominated. (The point is touched on in this post about one of the conference sessions that I didn’t attend.) It would be interesting to get some hard facts and figures on this, but I get the impression that in the UK, there’s a higher proportion of both male writers and readers of historical fiction than in the US. Still, the highlight for me was sharing a platform with Jeff Shaara, the author of Gods and Generals and other bestselling military fiction titles. Set up and moderated by the wonderful Gillian Bagwell, this proved to be a well-attended, lively and thought-provoking Q&A. I’d never met Jeff before, but we got along famously, and soon developed a real ‘double act’ rapport, with our differing perspectives (his primarily nineteenth and twentieth century, mine primarily sixteenth and seventeenth) enabling some interesting comparisons and contrasts to be drawn. I didn’t envy his back story, though – your father writes a book that wins the Pulitzer Prize, dies prematurely, and despite never having written a book in your life, you’re commissioned to write the prequel and sequel to it…that’s what I call pressure. Fortunately, Jeff proved to be a natural, and has never looked back.

Otherwise, I’ll have many abiding memories of my first trip to the USA. Rain so heavy in New York that the city doubled for the set of Bladerunner…the 9/11 memorial…the Staten Island ferry (surely the best free boat trip in the world?)…the distant sounds of rifle salutes and the Last Post as we explored Arlington Cemetery…Mount Vernon, a head of state’s residence far removed from the likes of Versailles and Windsor…the Vietnam memorial…and so many others.

Now, I could easily fill up several lengthy posts with ‘what I did on my holiday’ trivia, not to mention some of the many photos that we took. But that would be tedious, so instead, here are a few random impressions and things that this Brit abroad, at least, found a little curious about the Land of the Free…

• So you can buy beer in pharmacies, but not buy spirits in supermarkets, only in specialist liquor stores? Guys, prohibition ended a while back. Sort it out.
• How many police?? Come to that, how many police forces?
• Hersheys – where have you been all my life?
• Airport security levels in major museums…possibly a little over the top? Just saying.
• Tourists being admitted to view the reading rooms in both the New York Public Library and the Library of Congress. I suspect that if they tried that at, say, the British Library or the Bodleian, the first tourists through the door would suffer Wicker Man-like fates at the hands of outraged readers. (On the plus side, both institutions hold my books, and that knowledge gives one a warm fuzzy sort of feeling.)
• After being driven on American roads, I’m never going to complain about the state of British ones again. This surely explains why there are so many high rise buildings in Manhattan, i.e. to ensure that at least a few floors protrude above the potholes.
• Finally, this. Umm, wouldn’t it have been quicker and cheaper just to saw the branch off?

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A return to much more serious fare next week, when guest blogger Gijs Rommelse introduces the new book on naval ideology that he, Alan James and I have co-edited, together with the symposium based on the book being held in Vlaardingen, near Rotterdam, in September.

The countdown is under way – Destiny’s Tide, the first in my new trilogy of naval historical fiction set in the Tudor age, will be published in just over a fortnight’s time, on 27 June! It’s available for pre-order, but just a reminder that it’s currently only available in e-book format.

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The overall title for the trilogy is ‘Jack Stannard of the Navy Royal’, but in some senses, this is a bit of a misnomer. While the term ‘Navy Royal’ (NB: definitely not ‘Royal Navy’) was understood and used, it certainly didn’t have its modern meaning, nor even that which applied during the seventeenth century, the setting for my series ‘the journals of Matthew Quinton’. The monarch owned ships, and sometimes possessed a very substantial force of purpose-built warships, like the Mary Rose. But these were sometimes leased out to private interests, while large fleets, such as that which opposed the Armada in 1588, had to be made up of many vessels from other sources, such as the merchant communities of London and other ports of the realm, which were taken up for fixed and often short periods of time. The heterodox nature of these forces, essentially a volunteer ‘navy’, gave me my ‘handle’ for the trilogy, and my central characters. Jack Stannard isn’t a ‘naval officer’ in anything like the modern sense of the term. He’s a merchant and shipowner of Dunwich, and like so many of his fellows, one of his ships is taken up for service by the Crown during Henry VIII’s last war (1544-5). So although Jack is part of a navy, he isn’t part of the navy, as we’d understand it.

Although his experiences are fictitious, I’d like to think that they’re not too far removed from those of real contemporaries of his. Here, for example, are just some of the ships taken up to transport Henry’s army north for the Scottish campaign of 1544, just as Jack’s ship is (source – Letters and Papers of Henry VIII):

“Out of the port of London.”—The Mary Grace of Lee, Mary John of Calais, Mary John of London, James of Blakney, Trinite of Alisford, Flee of Anserdan, John of Maldon, Mary of Calais, James of Hadley, Mihel, Anthony of Dordrigh, Edwarde of Hampton, James of Fowye, Trinite of Barkinge, Esel of Armewe, Cuthbert Lawson, Anne of Antwerp, Mary of Antwerp, Mawdelyn of Antwerp, George Goldesmyth, George of Antwerp, Christopher Hunte, George of Hamborough, Mary of Hamborough, Gryffyn of Hamborough, Bartilmewe of Hamborough, Raven of Lubeck, Swanne of Hamborough.

“Out of the port of Ipswiche.”—The James, Osee, Mary, James (sic), Mary Fortune, Marlyn, Peter, Christopher of Simon “Bl.,” Anne Fraunces, Kateryn, Christopher of Alex. “Sq.,” Mary James, Andrewe, Trinite, Marlyon, Thomas, Peter of George Copinge, Peter of John Momforde, John Evangelist, Jesus, John, Thomas of Wm. Barkers, Mathewe, Nicholas of Wm. Dryver, Cicely, Nicholas, George, James, Edwarde, Mihel, Thomas of Thomas Smyth, Kateryn, [Julyane]. 

…and so on; this is only a fraction of the fleet. Among other things, note the highly religious, and, indeed, highly Catholic, names of many of the ships, proof that England certainly did not become a Protestant country overnight after Henry broke with Rome. How the Stannard family reacted to the religious changes of the age is another of the themes of the trilogy.

Anyway, there’s now going to be a hiatus for this blog for a couple of weeks, and when it returns, Destiny’s Tide will be out there! The reason for the interlude is that, as mentioned on the News page of this website, I’m going to be across the pond, primarily to attend the Historical Novel Society conference just outside Washington DC. There, I’ll be speaking about ‘The Way of the Warrior’ on a panel with the eminent author Jeff Shaara, moderated by Gillian Bagwell. It should be huge fun, and we’re also going to try and cram in some serious sightseeing in both New York and Washington, so I’ll report back on all that in the week beginning 1 July!

England breaks away from a great pan-European union, criticising it for being out of touch and corrupt. The break causes division across the land, with the north set against the south, London against the rest. Families, too, are divided, leading to bitter arguments between parents, children and siblings. Friends fall out with each other, and become bitter enemies. But the ruler is intent on making the break happen, regardless of opposition. Many look forward to a future where England stands alone, recreating past glories, carving its own way across the world. Others, though, long to remain in union with their continental cousins, as part of a broader international community. Meanwhile, Nigel Farage –

What?

No, wrong B-word.

I’m talking, of course, about Henry VIII’s break with the Catholic church, one of the important contexts underpinning my new novel, Destiny’s Tide. This is actually one of many aspects of the story (and, indeed, the bigger stories running across all three books in the trilogy) where I’m deliberately flying in the face of widely-held popular beliefs – or, as I prefer to call them, misconceptions and downright myths. For example, it’s often assumed that Henry VIII broke away from papal supremacy and the Catholic church in 1534, and that England then immediately became a Protestant country. Forgive the detour into panto season, but ‘oh no it didn’t’. Henry himself remained a religious conservative all his life, and once burned both Catholics and Protestants on the same day. True, there was an ongoing struggle in the last years of his reign between conservatives, led by the likes of the Duke of Norfolk and Bishop Stephen Gardiner, and reformers, led by the likes of Archbishop Cranmer and Henry’s last queen, Catherine Parr. (Thomas Cromwell, of Wolf Hall fame, was dead long before the main action in Destiny’s Tide begins.) But in many key respects, England remained a Catholic country until after Henry’s death, albeit with the king as head of the church instead of the pope.

All of these themes are referenced in my story. Above all, I try to imagine how one family, the Stannards of Dunwich, might have reacted to the sometimes bewildering pace and nature of religious change. For example, while services continued to be held in Latin, many aspects of belief were under threat from those who wanted England to become a truly Protestant country. The Catholic concept of Purgatory, a kind of staging post between earthly life and heaven or hell, was being challenged, while familiar, much-loved elements contained within every church were being torn down and destroyed. At the time when Destiny’s Tide is set, the principal battle was over rood screens, brightly decorated wooden structures which physically separated the clergy from their congregation, and the doom paintings which adorned them; indeed, one particular doom painting plays a significant part in the story. Now, I know that these are unfamiliar terms to many people, especially if you’re not one of those strange creatures who likes to spend even bright sunny afternoons wandering around old churches (guilty as charged) or if you live in a country which simply doesn’t have old churches.

(Sorry, good people of the United States, but this is one of those occasions when your definition of ‘old’ parts company with we Brits’ definition of ‘old’. Example: the church in my village predates Columbus, and the pub next door to it predates Jamestown. Both are still in regular use, not museums.)

So here, then, are some pictures to help give an idea of what the Stannards might have seen in their church in Dunwich, and the controversial features that they might have wanted to preserve.