One of the best known of all our man-of-war names reappears on the roll of the British fleet in the name Téméraire, now borne by one of our new giant 18,000-ton battleships of the Dreadnought type. This is the story of how it came to be a British battleship name in the first place, the story of the act of war which in the sequel led to that historic man-of-war the “Fighting” Téméraire figuring on another day among the ships of Nelson’s fleet at Trafalgar, to fight there as the Victory’s chief supporter in the fiercest of the fray.

How we came to have a Téméraire in the British Navy the name of course bears on its face. It was originally borne by one of Louis the Fourteenth’s men-of-war, and at the date of its adoption by capture into the British service, in 1759—“The Wonderful Year”—had been honourably known in the French Navy for upwards of ninety years. The first Téméraire to sail the seas was so named, it would appear, by the Grand Monarque himself, the name being appointed to a man-of-war of fifty-two guns, built by contract in Holland for the French service, in the year 1668, when a war with England seemed at hand. King Louis, it is said, further appointed to the Téméraire on her naming, as a special and distinctive figure-head, an elaborately carved and gorgeously coloured effigy of himself in his celebrated “Lion’s Mane” wig, sworded and spurred and wearing a military just-au-corps tunic of cloth of gold over a scarlet vest with crimson breeches and crimson stockings—the orthodox attire of a French sea officer of the Grand Corps.

This first French Téméraire was a ship that the British Navy of her time saw something of. She formed one of the men-of-war present with the allied French squadron which played so very peculiar a part when attached to the Duke of York’s fleet in the battle of Solebay in 1672, and in the same way also she was present at Prince Rupert’s three drawn battles with De Ruyter in the following year. As an enemy a few years later, the first French Téméraire fought against us both at Beachy Head and in the battle off Cape Barfleur, after which the Téméraire escaped and found refuge under the harbour batteries of St. Malo.

“The Rash” is what an official return on the French Navy, presented to Parliament on the 9th of February, 1698, calls the Téméraire, in accordance with the custom then in vogue of translating foreign men-of-war names appearing in British official documents. It seems a curious disguise for the name Téméraire perhaps, although even then it is hardly so grotesque as the names under which some of the Téméraire’s consorts figure in various House of Commons returns: “The Without Danger,” for instance, for Le Sans Pareil; “The Undertaker” or “The Understanding” (as two different official lists give it) for L’Entreprenante, another ship; “The Jolly” for Le Joli; “The Fire” for Le Fier; “The Fiddle” for La Fidelle, a frigate; the “Turkish Lady” for another frigate, La Turquoise, and so on.

Two years after Barfleur—on the 28th of November, 1694—a crippled French man-of-war was met with, a few miles to the south of the Lizard, by the British man-of-war Montagu. She had been dismasted in a storm out in the Atlantic and was nearly waterlogged and sinking; and after a few shots in reply to the Montagu’s challenging gun hauled her colours down. The enemy’s ship was the “Timmeraire, of fifty-six guns,” in the words of the Montagu’s log. They found it impossible to save the prize, either to rig jury masts or to take her in tow, as the weather came on thick and stormy, and in the end cleared the crew out, and on the 3rd of December abandoned the ship and set her on fire. That was the end of the first French Téméraire.

Two other Téméraires followed in the French Navy, and then we come to the ship that became our own first Téméraire. This was the Téméraire, of seventy-four guns, built in 1748, which, after fighting against us in the battle which cost Admiral Byng his life, became prize of war three years later to the man whose hand signed the order for Byng’s firing party, Admiral Boscawen, on the day of Boscawen’s defeat of the French Toulon fleet in Lagos Bay, on Monday, the 19th of August, 1759.

The taking of our future first Téméraire was one result of the determined attempt at the invasion of England that the French made in 1759. They had prepared a large army, and transports were assembled to carry it across the Channel as soon as their Toulon fleet, by coming round and joining hands with their Brest fleet, had given France the command of the Channel by providing a sufficient force, as the French counted, to hold the British fleet in check, and see the expedition safely over. To leave port, however, was what the French Toulon fleet—among which was the Téméraire—could not do and would not try, until the British force blockading Toulon under Admiral Boscawen was out of the way. The Brest fleet, at the same time, watched closely by Hawke’s powerful fleet, as a mouse in its hole is watched by a cat, could not put to sea with hope of success unless the Toulon fleet evaded Boscawen and joined hands with it.

Chance threw an opportunity of escape in the way of the Téméraire and her consorts. Various reasons—damage to three of his ships in a somewhat venturesome attack on some outlying vessels of the French fleet anchored under the batteries that guarded the entrance to Toulon Roads, and a general want of water and provisions on board all his ships—induced Boscawen, in the last week of July, to withdraw temporarily to Gibraltar. De la Clue, the French Admiral, on learning by chance where Boscawen had gone and why, snatched at the offered occasion to make his sally. He put to sea on the 5th of August, determined to risk the passage round.

The fortune of war at the outset, and for nearly half-way, made a show of favouring the French. They managed to escape being sighted by the frigates that Boscawen had posted on the look-out between Malaga and the Straits. Not an English sail was sighted; nothing to cause disquietude happened, until just as de la Clue’s ships were in the act of passing Gibraltar.

With a brisk Levanter blowing over their taffrails and a thick haze on the sea, towards dusk on Saturday evening, the 17th of August, the Toulon fleet, after standing well over to the Barbary shore so as to give Boscawen’s ships at Gibraltar the go-by, was being carried rapidly past where the British fleet was lying, when suddenly, just as the elated Frenchmen were assuring themselves of good success for the rest of their cruise, almost by accident, as it were, at the eleventh hour they stumbled on the only one of Boscawen’s look-outs that they had yet to pass. Just off Ceuta, a little to the eastward of that place, the Gibraltar, a twenty-gun ship, quite unexpectedly to both sides, loomed out of the mist close alongside the passing French fleet.

The mischief, from the French point of view, was done. The captain of the Gibraltar realized at once that the strange fleet he saw heading out of the Mediterranean and close at hand could only be the enemy from Toulon. He promptly went about and hauled in for the Spanish coast, firing signal guns of alarm. The French for their part seemed to have been too much taken aback to act. As much surprised at the meeting apparently as was Captain McCleverty of the Gibraltar himself, Admiral de la Clue made no effort to stop or to silence the tell-tale British scout, although he might have done so. He simply contented himself with putting out all his lights, and then he continued to stand on with all sail set, heading west-north-west, so as to get clear away and out into the Atlantic.

It was indeed the slip ’twixt the cup and the lip for the Téméraire’s Admiral. When, at half-past seven that evening, the alarm guns of the frigate Gibraltar were heard, and the ship herself came into the bay to report what she had seen, practically half Boscawen’s fleet of fourteen ships were undergoing refit, lying with sails unbent and topmasts struck. The energy of the British Admiral and his captains recovered the situation for England. Taken at a disadvantage as Boscawen’s fleet was, all hands turned to with such smartness that within two hours of the alarm guns being first heard every ship in Boscawen’s command was in sea-going trim, ready for the order to weigh anchor. Before ten that night, within two and a half hours of the Gibraltar coming in, every line-of-battle ship of the British Fleet was at sea, together with two frigates and a fireship, heading through the Straits in chase of the French under all sail.

They had their reward before many hours had passed.

At seven next morning, when off Cape Trafalgar, Boscawen got sight—although for the moment they were far ahead—of the French fleet: what bad seamanship during the night had left of it. No fewer than five ships of de la Clue’s original fleet of twelve had parted company with their Admiral and gone astray in the night after getting out of the Straits. They straggled and dropped astern, and found themselves in the morning out of sight, some leagues distant from their flagship and only off Cadiz.

This again led to a disastrous mistake on the part of the French Admiral. De la Clue, when about seven o’clock he first sighted the leading ships of Boscawen’s fleet in the distance, coming up astern, took them for his own missing five, and hove-to his whole fleet to give them time to join. Worse still: after waiting awhile for them he went about and actually stood back slowly to meet them—seven French men-of-war in war time bearing up for fourteen English! He refused to believe that Boscawen could possibly have got out of Gibraltar so quickly. The French Admiral, in fact, held on towards the advancing enemy until, when escape had become impossible, on finding his private signals unanswered, the horrifying truth of the situation dawned on the unfortunate de la Clue.

It was then too late.

He turned and ran for it. He would try and outsail his pursuers if he could; if not he would seek a refuge and shelter in some neutral Portuguese port. Boscawen followed promptly, clearing for action as he neared, and catching up the enemy all the morning hand over hand.

At noon, a fresh gale helping Boscawen along, he was almost within gunshot of the French. At two in the afternoon his headmost ships were near enough to open a long-range fire.

All that Sunday afternoon a running fight went on, protracted by the wind suddenly dying away to nearly a calm. The rearmost of the French squadron, the Centaure, a ship of seventy-four guns, practically held the leading pursuers in check during most of that time. Nothing could be more courageous than the Centaure’s defence, regardless of the odds against her. Until nearly nightfall she kept Boscawen’s leading ships from closing on her and her consorts. The Centaure, under orders to cover the retreat, exchanged a never-ceasing cannonade with the ships of the English van for five hours, the fight becoming hotter and ever closer until just before sunset. Then at length, with her three topmasts and the mizen-mast shot away, and the ship herself so shattered and holed between wind and water that she was with difficulty kept afloat, the well-fought Centaure had to lower her colours. She had played her part. She had gained time for her Admiral to seek the shelter of Lagos Bay. In so doing the Centaure had lost over two hundred men in killed alone, including her gallant captain, de Sabran. Although he had received no fewer than eleven wounds, he still kept the quarter-deck until he received his twelfth, and death wound.

A little ahead of the Centaure was Admiral de la Clue’s flagship L’Océan, with the Téméraire, and the Redoutable and the Modeste near by, sailing in a cluster just ahead of her. All four had every now and then been assisting the Centaure, as now one, now another, of the English ships came within range of their guns. Away in the van of the French squadron were two more ships, the Souverain and the Guerrière, which were pushing on at some distance ahead of all.

To escape into neutral waters was the only course practicable to the French ships, and all they now aimed at, as they held on during the afternoon, crowding canvas to make land—the coast of Portugal near Cape St. Vincent—which soon began to rise ahead of them more and more distinctly.

A few minutes before the Centaure surrendered there was a sharp interchange of broadsides between the two flagships, Boscawen’s Namur and de la Clue’s Océan, both three-deckers. The Namur pushed past the Centaure, then plainly in extremis, within gunshot of his chief antagonist. Boscawen fastened on his chosen opponent and engaged the French Admiral hotly, until a series of mishaps for the Namur, lucky hits on the part of the French gunners, temporarily disabled the British flagship by shooting down her mizen-mast and main-topsail yard. That forced the Namur to drop back out of action.

Admiral Boscawen, the story goes, at once quitted his crippled ship to go on board the Newark, a seventy-four, the nearest ship among the leaders in the British van, and had a narrow escape from drowning in his passage from ship to ship; through a cannon-ball which struck his barge and smashed a hole in it. The Admiral saved his own life and those of the men with him, as it is related, by his presence of mind. The barge began to fill and would have sunk under them, had not Boscawen smartly whipped off his wig and stuffing it into the hole stopped the inrush of water, enabling them to keep afloat until they could get alongside the Newark.

There was little more firing that evening after the Centaure had made her submission, but the pursuit of the Téméraire and the other French ships coastwise went steadily on.

All that night Boscawen chased, keeping the enemy well in sight, although, as on the night before, they showed no lights.

Early next morning only four French ships were to be seen. The Souverain and the Guerrière, the two headmost of the enemy, had altered course after dark. Being far ahead already, they managed to slip off unobserved and got clear away. The four ships still before Boscawen were in themselves, however, sufficient prize. These were now heading in directly for the land, and were only a short way ahead of the British Fleet.

De la Clue was about to make his second mistake. Admiral Boscawen, he apparently imagined, would think twice about following him into neutral waters and attacking him there. But the neutrality of Portugal was of little account at such a moment. Might was right that August day for “Old Dreadnought.” International proprieties notwithstanding, the British Admiral “in a very Roman style made free with the coast of Portugal,” as Horace Walpole put it. Boscawen swept straight down after de la Clue, with his men at quarters and his guns run out.

The final phase opened about eight o’clock on the 19th of August, Monday morning, when the French flagship L’Océan was seen to run heavily aground. She brought up hard and fast, and the next moment her three masts went crashing over the side. Boscawen instantly signalled to the leading British ship, a seventy-four, the America, to deal with the French flagship. The order was carried out promptly. The America closed nearly alongside the wrecked three-decker and opened fire on her; whereupon the doomed L’Océan lowered her flag. In the brief interval before the America’s boats, sent off to take possession of the prize, could board the French flagship, M. de la Clue himself, mortally wounded and with one leg broken, was hastily got away and rowed ashore, to die there a little later. Almost at the same time that L’Océan wrecked herself, the Redoutable ran on shore close by, breaking her back.

There remained the Téméraire and the Modeste, which two ships, for their part, let go anchor close under the guns of a Portuguese fort on shore. The Warspite, a seventy-four of equal strength with the bigger French ship, was told off to deal with the Téméraire. She closed on her antagonist forthwith, in spite of warning shots from the Portuguese fort, and attacked at pistol-shot range. Hopeless as his case was, with no possibility of escape open to him, for upwards of an hour M. de Chastillon, the Téméraire’s captain, made a fight of it. Then having done all he could he gave up his ship. The Modeste surrendered not long afterwards, and so Boscawen’s battle ended.

It was Captain Bently, of the Warspite, who gave the Royal Navy its first Téméraire. The story of that morning’s work is told in the Warspite’s log:

“August 19th: 4 a.m.—Saw 4 sail of the enemy about 4 or 5 leagues from us, running inshore. The other two having altered their course in the night were out of sight. Continued chase and before 8 a.m. the French admiral ran ashore 6 leagues E. of St. Vincent. All his masts went by the board. Soon after saw another ashore, 4 miles W. of the French admiral, and his masts too went by the board. The other two anchored close inshore.

“9 a.m.—Little wind and fair weather. Admiral anchored 3 leagues from shore and signalled for all captains. At the same time signalled to the Conqueror and Jersey to chase N.W. Warspite brought-to.

“Captain Bently returned from the Admiral and stood inshore for the easternmost of the enemy’s ships at anchor. The America stood for the French admiral. Little wind, hazy. Great swell from S.E. 1 p.m. America anchored to eastward of the Ocean.

“We continued standing for the other French ships at anchor 2 m. to W. of the Ocean. Soon after a fort fired several shot at the Warspite, but hoisted no colours. Several of the shots struck the ship and did us some damage.

“We continued standing in near the French ship and fired a few shot at her, imagining she would immediately strike her colours; but finding she did not, stood on and tacked and came close under her stern, and ¼ before 3 we began to engage her: ¼ before 4 she struck.

“At that time the Vice-Admiral with the Jersey, Guernsey, and St. Albans stood in to westward of us after another ship on shore and fired some guns, when she struck; after which they set her on fire and stood in towards the Cape where another French ship was at anchor which they brought off. On our beginning to fire, the America fired some guns on the Ocean: she instantly hauled down her colours.

“We sent a boat on board and took possession of our prize, which proved to be the Téméraire, 74 guns, 716 men. At ¼ to 5 we cut her cables and carried her down to the Admiral.

“In the evening the Intrepid and America set fire to the Ocean.”

Boscawen, with his work accomplished and the Toulon fleet accounted for, sailed away for England, carrying the Téméraire and the Modeste with him under British colours, to add both ships, in their original French names, to the British Navy. His battle in Lagos Bay under the shadow of the cliffs of Cape St. Vincent, if perhaps few people nowadays remember it, perhaps have ever heard of it, yet, in the words of Captain Mahan, “saved England from invasion,” and the Téméraire’s name should always stand for us as a memento of that fact.

At the time the event made a widespread impression throughout Europe. It caused great enthusiasm, as we are told, in the camps of the allied armies fighting the French beyond the Rhine, and was honoured by a cannon salute. “We were entertained,” wrote a British officer in the army which had just fought at Minden, “with a feu de joie within hearing of the French camp, in honour of Admiral Boscawen’s success against the Toulon squadron.”

The little difficulty with Portugal that ensued was settled amicably. The elder Pitt, then Prime Minister, had his own way of dealing with matters that would upset the feebler nerved politicians of our modern House of Commons. The Opposition in the House tried, of course, to make party capital over Boscawen’s breach of Portuguese neutrality. “Very true,” was all the answer Pitt deigned to make, “but the enemy’s ships were burned.” He sent Lord Kinnoull to Lisbon with a polite expression of regret at the unavoidable necessity of the case, and the incident was not heard of again.

For many years after her capture by Boscawen the Téméraire was reckoned one of the finest seventy-fours in King George’s service, and among the “crack” ships of the British Navy. She served England both in European waters and across the Atlantic, with all the most notable admirals of the time—with Hawke and Boscawen himself; in the Channel Fleet blockading Brest; and under Keppel, Rodney, and Pocock in the West Indies. After being for nearly twenty years in commission, the old war-prize in her closing days—at the beginning of the war with France and Spain, when the two nations combined against England to assist the rebel American colonists—was converted into a floating-battery hulk for harbour defence, on which duty our first Téméraire ended her career. In June, 1784, she was sold out of the service for breaking up.

That is the story of our first Téméraire, the immediate predecessor of the famous “Fighting” Téméraire of Trafalgar fame, which formed the subject of Turner’s masterpiece.

One battleship of our ironclad fleet has borne the name. That was the Téméraire which was with Sir Geoffrey Hornby when he passed the Dardanelles in 1878. She took part also at the bombardment of Alexandria in 1882, and still exists, converted for use as a floating workshop at Devonport, under the unrecognizable label of Indus II.

Our new “improved Dreadnought” Téméraire of 1907 is the fourth bearer of the name under the British flag.