James Joseph Sylvester: Jewish Mathematician in a Victorian World Book

Le Loup des Mers deserves a better bio

I picked this book up on a whim, having recently become interested in the Napoleonic Wars but finding little else on the subject that I could check out from my county's e-library. Furthermore, I have the first of Patrick O'Brian Aubrey-Maturin books on hold, so it seemed the perfect time to read about the man whom O'Brian's stalwart fictional hero is modelled on, or as the subtitle tantalizes, "The Real Master and Commander."

Alas, Cordingly is no O'Brian and from the first pages I found this book a bit of a slog, for multiple reasons. Before I say why, let me first commend the author for having thoroughly mined so many sources and having maintained such an even-handed and impartial attitude toward his subject. Cordingly abjures speculation and never permits himself to attribute to his subject any thoughts or motivations without well-documented proof. Furthermore, Cordingly is uniquely qualified to write this biography, having been Keeper of Pictures and Head of Exhibitions at the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich, England for twelve years, and he has also written well-received books on pirates, famous ships and sea battles, and other aspects of the Age of Sail. In describing any ship that Cochrane commanded, any battle he participated in, or just about any aspect of sea life, Cordingly is in his element.

But, especially given the "stranger than fiction" life of Cochrane, it perplexed me that Cordingly could not have displayed a bit of verve and imagination himself in writing the biography. Dutifully it plods along in strictly linear fashion, recounting what Cochrane did when, how many men he had under his command, how many pounds of fresh beef were loaded into the hold before departing on a voyage, and so on. It wasn't so much the detail that was the problem - it was the lack of appreciation for where and when to best give details, or, really, any notion of how to pace or place them.

On the very first page after the prologue, which common sense alone informs us should strive to engage the reader, Cordingly begins with a long, discursive description of Cochrane's ancestral home, Culross Abbey - and not just in the time of Cochrane, but well beyond. Cordingly informs the reader that "in the nineteenth century the house fell into disrepair. It was partly dismantled in 1830 and was rebuilt on a smaller scale with two floors and without the flanking towers." Hmmmm…. I have to say that this opening salvo fell short, if I may indulge in a military metaphor.

Oddly enough, in an article I ran across online from The Telegraph, Cordingly states that "The father's [Cochrane's] rash investments in schemes to make coal tar bankrupted him and forced him to sell Culross Abbey House, an event that made an indelible mark on the young Cochrane and sparked his determination to earn his own fortune and buy back his ancestral home." This idea was not, that I can recall or find, ever mentioned in the book, however, which faintly astonishes me as it would have made Cochrane's peculiar obsession with and perpetual wrangling over money more understandable.

Indeed, I was frequently perplexed and confounded in trying to understand what motivated Cochrane, and as the author never permitted himself to speculate what drove his subject, I felt somewhat cast adrift in the relentless sea of Cochrane's life. The man was a parcel of contradictions: mild mannered but rash, calculating but impulsive, before his time in many ways but incredibly short-sighted in others, noble yet venal, and altogether so full of ambitions and myriad schemes that it practically takes one's breath away. He had to have been one of the most singular men in an age of very singular men viz Napoleon, Wellington, and Nelson. But, like Napoleon, Cochrane seems to be a damned hard man to come to grips with, inspiring both adulation and condemnation. Given all that, I heartily sympathize with any of his biographers.

Even in his own time, Cochrane left people shaking their heads. Briefly, after a brilliant early naval career, renowned for its daring and strategic genius, as well as a less successful career as a Member of Parliament, Cochrane was found guilty of participating in stock market fraud engineered by a ne'er-do-well uncle and another disreputable man. It is still not clear how culpable Cochrane was in the scheme, and he may well have been an unwitting dupe, but after a rushed and prejudiced trial, he was found guilty and stripped of all naval honors, his naval rank, and his seat in Parliament, as well as incurring a substantial fine. This was the central hinge of Cochrane's life, embarking him ever afterwards on a personal crusade to have the ruling overturned and his honor restored.

After a long interlude in which Cochrane offered his services to the revolutionary navies of Chile and Brazil, as well as being in command of the struggling Greek navy during its war of independence from the Turks, Cochrane returned to his native land and was ultimately rehabilitated, or should I say was promoted, to the rank of Rear Admiral. However, it was obvious to all the naval authorities that Cochrane, though still brilliant, was on the whole someone who should be treated with great caution. Cordingly notes that, "At one stage the Admiralty seriously considered appointing Cochrane as commander-in-chief of the Baltic fleet, but he was seventy-nine and it was decided that 'though his energies and faculties are unbroken, and though, with his accustomed courage, he volunteers for the Service, yet, on the whole, there is reason to apprehend that he might deeply commit the Force under his command in some desperate enterprise, where the chance of success would not countervail the risk of failure and of the fatal consequences, which might ensue.'"

As I made liberal use of the highlighting and note features on the ebook as I read, in looking back over the notes a clear theme emerges: "Classic go-it-alone heroism," "Rash actions by C - nothing new!", "Again, his rash defiance," "More pettiness," "More feuds and paranoia," "Once again, impatience and inability to work with others or accept commands," "Odd combination of patience and impetuousness," "More rashness," "More greed," "More use of deception and bold lies," "Rash but heroic." The word that rose again and again to mind was, "rash." Among his many exploits, Cochrane escaped from prison, attempted to use explosives - twice - to booby-trap houses he and friends were in rather than be arrested, made frequent use of false flags and signals to deceive the enemy, and was one of the foremost proponents of using fire ships and rockets to attack enemy ships anchored in port.

Almost as strikingly, when Cochrane disagreed with or was reprimanded by his superiors, he often used disrespectful and intemperate language, bordering on the insubordinate. He quick to take umbrage at even the hint of a slight (at times seeming to border on paranoia), and it was evident that on his ships he felt quite justified in doing what he thought best, at times going directly against orders. Only his repeated naval successes and his not-yet-inherited title seemed to keep him from an earlier downfall. As it was, Cochrane, his kinsmen, and his friends with influence perpetually badgered the Admiralty for his promotion, more prize money, and more desirable commands. He was, in a word, relentless.

It occurred to me toward the end of the book that the author's cautious approach to his subject may have been precisely because so much of Cochrane's life was sensational. Downplaying sensation is almost an automatic response in serious scholars, but given that this book is aimed at a popular audience, the effect is rather wooden. In addition, there are some aspects of Cochrane's life that baffled me but that Cordingly never pays the slightest attention to.

How was it possible, for example, for a naval captain to simultaneously be a Member of Parliament? I would have thought that prolonged absences at sea would have prohibited a parliamentary career, yet apparently this was not the case. In order to better understand this phenomenon, I sought out a website on the history of Parliament, and found the rather extensive material there on Cochrane's parliamentary (vs. naval) career to be illuminating. It seems that Cochrane did encounter problems in Parliament because of his absences while on naval duty, and, conversely, his long leaves of absence from the Navy in order to be present during parliamentary sessions also did not go unnoticed by his superiors. When he stood for election in 1812, for example, he was only allowed to stand "with the proviso that he should pledge himself to resign if he was sent abroad on active service." Cordingly's ignoring the question of how Cochrane could both be a sea captain and an MP struck me as odd, though the tension between these two roles certainly goes some way toward explaining why Cochrane's political career had so little success.

Elsewhere in the book Cordingly provides background material on political and cultural events of Cochrane's time, but this material is often launched with little grace in abrupt segues that made the material less comprehensible. This produced a choppy effect and made me long for a more sophisticated handling of the material.

Ultimately, I persevered in finishing the book as Cochrane simply fascinated me. The latter chapters of the book, dealing with his foreign service, seemed to me to be a bit rushed in comparison with his earlier exploits, especially as I'd recently read a biography of Alexander von Humboldt that offered a different (and better written) perspective on the revolutions in South America. The final chapter, which offers at long last the author's final assessment of his subject, that Cochrane was primarily motivated by "the natural desire of an innocent to clear the stain on his character and on the Dundonald family name," was characteristically understated and even handed. I only wished that he'd given more weight throughout the book to Cochrane's motivations and less to the tonnage of his many naval prizes.