Because Britain Would Have Done It That Way
1778 3 7, .
The Franco-American privateer fleet, having successfully captured a ship of the line, threw an impromptu feast aboard the prize. They toasted to liberty and justice, using tales of British villainy as their appetizer to strengthen their bonds. As dawn broke and all had fallen asleep after the revelry...
"Ahem. Do you have a moment? The captains need to have a talk."
The American privateer captains proposed a meeting to the French privateer captain to discuss future actions. Gathered in one cabin, they briefly introduced themselves to Captain Pierre before laying out their plan.
"Let's land on the British mainland."
"Do you think that's feasible?"
It was a reckless, overambitious scheme.
"Captain Pierre, that's precisely why it makes sense right now."
"Let's hear it, then."
Pierre dismissed it as a pipe dream but agreed to listen.
"Pirates are rampant in the Atlantic and Mediterranean right now. This is the perfect time to use them as a shield and strike Britain."
Pierre sighed at their vague outline and replied, "Even a wounded lion is still a lion. The British Empire lives up to its name—it's strong."
"If the American privateer squadrons and French privateer squadrons combine forces, it's possible. The regular U.S. Navy will join too. We've got four galleons, twelve frigates, and over four hundred privateers."
Pierre was astonished by the sheer scale of their navy but assessed them coolly. "No, it's still not enough."
Insufficient by far.
"Why not?"
"Aren't you defending America's coasts?"
Pierre struck at the heart of the hot-blooded Americans' blind spot.
"If every Atlantic pirate were a French privateer, maybe."
They were all French privateers.
"But you, me—we're just a handful of French privateers in the Atlantic."
No, they weren't.
"We got lucky and ran into us this time, but can you guarantee that every frigate flying pirate colors in the next battle is a French privateer?"
Absolutely.
"The odds are low."
Extremely high.
"So that plan's impossible. Ever heard of the Four Unthinkables from the East?"
"No, sir."
"I'll explain. First: a small nation must never attack a great power."
The American captains looked puzzled. "Isn't America the greater power by far?"
"Think about the colonies. And it's not just about landmass. Britain has centuries of imperial know-how, battle experience, and don't get me started on their warships."
"Frustrating, but you're right."
As the Americans conceded, Pierre raised a second finger. "Second: in wartime, never open another front. The East says don't mobilize troops during planting season, but our situation's a bit different."
"Makes perfect sense now. Spreading fronts scatters your strength."
Pierre raised a third finger. "Third: if you commit every ship to attack, pirates will exploit the gaps and hit your homeland. We covered that already."
He extended his pinky for the fourth. "Fourth: choose your moment wisely."
"What moment? Isn't now perfect?"
"Too perfect—that's the problem."
Pierre lectured the lightning-promoted American captains—mere lieutenants turned captains. "War isn't just about winning. With all Europe in turmoil, if America attacks Britain and claims hegemony alone, how will Europe see you?"
"Hegemony? No way! It's a just war to throw off the oppressor!"
"That's America's view."
Pierre recalled Louis XVI's warning when he'd received his letter of marque: "War is the continuation of politics."
"Isn't war just war?"
"I don't fully grasp it myself. But don't you sense it too?"
The Americans pondered, then offered an example. "So the order not to seize neutral ships bound for Britain..."
"Politics continued. That's why no landings. They'll say America seceded because of an economic crisis."
Because it's Britain.
"Privateers are supposed to take only enemy ships. But when have British privateers followed that?"
Long-range blockades, looting under embargoes, kidnapping crews in the name of impressment...
"No need for us to play beast against British subhumans. Besides, Britain would use it as a casus belli."
The Americans mulled it over and finally nodded. "Yeah, Britain would."
They acknowledged Britain's perfidy but felt stifled by the impasse. Then Pierre flipped the mood.
"But with this fellow, it's different."
Pierre slapped the deck floor—the captured British ship of the line—drawing all eyes.
"The ship of the line? Fine for fleet battles, but frigates are better for landings. She can't keep up with a transport convoy."
One American captain countered immediately. A ship of the line sacrificed speed for firepower—useless for amphibious ops.
"Who said anything about landing? We're just plundering."
"If you can plunder, can't you land?"
The Americans grew confused by the barrage of questions. Pierre, exasperated but understanding—brave militiaman to lieutenant, silver-tongued lieutenant to captain in the Continental Army—moved on.
"Listen, you greenhorns. Landing means fighting the army. Plunder's about destruction. Oh, and borrowing useful stuff for ourselves. Repayment in... say, a hundred years?"
Most Americans got the distinction and nodded.
"So we'll plunder with this ship of the line. No frigates needed. Just sloops and cutters."
*
April 14, 1778, dawn off Britain's western coast.
As sea drank the dawn and sky the sea's glow, vying to deepen their navy blue, hundreds of privateers arrayed off western Britain, sun at their backs.
Leading them: Britain's pride. The firstborn of British seas. A ship of the line.
"All hands, prepare to plunder!"
"Aye, Admiral!"
"Can't hear you!"
"AYE, ADMIRAL!!"
Pierre was a captain. Everyone aboard privateers was a captain too. But someone had to command the ship of the line.
Her firepower was essential to raze British coastal guns and ports. And she couldn't be trusted to just anyone. Her awesome guns came with ruinous balance. She was slow as hell.
The ad-hoc American captains would sink her the moment they touched the wheel. Naturally, command fell to Pierre: highest education, proper naval training.
And not just that.
"You were a helmsman, right?"
"Yes, sir! Ever since being kidnapped from New France fifteen years ago!"
Most captured British sailors were Frenchmen seized from Canadian territory during the Seven Years' War. Fueled by revenge, they eagerly shared ship-handling secrets.
Pierre gained not just the hull, but her soul.
"Finally, we can stick it to the Brits. Can't wait."
The sailors spilled everything: weak spots, lazy patrols, shipyards, reefs, rich zones, shipwright barracks.
"Flagship. Commence firing."
"Starboard batteries! Fire!"
*
May 3, 1778, France, Tuileries Palace, the king's office.
"...or so they report."
"Never saw that coming. Who authorized a raid on the British homeland?"
"Captain Pierre. He's been made a commodore in the Continental Navy. An American admiral now."
The pirates had slipped the leash. Told to plunder lightly, they banded together and started a war. And won. Not just won—a crushing victory. The only mercy: no occupation.
"Britain's blaming America for now. Claims the pirates spoke English; demands three times the loot's value in gold and goods."
Well, yeah—not the East, and pirates rarely hit the homeland big. Barbary corsairs hit Europe sometimes, but not Europeans pirating each other.
So Britain was shocked. But the foe was Britain.
"Wasn't that Drake's playbook?"
"Exactly."
Unprecedented? Britain had done it all before.
"Ugh, troublesome. Just issue a tepid expression of regret."
"Understood."
Since they'd done the same, British protests rang hollow. Britain's mess for Britain to clean.
"How much did they loot?"
Still, check our cut.
"Europe's currencies are worthless now—hard to appraise. Captain Pierre says two million livres in gold bullion equivalents."
"Even nabbed a ship of the line?"
"Yes. Three in sea battles, five more from British ports. All regular Royal Navy 74s."
Damn. Pirates pick the prettiest prizes.
"Promote Pierre to major for American service, lieutenant colonel for exploits, and colonel by my authority. When he returns to port with the spoils, pin on a star for valor."
That's how Drake got his knighthood.