Reminiscences of a Liverpool Shipowner, 1850-1920

by Sir William Bower Forwood

3.—Problems to Come with Peace

We can now proceed to consider what will be the position of shipping after the war. This involves much clear thinking, and the discussion of several questions upon which no definite statement can be at present made.

We start with a tonnage deficit as compared with 1914 of approximately 3,000,000 tons. The output of new tonnage at present falls short of our losses; last quarter to the extent of 367,296 tons. This is serious, but we are gradually overtaking it. We built last quarter 320,280 tons, and other countries did still better, turning out 864,607 tons, and it would appear as if we might now claim with some confidence that while the curve of the destruction by submarines is decreasing, the curve of the output of tonnage is increasing, and we may reasonably hope that at the end of the year our gains and losses of tonnage will balance. This will leave us still to make good the losses by submarine prior to this year. We have also to keep in mind that our shipbuilding yards are still much occupied with Admiralty work and with the repair of ships damaged by submarine attack.

After the war the Government will have to demobilise, and the repatriation of armies comprising 5,000,000 men, with their munitions and impedimenta, can scarcely occupy less than two years, and will engage probably one-third of our available tonnage.

Europe will be very short of raw materials of every kind; the importation of them will be very urgent, and food will also be short for some time.

With the heavy weight of taxation which we shall have to bear, an increased output of manufactures will be necessary if the prosperity of the country is to be restored. This will not be possible without an abundant supply of raw materials.

The repatriation of our armies and the urgent need for raw produce would indicate that the Government will retain their control of shipping for some time after the war.

The British and American Governments are building standard and wooden merchant ships, but they will not last long, and will have to be replaced by more substantial and suitable vessels.

The prospect before shipowners, therefore, is that there will be a prolonged period of Government control and of high freights, which will greatly benefit neutral shipowners. And the serious question arises, how is the British merchant service to be built up again? The position is one full of difficulty. Prices of new ships will probably rule very high, and the Blue Book rates afford no encouragement to build. In America, France, and Germany the difficulty will probably be solved by the granting of subventions; but in this country we have a profound distrust of subventions, as they are invariably associated with Government control, which has always been destructive of enterprise.

Nothing could be more unfortunate than the prolongation of the shipping control one day longer than is necessary. It is undoubtedly paralysing the industry, and any attempt, such as has been fore-shadowed, to nationalise shipping would be most disastrous. How could a State department administer the shipping industry of this country in competition with foreign private enterprise?

The national control of our shipping and other leading industries may be expedient in the present war crisis, but it has taught us that the nationalisation of any industry penalises it with so many restrictions, and surrounds it with so many unnecessary difficulties that it is foredoomed to failure, and would inflict infinite damage to the prosperity of the country.

Advances of money by the Government at a low rate of interest would no doubt be an encouragement—and those shipowners who can afford to be bold and accept the position will probably be rewarded; but to go on building ships at the very high prices may be beyond the prudent reach of the average private shipowner. This rather points to the creation of large companies.

In shipowning, as in every other department of industrial life, “scale” may be the dominant factor, and the shipowning companies who, during the war, have been able to lay by large reserves, will find themselves in a position of great advantage. In view of the necessity for strengthening the hands of shipowners and enabling them to carry on in the difficult times before them, the Government is making a mistake in not giving more encouragement to shipowners.

Experience teaches us that shipowners may be trusted to quickly adopt every modern means to work their ships economically, and to adapt them to the trades they serve; but do our port authorities equally recognise their duties to provide the most up-to-date methods and machinery for the handling of our cargoes? We may economise in the working of our ships at sea, but if on their arrival in port they have to wait for berths to discharge and load, and if these operations are hampered by the lack of mechanical appliances or labour, the shipowners’ exertions are in vain. Nor does the difficulty end here: docks lose their value and attractiveness if the cost of moving cargoes from the ship’s side to the warehouse, or to the manufacturing districts, forms a heavy addition to the freight. In Liverpool we have, unfortunately, the costly, cumbrous, and old-fashioned system of cartage still prevailing. There is a lack of good road approaches to the docks and railway termini—a wholly inadequate means of conducting the cross-river traffic. Our trade has out-grown our railway communications with the interior, and our railways continue, as they have always done, to strangle our trade by their excessive charges, and thus to deprive our port of the advantage of its unique geographical position. We want cheap and abundant water, and cheap electrical energy to extend our local manufacturing industries. All these things point to a quickening of Dock Board methods, but still more to the awakening of the City Council to its responsible duties as the custodians of a great seaport, and the urgent necessity that they should do their part in its restoration and development, and make it ready to do its share in the revival of trade after the war.

Our City Fathers cannot rest content with carrying out what Disraeli, in one of his ironical moods, called “a policy of sewage.” We want a wider outlook, and a more generous appreciation of the fact that Liverpool depends upon her commerce. Every expenditure which the city has made in the past upon its development has resulted not only in its growth and prosperity, but in the well-being of her people.

The British mercantile marine has for long been the envy of neighbouring nations, who are watching the opportunity to seize the business which our ships have been compelled to abandon. We have lost a large proportion of our tonnage, and what is left is taken out of the control of the shipowner. The situation constitutes a serious national danger, and we may some day awake to the fact that we have lost beyond recovery the industry which is above and beyond all others, the great national asset, and shall rue the day when our Chancellor of the Exchequer became interested in four small vessels and drew conclusions from his experience which are not supported by the wider and more expert knowledge of the shipowner.

Such is the present position of shipping and its future outlook—

A considerable reduction in the available tonnage.

Government control for a lengthened period.

High freights and high cost of new ships.

The probability of a great increase in American and neutral shipping.

We cannot leave the subject without indicating that everything may be greatly changed by the attitude of labour. If the present “ca-canny” and “down tool” policies are to continue it is difficult to see how we can recover our prosperity. Labour will have to realise that it has its value, and that the receipt of wages carries with it the obligation to give an honest day’s work. And equally employers will have to recognise that labour must have a fuller share of the fruits of their labour and better conditions of life. Strikes will not settle these matters; they only serve to intensify distrust and ill-feeling. We must hope that our men returning from the front will have a wider outlook and altered views of life, and that employers will also generously recognise the changed conditions. We trust also that the Whitley report may be quickly followed by the establishment of Industrial Councils, and that these Councils will be able to promote confidence and good feeling and remove the friction and distrust which has too long existed between capital and labour. Meanwhile a propaganda might be started to instruct our people in those elementary principles of economic science which govern their labour, and about which so much ignorance unhappily prevails.

Chapter VII
THE “RED JACKET”
A Reminiscence of 1857

We are justly proud of the development of our steamships—their size, speed, and magnificent equipment—and we are apt to forget that this has always been characteristic of British shipping. In the old sailing-ship days, about 1850-1860, a walk round the Prince’s Dock, crowded with clipper ships, was something to fill an Englishman with pride. The beautiful symmetry of the hull, the graceful sweep of the sheer fore and aft, the tautness of the spars, the smartness of the gear and equipment attracted the eye; but, perhaps, above all, the romance of the sea attached itself to the sailing-ship and appealed to the imagination in a way which does not gather round a steamer, however large and magnificent. We realised that the sailing-ship had to do battle with wind and waves in far distant seas single-handed, relying entirely upon her sails and equipment and the skill of her crew; whereas a steamer tells us at once of her unseen power which makes her independent of winds and weather, and enables her to make her voyages with almost the regularity of the railway train. All this, the achievement of the steam engine and the development of the screw propeller, is very splendid to think upon, but the old romance of the sea has gone.

The inspiring and wonderful sight of the Liverpool docks, a forest of the masts of English and American clippers; the river Mersey at high water, alive with splendid sailing vessels leaving or entering our docks, and at anchor in a line extending from the Sloyne to New Brighton, or towing out to sea, or may be sailing in from sea under their own canvas—all was activity and full of life and motion. I remember seeing one of Brocklebank’s ships—the “Martaban,” of 600 tons—sailing into the George’s Dock Basin under full canvas; her halliards were let go, and sails were clewed up so smartly that the ship as she passed the Pierhead was able to throw a line on shore and make fast. It is difficult in these days to realise such a thing being possible. It was skill supported by discipline.

When I was young I was a keen yachtsman, and had the good fortune to make a voyage to Australia in one of the most famous of our clipper ships, the “Red Jacket.” Some account of the first few days of my voyage may be of interest, and bring into contrast the ease and luxury enjoyed on board an Atlantic liner, with the hard life on board a first-class clipper ship. It is not too much to say that on board an Atlantic liner the weather does not count; on board an old sailing-ship the weather meant everything.

“Red Jacket,” 1854

The “Red Jacket” was built in Maine, in 1854. She was 2,006 tons. Her length was 260 feet, and her beam 44 feet. She was an extremely good-looking ship. Her figurehead was a full-length representation of “Red Jacket,” a noted Indian chieftain. She had been purchased by Pilkington & Wilson for £30,000, for their White Star Line of Australian packets. On her voyage from New York she had made the passage in thirteen days one hour—on one day she logged 415 miles.

On the morning of the 20th November, 1857, I embarked by a tender from the Liverpool Pierhead. It was nearly the top of high water. The crew were mustered on the forecastle, under the 1st Mate, Mr. Taylor. An order comes from the quarter-deck, “Heave up the anchor and get under way.” “Aye, aye, sir.” “Now then, my boys, man the windlass,” shouts the Mate, and to a merry chantie:

In 1847 Paddy Murphy went to heaven
To work upon the railway,
A-working on the railway, the railway, the railway,
Oh, poor Paddy works upon the railway.

A good chantie man is a great help in a ship’s crew. A song with a bright topical chorus takes half the weight off a long or a heavy haul. The chain cable comes in with a click, click of the windlass falls. “The anchor is away, sir,” shouts the Chief Officer. “Heave it a-peak and cathead it,” comes from the quarter-deck, and the tug “Retriever” forges ahead, and tightens the towrope as we gather way. Bang, bang, went the guns, and twice more, for we were carrying the mails, and good-bye to old Liverpool, and the crowds which lined the pierhead cheered, for the “Red Jacket” was already a famous ship, and it was hoped she would make a record passage.

Next morning we were off Holyhead, with a fresh westerly breeze and southerly swell. We were making but poor headway, and shortly the hawser parted. “All hands on deck” was shouted by Captain O’Halloran, and a crew of eighty men promptly appeared on deck, for we carried a double crew. “Loose sails fore and aft; hands in the tops and cross-trees to see that all is clear and to overhaul gear; let royals and skysails alone.”

The boatswain’s whistle sounded fore and aft as the men quickly took their positions and laid hold of the halyards and braces. “Mr. Taylor, loose the head-sails.” “Aye, aye, sir.” The topsails, courses, and topgallant sails were all loose and gaskets made up. “Sheet home your topsails.” “Aye, aye, sir.” “Now, then, my men, lead your topsail halyards fore and aft, and up with them.” Away the crew walk along with the halyards, and then with a long pull and a pull all together the topsail yards are mastheaded to the chantie:—

Then up the yard must go,
Whiskey for my Johnny,
Oh, whiskey for the life of man,
Whiskey, Johnny.

“’Vast heaving—Belay there. Now brace up the yards, all hands on the lee fore braces.”

So handy my boys, so handy,

sang the chantie man. “Pass along the watch tackle, and have another pull. That will do. Belay there, and man the main braces. Down tacks.” The jibs are run up and the spanker hauled out, and the good ship “Red Jacket” like a hound released from the leash, bounds forward, and runs the knots off the log reel.

Captain O’Halloran was hanging on to the rail to windward, munching, not smoking, his cigar, with an anxious eye to windward, asking himself, “Dare I do it? Will she carry them? Yes, I think she will. Mr. Taylor, stand by the royals, haul on the weather braces, steady the yard while the youngsters lay aloft—up boys”; and half a dozen or so youngsters scampered up the rigging, over the tops, and through the cross-trees, and quickly were the royals loosed and sheeted home. “Well done lads—tie up the gaskets—clear the clew lines and come down.” But we not only wanted all sails, but every sail well set, for we were close on the wind. Jibs and staysails, courses and topsails, topgallant sails and royals must be braced sharp up at the same angle to the wind, and every tack and sheet pulling doing its work. The good ship felt that she had the bit in her mouth, and bounded along, throwing the seas in sparkling cascades to port and starboard. The man at the wheel kept his eyes upon the weather-luff of the fore royal, and kept the sail just on the tremble, so as not to lose an inch to windward.

As evening approached, the wind increased with squalls, the Captain looked anxious, and shouted to Mr. Taylor, “See that all the halyards are clear, run life-lines fore and aft, sand the decks, and see that the lee scuppers are free.” So the good ship plunged along, occasionally taking a sea over the bows, and in some of her lurches pushing her lee rail under water and throwing spray fore and aft; she was just flirting with the weather, romping along, seemingly enjoying every moment, and revelling in her element. “Keep her going,” shouted the Captain to the man at the wheel, “full and bye; just ease her a few spokes when the squall strikes her.” A loud report like a cannon—the second jib is blown clear out of the bolt ropes. “Hands forward—bend a new jib”—not an easy matter with seas coming over the forecastle; but with

Haul in the bowline, the bowline haul

the sail was mastheaded.

“Mr. Taylor, heave the log.” “Aye, aye, sir.” “What is she doing?” “Eighteen knots, sir, on the taffrail.” “Good, we shall make over 400 knots by noon tomorrow.” And we did.

We need not say that passengers under these conditions were not at home, or, indeed, wanted on deck, and the fifty saloon passengers and 600 steerage were on such days kept below in an atmosphere which was stifling; but this was rather an exceptional day. We had also soft, bright, sunny days, when life was a delight, a luxury, a dream, and the sea heavenly, but we had something exciting almost every day—sail splits, spars and gear carried away, albatross circling overhead, Cape pigeons, icebergs off Kerguelen Land, and finally we made Port Philip Heads in sixty-four days—the record passage. Bravo, “Red Jacket.”

I leave my readers to mentally compare a passenger’s life on the “Red Jacket”—with its spirit of sport and adventure, its romance, its daily happenings, and its hardships—with the luxury on such a ship as the “Aquitania” or “Olympic” with all their attractions of a first-class hotel, bridge parties, dancing, and entertainment of every kind, regardless of weather—with everything, in fact, but that spirit of adventure which appeals so strongly to the imagination of the Britisher, and which, after all, has built up his character and made him the doughty man he is either on land or at sea.

Chapter VIII
THE “QUEEN OF THE AVON”
A Reminiscence of 1858

The old-fashioned sailing-ship was handicapped by her inability to contend successfully with strong head winds. After the continuance of a succession of north-west gales the river Mersey and our docks became crowded and congested with outward bound ships waiting for a shift of wind to enable them to get away, and when this took place the river was a wonderful sight. I remember, as a boy, standing on the shore at Seaforth and counting over three hundred sailing vessels of all sorts and sizes working their way out to sea on the ebb tide between the Rock Light and the Formby Light ship, and interspersed among them were also a number of sailing-ships towing out to sea. This crowd of shipping was not only very picturesque, with their divers rigs and tanned sails, but was interesting, as it contained many types of vessel now extinct. The “brig,” square-rigged on both masts, was a good-looking, weatherly craft; the “billie boy,” carrying a square sail forward and a jigger aft; the sloop, which did most of our coasting work, had a big square-cut mainsail and jib; and the old Dutch galliot, with her bluff bows and paint of many colours; all these have now practically disappeared.

The most trying winds, however, were the easterly gales, which prevailed in November and December, and also in the spring. With easterly gales blowing I have known Liverpool to be a closed port for weeks together, few or no vessels entering it; and more than once this blockade of our port by easterly gales had a serious effect upon our stocks of cotton and produce. The inward-bound fleet was caught in the chops of the Channel, and was there detained until the wind changed. It is of such an experience I wish to write.

I had gone out to Australia in the celebrated clipper “Red Jacket.” At Sydney I took my passage home in a small barque of 400 tons, called “Queen of the Avon.” I was the only passenger, and selected this little ship purposely that I might learn something of the practical working of a ship at sea. I told the Captain of my wish, and found him quite sympathetic, and he offered to teach me navigation; but when I showed him the log I had kept on the “Red Jacket,” and the many observations I had taken and worked out, he said he felt he could not teach me much. He, however, agreed to my taking my trick at the wheel, and going aloft when reefing or making sail.

When the ship was ready for sea the police brought off our crew, for, in consequence of the lure of the goldfields, it was only possible for a ship to keep her crew by interning them with the police while she was in port—in other words, placing them in gaol. The police and the crew soon set our topsails and foresail, and with a fair wind we quickly passed down Sydney’s beautiful harbour. When we reached the entrance the police, getting into their boat, left us, and we started upon our long voyage to Valparaiso. From Valparaiso we proceeded to Guayaquil, where we loaded a cargo of cocoa for Falmouth for orders.

Our voyage was uneventful. I obtained the knowledge of seamanship I desired, for we were fortunate in having in our small crew an old man-of-war’s man named Amos. Amos was a splendid man, a stalwart in physique, and most estimable in character. He quickly took the lead in the forecastle, and exercised great moral influence. No “swear word” was heard when old Amos was present. When reefing he had the post of honour at the weather earing, and when he got astride the yardarm the weather earing was bound to come home. He taught me my knots, bends, and splices, and looked after me when aloft.

At the end of ninety days we sighted the Wolf Rock off the Land’s End. In the afternoon we were off the Lizard, and stood off shore to clear the Manacle Rocks. The crew were busy hauling up the cables from the chain locker, for we expected to be in Falmouth before sunset, and all hands were bright and gay at the early prospect of being on shore once more. The wind, however, became more easterly, and when we again tacked we failed to clear the Manacles. Standing out again we were blown off the land, and thirty days elapsed before we again made the Manacles, during which time we battled day after day with a succession of easterly gales. We were blown off as far west as the meridian of the Fastnet; then we got a slant, and crawled up as far as the Scillies, only to be blown off again.

It was monotonous and weary work; standing inshore during the day and off-shore at night, mostly under double-reefed or close-reefed topsails, or hove to with a heavy sea running. Indeed, we met many ships which apparently had given up the contest, and remained hove-to waiting for a change of wind. We had some bright sunny days, but mostly drab grey Atlantic days, and an easterly wind always. At the end of ten days H.M.S. “Valorus,” a paddle sloop, came within hailing distance, and offered to supply us with fresh provisions. This offer our skipper declined, much to the disappointment of his crew, for our hencoops had been empty for weeks, and our one sheep and two pigs had been consumed long ago, and we were living upon hard biscuit and salt tack, boiled salt beef and plum duff one day and roast pork and pea soup the next. There was no variation; our food had become distinctly monotonous.

The crowd of ships thus weather-bound increased day by day—ships from Calcutta and Bombay, deeply-laden rice ships from Rangoon, and large heavily-laden American ships with guano from the Chinchas. Some we met almost daily; others came upon the scene now and again, and we welcomed them as old friends. The only vessels that got through to their port of destination in spite of the easterly gales were the fruit schooners conveying cargoes of oranges from the Azores. They were smart brigantines—perfect witches of the sea—well handled, and they never missed a chance. They seemed to have the power of sailing right into the teeth of the wind. At the end of a further ten days another relief ship hailed us, but our Captain again declined any supplies, arguing with himself that the east winds could not last much longer; but another ten days had to pass before a gentle westerly swell told us that westerly winds were not far away, and before twenty-four hours had elapsed we squared away before a westerly breeze. We soon passed the Lizard, and the Manacles, and dropped our anchor in Falmouth, making the passage in 120 days, of which we had spent thirty in the chops of the Channel.

Chapter IX
THE “GREAT EASTERN”
A Reminiscence of 1861

Some account of the memorable voyage of the “Great Eastern,” when she broke down in the middle of the Atlantic, may be of interest. It is an old story, but it is memorable as marking an epoch in the history of the Atlantic trade, which owes not a little of its progress to its failures. The enterprise which produced these failures is entitled to our admiration for its boldness and courage.

The “Great Eastern” was a remarkable ship. She was, in a sense, twenty years ahead of her time. On the other hand, if she had possessed sufficient engine power for her displacement, she would have revolutionized steamship travel across the Atlantic and hastened the era of large and swift Atlantic liners.

The “Great Eastern” was designed by Brunel, and built in 1858 for the East India and Australian trades, for which routes a large coal carrying capacity was necessary. But she never entered those trades. Her speed in smooth water was twelve to thirteen knots, but in a head sea she could do little more than hold her own, hence the cause of her troubles.

The following figures give her dimensions, contrasted with the largest vessel of her time—the “Scotia”—and the ships of to-day:—

	Built.	Length.	Beam.	Depth.	Tonnage.
“Great Eastern”	1858	691	82	48.2	18,915
“Scotia”	1861	400	47	30.3	3,871
“Campania”	1893	620	65	43.0	12,950
“Aquitania”	1914	868.7	97	49.7	45,647

It will be seen from these figures how great was the departure of the “Great Eastern” from the largest vessel of her period, and how small she would appear to-day by the side of the “Aquitania.” Not only was she a great advance in size, but she had many other novel points. She was propelled by two sets of engines, oscillating paddle engines and horizontal screw engines, which together developed 11,000 horse-power. She was fitted with six masts and four funnels. Her cabin accommodation was unusually capacious and lofty. Speaking from memory, her saloon was 18 to 20 feet high. She had a smoking room, while in the “Scotia” smokers had still to be content with the fiddlee, sitting upon coils of rope. The “Great Eastern” had but few deck houses, so that her decks were magnificently spacious.

SS. “Great Eastern,” 1858

She sailed from Liverpool for New York on a beautiful afternoon in the early autumn of 1861. We had on board about four hundred saloon passengers, and a considerable number in the second cabin. She was commanded by an ex-Cunarder, Captain Walker. The dock quays in Liverpool, margining the river, were lined with a vast concourse of people to see the great ship depart.

We had a splendid run down the Channel, and on the following evening we passed the Fastnet. Our people were having a gay time, singing and dancing on deck, and greatly enjoying themselves. In the middle of this revelry we passed the “Underwriter,” one of the Black Ball sailing-packets, also bound for New York. She was under whole topsails, plunging into a head sea and throwing the spray fore and aft.

We looked upon her with admiration, but with feelings of immense superiority. The old order had passed away, and the new had arrived in the “Great Eastern.” Many were the congratulations expressed upon the advance in naval architecture, and many indeed fancied that the perils and discomforts of the sea were things of the past. The next day was one of those drab grey days so frequent upon the Atlantic. The wind was increasing in force, and more northerly. The sea was getting up, but the great ship, meeting it almost dead ahead, scarcely heeded it. “She is as steady as a rock.” “Wonderful!” were some of the remarks passed around as we took our morning constitutional.

By noon the scene had changed. The wind had veered round to the north, bringing up a heavy beam sea. The big ship began to lurch and roll heavily, taking heavy spray overall. Some of her movements were significant of danger—she hung when thrown over by a sea, and recovered very slowly. A huge sea striking her on the starboard bow swept her fore and aft, and carried away one of our paddle wheels and several boats. An ominous silence shortly prevailed, and it was whispered that the rudder had been carried away. The great ship fell into the trough of the sea and became unmanageable, lurching and rolling heavily and deeply. The seas, from time to time, striking her with great force, made her quiver fore and aft. The second paddle wheel was soon swept away, and boat after boat was torn from the davits, the wrecks in many instances being suspended by the falls. While destruction was being wrought on deck, the damage in the saloons and state-rooms was appalling. They were simply wrecked by the furniture getting loose and flying about, breaking the large mirrors which adorned the saloon, and adding broken glass to the dangerous mass of debris. Many of our passengers were badly wounded.

The engineers were trying to repair the broken rudder-stock by coiling round it iron chains to form a drum, so as to be able to get a purchase upon it. That night was a night of much anxiety, but the behaviour of the passengers was exemplary. The ladies found a part of the saloon where they could sit on the deck in comparative safety, and here they knitted and sang hymns. There was a general effort to make the best of things.

The following morning the weather had slightly moderated, but the sea was still mountainous, and we rolled heavily. The chain cable stowed in one of the forward lower decks broke loose, and burst through the outer plating and hung in a festoon overboard. The cow-house had been destroyed, and one of the cows was suspended head downwards in the skylight of the forward saloon, and a swan which had been in the cow-house was found in the saloon.

The Captain sent for some of the passengers he knew, and told them that, as the crew had broken into the liquor store, he wished to form special guards to patrol the ship. Some twenty or thirty volunteered, and for four hours each day we patrolled the ship, having a white handkerchief tied round our left arm as our badge of office.

Food had become a difficulty. All the crockery had been smashed, so the victuals were brought down in large stew pans, and taking pieces of broken dishes, we helped ourselves as best we could.

In the afternoon the “Scotia,” outward bound for New York, hove in sight. The great Cunarder looked stately and magnificent, and as she gracefully rode over the big seas without any effort, simply playing with them, she told us what design, knowledge and equipment could do. After sailing round us, she bore away on her voyage. Another miserable night followed, and it was obvious that the mental strain was beginning to tell upon some of our people.

The following day the weather was much finer and the sea moderate, but we were still helpless, a derelict on the wide Atlantic. No success had attended the effort to repair the rudder-stock; nothing would hold it. In the afternoon a small Nova Scotian brig hove in sight, and sailed round us, as we thought, within hailing distance. One of our passengers offered the Captain £100 per day if he would stand by us. No answer coming, an offer to buy both his ship and her cargo was conveyed to him, but still no answer came, and in the evening she sailed away. The Captain of the brig was apparently some time afterwards informed of what had taken place, and promptly claimed one day’s demurrage, and was suitably rewarded.

It was now evident that our only hope was to hasten the repair of the rudder-stock. In our dire emergency a young American engineer, Mr. Towle, offered a new suggestion, to build a cross head on to the broken stock, and to steer the ship with tackles attached to it. After some hours’ work and the exercise of much ingenuity, he succeeded, to the great joy of everyone.

The screw engines were still in good order, and the big ship was soon on her way back to Queenstown, where we arrived five days after passing it on our outward voyage. The damage done to the ship was considerable, and some idea of the violence with which she had rolled can be formed from the fact that when the baggage room was opened, it was found that water having got into it, the baggage had been churned into a pulp, and was taken out in buckets.

The “Great Eastern” ended her somewhat inglorious career by laying cables across the Atlantic, and finally was broken up on the New Ferry shore at Birkenhead. She had served, however, one great purpose which had borne good fruit—she taught us that to successfully fight the Atlantic on its days of storm and tempest, which are many, the design of the engine and its power should receive as much consideration as the design of the ship’s hull.

Chapter X
BUILDING AN EAST INDIAMAN
A Reminiscence of 1856

Build me straight, O worthy Master,
Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel
That shall laugh at all disaster,
And with wave and whirlwind wrestle.
—Longfellow.

The building of a wooden East Indiaman recalls much of what was romantic in the history of British shipping—much of what was essentially British in the art of the craftsman. The old shipwright with his black wooden toolbox slung over his shoulder, or plying his adze or the caulking iron, is a type of a British artisan unhappily now becoming extinct. He was no ordinary workman following day after day the same monotonous job, for his work called for the constant exercise of his own individuality, of his powers of observation, and his ingenuity in the application of the teachings of experience; the selection of suitable timber, of proper scantling, oak crooks for the floors, aprons and knees, the curved timber for the futtocks, all called for skill and knowledge, and he had to keep constantly in view, when building, the necessity for giving proper shifts to the scarfs and the butting of the planks—all demanding not only thought, but daily presenting new problems which only a trained eye and experience could solve.

The rhythm of the old shipbuilding yard had a peculiar charm and attraction; it was not the monotonous deafening roar of the hydraulic riveter heard in the modern yard, but the music of the adze and the humming of the caulking chisel made a sort of harmony not unpleasant to the ear; while the all-prevailing smell of tar imported a nautical flavour which is entirely absent from the iron shipbuilding yard. We now only think in terms of angle iron, plates, butt straps, and rivets which follow one orthodox pattern. The iron ship is but a tank with shaped ends, or a girder, or a series of box girders, for every deck, and every row of pillaring constitutes a girder; their size and shape are all set out by the draftsman in the drawing office, the work in the yard is purely mechanical; the old skill of the craftsman is not called into play.

It was my good fortune, when I left school in 1856, to spend some time in the shipbuilding yard of George Cox & Son, of Bideford, in order that I might obtain some knowledge of the craft. The firm were engaged building the “Bucton Castle,” of 1,200 tons register, for the Calcutta trade, to class thirteen years A1, the highest class at Lloyd’s. It is of my experience in building that ship of which I purpose writing.

It will occur to many that Bideford was a strange out-of-the-way place for a shipyard. Bideford we only associate with Charles Kingsley and “Westward Ho!” with its long bridge of twenty-three arches, a bridge which has the repute of being a soul-saving bridge, an alms-giving bridge, a dinner-giving bridge, a bridge which owns lands in many parishes; but Bideford, with its wide expanse of sands and tidal bores, is about the last place to suggest shipbuilding. But Bideford, like Plymouth and Devonport in olden days, was in close proximity to large forests of oak and other woods essential to wooden shipbuilding.

The first thought of the builder of a wooden ship was to secure his timber, good natural oak crooks for the floor timbers, knees and aprons, and the futtocks forming the turn of the bilge, and good square timber for the frames, beams, etc. Not only had this to be carefully selected free from rends and shakes, but it had to be piled up in the yard and seasoned. In the same way elm timber required for the sheathing, and the pine necessary for the decks and inside ceiling, all required seasoning before being worked up.

The plans of the proposed ship having been prepared and duly laid off in the drawing loft, the first step was to provide the blocks upon which she was to be built, and the ways from which, when completed, she would be launched. Upon these blocks the keel was laid, usually constructed of elm, which is tough and does not split. The keel was in several lengths, fastened together with long scarfs, bolted through. On each side a rabbit or groove was cut to receive the garboard strake (the first strake of planking). On the top of the keel the floor timbers were laid across alternately, long and short, and on the top of the floors the keelson was bolted. The keelson ran the full length of the ship. There were also sister keelsons on either side, covering the ends of the floors. To the end of the floors the first futtocks were scarped and bolted, and these formed the turn of the bilge, and above came the timbers forming the frame. The selection of the timber required for the floors and futtocks needed a very skilled eye; pieces of timber which would require the least dressing must be chosen, and the piles of timber were examined over and over again to find the piece which would give the nearest approach to the curve required when the ship was in frame. Then came the planking or sheathing. This had to be carefully worked in proper shifts, to prevent the butts of the planking coming into close proximity. The upper strakes or sheer strakes and the bilge strakes were always doubled. In a similar way the interior of the ship was lined or ceiled, all with a view to strength. ’Tween deck beams and main deck beams were thrown across and rounded up, to give strength and camber to the decks. They were fastened to longitudinal timbers running along the sides of the ship, called shelfs, and these shelfs were secured to the framing of the ship by wooden knees reinforced in high-class ships by iron knees. The structure was fastened by wooden treenails and metal through-bolts of copper or yellow metal. The butt end of every plank was secured by a metal bolt, in addition to treenails securing it to every timber.

I have said enough to prove that the shipwright of the olden time had to exercise more individuality and skill than is necessary to-day.

The shipbuilder’s work was not completed when he had launched his ship; she had to be rigged and fitted out, and copper-sheathed to prevent the ravages of worms and marine insects; and in course of time the ship had to be salted, the spaces between the frames being filled with rock salt to preserve the timber from decay.

American ships, which were very numerous and handsome in design, were usually built with hacmatac frames and pine sheathing, and Canadian vessels were built entirely of soft wood with iron fastenings, and rarely received a higher class than nine years A1.

Although the reminiscences of the old wooden shipbuilding days are pleasant and interesting, if we had been limited to wooden ships the progress of commerce and the spread of civilisation would have been greatly hindered. It was not possible to build a wooden ship of over 4,000 tons—I think this was the size of the “Great Republic”—and the number of vessels required to lift the merchandise now requiring to be carried by sea would have exhausted our available forests of timber. The iron and steel ships have saved the situation, not only enabling us to move the cargoes the world requires, but enabling us to construct steamers of large size and great speed which have built up a passenger trade which, even sixty years ago, was never dreamed of.

It is remarkable that in land travel, just as the growth of the population demanded it, we have had improvements in the mean of locomotion—the pack-horse, the wheel, the steam engine, the railway, and electric traction have followed each other. So at sea—from the ancient galley to the wooden sailing ship, the clipper ship, the paddle steamer, the screw steamer, the high-pressure engine, the condensing engine, the double and triple expansion engine, the turbine, and we have in front of us looming largely oil fuel, to be followed probably by some form of electric propulsion. From this it would almost seem as if a Providence provided for us transport facilities in proportion to our needs for the conveyance of our products and for travel.

I was interested in recently visiting Bideford to find that the old shipbuilding slips still exist—although unused for nearly fifty years. They have this year been bought by the firm of Hanson & Co., who have a small ship under construction.

Chapter XI
OUR RIDDLE OF THE SANDS

Shortly before the late war a small volume entitled “The Riddle of the Sands” had a large circulation. It described the adventures of two friends, who, in a small yacht, spent their summer vacation in cruising on the Friesland Coast of Germany, and it gave a graphic account of their discovery of a wonderful network of canals and waterways which had been made through the sands, connecting the ports of Emden, Wilhelmshaven and Cuxhaven. Mysterious craft flitted about, and their own movements were carefully watched. What is this “riddle of the sands” they asked? The war gave the answer. It was a great submarine base for an attack upon England.

We in Liverpool have our riddle of the sands, which, although very different in character, has proved equally elusive. It has defied scientific solution, the teaching of hydrodynamics, and has from time to time almost threatened the existence of the port of Liverpool, and with it the prosperity of our manufacturing districts.

The approaches to the port have not been maintained (although assisted) by the use of mechanical or scientific means, but by encouraging the natural forces to do the work necessary to maintain the deep water entrances clear and serviceable. There are many now living who remember that the deep water approach to Liverpool was through the Rock Channel only with three feet of water at low water, with dangerous and shifting shoals off the Spencer Spit, and the long lee shore off the West Hoyle Bank. If these conditions had continued the Liverpool of to-day would not have existed. The development of the northern deep water approaches is an interesting study. Liverpool has solved her own “Riddle of the Sands,” not by colossal ambitious engineering schemes which might have been fatal, but by patient watchfulness of what nature was doing, or trying to do, and judiciously assisting her efforts. Nature has practically closed the Rock Channel and the old Victoria Channel, and concentrated her forces and opened up the Queen’s Channel with over 20 feet of water at low tide in the dredged cut at the Bar, thus making the port open for ordinary vessels during twelve hours out of the twenty-four, and making Liverpool the great port she is—the only deep water port on the West Coast capable of taking such great ships as the “Aquitania” and “Olympic.”

SS. “Aquitania,” 1914

The Riddle of the Sands as it presents itself to us, divides itself into two portions:—

The sands of the upper estuary;

The sands of the sea channels;

each forming a very interesting and entertaining subject of inquiry.